“Yeah?” shouted Carl. “What’s in it for me?”
Grief counseling probably wasn’t going to be necessary for most of the students, because Mrs. R was one of the few special-ed teachers who had the power to control her class, and most of the kids hadn’t liked her very much. The other teachers had the psychic strength of fig newtons, but when you gave Mrs. R a hard time, she teleported you straight to detention.
And Barbara had been her pet. There was no denying that: Barbara could have said anything in that class and gotten away with it. This had put her in an awkward predicament. When you can say anything you want, and the teacher takes your questions absolutely seriously and understands what you were really asking and answers that question, it’s not so much fun to be smartass all the time. It’s more interesting to think up really good questions. Especially when you’re actually getting interested in the subject. This is what had earned her the nickname “Barbie” in the first place.
“Mrs. Rathbone’s Teen-Talk Barbie,” Carl had called her when she asked too many questions about chemistry. Just like the Barbie doll that said “Trigonometry is fun! Want some help with it?” and “I find chemistry very stimulating!”
Carl’s names for people stuck like birdshit because of the leadership thing: some people had it, most people didn’t. Minerva once told her straight out: “I don’t trust anybody except for Carl. And I wouldn’t trust him, except he makes me.”
Why don’t you just stay out of my head, Barbara thought, but the TPs fought to get in, just because it bugged her. Barbara shut an imaginary door and locked her thoughts away in an imaginary room, then sat back in her chair and flashed what she hoped was a smug and knowing look. Why give these shitheads the details?
“Aaaaaugh! Too late,” Minerva groaned. “She’s closed us out, the bitch.” There was a slight note of respect in the way she said “bitch.”
Barbara smiled. She brought up an image of the three little pigs inside the imaginary room, with the big bad wolf and her classmates outside. She made the wolf piss on Carl.
“Up yours,” said Carl. “I’m ditchin’ you, bitch.” There wasn’t any respect in his tone. With that, he left her head. The others followed, even Minerva. Barbara bricked up the outside of the door and settled back in her imaginary room. She stopped thinking about the pigs, but kept the door and the bricks fixed firmly in her mind.
Then, for the first time since Saturday morning, Barbara began to think about Mrs. Rathbone. She’d known about a lot of dank things, not just chemistry. Though chemistry was dank enough.
She had never told Mrs. R how much she liked her. She’d actually liked this teacher as if she was a person. Well, as much as she could like somebody that old. And now Mrs. R was dead.
Entertain us, Barbie thought. She forgot the brick wall. A vision washed over her: a stocky, bearded man in a cheap green suit walking down a corridor, accompanied by a too-thin, too-tall boy in just-pressed clothes. Oh, fuck: the horny chemist from last night.
Minerva caught on and screamed to the others. “Hey! She sees the sub! It’s a beard! And he’s with some toothpick dweezle wannabe.” The other tvs tuned in to Barbara’s premonition.
“Wannabe,” said Carl. “That’s his name now. Juan-na-be. Juan for short.” All the dumb toadies laughed. It was too late, but Barbara put up a block anyway. She brought the picture of the boy to a place no one could find. He wasn’t a telepath, that much she was sure.
The sub, Mr. Collins, was totally weird. The minute he walked in, everybody could tell he was paranormal, though they couldn’t figure out what he did. The telepaths went for broke on it, but couldn’t crack him. He sent two of them down to the assistant principal’s office. And they went, which was pretty strange in itself. Maybe that’s what he did, thought Barbara. Maybe he bent people to his will, in spite of themselves. Maybe that’s how he got girlfriends, since he was such a fat old dork.
“Barbara! Earth to Barbara!” said Mr. Collins in a commanding voice.
“Um. Yes, Mr. Collins?” Oops. Keep the brick wall up. Maybe this guy was a TP.
“You gotta stay tuned in, Barbara! Entertain us!” He thought for a moment. “Here’s something easy! Separate the leaders from the sheep! Yes or No! Give me an answer: Do the inner electrons of an atom participate in chemical bonding?”
Barbara felt the class waiting for her to respond to the teacher’s challenge. Minerva probed her mind just a little, just a poke to get her attention. Carl glared. Barbara knew she could side with the new teacher or side with the class. She looked Mr. Collins right in the eye and said, “They get a little horny now and then, but that’s about it.”
Mr. Collins called on the new kid, T’Shawn, who answered, “No.”
“Lucky guess, Juan,” said Carl in a singsong voice.
That’s not his name, thought Barbara. I should call him by his real name. Fuck it, she thought, I might as well call myself Barbie and give up. Why fight it? If it sticks, it sticks. That was leadership ability. Good thing everybody didn’t have it.
Anyway, it wasn’t a guess, everyone knew the answer. Maybe that’s what Mr. C meant about separating the leaders from the sheep. She was curious about Juan, but every time she let down the brick wall to glance his way, she saw a fuzzy cloud form around his head, then start to disintegrate. If she continued to look, she would see something she didn’t want to know.
“Who wants to tell us about today’s reading assignment? Barbara?” He’d already picked up on the fact that she was interested in chemistry. This was not going to do her rep any good.
“I have no idea, Mr. Collins, but Minerva could probably tell you.”
Mr. Collins looked at Minerva. “Maureen?” he said.
Minerva recited in a bored voice. “Valence electrons are those electrons farthest from the nucleus, which are responsible for chemical bonding within the atom. I could go on, but I don’t really give a fuck.”
The rest of the class snickered. Mr. Collins looked confused. Barbara felt a little sorry for him, but then she thought of Mrs. R, dead and everything, and hardened her heart to this grotesque nerd. He didn’t even know most of the class could read his mind.
Juan — T’Shawn — spoke out of turn, but politely. “Mr. C, is this your first day of substitute teaching?”
“Nevermind,” Mr. Collins answered, smiling broadly. His cheeks puffed up and took on a ruddy tone. His beard somehow looked softer and whiter.
“Hey, it’s Santa,” said Carl. “Santa C.” The suckups snickered again.
Mr. C opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to change his mind. He shook his head and a wave of laughter shook its way up from his gut and burst out of him like the explosion in the sink. “Ho, ho, ho!” boomed Mr. C. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Mr. C was starting to look scary rather than jolly, though he kept on laughing. Even the telepaths seemed a bit subdued. His beard looked scruffy now, and Barbara noticed that his ears were kind of pointy. Had they been that way before?
“What’s so funny?” she asked. Her voice quavered a little. It had been doing that a lot lately.
Mr. C’s laughter trailed off; he coughed a little and seemed more like a teacher than he had all morning. “Some of us need to get a handle on the real drama of chemistry,” he said. “It’s life and death stuff, guys. You’ve got to take it more seriously. Quiz tomorrow. I strongly recommend that you study sections twelve-nine through twelve-twelve: ‘Predicting Redox Reactions.’”
The bell rang, signaling second lunch. Second lunch was noisier than first lunch, and chances of getting physically damaged were somewhat higher than they were in the halls between classes, though certainly not as great as at the bus stop after school. Barbara usually brought a sandwich and ate it on the bench in front of the secretarial station, the safest place on campus.