The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second by Drew Ferguson Page A

from my chin and chest, rubbed it on the carpet, and searched the room for something better to mop up with.
    â€œHere,” Rob said. He grabbed his socks, wiped his chest, and then tossed his socks to me. “Who’s gonna know?”
    We’d just finished drying off and getting dressed when there was a knock on the door. The substitute teacher poked her head inside and wanted to know why we weren’t singing.
    â€œBreathing exercises,” Rob said. I tried not to crack up.
    She looked at him and scowled. “In your bare feet?” Rob nodded. “Then how come you’re in your shoes and socks?” she asked.
    â€œBecause he’s a baritone and it’s easier to hit the low notes barefoot.”
    â€œWell, get your shoes and socks back on,” she told Rob, clucking her tongue. “The period’s almost over.”
    Rob looked at me, making a sure-it’s-kinda-gross-but-watcha-gonna-do shrug, and pulled them on. I felt bad for him, but at least it wasn’t me. The bell rang and we ran out of the practice room, snickering.
    I didn’t see Rob again until seventh-hour passing period. He smiled, pulled me against a wall, and then glanced at his feet. He was still wearing the socks. I shook my head and smiled.
    â€œNext time, pup, you’re cleaning up your own mess,” he said. He pinched my butt as we passed and I sooo got hard.
    And just when I thought the day couldn’t get better, it did. In seventh hour, Kyle got busted.
    I don’t know how Mr. Binkmeyer does it. If I was him, and I had to deal with Kyle, Joan, and me in class, I’d’ve skipped flatworms altogether and started dissecting students. For some reason, Mr. B calls everyone by their last names when he’s in class, but gives you the first-name treatment if you are on the wrestling or girls’ softball team. As you’ll see here, class, it’s exactly as I suspected. Miss Hawkings is indeed an invertebrate, as noted by her complete and total lack of a spine. What’s that, Mr. Marshall? Your lab partner, Mr. Stewart, is also spineless? Well, I can’t say I’m shocked.
    Mr. B hadn’t finished setting a stainless steel tray with two flatworms on Joan’s table and she was already pushing it away.
    â€œNo.” She shook her head and tucked her hands under her armpits. “I’m not killing anything.”
    â€œWell, Miss Hawkings,” Mr. B sighed. He slid the tray back to Joan. “You don’t have to. They died at dawn.” Mr. B’s hand flicked to his forehead in mock salute.
    â€œDude, that’s awesome,” Weir said, slapping his lab table. “How’d ya do it?”
    â€œI shot them, Mr. Weir. With a very, very small pistol.”
    Before Kyle could ask, “Really?” Joan had started in on Mr. B again.
    â€œYou killed them? Why?”
    â€œBecause, Miss Hawkings, they knew too much.” Mr. B grinned like a B-movie villain and rubbed his hands together. “Ze flatworms today. Tomorrow, ze world. Muwahahahaha!” The class laughed. Joan glared at Mr. B.
    Normally, I’d’ve laughed, too, but it didn’t feel right. I could see Joan’s point. Sure, the flatworms were dead and all, but that didn’t make cutting them apart right. I mean, what was the point? So a bunch of high school dumbasses could see that the stupid things didn’t have bones? That was already in our textbooks.
    I raised my hand.
    â€œYes, Mr. Stewart?”
    â€œMr. B, do we really have to do this? It’s not like we’re gonna discover anything new about flatworms. It’s kinda inhumane, isn’t it?”
    Mr. B balled his hands into fists. “Mr. Stewart,” he said, “it’s not ‘ kinda inhumane.’ It’s completely inhumane. Flatworms aren’t—gasp—human. Besides, Mr. Stewart, not everything worth knowing can be found between the covers of a book. I would