By RAY CWIKLINSKI,
York Catholic High School
One warm afternoon in Baltimore, Mia Kaczynski was sitting on the balcony of her permanent residence at the Holiday Inn. Her boyfriend, Rainne Nugent, joined her, as they gorged on McDonald’s and bemoaned their misfortunes.
“So, Rainnecloud, like I told you, I went to Johns Hopkins University for I don’t know, around four months,” Mia said. “I was a brilliant student. I was getting straight A’s. They even let me teach a class. It looked like if I kept it up, I would be done with medical school in a couple years or so, as intelligent as I am. Then, one day in April, everything went to hell in a Hummer.”
“So, I’m eating some disgusting breakfast in the dorm, when someone comes up to me and says that the dean of students wanted to see me. ‘All right,’ I thought. ‘He must want me to address the Board of Trustees or something befitting my talents.’ So I go down to his poorly decorated, overcompensating office…”
“’Scuse me, l’il dove,” Rainne said. “Just out of curiosity, is his name Dean, or is dean a sort of title, like Don Corleone?”
“It’s a title,” Mia said. “A completely undeserved one, in his case. So I go down to his office, and the old fool looks at me with his fish eyes and straightens his hideous plaid tie, and says, ‘Miriam Kaczynski, you are expelled from Johns Hopkins University as of now. You have 24 hours to leave.’ Then I panicked. ‘What have I done, your deanship?’ I asked, sweating pro… pro… profanely. ‘I’ve been good, I swear to gawd!’ Why was he persecuting me?
“Then a vague memory started forming in my head. He wasn’t talking about the godawful toe theft was he? That was hardly grounds for expulsion, was it?”
Rainne stared at Mia with vacant eyes. Why wasn’t she making sense?
“Soooo…” Mia said, angry, but proud. “Here’s what happened. Johns Hopkins is a medical school, y’know?”
“I guess so.”
“So, eventually, you start performing autopsies on corpses and whatnot. And one fine day last year — November, I believe — they wheeled this guy on into the school, so we could cut him up ‘n’ study him.”
“Was he dead?” Rainne said.
“As a doughnut. He wrote it in his will that when he died, he wanted to dedicate his body to medical study. Total creeper.”
“When I die, I want to get buried with my iPod in the coffin with a battery recharger so I can listen to it for all of eternity,” Rainne said. “And a flashlight and a paperback of something by Kurt Vonnegut so I can finally catch up on my reading with no distractions.”
“Whatever, Rainnecloud,” Mia said. “Soooo…anywho, this guy was on the operating table in one of the classrooms and it was me, and a few idiots, and Doctors Kevorkian and Caligari presiding — probably no relation, but you never know. So we rip open the dead corpse, and there is all this formaldehyde and entrails. Some weakling gets sick, the doctors are yelling at us, we pull the kidneys out with forceps, and this one idiot, Anne Mitchell, spills some ‘hyde on the floor, and more people get sick, but not me. It’s pandemonium. Then the next thing ya know class is over, and everyone is anxious to get outta there, and Caligari yells at me to get the lights and everyone stampedes out like bison and leaves me there all by my lonesome.
“So I’m standin’ there holding this jagged-edged scalpel in my hands, more of a miniature saw, really, and I look at the stiff and I get this wonderful idea.”
“Uh-oh,” Rainne said, knowing his girlfriend’s previous reputation.