Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

They buried my wife in a shoe box in Central Park. I like to imagine that the funeral was respectful, that her body was treated with a modicum of dignity. But of course I’ll never know. I wasn’t invited to the ceremony. Instead, the guests of honor were the students of homeroom 2K.

Her killers.

When the children returned from the burial, they drew “tributes” to my wife in Magic Marker — maudlin scribbles of halos, wings, and harps. It was hard not to vomit as Ms. Hutson taped them up above my cage. I’ve never seen such tasteless dreck in all my life.

Hailey, I noticed, was crying as she drew. The irony. It was her responsibility to refill our water bottle last week. Instead, she spent all her free time with Alyssa, practicing a clapping game called “Miss Mary Mack.”

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack!

All dressed in black, black, black!

It was that inane chant that provided the score to my wife’s final moments. She was dying of thirst but never cried once. It was only later that I realized why: her body was too dehydrated to produce tears.

Pocahontas was her name.

My name is Princess Jasmine. I am a male, so this name is humiliating. But I’m aware that my situation could be worse. The other homeroom, 2R, has a guinea pig named Stimpy and an elderly turtle named New Kids on the Block.

Pocahontas left me with three sons, and it’s for their sake alone that I keep up my struggle. Every weekday morning, when the monsters run screaming through the door, I hide my babies under scraps of newspaper. Whenever food and water are scarce, I give them my whole portion. Their faces are exact replicas of my wife’s, and when I look at them, it helps me remember just how beautiful she was. Their names are Big Mac, Whopper, and Mr. T.

Mr. T was born with developmental problems. He was so small during infancy that we had to shelter him each night, wrapping our bodies around his shivering frame so that he could fall asleep. I’ve been through a lot. If I lose Mr. T, I’m not sure I’ll have the strength to carry on.

It’s morning now. The square of sunlight on the blackboard grows and grows. Soon the gremlins will run in howling, hopped-up on Pop-Tarts and primed for violence. For months, I assumed that this school was reserved for juvenile delinquents. But during Parent — Teacher Night, the mink coats and bespoke suits told a different tale. It turns out this school is a private one, an “elite” institution for the children of millionaires.

I can hear the nannies muscling their way through the lobby, dragging their little terrors toward my family. My sons are still asleep. I lick their faces and conceal them as best I can.

The bell clangs harshly. The nightmare begins.

Monday

8:25 a.m.

“What time is it?”

“Jobs time!”

My fur bristles as Ms. Hutson takes out the Jobs Board. This laminated poster, with its seventeen colorful squares, rules my family’s existence. It determines everything: whether we feast or starve, live or die. I rub my paws impatiently while Ms. Hutson assigns the week’s tasks.

“Pencil Organizer this week is… Dylan! Line Leader is… Max! And our two Table Wipers are… Kristen and Sophie!”

Eventually, she gets to the one job that matters.

“Hamster Feeder is…”

I scan the room. There are still some good candidates left. Maybe we’ll luck out and get Caitlin? Last month she gave us double portions. If her name is called again, Mr. T might gain some weight in time for winter. It’s while I’m enjoying this fantasy that Ms. Hutson clears her throat and — with one little word — sentences my family to death.

“Simon.”

My eyes widen with horror. Simon Rich is 2K’s “class clown,” a pudgy, hyperactive boy with some kind of undiagnosed emotional problem.

“Hamster Feeder?” he shouts. “Whatchu talkin’ ’bout, Willis!”

The other children laugh hysterically.

My God, I think. This is it. This is how it ends.

11:25 a.m.

“Free time’s almost over,” Ms. Hutson says. “Don’t forget to do your jobs!”

I sigh with relief as Simon finally waddles to our cage. He doesn’t feed us, though, or replenish our water. Instead, he picks me up by my tail, which is connected directly to my spine. The pain is so searing, it shocks me into a kind of perverse laughter. I did not know my body could hurt this way, that God would allow one of his own creatures to suffer on this level. Simon swings me through the air while singing nonsensically in his high-pitched nasal voice.

I glance at my babies, hidden safely under newspaper. Even at the peak of my agony, I am grateful that Simon has focused his sadism on me. Otherwise, it might be them who suffered.

Free time ends, and Simon drops me back into my cage — from several times my own height. My sons poke their heads through the newspaper. They look around confusedly, then stare at me in dismay. They’re used to receiving food at this hour, but I have none to give. Simon has forgotten to do his one basic task. There is still some water left in our bottle from last week, but all it can do is prolong our agony. Without grain, we won’t live long.

2:30 p.m.

During science class, Ms. Hutson unveils a large glossy map of the solar system.

“There are nine planets,” she says. “Which one do we live on?”

“Mars!” Simon shouts. The other children howl uproariously. This is what passes for wit among them, the basic substitution of one word for another.

“Very funny,” Ms. Hutson says, smiling indulgently. “But of course, we really live on Earth, the third planet from the sun. Mars is the fourth planet. And after that one comes Jupiter, Saturn…”

I sigh with misery. It’s obvious what’s about to happen.

“Uranus…”

There is a split-second pause, and then the class erupts into full-fledged mayhem. I try to shield my sons from the noise, but it’s too late. The monsters have heard a “dirty word” and cannot contain their excitement.

“Uranus!” Simon screams. “Your anus!”

I lock eyes with the teacher, silently willing her to beat him. But all she does is walk across the classroom and turn off the fluorescent lights. Her strategy fails. The children’s laughter grows so deafening that I can feel my eardrums throbbing in my skull. Some of the students are standing on their desks, swinging their arms around in a kind of mania.

The chaos gradually subsides, but only because the children grow exhausted. The utterance of the word anus has produced in them pure ecstasy. Several of them are crying real tears.

Ms. Hutson turns the lights back on, and I glance at the clock. The Uranus episode has lasted thirteen minutes. Before the lesson can resume, the bell rings. The spoiled brats run laughing through the door, another day of foolishness behind them.

I watch as my children drink our last remaining drops of water. We’ll be lucky to make it through the night.

Tuesday

8:15 a.m.

I awake to the sound of screeching laughter. Sophie and Alyssa have made a dress out of pink construction paper and taped it to my sleeping body.

“You’re a pretty girl, Princess Jasmine!” Alyssa says. “A pretty, pretty girl!”

I try to remove the costume, but the tape is double-sided and my paws are too weak to detach it. I must wear this “dress” indefinitely, in the presence of my own sons. I avoid their eyes and they avoid mine. Whatever dignity I had left is surrendered.

During attendance, everyone says “here” except for Simon, who says “ not here.” Somehow this gets a laugh. For the first time in my life, I think seriously about the option of suicide.