Five minutes late. Tim entered the auditorium five minutes late, but it was worth it. He spent the extra time shoving tissues into his brassiere to increase his bust size.
Tim was always coming up with brilliant ideas. Like before school, on the baseball field, when he carved Doug's name into the backstop, and when little Jake Waterly spotted him and asked, 'Why are you carving Doug's name? He'll get all the credit.' 'I know,' he had replied, 'and he'll get in trouble when the teachers find him out.' Brilliant idea, like all the others, pure brilliance.
His current idea was, perhaps, more brilliant, although he had overlooked one tiny aspect. Being more mature than his preteen peers, he was able to grow a mustache, and grow it he did. Stray hairs joined together to form a thick, manicured mustache, light brown, the color of his hair. It was a true sign of strength and superiority. Unfortunately, this made his disguise difficult. So he counteracted the sign of masculinity with a wig, curly blonde hair that tickled his cheeks and lips. It whipped about his face as he hurried to his chair in the front row, which he had cleverly saved by covering in old newspapers.
The assembly had just begun when he cleared the papers from the chair and sat down. Behind him, late students flocked to the bleachers in the back. Gretta was questioning Doug, whose enormous bulk weighed down the stage. Tim could imagine it collapsing any moment in a boom of dust, terrifying the students. Doug's tie trailed halfway down his belly before stopping short, unable to stretch the length of his paunch.
"So, Doug," said Gretta with her usual arrogance, "what will you do to improve the life of the average eighth grader?"
Gretta was the designated speaker for the eighth graders. At eleven, her body had already developed breasts large enough to captivate the attention of the male faculty, thus giving her power over teachers and students alike. She wore her dark, shoulder-length hair in such a way that her left eye was slightly obscured, intentionally, of course, because her eyes were spaced wide apart and the left was slumpy. Her oratorical skills nearly matched her physical beauty. And she was the editor of the school newspaper too.
She had a secret crush on Tim.
Doug cleared his throat and fingered his tie before answering in his prepubescent squeak.
"Great question, Gretta, thanks for coming out today. I want to start by thanking my family, whose thoughts and prayers follow me in all my pursuits. I wanna thank the students, for listening so attentively. And I wanna thank our forefathers for creating such a great nation as ours, where we can gather and discuss the best candidate to fill this position. Any other questions?"
"Why are you so fat, Doug? Don't you know fatties die young and go straight to hell?" Tim said this softly, in his most feminine voice.
Doug grew flustered, Tim had really given it to him this time. There was no escape.
"Excellent question, young lady. I appreciate your inquiry into my health. Are you familiar with genetics? If not, look it up. I'm no doctor. I'm no scientist-doctor. Look it up."
"I love you," blubbered a preteen in the back.
Doug regained his confident swagger.
"Who said that?" he asked, grinning. "Katie? I love you too, Katie. I hope your mom gets out of the hospital soon."
"I'm saving myself for you, Doug. I want you inside me!"
"Thank you. Thanks for your support."
As Doug fielded more questions, Tim stared at his opponent's head. It was fat, like the rest of him, with hair trimmed so short it appears as scratches on the white, rolly scalp. How that bastard held everyone in a trance he would never understand. It was probably the only thing Tim didn't know, he was so wise.
"Thanks, Doug," said Gretta, pushing her chest out further, in an attempt to, if possible, make her breasts look larger. Tim might have peaked at them momentarily as she glanced in his direction.
"Has anyone seen Tim? It's his turn to speak."
"I'll get him," Tim responded girlishly, "he's in the bathroom."
"You can't go in the boy's bathroom," said Gretta. "You're a girl. Doug can get him."
"No, it's really no trouble." Tim hurried down the row towards the exit, "I'll get him."
In the hallway he scrambled towards the nearest restroom, stopping at his locker to grab his bookbag, in which he had stored a change of clothes. He removed the wig, took of the shirt and brassiere, disposed of the tissues, and hurried back to the auditorium where he found Gretta waiting.
"Hey, Timmy," she said, "nice of you to join us."
"Of course," he said. "I can't leave my people waiting. I'm the future President, you know."
"Right." She resumed her post at the front of the stage where she announced his presence to his disciples.
"And now, Timothy Drusus."
He smiled, a little nervous, I'll admit, but confident in his skills as a speaker.
"Good morning, my fellow Americans," he said, "It's a pleasure to stand before you today. I want to thank our kind principal, Mr. Graves, for giving me the opportunity. I'd like to introduce myself to you all, for I will soon be your Class President. I'm Timothy Charles Drusus, and I'm thirteen years old. I was born and raised in Florida, Missouri. My father died when I was one, and I thereafter vowed to become a national figure. This is the first step towards that goal, and I hope we can achieve it together."
"And what are your plans if elected?" asked Gretta, with a look of admiration in her eye.
"I plan to ensure that all students are treated equally, regardless of race, gender, or class. Well, maybe not class, I hate the sixth graders as much as the next guy."
No one laughed. The joke obviously went over the heads of his peers. He would aim lower next time.
"And," said Gretta, "why should we vote for you instead of Doug Cox?"
"Because Doug Cox is a fatty too-fatty and he sweats a lot. He doesn't care about the people, he just wants to eat as much as possible before he dies of heart failure at age nineteen."
From his seat in the front row, Doug grew angry because he knew it was true. He would die very soon because of his obesity, which we all know is terrible and, if he isn't dead by nineteen, someone should kill him and put him out of his misery.
The students handled the speech well enough, applauding as Tim stepped off the stage. Doug, however, didn't respond quite as maturely. He resorted to name-calling and spreading rumors. He told everyone Tim was "a sickly antagonist", "an ectomorphic pig-brain", and "a gadfly of the lowest order." He accused him of jealousy, probably meaning that Tim was too skinny, but the students took it to mean that Tim was jealous of everyone's adoration of Doug. People give him too much credit really. He's fat.
The rest of the day continued as usual, class sessions filled with elderly tenured teachers dozing off during their own lectures about who-knows-what and meaningless anecdotes about how their husband locked the keys in the car and he always accuses them of being airheaded, but really he's airheaded. It was a waste of time and Steve was ready for the day's end, when students discussed who they would be voting for the following morning.
After the last class he scurried to the boy's bathroom and changed into his disguise, in order to hear what everyone had to say about the voting, you see, without having his presence noted.
Students began asking each other, at random, who they would vote for. Most of the idiots said they were voting for Dumb Doug. Then one intelligent student appeared, named Marco Romero. Most kids picked on him because of his stutter and his horse teeth, his pimples and the large mole on his cheek with the dirty hair poking out. They never looked deeper, to the genius he truly was.
"Who are you voting for, Marco?"
"I d-don't know, p-probably Tim."
Gretta overhead and, being the bitch she sometimes is, responded crudely.
"Tim?" she shouted, "You can't vote for Tim."
The crowd gathered as her voice rose. People stopped shoving crap in their lockers and hurried around to hear what she had to say. Her voice rang out like the howl of a wild ape. "He's such a dunce, and he thinks he's brilliant. And he's cutthroat, a real asshole. He's got those squirrelly eyes, those eyes, you can see he's out for blood."
"I like his eyes," whispered a small voice of defiance, "He has cute eyes. They reveal the innocence in his soul."
"Does he have a soul?" Gretta asked rhetorically.
"I'd like to think so," said the voice.
It was Tim. No one noticed his scheme and he snickered at his own brilliance, ready to turn this thing around.
"And who are you anyway?" asked Gretta. "How come I don't recognize you? Or rather, how come I do recognize you?"
Tim faltered, maybe they were onto him. "My name? I'm Claudia. I'm new here, wanna be my friend?"
"Claudia, huh? Or is it Tim?"
"No, it's Claudia."
The students around buzzed in excitement. Tim's nose began to run, like it always did when he became agitated.
"It looks like your nose is running, Claudia. You're getting snot in those tangly hairs you call a mustache."
"This is a better mustache than you could ever grow!"
"I hope so," Gretta chuckled. "I like your wig by the way." She snatched the blonde hair off his head, revealing his head, his thin hair.
"Timothy? Is that you? How strange!"
"Bitch queen…you grubby bitch queen! Bestial nightmare!"
The gathering crowd laughed their heckling laugh. Their shrill guffaws rang in Tim's ears and he felt his knees shaking. He felt the ground rumble as Doug approached.
"You sniveling coward! You didn't think we saw through you and your push-up bra?"
It was all too much for such a sensitive young man, regardless of his inner strength. You can only take so much before you break down.
Tim fled, tears streaming down his face, running, searching for a place to hide, to escape the cruel glares of the fellow students. He ran into the gym and hid under the bleachers to have a good cry.
The tears warmed his cheeks. He sobbed silently for a few moments, enjoying the isolation, the freedom, the escape. Doug could have his stupid election. The world was for fat people anyway, people are stupid.
He wiped his eyes clean as he heard someone enter the auditorium. It was an attractive young girl with dark hair, he recognized those breasts, it was Gretta.
"Tim?"
She couldn't see him but she knew he was somewhere close by. She always had been one of his better classmates.
"Tim, are you in here?"
He remained silent, hoping she would find him on her own.
He could see through the bleachers, she was headed his way. She had spotted him. She came below the bleachers and stared into his face, stunned for a moment.
"Tim, I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he said. "No one likes me. It's okay."
"Oh, Tim, people like you. They just don't know how to show it. People can be cruel sometimes, myself included."
She seemed to be warming up to him. He knew she had a secret crush on him. He weighed the moment for action, trying to determine what he would do.
He hugged her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.
She responded, holding him around the waist. Her fingers felt warm on his hips, he could feel them through the cotton of his t-shirt.
"You're so beautiful," he said, "so, so, so beautiful. Your hair flows like a dark river, your breasts are melons of… I love you."
Gretta pulled back, hesitating before giving in to the moment.
"Tim, you're a nice guy, and I hope you feel better, but I really have to go now."
He knew what she meant, she had admitted, in her own way, her heartfelt admiration for him. She loved him, he could see it all over her face. He could see it.
The next day the students voted, the outcome was no surprise. You can never underestimate the stupidity of the populace. Doug won in a landslide victory and celebrated by eating everything in sight for days afterwards. Rumor has it he ate a chihuahua on the way home one day. Tim might have started that rumor.
It didn't matter, Gretta still loved him. She even interviewed him for the school newspaper after his defeat. Her tone seemed somewhat interrogative, but he knew it was her job. After all, she was the editor.
"Tim, what happened in the election?"
"I lost."
"And how does that feel?"
"Not that good. Maybe like soft daggers stabbing every inch of my body and soul."
"Do you have a soul?"
"I'd like to think so."
"And what are your plans now?"
"Recuperate, regather my forces, exact revenge."
"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that. Are you planning on running again next year?"
"Of course. You can't bring a good man down. I'm gonna win it all next year, I'm gonna prepare for it, and people are gonna realize that Doug's a fat piece of shit. You'll see. I'll be President."
"Good luck, Tim."
He tried to hug her as she walked away. She shrugged him off and he realized his mistake. She wanted to keep their love a secret. Well that was fine with him. He could do secrets. He could do secrets better than anyone. He was just that brilliant.