It's really weird how time just flies by. It was already next week, the paper had come out, but the week itself was pretty long. When you want time to move by quickly, it slows.

Wednesday we had a quiz. It was on Ponce de Leon and his life. "This has to be the most random quiz we've ever had," Violet whispered.

"This is nothing," I said. "Once we had a test on who won the first Olympic Greek Sporting Event." "Are you kidding?" Violet said. I shook my head.

"Quiet, please," Mr. Lockerbie said, sporting a donut. He always does that before a quiz. I think it's just to make us hungry; to be aware of the fact that lunch was an hour away. "You have forty-five minutes. No notes, textbooks or external information. Cheating is prohibited."

"Do you think cheaters really care about that?" Ollie Westin said, a boy who sits in the back row. "Oliver, I am not amused," said Mr. Lockerbie. "Keep it up, and you'll have a one-way ticket to the office."

"Sorry, teach," Ollie said. "It's just; I forgot to study for this quiz. Especially since it was so random."

"Get quiet," Lockerbie growled. "We've been studying about Spanish expeditors all week. They're not the Lords of Dogtown."

"Yeah, and I'm glad they aren't," said Ollie, tipping back in his chair. "Could you imagine those stiffs on skateboards? They'd probably be like, 'Hey man, whut ees thees stupid little stick on whills? Back in Mexico, we had the bust stuff. It was a hoarse-drawn carriage."

Everyone busted out laughing. But Lockerbie lost it. I'm serious; normally you'd imagine a guy that looks him sitting on a trash can, a banjo on his knee, strumming and singing 'The Devil Went Down To Georgia.' But he yelled at the tip of his lungs, "WESTIN! OFFICE! NOWWW!"

Ollie trembled, and then left. His chin was straddling his chest. "Begin!" Lockerbie roared.

One of the questions read, Ponce de Leon was born in:

A: Spain B: Mexico C: America D: Antarctica

I am not kidding. I mean, we're not the best-behaved class on earth, but we're not the dumbest! It's like Lockerbie switched bodies with a kindergarten teacher. Wait, no, that's not fair. Kindergarten teachers don't make their kids read Agatha Christie books, give book reports, take forty-five-minute quizzes, or even yell at them.

I was stuck on Question Thirty-One when I looked to my left and saw Violet whizzing through her test. In minutes, she was through.

At lunch, Quigley said, "Man, was that test retarded or what!" "Tell me about it," I said, scooping some mashed potatoes onto my plate. "I mean, Question Twenty-Seven said, 'What land did Ponce de Leon find? A: America B: Italy C: Mexico D: None of the above.'"

"Preparations," Isadora reminded me. "Preparations for the voting on Friday."

"Oh, yeah," I said. "Don't worry. I've got everything under control." Violet wiped her mouth with a napkin and said, "By the way, when we get the sixty billion dollars, what do we do with it?"

"You mean what we don't do with it," Klaus reminded her. "Our fortune Mom and Dad left behind is still in the bank, remember?"

"I mean, when we get it when we're eighteen," Violet said. "Any thoughts about college, people?" "Of course," Quigley said. "Let's all try and get into the same college, if possible."

"What about me?" Sunny said clearly. Everyone stared down at her for five minutes straight in shock, and then Klaus clapped a hand to his head. "Oh! I completely forgot! What do we do about Sunny? When we graduate, she'll still be in school here." "Let's see," Violet said. "When we graduate, she'll be about eight or nine. She can get some friends then. But for now she stays in Isadora and my room."

"So let's also try to use some of the money to send her to our college when she's old enough," I said. "We'll already have graduated and have jobs. But she'll still need an education."

"Enough about college for now," Isadora said. "Let's think about Friday. We'll need a banner. Like, a big one that says, 'Voting Here!' or 'Vote to Save Convicted Child Here!' Something like that."

"Leave it to me," Violet said. "I know where to find a banner, and I'll cover all that. But what's about the candy bars you were saying, Duncan?"

"We can say, the first one-hundred fifty people get a free candy bar," I offered. "I like that," she said, kneading a strand of hair between her forefinger and middle finger.

Then over the intercom, Nero announced, "Duncan, Isadora and Quigley Quagmire, Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire, report to the office immediately!"

"I wonder what it's all about," Quigley said. I shrugged, and we all walked to the office. Ms. Benkley, the secretary, was typing on a typewriter.

Isn't it weird how secretaries always type on a typewriter? I'm not trying to be Jerry Seinfeld or anything here, but it's pretty scary. Then she received a call, and said, "M-hmm, they're here." Then she hung up and turned to us. "He's ready to see you now," she said.

We walked into his office and shut the door. Nero was parked in a big, comfy-looking chair, facing the window. Then he whirled in the seat to face us.

There was a newspaper in his hand. It looked like it was Monday's edition. "I hope he doesn't spank us," Klaus whispered to Isadora. She giggled.

"I would spank you if the school board granted me the permission I'd been begging for since my career started," Nero growled, slapping the newspaper down on the table. "I was reading the Monday's edition of the Daily Cheetah today, and I am NOT impressed with what I saw on the front page! Just answer this one question for me: WHO'S IDEA WAS THIS?"

"First of all, why were you reading Monday's edition today?" Sunny sassed. Nero was not amused. "Oh really? You're wondering why, you scrawny shark-toothed little bag of bones?" he hollered.

"Don't talk about my sister like that," Klaus warned. "Aw, what are you gonna do orphan?" Nero taunted. Klaus was silent. "That's what I thought," Nero said. "It says the article was written by Duncan Quagmire."

I swallowed. He turned to me. "Is this true, Quagmire?" he said in an executioner-styled tone. "So what if it is? Are you going to vote against Carmelita?" I said. "Don't sass me, Quagmire!" he screeched.

Ms. Benkley came in, with a platter. There was a small tube of white pills, and a glass of water. "Nero, I've told you a million times," she said impatiently. "You must take your medication daily, as Dr. Burro indicated." Nero stood and cracked his arm across her grip. The platter went flying across the room, shattered the window, but he caught the tube of pills. He emptied the whole tube into his mouth, and then gasped for water.

He started licking the puddle off the floor, and when he was done, he went back to his desk, dialed a number, and said, "Is this Harrah's Metropolis in Vancouver, Canada? I want you to repair a window in Prufrock Preparatory School, in room 51, Principal's Office. Also, I wanna fried chicken dinner with gravy on the taters; I wanna new license plate, and a ticket to see Jerry Seinfeld live at Opryland down in Tennessee. Thanks and good luck selling those recently-shipped in Agatha Christie novels. That Hairless Pirate is hysterical!"

He hung up. Klaus said, "His name is Hercule Poirot, Agatha Christie wrote mystery novels a long time ago, Harrah's Metropolis is in Kentucky, and they don't cater food or repair windows, nor sell tickets to see Jerry Seinfeld live at Opryland in Nashville, Tennessee-" "And you need to shut up," Nero yelled.

"Duncan Quagmire, if you practice any more public demonstrations to un-convict Carmelita Spats, you are expelled." "But you didn't care earlier when we met with the lawyer," I protested. "Don't contradict me!" he roared. "And Baudelaire, sass me again and I'll give you a good crack in the jaw! Good day to you all!" "But-" I started. "I said GOOD DAY!" he screamed.

We hurried out of his office, and wondered what to do.