I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class (24 page)

 

I’m laughing, but only because I’m polite.

 

I’m distracted by a rustling in the audience. Ms. Sokolov is out of her seat and desperately forcing her way out to the aisle, not even bothering to whisper “excuse me” as she pushes past Lanny Monkson (whose glasses are sent flying). Moorhead watches her go, cheeks flushed, mouth agape, eyes wide with terror. His face could be the international sign language symbol for “What did I say?”

 

What did he say? And then I remember that my last message to him had been rather rudely interrupted:
TELL HER YOU LOVEHER—

 

I didn’t get to finish that one. I was distracted by the giant balloon, and the missile, and the huge ball of fire, and the humanity, and I forgot to correct the dictation. Well. That must have been a pretty freaky thing to hear in a crowded school assembly. He must have sounded like a stalker. I guess that’s one budding romance thwarted. Which is too bad, because I thought Sokolov had a real shot at ruining Moorhead’s life.

 

Actually, by the look on his face now, I suspect she might have done it anyway. My lucky shirt strikes again!

 

Dylan Berger (a boy) makes his speech for eighth-grade vice president, and Dylan Krakowski (a girl) makes hers. And suddenly, it’s time for the main event.

 

“The office of eighth-grade president is the highest elected position we have here at Gale Sayers Middle School,” opines Pinckney, “and the two boys you see in front of you have waged a spirited campaign.” His eyes shift nervously for a second over to the Federal Agents standing in the back. “And neither of them have broken any laws . . . that I know of. So, you know, it’s really just a normal student-council election. Except for the mercenary battle in the parking lot, and that really didn’t have anything to do with anyone here. I mean, what connection could there possibly be?” He laughs nervously, then seems to realize it was perhaps unwise for him to stray from his written remarks. “Uh, anyway, they’ll be speaking in alphabetical order. Up first, Randy Sparks.”

 

Tepid applause from the crowd. Randy’s legs don’t work for a second; then he grits his teeth and wills himself out of his seat. He walks—not confidently, but purposefully, like he has to consciously think his way through every step—to the lectern. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His lips curl into a simpleminded grin.

 

Someone stage-whispers, “Go ahead,” from the audience, and then I see Verna, beaming at Randy from ten rows back, with a smile of pure faith on her face. Scott Sparks sits next to her, holding her hand, and he gives his son a thumbs-up.

 

It does the trick. Randy’s smile takes on the semblance of some intelligence. He begins: “I was eating a big sausage pizza at La Casa last night, talking to my dad about how it was time for me to buy a new pair of pajamas . . .”

 

Verna is good. Without even completing a sentence, Randy has just negated both of the rumors I started about him.

 

“. . . when Dad reminded me of something my uncle Dave, the fireman, said last Thanksgiving.”

 

Verna is
very
good. The weaker-minded of my classmates will believe that Uncle Dave can protect them from my fire-setting powers.

 

“Uncle Dave said that the most important thing he’d learned in life is that none of us is perfect, but that we should all strive to be the best person we can be.” He pauses self-consciously and glances down at the note cards in front of him. “I know I’m not perfect. . . .” he says, then he pauses and smiles, letting the audience know it’s all right to laugh. They do. “I know I’m not the most popular guy at school.

 

I’ve eaten so many lunches alone I’ve forgotten how to talk and chew food at the same time.”

 

He smiles again. The monkeys howl with laughter. It’s not that good a joke, but it’s charming. And it’s disarmed Randy’s greatest weakness—the fact that he used to be the Most Pathetic Boy in School. It’s not a liability if he can laugh about it.

 

Randy looks down at his notes and stops smiling. Verna has undoubtedly written
look serious
at this point in the speech. He makes a dignified face for the audience. “But this isn’t a popularity contest. It’s an election. And that means that even a guy like me has a chance.”

 

“I know sometimes it feels like we’re just kids, and we never get to do anything important. Well, what we’re doing today is important. We’re voting. We’re picking the people we want to lead us for the next year. And it’s not a joke. Our ancestors fought and died for the right to vote. That’s not a joke, either. Voting is what makes this country great. We were the first nation to say that all our citizens should get a say in how the government is run. Not a king. Not just some aristocrats or rich people. All of us. And when we vote, we’re saying, ‘Hey! What I think matters, too!’ When we vote,
we make ourselves important
.”

 

He looks like he believes it.

 

A quick glance at the crowd. The morons are eating it up.

 

This is dangerous. Belief is more contagious than chicken pox.

 

“We’re told that voting is a gift. That’s true. But it’s not just a gift that’s given to us. It’s a gift
we
give to our government. It’s our way of giving the government the benefit of our knowledge, of everything we’ve learned about the way things ought to be. It’s our way of showing we
care
about what happens to our school, our country, our world.

 

“When our parents vote, they’re not just saying, ‘I think this or that person should be president.’ They’re saying, ‘
I love America
.’

 

“And when we vote today, we’re not just saying, ‘I think Randy Sparks or whoever should be on student council.’ We’re saying, ‘
I love Gale Sayers Middle School
.’”

 

Applause. Deafening, resounding, sickening applause. It seems like everyone in the room is clapping except for Verna, who has her hands clasped to her breast and stares at Randy with shining, adoration-filled eyes.

 

Randy stares down at his cards long enough for the applause to die. Verna must have drilled this into him: “Give them time to settle. Let them hear your final words.”

 

Randy looks up as the last scattered claps come to rest around the room. “I could tell you I don’t care who you vote for, just as long as you vote. But that would be a lie. I want to be your class president. But whether you vote for me or my distinguished opponent”—a few unkind titters tinkle their way through the crowd—“I want you to know this: If elected, I will fight for you. For every single one of you. I will fight every day to make this school a better place. For all of us. That’s the
duty
of an elected official. And that’s my duty. By standing on this stage, I am starting the holiest journey of my life. The journey of democracy. And maybe I’m not the most popular kid in school, but I’ll tell you this . . .”

 

Pause. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .

 

“
I love Gale Sayers Middle School!
”

 

Applause. Ugly, resounding, redounding applause. Applause that bounces off the rafters, bangs against the walls, pounds against the stage like a wave. Applause and whistles and cheers and screams. The crowd is on its feet. On its feet! As Randy nods humbly and walks back to his seat, as he pauses for a hearty, heartfelt handshake from Mr. Pinckney.
The crowd is on its feet
! Cheering and stamping and clapping.

 

And there, amid the storm of that standing ovation, I finally see her. My poor mother, sitting in a dark black corner of the auditorium, looking confused and alone and dispirited. She’s the only one who isn’t cheering, bless her heart.

 

And my eyes slide over to Mom’s right. And I see somebody who isn’t supposed to be here.

 

Somebody who’d said he “wasn’t up to” coming to hear his son speak.

 

Somebody who is standing and clapping and stamping harder, louder,
faster
than anyone else in the room. Somebody whose face is alight with joy—who believes—who actually
believes
—every single insipid half-assed platitude that just came out of Randy Sparks’s weak little mouth.

 

Somebody who loves democracy. Somebody who believes in student government. Somebody who’s cheering for
Randy
.

 

And something inside me snaps.

There’s a buzzing in my ears.

 

It drowns out everything around me. I can’t hear Mr. Pinckney asking the crowd to resume their seats. I don’t hear him introducing me. But I see him nod in my direction and walk back to his chair. And I can feel the eyes of the whole room on me.

 

I am standing at the lectern. I don’t remember getting up or walking to it. I’m just here, suddenly, with this buzzing in my ears and all the eyes of the world on me.

 

I take out my speech. It is a heart-rending document of idiotic catchphrases, foolish thoughts, and appeals to sentiment. It was designed to make these people feel sorry for me.

 

I rip it in half. The pieces float to the floor like dying birds.

 

“Fellow students,” I say. “Honored teachers. Distinguished guests.”

 

I can’t hear my voice over the buzzing.

 

“We have heard today about the beauty of the democratic process. About the ‘gift’ we both receive and bestow. My esteemed opponent . . .” Here I bow rather grandly in Randy’s direction. He looks at me strangely, like a confused animal. “I say, my esteemed opponent has promised to fight for each and every one of you if elected.”

 

I cock an eyebrow.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” I say. “Students and Teachers. Children of all ages. I put it to you:
What will he fight for
?”

 

Now I have an audience full of confused animals looking at me.

 

“Yes, the sentiment sounds pretty. But there’s precious little fighting to be done around here, isn’t there? Any important decisions about the school are made by Mr. Pinckney and his able staff. I’ll go further: Any
unimportant
decisions about the school are also made by Mr. Pinckney and his friends. The truth is, the student government of this school—the student government of
any
school—doesn’t really do anything.

 

“Maybe next year’s council will decide to hold a bake sale. Maybe they’ll
decide
which charity they should give the proceeds of that bake sale to. Maybe they’ll
decide
what the color scheme should be for the eighth-grade formal.”

 

I raise my hands in mock wonder. “Huge decisions! Gargantuan choices! The sort of judgments mere mor tals shrink from making! But the brave children of the student council have sworn to fight, have sworn to make exactly these hard decisions—so decide they must.”

 

I let my breath out in a long, audible hiss, like a pool toy deflating. “Unless, of course, Mr. Pinckney
decides
that they shouldn’t hold a bake sale. Or he
decides
they should give the money to an old folks’ home instead of the dog pound. Or he
decides
that green and black will better suit the formal than red and blue.

 

“In the end, what does all that fighting, what does all that
deciding
add up to?” I pause. I let my question sink in. “Pretty words on an empty stage.”

 

The buzzing is louder now. I thought talking would make it quiet down, but I was wrong.

 

 

“Student government is meaningless,” I proclaim sadly. “Worse, it is
empty
. Null. Void. My distinguished opponent”—I throw another grand bow Randy’s way—“says that this is not a popularity contest. But he speaks an untruth. I would not call him a liar. Let us say, he is misinformed.

 

“If there are no issues to
decide
, no battles to
fight
, what else can this be but a popularity contest? What else can you, the voter, do but pick the one of us you like best?

 

“That, my learned friends, is the very definition of a
popularity contest
.”

 

I put a melodramatic hand to my troubled brow. “Ladies and Gentlemen.
Messieurs
and
Madames
.
Niños
,
niñas
, and assorted
bambini
. Allow me, if you will, to veer off course for a moment.

 

“I spoke before of an emptiness. I said, if you’ll recall, that student government was empty. I’d like now, if you’ll permit me, to speak of a greater emptiness. This is the emptiness of real government. This is the emptiness of democracy itself.

 

“Every election year, we’re treated to the spectacle of politicians pandering for our votes, pretending they like us so we’ll like them. Every year, the pundits bemoan the fact that the issues are getting ignored, that rhetoric is triumphing over facts, that charisma is trumping truth. They complain, in short, that our elections are a popularity contest.”

 

The buzzing is in my eyes now, too. My retinas vibrate in time with the sound in my ears. The faces in front of me shake and blur. It’s like I’m looking at the world through the beating of dragonfly wings.

 

“My friends, my friends, my friends . . . what else
can
those elections be, when the very
first
elections most Americans experience, the ones that
teach
us what elections are—and I speak of student-council elections like this one—are quite literally
popularity contests
.”