The iCandidate

by Mikael Carlson

  The

  iCandidate

  MIKAEL CARLSON

  Warrington Publishing

  New York

  .

  The iCandidate

  Copyright © 2013 by Mikael Carlson

  Warrington Publishing

  P.O. Box 2349

  New York, NY 10163

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author. For such requests, address Warrington Press c/o Subsidiary Rights Department, P.O. Box 2349, New York, New York 10163.

  Published in the United States of America

  Second Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-9897673-0-9 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9897673-1-6 (E-book)

  Cover design by Ranilo Cabo www.rcabo.co.nr.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  .

  Dedicated to all the great teachers of the world who work to inspire their students to become more than they are.

  .

  “The evolution of social media into a robust mechanism for social transformation is already visible. Despite many adamant critics who insist that tools like Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube are little more than faddish distractions useful only to exchange trivial information, these critics are being proven wrong time and again.”

  ― Simon Mainwaring

  “Our social tools are not an improvement to modern society, they are a challenge to it.”

  ― Clay Shirky

  PART I

  THE BET

  .

  -ONE-

  CHELSEA

  I need to set the alarm to play music or something. I fumble for the phone on the nightstand and silence the shrieking before falling back into the plush comfort of my bed. It only takes a couple of minutes to change the shrill, wailing sound into something more soothing. Not that any of the preloaded tones can be construed that way. I should just buy something trendy online, but really, what’s the point? Who has time for that? Well, most of my friends and nearly everyone I go to school with do. But how many of them are taking all honors classes and an Advanced Placement course? And they say high school is supposed to be fun.

  I throw on my worn terry cloth robe and head to the bathroom. The house I live in with my father is small by comparison to the others in town, meaning we share the only bathroom. Considering I drag myself out of bed at six and he is up and around at least an hour earlier, sharing seldom poses a problem.

  After a quick shower, I put my straight red hair up in a ponytail, dress, and look at myself in the full-length mirror glued to my bedroom door. And when I say glued to the door, I mean affixed with several big tubes of stuff Dad bought at the Home Depot. Nothing short of a jackhammer is going to remove it.

  We moved into the house right before I started high school, just months after Mom died. Installing this mirror was the first thing he did after the moving truck pulled away. I think the purpose was to help me be as comfortable here as I could.

  In Dad’s mind, a teenage girl with a mirror is the equivalent of a redneck with a shotgun on the happiness scale. I’m sure he read that in some magazine, or one of those parenting books he picked up when the terrifying thought of raising a girl on his own hit him. Not as if he ever complained, or let on to his fears, but I know all the same. Frankly, from what little I have read, the books are full of crap. At least he cares enough to try, which is more than I can say for some of my friend’s fathers.

  Most girls my age consume themselves with their appearance, but my ritual comprises a quick check in the mirror to ensure my clothes match and my hair is at least presentable. It’s not that I don’t care about my appearance, just not to the point of obsession. Cassandra, my closest friend, never takes her nose out of magazines the like of Cosmo and Glamour. I prefer reading a book. She says I would be far prettier wearing makeup, dressing in trendy clothes and spending more than five minutes on my hair. Cassie is almost certainly right, but I find the whole thought of a morning beauty routine exhausting.

  Only a couple of seconds is required to traverse the hall to the kitchen, where I find my father reading the paper over a cup of coffee. Dad is nothing if not a man of strict routine. Every morning is the same thing: a shower, a small breakfast, a cup of joe, and a date with the local newspaper before starting his shift at the factory. Bill Clinton was playing the saxophone the last time he took a vacation, and I am sure Bruce Stanton taking a sick day would be a noteworthy event at the plant. After Mom, his whole existence revolves around providing a roof over my head, putting food on the table, and planning for college. God bless him. I guess maybe that is why I’m the way I am. Or so I imagine a therapist would say.

  “Morning, Dad.”

  “Good Morning, Snuggle Bear.”

  Hearing that term of endearment is usually the highlight of my day. ‘Snuggle Bear’ has been his nickname for me since before I could walk, and while most girls my age would hate the childish name coming from a parent, I find it endearing. I pour some coffee into a travel mug and move to the dining room table to cram the mountain of books and papers spread out from last night’s studying into my book bag. Dad watches me over the top of his newspaper.

  “Last night was a late one, huh?”

  Oh, boy. I already know where this conversation is going given the matter-the-fact tone.

  “Mister Bennit is throwing another of his epic quizzes, so I had to study,” I respond, probably with a little too much edge to my voice. This talk is getting old, particularly on a Monday morning when I’m already in a dour mood.

  “Ya know, you work too hard. I know you keep telling me that junior year is important to get into college and all that, but why don’t you enjoy what little time you have left in high school?”

  “I am enjoying it, Dad.”

  He gives me his patented look of disbelief. I have a better shot at convincing him the Red Sox signed a pact with Satan to win the World Series in 2004. Perhaps that’s a bad example, because they did.

  “Look, Snuggle Bear, I know what always working feels like, and I just want you to appreciate not having that responsibility while you can. Go out and do something you enjoy before you’re forced to do the things you don’t.”

  “Maybe I think forcing Mister Bennit to give me an A is enjoyment.”

  “You’re not normal. Ya know that, right?”

  I can’t help but smile as I sling the overstuffed backpack on my shoulder and grab my to-go mug.

  “Runs in the family, Dad,” I conclude as I give him a kiss on the cheek and head for the kitchen door. “And don’t say that’s from Mom’s side – you know that’s a Stanton family trait.”

  Dad flashes that little smirk he has when he’s amused and not amused at the same time. That’s a sure-fire signal this chat will continue after school, following his extended shift at the factory. No, the untiring Bruce Stanton is not going to drop the subject until I relent and have ‘fun.’ I bet most teenagers are not having this conversation with their parents.

  I tell my father to have a good day and be safe, and that I love him. Probably not the words most fathers hear from their teenage daughters. But hey, he said it - I’m not normal. The thought occupies me during the routine fifteen minute drive to school, in lieu of trying to ignore the check engine light glowing ominously on my dash.

  The roads are clogged with the typical morning traffic, and thus easy to mindlessly navigate. Staring out the wi
ndow at a stop light, I notice the buds growing on the trees in the center of town, indicating the promise of spring following a long Connecticut winter.

  I pull into the driveway of the aptly named Millfield High School and navigate to my assigned parking space. I don’t think about how my ten-year-old Toyota Camry is in the unenviable position of being parked next to a brand new BMW Z4 and like-new Range Rover on a daily basis. I don’t even think about the friends I will get to see today or what idle gossip they will try to get me to engage in. I can only think about the fact that my father thinks I’m not normal. And the fact that I know he’s right.

  .

  -TWO-

  MICHAEL

  You might think after three years of teaching I would find the routine a little tiring. Days come and go and the students come and go with them. Lesson plans may change slightly, but the curriculum stays pretty static thanks to the stifling bureaucracy created by the simple-minded state Department of Education. That group of half-wits thinks they actually know something about schooling. With their constant meddling, teaching can be a dull existence if you follow their stale approach.

  While not as seasoned as many of my peers, I have seen enough to understand there are two types of teachers who burn out. The first are the mindless trolls who show up every day to collect a paycheck. Their students are subjected to countless videos so they don’t have to face them from the front of the room and teach.

  Students are told to read aloud from dull, watered-down textbooks in the futile hope simple oral pronouncement somehow allows the information to seep into the teenage mind faster. Generally, these teachers are tenured, and thus being secure in their jobs, forgot that we exist to inspire and instruct young minds. They don’t interact or try to improve themselves. Simply put, they don’t care, and I see the indifference every day.

  On the other side of the spectrum are the crusaders. Take Miss Peterton, by far the school’s best math teacher. She wears math-themed clothing, and hosts a Pie Day to celebrate, well, pi. When I ask her how much she eats, she wryly responds, “3.14 pieces.” I’m not a math guy, but it still cracks me up.

  I don’t envy science teachers at all, but Mister Blumb has teaching to an apathetic audience figured out. Precious few American students pursue the sciences these days, and he understands full well the absence of interest in what he teaches. He dedicated his life to the study of science, but doesn’t expect understanding ionic and covalent bonds, valance numbers and memorizing the periodic table of elements to be at the top of his student’s list of interests. Yet through the use of practical experiments that often includes small, semi-controlled explosions and other strange results, he manages to keep class interesting. Who doesn’t like explosions?

  Literature can be mind-numbingly boring, but a sprinkling of English teachers likes to spice things up. I’ve heard one compare Greek heroic epics like the Iliad and the Odyssey to Luke Skywalker’s struggles against the Darth Vader and the Empire in Star Wars. Others, like Miss Slater, work in stories with age-old dilemmas and relate them with more contemporary themes. Oh, Miss Slater. The thought of her contorts my mouth into a Cheshire cat smile.

  All these teachers realize the fundamental truth of modern education that, in the age of Xbox, Facebook and smart phones, you have to compete for the occupied minds of the American teenager. Today, good teachers are forty percent comedian, thirty percent circus performer, twenty percent educator and ten percent parent. My colleagues may argue over the percentages, but I’m sure they’ll agree with the sentiment.

  The 7:35 bell rings and I rise from the desk in the corner of my extravagantly decorated classroom. One advantage to being a history teacher is the sheer amount of posters and artifacts available to wallpaper an otherwise bland room with. The decorating job took days, and while I doubt the students care, I did it more for me than them. With the eyes of legendary men like George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Martin Luther King Jr. looking down on me, I tend to give rousing lectures in an effort to gain an approval I know can never come.

  The warning bell signals students to end their socializing and start heading to class. It also means the teachers in the school have to be outside their classrooms to supervise the chaos and encourage them to get moving. Generally, that’s a waste of time, but you ignore this simple duty at your own peril. Our principal is known for his Draconian approach to both education and order. And by order, I mean for the teachers even more than the students.

  The crowd of teenagers at the far end of the corridor parts and boys’ heads turn farther than I thought was possible for a human to accomplish. They used to be somewhat subtle about these things, but when Jessica Slater is involved, subtlety is the first thing to go. To say she is a vision does not begin to do her justice.

  She strides with grace and elegance down the hall, dressed smartly in a conservative, yet somehow still provocative red dress. The click of her high heels echoes off the walls, announcing every footfall as the boys speak in only hushed voices as they gawk. She walks up to me and I’m a bit short of breath myself just from watching her.

  “A little light reading, honey?” I ask as she repositions the large stack of papers in the crook of her arm.

  “Just need to get some of these essays graded before second period,” she responds, flashing her beautiful smile. “It’s the only advantage of having my planning time first thing in the morning.”

  “That’s why I teach history and not English - far fewer essays to grade. Why didn't you just do them this weekend?” Of course, I can’t help but think I know the reason.

  “Oh, you mean with all the free time I had after planning a small wedding?” she asks sarcastically, emphasizing the word small.

  “A small wedding I’m thrilled I'm not paying for.” Given what her parents are going to be spending to marry off their eldest daughter, there’s nothing but truth in my comment. All the same, I am still in awe it will be me standing at the altar waiting for her to come down the aisle during this small wedding. Yes, this vision in red, with blonde hair swooping past her shoulders in long and breezy curls, is my fiancée. I should probably pinch myself.

  “Speaking of my parents, we need to be at their house by four tonight.” She playfully grabs my shirt at the chest, the overhead florescent lighting bouncing off the glittering one-carat diamond engagement ring adorning her long, slender finger. Yeah, that rock was worth every dime. “And don’t think you can slip off to the gym and still make it on time.”

  “Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life?” God, I hope so.

  “Well, at least until I decide to get rid of you,” she says smiling, as she turns and starts to saunter down the hall toward her classroom.

  “Any chance of that happening by four?” I call out to her before she wanders too far away to hear me over the din of the hallway.

  “Nope!” she responds back over her shoulder, the pleasure in her voice evident.

  “If you keep violating the dress code, Principal Howell may make getting rid of you by four a real possibility,” I hear uttered from behind me. The sweet, yet still commanding voice of Chalice Ramsey can never be mistaken. The head of the Social Studies department, she is my guardian angel in this building. Thank God for her. She runs more interference for me than an offensive lineman.

  “Good morning, Chalice.” I turn to face my immediate boss, who stands a full foot shorter than me at five feet two with her heels on. A teacher at Millfield High since the dawn of time, she is fiercely loyal to the good teachers in her department, having seen the damage lousy ones can do. Fortunately, she considers me the best, and that is no small thing in her eyes. I also realize loyalty only goes so far, as I learned the hard way during my time in the Army.

  “Seriously, Michael. The sport jacket is a nice touch, but wearing jeans everyday is giving Howell fits. He’s practically tattooed a target on your back, so why do you insist on pushing his buttons?”

  I can’t suppress the smirk creepi
ng across my face despite the fact my biggest champion might consider such behavior insubordinate. “You know why, Chalice.”She knows my long list of issues with Robinson Howell better than anyone. Although she is political and diplomatic with her own thoughts and words, there is no doubt in my mind that she agrees with every one of them.

  The halls are nearly empty now as the final bell rings announcing the start of the day. The dull roar emanating from my classroom reminds me I was oblivious to them walking in. Chalice gives me a slight nod. “I fight for you, and I always will. But there will come a time when I can’t protect you. Don’t make it over something as stupid as this.”

  She walks past me, nothing further needing to be said between us. Jessica, as a seasoned veteran in the teaching trenches, gives me the same advice. Hell, numerous former commanding officers gave me the same warnings what feels like a lifetime ago. I have ignored them all my life, but I should change my ways, at least a little bit. I know I can, and probably need to before it catches up with me.

  I smile. “Nah,” I mumble to myself as I enter my classroom to start a brand new day.

  .

  -THREE-

  KYLIE

  Eleven years. Eleven years of faithful service and now here I sit, in my pajamas at nine a.m., looking for anything worth watching on TV. I was double major in journalism and political science at Notre Dame, for crying out loud. I earned a Master’s degree from Columbia in Government Studies, interned at ABC News, and landed a first job as a political writer for MSNBC. Then I realized my dream by writing about politics for the ‘Old Gray Lady’ herself, The New York Times. Now, after one conversation with my editor, I’ve gone from the top of the world to being crushed by it.