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

pulls a string, and the bag is yanked into the rafters. Oh, look—the marionette is actually Alan Pitt! I’m surprised the bag fit over his zits.
     
    “Hi, Alan!” I say, perfectly friendly. “What do you want to play first?”
     
    “Who is that?” says Alan, who is still wearing a blindfold. “Where am I? What’s going on?”
     
    “We’re having a playdate. What kind of music do you like? You a classic-rock guy? You look like a classic-rock guy.”
     
    He turns his flabby pink ear toward me. “I know that voice. You go to school with me. Who is this? Parker Albanese? Because I flushed your iPod down the toilet?”
     
    “No . . .” I drawl slowly. The tension in the air is delicious.
     
    “Randy Sparks? Because I peed in your gym locker? I will crush you for this. . . .”
     
    “Maybe . . .”
     
    “Ted Philips? You only thought I kicked your ass last time. That was just a warm-up. Or maybe that fat kid who drinks chocolate pudding through a straw. I spit in your hair one time. Did you know that?”
     
    I decide to play Cream’s “Tales of Brave Ulysses” 74 first. I really love Clapton’s guitar work on that song, even though pretty much everything he’s done since then gives me diarrhea. 75
     
    As the first quiet, spooky notes creep out of the speakers, and Jack Bruce starts singing about “shiny purple fishes,” my fingers delicately touch the buttons on my controller. The ropes tied to the marionette jerk into action, forcing him to gently strum the guitar.
     
    “What . . . hey . . . this is . . .”
     
    Ginger Baker’s drumsticks CRACK down like the Auction Hammer of God, and Eric Clapton begins an almost ugly pounding stomp down an endless guitar staircase. My little fingers sweat on the buttons as I try to keep up.
     
    The marionette is doing some really impressive stuff now—bobbing, jerking, strumming, kicking, windmilling.
     
    Once, when I’ve hit enough notes in a row, the marionette goes into a split, ripping his pajamas.
     
    “Ow! Who’s doing this? Just stop !” That’s the marionette talking. It keeps saying those things, no matter what buttons I push. Maybe if I play long enough . . .
     
    Sheldrake joins me halfway through “Sweet Jane.” I turn down the music so we can hear each other. Lollipop, who’s curled up on top of my bare feet, whines with appreciation; she’s wearing special noise-canceling earphones I devised for her, but I know they don’t keep out all the sound.
     
    “You want a go?” I ask.
     
    Sheldrake glances at the marionette. “Not to criticize, but you’re torturing a child.”
     
    I snort. “He’s taller than you are. Heavier, too.”
     
    But he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m no good at video games. Congratulations, by the way.”
     
    “On what?”
     
    “On the election.”
     
    “It’s not over yet.” My fingers slide across the sweat-slick buttons.
     
    “What do you mean?”
     
    “Daddy says I can’t win without an opponent.”
     
    “Oh,” says Sheldrake. “When did he—”
     
    “Tonight.”
     
    Sheldrake looks at me funny. Then he looks at the marionette funny.
     
    “I’m gonna get you—ow! I’ll make you sorry—ow!” threatens the marionette, as he does a double somersault.
     
    Sheldrake puts a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you should play this game when you’re a little less”—he searches for the right words—“ on edge .”
     
    “But I feel like playing it now.”.
     
    He reaches for the controller. “I’ve changed my mind about playing.”
     
    But I won’t give it to him. “I’ve changed my mind about sharing.”
     
    I’m a fan of Lynyrd Skynyrd, too. Their songs are full of brutal, punishing guitar solos. I end up playing every track on their first three albums.

Chapter 18:
    WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, BUTTHEAD?
    Sorry. I just felt like saying that.
     
    I sleep a lot in class. It’s sort of expected of me. Nobody ever seems to wonder why dumb children are so much sleepier than