THE BEST RUMOR about Knacke, or, I guess, the worst one, was about the dog's head. I heard different versions. But it always had to do with some dog that barked too much down the street from Knacke's house. So he lured it over, or went in the middle of the night and grabbed it. "And he cut off the head and he's got it floating in a bucket of chemicals." That's how kids usually finished the story. "It's been alive for years, floating there all hooked up to tubes."
Somehow he figured out a way to keep the dog's head alive and somewhere in his basement he still had it. A big black cauldron. A glass bowl. A vat. Different stories had different details. Tubes into the neck. Or up the nose. Floating in clear chemical broth. Or bubbling green goo.
So when it got really bad in bio class, I thought maybe I'd end up like the dog. I mean, I knew that teachers didn't usually kill kids and cut off their heads, but sometimes it felt like that was the next step after detention.
I was there in the bio classroom again, just me and Knacke.
For three days straight I hadn't done any homework. So he told me I had to stay late.
He had everything set up for me when I arrived. The Marlboro Man's lungs were fine this time. So instead of scouring tubes, I was supposed to completely clean out a big glass display case. Inside was something ten times grosser than tobacco lungs. It was an old piece of meat that maggots had been eating for a week. I guess he was trying to show cycles of nature. You know, how everything returns to the earth and the plants and animals use it up. But this wasn't a little compost pile with carrot peelings and dead leaves. No, Knacke went straight for the gross-out. A hunk of meat all swarmed over with white fly larvae.
"We're done with that project now," he said. "Take everything out, dispose of it, and then scrub the equipment."
I just stood there, staring.
"You see there the end of all flesh. All living creatures—from humans to worms—return to just such a state. Beyond death there is only decay. Do you understand?" He pointed. "Now clean it up."
I didn't move.
"Did you hear me?" he said.
"I'm not sticking my hand in there," I said.
"I didn't ask you. I told you. Now get to work." He wasn't exactly smiling, but I could tell he was enjoying this.
"No way. It's disgusting. Do it yourself." I didn't care what he did to me. A letter home, sending me down to the assistant principal's office for a yell-at from Frankengoon, suspension, even. "I'm not doing it."
He glared at me. When he got mad, his face looked shiny and swollen. His eyes were red around the edges, like a drunk's. And his breath came in panting sniffs.
"Get to work, young lady." He was holding a pair of rubber gloves.
I didn't take them. "Forget it," I said. "You can't make me do it."
He started into one of those "Who do you think you are?" speeches. But I'd made my choice and I wasn't backing down.
"Look," I said after a while. "What do you want from me? Just tell me why I'm the one you're picking on."
"Picking on? What do you mean? You show much promise. I merely hoped that a little discipline would turn you around. Make you a better student. Perhaps bring out your best qualities."
"You hated me the minute you saw me. I just need to know why."
"I don't hate anyone," he said. "I merely noted the traits that set you apart. I want to see my students succeed to the best of—"
I headed for the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" he snarled.
"Home. You want to call Frankengoon and have me thrown out of school, fine. But I'm not putting up with this anymore."
"Get back here!"
I kept going.