I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class (9 page)

 

It was cruel. Assuredly. Inhumane. Undoubtedly. Evil. Disgustingly so. And yet I defy you, today, to listen to
Trout Mask Replica
and say it was not worth it.
⁵¹

 

But enough discourse. Let’s return to the evil at hand.

 

Down in my Control Center, Sheldrake and I sit in vibrating leather massage chairs as we read Research’s probes into Jack Chapman and Liz Twombley. The air around us is full of sporadic
zapping
noises; on the catwalk above us, my technicians are testing my latest invention—the Electrolyzer. It’s a wand I can point at anything to give it an electric charge. To put it in terms your small brain can understand: You know how sometimes when you touch a doorknob, it stings your widdle fingers? With the Electrolyzer, I can turn any doorknob in the world into one that stings, as long as I can see it. The power transfer is inefficient, but I think it will have its uses.

 

Liz’s file is a little thin. Jack’s file, on the other hand, is equally thin, but massively satisfying. It’ll do nicely.

 

“Research,” I announce, “you are all permitted to go to the movies tonight. My treat.”

 

From somewhere in the bowels of my lair, I hear a dozen voices make a distant “hurrah.” No one can accuse me of being stingy.

 

“We’re done. It works.”

 

I look up. One of my newest technicians, a cross-eyed wild-haired young brat (is his name Chauncey?) leans over the edge of the catwalk, supporting himself with one hand on the metal lattice work. His other hand holds “it”—the Electrolyzer.

 

“So soon?” I ask. “Have you gone through the testing protocol a thousand times already?”

 

Chauncey sniggers. He wears his lab coat unbuttoned, exposing a Jonas Brothers T-shirt.
⁵²
“No offense, boss man, but I graduated top of my class at M.I.T.” I notice that the other technicians, the ones who’ve worked for me longer, are standing as far away from him as possible. “I don’t need to test something a thousand times to know it works. It works.”

 

“Really?” I say. “Let me see.” I motion for him to drop the Electrolyzer to me. He tosses it, carefully, and Lolli leaps into the air like a black-and-tan rainbow and catches it in her pearly whites. She drops the foot-long rubber-and-steel wand into my lap. I examine it closely, then turn it on. It starts to hum, and my nostrils are instantly filled with the burned-aluminum smell of ozone.

 

“See?” says Chauncey. “It’s in perfect conditi—”

 

I point it at the girder he’s holding onto and squeeze the trigger. “Ow!” squawks Chauncey, who lets go of the now-electrified girder and falls fifteen feet to the floor.

 

“You’re right,” I say. “It works.”

 

Chauncey grimaces and tests his ankle, which he seems to have sprained somehow.

 

An amplified knocking sound resounds through the cavern. Daddy’s voice rings out over the loudspeakers.

 

“Oliver, get out here and come to the table. Your dinner’s getting cold.”

 

“I’ll be right there, Daddy,” I sing sweetly. My intercom is tuned to make it sound like I’m in my bedroom, just a few inches of plywood away from him.

 

“That’s what you said ten minutes ago. Don’t make me knock down this door.”
⁵³

 

Sheldrake turns aside and coughs into his fist. He’s embarrassed for me. My other underlings become conspicuously more interested in their work, as if they hadn’t heard a word of the preceding conversation. They all know that if I catch them giggling—or even smirking—at my plight, they’ll wake up tomorrow stuffed into a bag of crocodile chow at the Saint Louis Zoo.

 

My father has shamed me in front of my minions. Again.

 

And I’d like to say this is the last time. But as Lollipop and I sprint for the elevator (and I can positively feel Chauncey smirking behind me), I know it will happen again and again and again, until that glorious day six years from now when I can claim my kingdom.

 

Tonight, at any rate, I’ll get my first taste of revenge. I sit across from Daddy at the table, watching him mince his food in his thin-lipped mouth, waiting for the right moment to drop my bomb.

 

“Who are you supposed to be,” asks Daddy, “the Purple Phantom?”

 

This makes less sense than most things he says—which is saying a lot. He reaches out with his fork and taps me on the shoulder. I realize I am still wearing my cape.

 

“Costume,” I mumble. “For the school play.”

 

Mom nearly drops the macaroni casserole. “Are you in the school play, Sugarplum?”

 

“No,” I say. “They gave me the cape so I wouldn’t bother them when they rehearsed.”

 

“Wasn’t that nice!” says Mom. She strokes the cape appre ciatively. “Mmmm. Is that silk?”

 

“Don’t be silly, Marlene. Who would give him a silk cape?” says Daddy, making a snorting sound I don’t care for very much. I click my heels twice. Lollipop leaps into his lap like a kitten and rubs her rough rubber tongue across his neck. Her pretty teeth tickle his windpipe, carotid artery, and jugular vein.

 

Daddy isn’t snorting anymore. “Oliver! Control your dog!” he screams, holding up his plate with both hands like a shield (and spilling macaroni all over the floor).

 

“Lolli loves you, Daddy,” I say, but I click my heels one more time. She drops from his lap and starts scarfing up his lost pasta.

 

Mom passes the casserole to Daddy so he can refill his plate. “They had an assembly at Oliver’s school today to announce who’s running for student council.”

 

“Oh?” says Daddy, as he selects the three smallest macaronis from the platter and passes it to me. “Who ended up running for president?”

 

“Liz Twombley. Jack Chapman . . .” I say, as I erect a Mount McKinley of macaroni on my plate. “And me.”

 

“No, not you,” says Daddy, with a mean eye on my mac. “Remember? You declined the nomination.”

 

“I changed my mind. Mr. Pinckney put me on the ballot. Now I’m running for president.”

 

“You never told me that!” screams Mom, who is driven to her feet by the force of this momentous news. “You never told me!” She rushes around the table to hug and kiss me something delightfully awful. I will be sore tomorrow.

 

Daddy spits the macaroni he’s sucking on into his napkin. “That’s . . . terrific, son.”

 

“I’m gonna be somebody ’portant. Just like you, Daddy!”

 

“Erm . . . yes. Well, try not to count your chickens too fast. It’s a long road from nomination to election day.”

 

“
Of course, he’ll win
!” shrieks Mom, who emphasizes this statement of confidence by biting my right ear. “O
f course, he will
! Who could vote against Oliver? Who would
dare?
!”

 

My father takes a long drink of water. “Erm . . . of course. Obviously we would vote for him, dear,” he says, looking none too sure about that. “I just don’t want Ollie to be disappointed if he doesn’t—Marlene, the boy needs to breathe.”

 

Mom relaxes her hold on my neck, barely. I suck in some much-needed O
₂
. Just in time too—another few seconds and one of my bodyguards would have burst through the window to remove her. And that would have been hard to explain.

 

After some coaxing, Mom is convinced to return to her seat. She sits there now, tears streaming down her jiggling cheeks as she stuffs macaroni into her smiling maw.

 

Daddy gives me a reassuring tap on the hand. “Son, what you’re doing is very brave. Probably braver than you even know. So, uh . . . good . . . erm . . . luck.”

 

I fix him with a demonic smile. “I’m gonna be just like you, Daddy. Just like
you
.”

 

My father turns his head aside and coughs into his fist.

 

“Mmb mmbm mmmbbm,” says Mom, through her mouth full of gluey pasta. It takes a son’s ears to decipher her words:

 

“Of course, he will.”

(
Ringing, then a click
)

 

OPERATOR
: Customer service. This call may be monitored. How may I assist you?

MAN
: Hi. Uh . . . I have a . . . Are you guys . . .

 

(
Awkward silence
)

 

OPERATOR
: Are you still there, sir?

MAN
: Yeah. It’s just that . . . I have kind of a strange question.

OPERATOR
: There are no strange questions when it comes to customer satisfaction.

MAN
: Yeah. Okay. Well, the thing is . . . are you guys putting messages on the cigarettes?

OPERATOR
: Messages?

MAN
: I mean, not on every cigarette. Just on some of them.

OPERATOR
: If you’re referring to the Surgeon General’s Warning, that’s on the outside of the—

MAN
: No, it’s not that. These are messages printed on the cigarettes.

OPERATOR
: Printed?

MAN
: Typed.

OPERATOR
: How would you type on a cigarette?

MAN
: I don’t know.

OPERATOR
: What sort of messages are they, sir?

MAN
: Kind of like mean fortune cookies. About, uh . . . maybe changing your deodorant. Or starting a new diet.

OPERATOR
: Uh-huh.

MAN
: I got one today. It says, “
IT’S PRONOUNCEDNA-
BO
-KOV
.”
⁵⁵

OPERATOR
: It says what?

MAN
: He was a writer. It tells you how to say his name. Look, I still have it. I can send it to you.

OPERATOR
: Why would you do that?

MAN
: To show you it’s typed on!

OPERATOR
: I’m confused. Are you trying to sell us a typewriter that types on cigarettes? If so, you should contact business affairs. Their hours are—

MAN
: You really don’t know what I’m talking about.

OPERATOR
: I’m afraid not.

 

(
Sound of man cursing under his breath
)

 

OPERATOR
: Um, sir, forgive me for asking, but are you on any sort of medication that might be altering your perception of reality—

MAN
: I’m not on any medication!

OPERATOR
. I see. So you’re off your medication. Is there a doctor or family member you can contact—

 

(
End of call
)

Something strange is going on with my classmates. They’ve been giving me weird looks all morning. Not mean looks, just
weird
. Any looks are weird, of course, since normally they don’t notice me at all. But these looks are
especially
weird. Sad, almost. And they’re whispering to each other even more than usual.

 

I didn’t pay much attention to this at first. After all, if you’re the only human at the zoo, you don’t really care when the monkeys start throwing poo at each other.

 

But I have just bumped into Liz Twombley in the hallway (normally a pleasant experience) and, to my amazement, I see
real tears
welling up in her china blue eyes.