“I don’t remember,” Madison said thoughtfully. “You think we would’ve noticed her throne and her attending hobots parading in and out of class every time.”

“She’s such an amaze-douche.” I rubbed the back of my head again. A knotty lump was already forming. “Maybe we can have her assassinated after class.”

“Let me know if you need to hire a hit man,” Madison said cagily.

“Why, do you know one?” I asked skeptically.

“No, I’ll do it for you.” Madison smacked her little fist into the palm of her hand. “Just give me a reason.” She glared at Tiffany.

“Are you mad-dogging her?”

“Yeah,” Madison smiled. “That’s why they call me Mads.”

I giggled, glad to have Madison on my side. Not that Tiffany seemed worried. Now that she was settled into her desk, she wasn’t paying any attention to us at all. Probably for the best.

“If push comes to shove, I will cut a bitch,” Madison said.

“Well, she pretty much pushed and shoved me with her book bag a minute ago,” I suggested.

Madison narrowed her eyes and snarled. “All right, fine. I’m cutting the bitch’s guts out after class. Don’t try and stop me,” she said menacingly.

“I won’t,” I smiled. “Promise.”

Me and Madison broke into giggles.

SAMANTHA

A few minutes later, the professor walked through a pair of double doors at the bottom of the lecture hall. He wore a white button-down shirt with a conservative tie. He was cue-bald with a thick ring of head-warmer hair.

I was totally stumped.

Why the heck was Managerial Accounting so packed? For this guy? Based on the crowd, I’d expected some gorgeous supermodel (male or female) or maybe a dancing bear.

Perhaps Madison’s easy-A theory was accurate? It was all I could think of.

The professor set his shoulder bag down on the table at the bottom of the lecture hall, and pulled out the contents. I was expecting stacks of free money and booze for all the students, but all the professor pulled out was a laptop and a stack of syllabi.

I was perplexed.

He walked up to one of the wall-to-wall chalkboards behind him, grabbed a fresh stick of yellow chalk, and starting spelling out his name.

“All right class,” he quacked, and I mean quacked, “My name is Doctor Dorkman—”

What?! He couldn’t be serious. Did he just say Dorkman? My jaw practically banged against my desktop as he spelled out his name on the board in all caps, like so:

DR. D O R Q U E M A N N

“—and I will be instructing you on the topic of Managerial Accounting for the duration of the quarter. Shall we begin?”

When I said quacked, I literally meant quacked. Like, I was expecting a flock of mallards to come flapping in and settle down at the bottom of the lecture hall by the side of their great king.

Because Dorquemann had the nasaliest voice I’d ever heard in my entire life.

Madison and I exchanged a horrified look. There was no way we were going to make it through the hour without getting ejected for interrupting the lecture with our hysterical laughter.

I gave us five minutes, tops.

Our only option was to focus on the material.

We did our best to take notes.

Unlike in Sociology 2, where I’d easily tuned out the droning Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn, listening to Dr. Dorquemann forced me to dig deep and find reserves of concentration I didn’t know I had. I teetered on the precipitous ledge of silence while staring down at a pit of insanely inappropriate laughter. The only thing preventing my fall from grace was my ingrained sense of politeness. At least my parental upbringing had been good for something.

Despite my best efforts, I knew my silence wouldn’t last much longer. Within minutes, snickers issued from around the lecture hall. I was certain the professor—I couldn’t even think his name without wanting to laugh—would notice his anonymous hecklers, but he didn’t seem to care. Was he ignoring everyone?

Maybe he was used to this.

I, on the other hand, was about to lose it. I did the only thing I could. I pulled out my sketchbook, ready to start drawing. I had learned over the last several months that drawing consumed my attention like nothing else. It sucked me right in.

But I needed to find a subject to draw, quick.

I glanced around the room, looking anywhere except at the professor. It only took a second before my eyes landed on Tiffany, and I had my subject.

I went to work in my sketchbook doodling out the gory cartoon murder of Tiffany Meanston-Lightsout.

Madison, bless her stone-cold focus, was busy typing notes into her laptop. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes, Sam?” she whispered seriously.

“I can’t!” I whisper-whined, “not without losing my shit. This guy is going to be the end of me if I listen to one more word, I swear.”

“I hear you, girlfriend. I’ll share my notes with you later.”

“Thanks, Mads,” I whispered, still drawing.

Madison periodically peeked over at what I was doing.

“Don’t look!” I whispered, a big smile lighting up my face. “Wait till I’m done.”

The drawing had been the perfect protection against Dorquemann’s quacky voice. I don’t think I heard a word he said for twenty minutes.

During that time, I scrawled a cartoon of Tiffany lying on a big table with her tongue hanging out, her head haloed by a pool of blue ballpoint blood, her torso cut in half by a giant circular saw operated by what was supposed to be Madison wearing a magician’s tuxedo and a top hat with her blonde hair flowing out below the brim. I made Madison’s eyebrows a stark, angry V and gave her snarling fangs. I drew a word balloon over cartoon Madison’s head that read:

“WHEN I SAY I’LL CUT A BITCH, I MEAN IN HALF.”

When I leaned back in my seat, finished, with a satisfied smile stretched across my face, Madison glanced over. I allowed her a good look at my handiwork.

Madison erupted like a laughing klaxon, snorting bellows of belly-laughter, drowning out the professor.

Everyone in the entire lecture hall stopped and slowly turned to stare at us.

Unsure whether I should be proud of my comic accomplishment or horrified, I sank down in my seat, trying to slide to the floor. But the seat-back in front of me was too close. I was stuck in plain view.

Madison clapped her hand to her mouth in mid-bellow.

The room was pin-drop silent.

The sensation of nuclear embarrassment continued unabated for what seemed like an hour. Or four. I don’t think I breathed the entire time.

“Should I call for an ambulance, miss?” Professor Dorquemann quacked at last. He had a good-natured smile on his face, as if nothing was wrong. “Or is Managerial Accounting inherently funny?” He paused in thought for several moments as a smile of his own appeared, then he honked, “I always thought so, anyway.”

I couldn’t help myself, I had to say it, even if everyone was still staring. In the smallest squeaky whisper I could manage, I said to Madison, “How does he not realize it’s his voice?”

“Shut up!” she whispered from the corner of her mouth through clenched teeth, then kicked my ankle.

Although my ankle smarted, I couldn’t hold it against Madison. I’d triggered her laughter by showing her the Tiffany cartoon, and she was the one in the hot seat.

Dr. Dorquemann raised his eyebrows at Madison expectantly.

“Uhhhh,” Madison croaked. She glowed tomato red, her eyes darting around for the nearest hole to hide in. “Sam! I’m going to pee my pants!” she hissed.

“Please don’t, Mads,” I whispered pathetically. “Otherwise they’ll never stop staring.”

Four hundred pairs of eyes were pinned on me and Madison.

I wasn’t any better with crowds than she was. With no place to go in my cramped desk, I held my sketchbook up to my face, trying to hide behind it. Too bad it was so small. It barely covered my face. I tried to think like a toddler. If I can’t see them, they’re not there, right? I peaked over the top of my sketchbook a moment later, in case it had worked.