Free I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class by Josh Lieb Page B

comforting caterpillars on my shoulder.
     
    Randy Sparks, the Most Pathetic Boy in School, approaches with a slip of paper in his hand. “Mr. Pinckney wants to see Oliver in his office.” Randy turns to me. “I’m really sorry, Oliver.”
     
    “Stop shouting at me, Randy!” I clap my hands over my ears.
     
    Randy steps back, scared. Moorhead whispers to him, “He’s very sensitive right now.” Then Moorhead slaps me on the back. “You better go see what Mr. Pinckney wants.”
     
    “Yes, Mr. Moorhead.”
     
    He gives me a thumbs-up as I walk away. “Live strong, dude.”
     
    Even Randy almost laughs at that one.
     
    I walk to Pinckney’s office on a cloud of delight. The rash-red floors have never looked warmer, the puke-green lockers have never looked more vibrant and puke-ish. I’ve as good as won the election, and it’s still almost a month away. “O frabjous day!” Every child in my class will vote for me out of misguided sympathy. So simple, so elegant—I couldn’t have thought of anything better myself. It just proves what I’ve always said: You don’t have to be a genius when you’re surrounded by morons.
     
    Every school chum I see only adds to my glee. There’s Jordie Moscowitz, looking sorry he ever teased me. And there’s Alan Pitt—my, aren’t his zits huge today! His face looks like a can of tomato sauce threw up on it! 58
     
    And then I get to Pinckney’s door. And I hear something that sends my wave of rainbow-sherbet joy crashing on the fungus-crusted rocks of hard reality.
     
    I push it open slowly, reluctantly. All my worst fears are confirmed. Mom sits there, looking even more melted and shapeless than usual. She weeps copiously as my father (rather unenthusiastically) tries to comfort her. “Oliver’s dying!” she moans. “Dying!”
     
    “No, he isn’t, Marlene. Now calm yourself—”
     
    Mom points a finger at Pinckney. “But he said—” Then she sees me. “Oliver!”
     
    The next five minutes are a blur of hugging and tugging and kissing and crying.
     
    After every Kleenex in the room has been filled with snot, Pinckney brings the meeting to some semblance of order. “Naturally, I was suspicious of the rumor from the start. I had never heard of a disease called progressive”—he checks his notes—“lardonoma. But I needed to make sure. And since you assure me Oliver isn’t sick . . .”
     
    Daddy scowls. “Not in the slightest. He just got a physical last month, and aside from the obvious weight issue—”
     
    “Oliver’s dying!”
     
    My father has reached his limit. “For Pete’s sake, Marlene! We’re all dying!”
     
    She’s not in the mood for a philosophy lesson. As the two of them devolve into a confusion of tears and sniping and apologies, Pinckney takes me aside. “There will be announcements in every homeroom tomorrow, letting everyone know the good news about your health. There’s no reason this should interfere with your candidacy. . . .”
     
    Daddy overhears this. “Oh yeah—thanks for putting him on the ballot.” His argument with Mom has put him on edge. “That was a great decision, Principal. He won’t embarrass himself at all .”
     
    “You’re welcome,” says Pinckney, opting to ignore the sarcasm. He gives a quick worried glance at a locked filing cabinet behind him.
     
    After a final round of sloppy smooches, I’m sent on my way. That leering, lying red hall, so recently alive with promise, now seems dull and lifeless. This world is empty, treacherous, and small.
     
    Victory had hopped into my hands, like a baby bird.
     
    And then Daddy came along and stomped the pretty thing. Mom would never have given me away, but oh, that Daddy . . .
     
    “Beefheart,” I command, in the depth of my despair. There are ten seconds of silence, a sudden click . . . and then, in an incident no school electrician will ever be able to explain, the atonal wonders of my new favorite song, “The Blimp,” start blasting