I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class Read Free Page A

cheese with pickle chips.
     
    The hot sandwich that greets me when I get home is perhaps the highlight of my day. It’s “A Small, Good Thing.” 15 It’s also, unfortunately, very fattening, and one of the reasons that, although I am very, very handsome, I am slightly over-round.
     
    The bus ride home is a comforting prelude to that melted-cheese nirvana, with a soothing sound track that remains reliably the same every day: My fellow students shriek and gabble like baboons; Tippy, the stubble-faced bus driver grunts, “Knock it off,” every thirty seconds; the helicopter thrums rhythmically overhead.
     
    I sit on my bench. Fifth from the back, left side, alone. Always alone. That’s one of the benefits of being me. The children who are my age or older think I’m a stupid freak. The children who are younger are scared of me. Either way, nobody wants to sit with the dummy.
     
    It’s spring, but there’s still a nip in the air, so I reach under my bench and turn on the seat warmer. The on/off switch is disguised as a dried-up wad of bubble gum. If I twist the booger next to it, the bench will give my buttocks a gentle massage. Not the green booger, the yellow one. The green booger controls my air-purifying unit. But I won’t need that today—I’m almost home.
     
    Or so I think. The first sign of trouble is when the sub-human squealing of my classmates goes up an octave. The bus brakes to a grinding, unhappy halt. Somebody screams, “It’s Sheldrake!” And that’s that. A mad dash by everyone to squeeze onto one side of the bus (annoyingly, mine) so they can catch a glimpse of the great man.
     
    Lionel Sheldrake is the third-richest man in the world, but he still lives here in Omaha. We actually have two billion aires in Omaha, which is far too many for a city this size. Everyone in town is excited to have such rich people living here. It’s like they think being rich can rub off on them.
     
    Sheldrake’s even better than the other billionaire, though. For one thing, he’s richer. For another, Sheldrake looks like a billionaire ( see plate 3 ): tall, sharp-eyed, lean-cheeked, hawk-nosed. And he travels in style. What’s stopped my bus is a Sheldrake motorcade: Two giant black armored SUVs, one in front and one behind Sheldrake’s armored black Rolls-Royce. That’s how Sheldrake travels. If Sheldrake were going to the 7-Eleven to buy a Big Gulp (which he wouldn’t—he’s too rich to run errands for himself), he would drive there in his Rolls, with SUVs full of bodyguards surrounding him. The third-richest man in the world needs to be safe.
     
    The moment Sheldrake exits the Rolls, my classmates emit a collective gasp of awe, like a thousand tiny farts. The great man strides imperiously toward his destination—a small bank he owns—never once looking around him. His bodyguards surround him and clear his path. When he is out of the road, the chief bodyguard waves us on—traffic may resume.

    PLATE 3: Sheldrake looks like a billionaire: tall,
sharp-eyed, lean-cheeked, hawk-nosed. And he travels in style.
     
    As we drive past the bank, Sheldrake looks back and gives the bus a small worried look.
     
    “Jeez! Why’s the seat so hot?!” says Stephen Turnipseed, who’s forced himself next to me. I give him my winningest let’s be best friends forever smile. He backs off. “Your butt radiates heat, man. Hey!” he yells, as he heads down the aisle. “Fatso’s butt radiates heat!”
     
    I let my lip quiver like I’m going to cry and stare out the window. 16
     
    “Home is the fisherman, home from the sea. . . .” and home is Oliver as I enter the kitchen through the garage. My pretty dog Lollipop barks happily, then squats on the linoleum and squirts a little to show her subservience. Mom sits at the counter, chin propped in her hands, staring sadly at an overcooked grilled-cheese sandwich—burned-black bread and cold hard cheese. “It’s ruined,” she moans. The Sheldrake motorcade has