“What happened to you, Kylie? You’ve become so jaded. You think the whole world is out to get you. It’s too bad.”
Madison retrieves her purse and stands, the chair screeching against the tile floor as she rises. Her exit won’t be as graceful as her entrance. No longer is she on top of the world, taking a pity lunch with her loser big sister. I have her, and now it’s time to go for her throat.
“I told you what I was working on.” Madison stops a few steps from the table, but she doesn’t look back at me. “I didn’t give you many specifics that night we talked on the phone. You remember, the one where we talked like we did from time-to-time growing up. You were in emotional distress, so you reached out to me and I listened like a big sister should. And you know what? I felt closer to you at that moment than any other point in our lives.
“So I decided to trust you by telling you what I was working on. I may have even mentioned Beaumont’s name to protect you, since being a key advisor to a crooked politician is not exactly a career enhancing move. I opened up to you, and as thanks, you turned around and used that information against me.”
“Good catching up with you, sis,” Madison says as she walks away from the table and heads out the door. Her quick exit prompts the waiter to bring the bill over, lest I get any ideas about not paying it. I drop a thirty bucks on the table and grab my things.
It was a short conversation, but we both got what we wanted today. I confirmed Bill’s theory about what transpired to get me fired. Maddy didn’t actually need to make an admission. Her actions told the tale in a way only a sibling could decipher. But she learned something from me too. She knows that I figured it out, am pissed, and will eventually be coming for her and the man she works for.
.
-ELEVEN-
CHELSEA
As I pull into the driveway, the LED sign in the front of the school reads ‘Final Exam Week! Good Luck!’ That’s exactly what we will all need. I am early to school today, so I park my car without the added humiliation of having the Range Rover and Z4 next to me.
I chat with Stephanie and Cassandra at my locker for a few minutes and then head off to Mister Bennit’s classroom. Much to my surprise, I am not the first to arrive. Several others, including Emilee, and Peyton of all people, are here getting some last minute review in.
Joining them, I notice the desks once arranged in the all-too-familiar horseshoe are now neatly lined up in rows and columns. The stage is gone, and the room is in test configuration. I swear the change is more for psychological reasons than cheating prevention ones.
As time ticks by, my anxiety increases. The last students file into the classroom, still a whole five minutes before the bell. Most of us are already seated, reviewing their notes and asking questions amongst themselves. The public address system crackles to life from the speakers set in the ceiling tiles at the front of the room.
“Students should be at their second period class at this time for their final examination,” the voice says without preamble. “Please disregard all bells. Students will be dismissed from their exam by announcement.”
Mister Bennit walks from his desk in the corner to the front of the room with a stack of papers in his hand. “The great journey you all began one-hundred and seventy-six days ago reaches its end today. Hope you all studied hard. Clear your desks.”
We oblige, but I can tell many of my peers are pretty anxious by the way they fumble their books and notes. Amanda breaks the eerie silence. “There's more than our grade at stake today. Or did you forget?”
“As if any of you would let that happen, Amanda.”
“Good, because I have spent every free moment for a month studying for this thing,” Vince says. Doubtful, but I suppose miracles do happen.
Mister Bennit begins handing out packets consisting of numerous sheets of paper stapled in the corner. If tradition holds, here come the rapid-fire instructions.
“All right, you have two hours to complete this exam. There are fifty multiple choice questions, fifteen short answer and, of course, the dreaded essay of doom. As always, the only authorized positions for your eyes are the paper in front of you and the clock.
“Maintain bottom to top lip contact at all times. In the unlikely event you finish early, turn your papers over and remain silent. Cheaters will face summary judgment and execution by firing squad. Questions?”
That took around nine seconds to get out. He’s slipping.
“Did you have to make this so easy?” Vince asks playfully. As usual, he earns a chuckle from the otherwise tense class.
“We'll see if you are so confident once you actually flip your test over, Vince,” Mister Bennit replies with a smile. “Okay guys, get to it.”
For the next hour and forty-five minutes, I pore over the test. To my pleasant surprise, it is not as hard as I expected it to be. The questions were certainly not easy, but if the whole class took the time to prepare, this exam was not impossible.
I finish about fifteen minutes early, so I review the multiple choice questions and ensure I marked the answer sheet correctly. Then I check the short answer to make certain I answered the whole question. I have fallen into that trap on more than one occasion. No point in checking the essay. There is no time to review, let alone rewrite it.
“Three, two, one, time’s up. Writing utensils down, please. Exammageddon is over and it’s time to face the humanity. Bring your essay, answer sheet and exam up to the front.”
Mister Bennit begins collecting the exams and bubble sheets and places them in separate piles on his desk. I look around and don’t see the panic I have in the past. Most of us confidently turn the exam in. I think he notices too.
“Will you let us know how we did?” I ask, innocently.
“So eager to fail,” he states with a wink. “I’ll e-mail the class when they are graded for those who are curious.”
He can keep dreaming. There are a lot of things in life I am not sure of, like why girls my age find UGG boots fashionable. But I can say with certainty that I nailed this test. Maybe not a perfect score, but I will promise I didn’t miss it by much. I know I did my part.
From the looks of it, I am not the only one brimming with confidence. There are a lot of smiles in the room, and some very upbeat conversations get interrupted only when the public address system crackles to life. “The B Period final exam testing period has concluded. Students may now be dismissed for their next exam.”
We all begin to file out of the classroom. We have twenty minutes to get to our last exam of the day, but most of it will be spent socializing in the hallway. I look back to see Mister B. flipping quickly through the answer sheets. While I doubt he has the exact order memorized yet, I bet he knows it pretty well. That would be the only reason I can see to justify the look of concern on his face.
.
-TWELVE-
MICHAEL
The problem when you include yourself in the stakes of a bet is maintaining impartiality. While I highly doubt any student would ever question my integrity outright, I don’t even want the perception to be there. And in an instant like this, it could be because there is no way I want to run for office.
So while it would be easy to tweak a grade to ensure that doesn’t happen, I have to remember who it hurts in the long run. My guidance to students and their parents at the beginning of the school year was that you get the grade you earn. So, despite any temptation I have to reach a desired outcome, I stick by that rule. Of course, I also took a few precautions.
I cashed in a favor with the Teacher Clerk to run the answer sheets through a machine that corrects them automatically. I asked her to just put them in a folder and not share any details with me. The final exam contained fifty multiple choice questions, worth two points each for a total of one hundred points. I now have no idea how they did on them.
The fifteen short answer questions are worth four points each for a total of sixty points. Basically, the only criteria are whether they answered the que
stion correctly using the proper facts to support it. Yes to both and they get full credit. If they are wrong, they obviously get nothing. If they guess right, but fail to adequately support their answer, they get half credit.
The essay is worth forty points, and comprises the ‘make it or break it’ part of the test. I award four points for each of ten criteria, including: style, organization, argument, factual accuracy, thesis development and a couple of other things. Once you add this result to those of the other sections, you get a raw score out of two-hundred. They all need to score a one hundred and eighty-four or better for an A. The good students historically average around a one hundred and seventy, or an eighty-five percent which is a B.
Students are dismissed from school once the two exams are over, so I get right to work correcting their short answer sections. It’s barely lunchtime as I plod my way through the stack, and the results are all pretty much the same. A question wrong here and a half-credit answer there, but overall they did really well. I’m impressed because these questions are not something I would ever characterize as easy. I am also a little distressed, given the circumstances, for the same reason.
I receive a text from Jess explaining she is going to do much of her grading at home instead of at school. Since that means the living room will look like it threw up Shakespeare, I decide to grade the essays at my favorite local hangout. The Perfect Buzz is a throw-back coffee house not far from the school. Much larger than you would expect, it still has a quaint, comfy feel you don’t get at a modern Starbucks. The java here is excellent and the espresso even better.
Laura, the shop’s owner who is almost never spotted outside the store during business hours, is surprisingly not in. Her stand-in, a pleasant older woman, makes my usual quadruple latte, and I settle in to one of the plush, comfortable chairs near the window to read the essays.
I’m a fast reader, and since I only take notes and not assign grades to the essays until I have read them all, it only takes a little over five hours to finish. It is nearly summer, but the sun has lost its struggle to stay in the sky. The long shadows of the late afternoon and early evening fade as twilight begins to settle in.
I review my notes and assign the grades based on each student’s performance. The highest was a 40 and the lowest was a 32. Clearly they prepared very well for this exam because I have never had essay scores this high. I begin to calculate the scores for each student by adding the essay to the short answer. Each of my pupils is in line for an A, but there are some borderline ones. A bad showing on the multiple choice questions could easily send a few plunging into B or B minus range.
I open the folder the teacher clerk gave me and begin to add the multiple choice scores to the tally. I want to not believe what I’m seeing as I type the scores into a spreadsheet. Excel will do the math, but the result is already obvious. A year of hard work paid off in this demonstration of knowledge and historical concepts. I am not so thrilled about what that means.
By the time I calculate the scores, collect all my crap and get to the house, it’s well after nine. Normally this would draw the ire of my significant other, but Jessica is in the same boat herself. The condition of the living room serves as a testament to the plight of the modern English teacher. Piles of papers are everywhere, and although she has a finely-honed system for how she grades, it looks like complete chaos to me.
Jessica is passed out on the couch, a purple pen she uses to correct essays only an inch away from bleeding into my microfiber cushion. I never use purple, despite it being the official color teachers at Millfield High are supposed to correct with. Our current administrators feel red is too harsh on the fragile psyche of the American teenager. I figure if you don’t like red, don’t make mistakes.
Sensing my presence, Jessica opens her eyes groggily. “Well?”
“Can we not talk about this now? Sleeping on the couch isn’t good for my back,” I say, answering the question without really answering it.
“So much for not underestimating them.”
“They must have cheated,” I retort, knowing full well they didn’t.
“Yeah, sure. Or maybe you are just a far better teacher than you think you are. That, or they’re far more determined than you thought they’d be,” she replies as a woman does when telling a man she is always right, and he’s an idiot.
“How mad at me are you right now?” I exhale.
Jessica gets up from the couch, tiptoeing around the piles of paper like they were landmines. “Let's not discuss it. The couch is lumpy and you have a bad back.”
That went about as expected, and as unpleasant as it was, I get the feeling it will pale in comparison once I email the grades to the class. I have now resigned myself to the fact that I truly have to go through with this. I have to run for Congress. But I am also determined not to feel that pain alone. After all, what is life if not a learning opportunity?
PART II
THE CAMPAIGN
.
-THIRTEEN-
BLAKE
In Washington politics, there is no such thing as a normal day. Whether you are the President of the United States or a page in the House of Representatives, there are always political moves to be made and enemies coming after you. It’s a hard lifestyle to get used to, unless you are someone like me. I live for it.
I am already at my desk working on something for Roger this early Tuesday morning when Madison storms into the office. For a woman who appears to be the epitome of elegance and grace, she has a vindictive streak that exudes through her designer outfit. She slams her expensive purse on the desk before meeting my gaze.
“Rough morning?” I ask, knowing full well the problem is much deeper. While working out of the district office the last five days, I know she was planning on meeting her sister at some point.
“Family can be infuriating, that’s all,” she says for the benefit of those around us.
Deena peers over her dark glasses from her own desk. Since she rarely wears them, I assume they are meant to showcase some sense of style I am oblivious to rather than performing any real function. Not wanting to engage in a public confessional, Madison crosses Congressman Beaumont’s outer office to my desk.
“She knows,” Madison whispers to me, looking around to ensure we are not drawing any more unwanted attention from the staff. I quickly glance over at Deena, who has gone back to immersing herself in whatever task she invented to feel important.
“Are you sure? I mean, there’s no way—”
“Blake, my sister may be a lot of things, but she’s not an idiot. We met for lunch on Saturday and she put two and two together before we even sipped our wine.”
“But she can’t prove anything, so who cares?”
“You don’t know Kylie,” Madison deadpans.
I don’t know the whole story of the rift between Maddy and her sister, but it must be epic. Their sibling rivalry transcends simple competitiveness and resembles something closer to being blood enemies. Maybe someday I’ll hear the full version of that saga.
“You sound like you’re scared of her,” I say, almost taunting her.
“I am not scared of my sister!” Madison barks, a little too loudly. Once again, the whole office looks over at us. “We just need to keep an eye on her,” she says in a much softer tone.
“Why? She can’t hurt us with anything about Lexington.”
“Then she’ll find something else. Trust me, I know her. She won’t let up.”
“If you’re that concerned, why didn’t you call me right away?” I ask, unconvinced Kylie is a threat to anything. Madison turns away from me, annoyed with the audacity of my question. A rare Alpha Female, she hates having her decisions criticized or challenged. On this staff, only Roger or the congressman himself can get away with it.
“Madison, we don’t need to worry about your sister.” She scoffs, now even more annoyed that I don’t appear to be taking her warning seriously. Which, of course, I’m not. “Look, we’re going to win reel
ection in a walk, and the sky’s the limit from there. Kylie may be bent on revenge, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
And that’s the truth. I am supremely confident I can defend against any attack Kylie Roberts launches on us. It’s like the Untouchables. She puts one of ours in the hospital and we put one of hers in the morgue. I already proved I was capable of that, metaphorically speaking.
“You say that now.”
Congressman Beaumont flies through the door in a rage. The man is rarely in a good mood in the morning, but when he is this pissed, it’s going to make for a long day.
“Do you believe the balls that man has!” he exclaims to no one in particular. Roger trails behind him, shaking his head. “I’ve been to Wisconsin. Good people up there. Why they keep electing that blowhard is beyond me!”
“Don’t let him get under your skin, sir. You know he is just posturing,” Roger says, trying in vain to tame the beast.
“Well, we are going to see how effectively he postures when I cut him off at the knees,” the congressman says, disappearing into his inner office, Roger in tow. The door closes, but our boisterous boss can still be heard through the thick wood.
“Trust me, Madison.” There are far more powerful enemies out there to be concerned about than Kylie.”
.
-FOURTEEN-
CHELSEA
Elated. If there was ever a word to describe how I felt over the last few days, that’s it. The school year is finally over, and while I may not enjoy the beach, sports, and hanging out like most of my friends, summer is still my favorite time of year.
I like school, but this year was long and hard, and I need a break. Dad may have been on my case about studying too much and not having any fun, but the work paid off. Straight A grades, including one from the notoriously difficult Michael Bennit, would bring a smile to any teenager’s face.
The iCandidate Page 6
