But Max can talk, that's for sure. We learned the word the other day. Garrulous. I was like, Mrs. Janie, when will I ever use a word like this? Vocab is worse than algebra I swear. I mean, okay, so I don't know what I am going to be for college. And all I've ever done for a job is watching this little retard. But I know I'm not going to do anything that has math in it. Maybe I'll become a vet like my cousin. She is so beautiful, and her husband is about ten times sexier than anyone in the world. And their baby is so cute. Or maybe I'll go to Gene Juarez and become a hair stylist.

Of course, Max won't say anything if he thinks he's in trouble. For a little retard, he sure figures that one out really fast. I get too distracted over at his house, which is about the plainest simplest most boringest house in the whole world. It’s like, no wonder his mom had a baby with Down's syndrome. She's got no personality anyway, and Max's dad doesn't either. I mean, they actually have one of those paintings on the wall they you see that guy on PBS do.

So, it's like, I go over there on Sundays, and Mr. Dickles next door is in his robe getting the newspaper, and I can see wrinkly man boobs, and I wonder what will happen if I ever get boobs, which makes me sick to think I'm thinking about our boobs at the same time, and I go inside, and Max already has the chess board out, and he's already made some moves for me, because, hello, chess is stupid.

And it's like if I lose I am a total idiot, losing to a retard like Max, and If I win, I'm a jerk, cause I beat a retard at chess. So I hafta try to barely win, which is hard because Max really sucks at it, and I don't know how all the pieces move. And Max's mom is cool, she let's me do my laundry over there, since I had to stop doing it at my house since my perv-o step-dad makes me wash my underwear with his whenever I have some to wash, which lately is all the time since I only have about three pair left.

And then I figure out why—Max has a pair in his pocket! I can see it sticking out of his fat-ass when he gets up to bring himself more chocolate milk! And does he ever bring me any? No, damn retard. And I say, what the hell? And he says, Mr. Dinkles says, and just stares a little bit past C4 where my bishop is, and I'm like Mr. Dinkle says what, and he's all, Mr. Dinkle says to do it, and I'm thinking about those wrinkly man boobs, and I go what? And Max does that thing retards do where he holds up one finger, like he's making a point, and he says Mr. Dinkle says to do it and he'll give me a dollar. And I'm all like what the hell are you going to do with a dollar, and he says, I like chocolate milk. Jesus Christ, you little retardo, that's all you ever drink and your mom buys it by the gallon anyway

And it’s all I can do not to wonder if Mr. Dinkle makes him swipe my panties before or after they've been through the wash.