Chapter 8

Any man who tells you he understands the female of the species is lying ... or delusional ... or both. Women ... of every size, age and shape ... are so aggravating to the male mind, I swear ... if it wasn't for breeding them we'd have hunted them to extinction a million years ago.

Take mine.

Two years ago, Mom decided I was the best thing in bed since crackers ... maybe even better ... I left wet spots not crumbs. I learned a lot ... I mean ... REALLY! Then I turned 16 and she decided she needed a husband. She needed a victim to sacrifice on the wedding altar. The unmarried men in Pentwater were unmarried for the best of reasons. In later years a comedian would say it best, "You can't fix stupid!" Not one of them would do. The hunt was on.

We sophomores had done our possible to drive our math teacher, Mr. Wojciechowski, starkers. He had this pulsing blood vessel in his forehead that grew bigger the madder he got.

"Algebra is easy!" Woejoe would scream, "It's just substituting letters for numbers." "The girls get it ... look at them."

And all the girls would look at the boys and smirk. My sister is a professional smirker. The entire class of girls would gather in my sisters 'closet' and 'study.' See explaination below.

(They gathered each evening over a hot cauldron of snakes toes, bat scales and frog wings ... cast spells and portents ... and mumbled incantations. The algebra answer would float to the surface of the steaming cauldron. Much scribing ensued. It had to be like that ... Algebra is the very devil.)

The louder Woejoe would scream the bigger the bulge in the vein in his forehead.

One morning, after sitting in the teacher's lounge and imbibing of several too many caffeinated beverages, Woejoe shuddered. Almost in fear he struggled to his feet. The teachers in the lounge pitted him ... Woejoe was going to give an unannounced pop quiz. A rather comprehensive pop quiz.

He stepped across the hall ... pasted an insincere smile on this face and entered the room just as the last bell rang. Mr. Wojciechowski had been a Captain of Marines ... no battle had frightened him as much as the battle he was destined to fight today. Twenty two of the enemy faced him ... smiling feral smiles.

"Take one ... pass the rest back."

The rest of the day, so they say, is the stuff of legends.

Of twenty two students, the only person who didn't turn in a blank paper was nerdy Alice. Acne Alice answered one hundred percent of the questions correctly. The truth dawned ... the girls had been copying Alice ... they were as clueless as the boys.

Mr. Wojciechowski sat in his teachers chair behind his teachers desk. He looked out over the class that had failed him. Two weeks left in the semester and they hadn't learned a single thing. His red pencil was tapping out a dirge ... tap tap-t-tap tap t-tap tap tap, tap tap.

The pencil snapped in half. Mr. Wojciechowski surged to his feet ... the vessel in his forehead flash red. In a feat of inhuman strength he picked up his solid and ancient oak desk and snapped it in half as his forehead vein exploded. The blood sprayed out over the first four rows. Girls shrieked ... some of us boys did too. One scream sounded familiar and very close. I'm not admitting anything but my voice was hoarse for days.