So bio turned into a daily dose of torture.
Mr. Knacke had three or four different voices, as if there was a gang of Knackes inside him. Most of the time it was a flat droning noise, like an airplane heard from way far away. But sometimes it would explode into a screechy, scratchy yell, and he'd aim every kind of insult at the kids he called the "flat-liners." After he asked you a question, he'd make this beeping sound, like one of those machines in Intensive Care. And if you got it wrong, which was most of the time, then he'd buzz out the words "Brain dead! Brain dead!"
Once, when he passed back a really bad test, he stapled job applications from McDonald's on the ones that got Fs. "Would you like fries with that? Go on," he said, leaning in toward me so close I could smell him. "Try it! Say it, because that's where you'll be for the rest of your life."
I put up with it. What else could I do?
Like there was a girl called Michelle Eckers, who was born with one leg shorter than the other. And she had to clomp around or else wear these spasmo-looking shoes. And everybody knew. And some kids made fun of her, of course. But what could she do? Complaining wouldn't make her leg any longer. And what could I do about Mr. Knacke? Complaining wouldn't make him lay off with the insults and ranting and extra work.
So I did my time at school. And as soon as I could, I was out of there and back to Relly's house for more hard guitar slag and slippery bass groan.