“There’s a laundry list of things affecting this school you won't bother getting out of your chair for. Why’s this any different?”
“Because it is.”
I have an incredibly low threshold for stupidity as a result of too many years serving Uncle Sam in the Army. One thing about Special Forces, we have a hard time tolerating the antics of regular line units. No doubt my face has betrayed this emotion as Howell's eyes narrow at me in response. I shake the toy a second time.
“Reply hazy, try again.”
“Don't mess with me, Michael. You’ve involved your students in a political campaign. That is not an appropriate teacher-student relationship. So, I will only tell you this once. You’re going to drop out of this race and you’re going to do it by tomorrow.”
I was going to inform Robinson that the campaign is basically over anyway, but now I’m seeing red. I hate ultimatums, and the fact it is coming from him makes it even worse. If Chalice had asked me, I probably would have agreed it was the best course of action. Now, I just want to be obstinate and rude. I shake the Magic 8-Ball once again, look at the window, and shrug theatrically.
“My reply is no.”
Principal Howell glares at me with rage in the eyes behind those bespeckled brown glasses. I’ve met goats in Iraq I was more scared of, so I just stare back at him blankly.
“Your insubordination is noted.”
“Wouldn't be the first time.”
“That's because you can't follow orders. Pretty remarkable for a Green Beret, actually. No wonder you aren’t one anymore.”
I feel the heat as my face flushes with anger. My free hand balls into a fist and, for a fleeting moment, I have the thought of dispatching this jack wagon of a principal on a one-way trip to the hospital. Everyone has buttons that can be pushed, and he just pressed mine. Seeing my reaction, and mistaking it for me being on the ropes, he moves in to finish me off. Or at least prod me to do something I’ll regret.
“I make the rules in this school, Michael. You do what I tell you to. I dictate what to teach and how, so they can pass their standardized tests and—” There’s my opening, and I cut him off.
“You don't want to educate, you want to control. That's the difference between you and me. You think memorizing a bunch of math formulas and useless facts for a test is education. Standardized testing doesn't measure jack, and any decent teacher will tell you that. Real education comes from experience and applying book knowledge to solve real-world problems.”
“I don’t agree.”
“Of course you don’t. You know what our problem is? You don't like me because I teach students to think critically instead of simply comply. To learn to use knowledge instead of just acquire it. Practical skills they can apply once they graduate from here.”
“Are you saying math isn't practical?
“Solving mathematical equations is practical because it teaches the methodology of working through a complex problem. Forcing students to memorize the first twenty-five digits in pi is ridiculous, but you don't understand that because you are content to accept whatever the state tells us to do.”
Howell dismisses my comments with a wave of his hand. “You don't understand the politics involved. That's why you’ll never be a department chair, principal, or any other leader in education.”
“I understand the politics just fine. You hold your hat out to the state like a beggar, and when you take their money, they own you. As for being a leader in education, I think what happens in the classroom is what’s important. Being a bureaucrat in the front office will never equal the difference I can make standing right here.”
We return defiant stares for a few moments before Howell stalks off toward the door. We are at an impasse, and I am impressed with the restraint I showed in not decking him. Chalk one up for anger management skills.
“You're an idealist, Michael,” he says without looking at me. “Central Office is going to get involved in this mess. Having students run a political campaign for you will put your chances for tenure at risk.” He turns a little over-dramatically to look at me. “Do yourself a favor and ask yourself if sacrificing your career is really worth it.”
Principal Howell finally walks out just as Jessica enters. “Do I dare ask what that was about?”
“The harbinger of career-ending death paid me a short visit,” I say, as effortlessly as I can, knowing the truth is written all over my face.
“The campaign?” she asks in her ‘I knew it’ manner.
I nod. “Yeah, what’s left of it.”
“Are there going to be problems?”
I look at my stunning fiancée and shake the Magic 8-Ball one last time. The caption in the window causes me to smirk. While I doubt a ten dollar toy can channel my fate, it has been dead on so far. I hold it up to her so she can read what is in the window.
“Without a doubt.”
.
-TWENTY-TWO-
BLAKE
It should be a crime to call anyone before five a.m. I reach for my cell and check the caller id. I punch three wrong buttons before I find the right one to answer.
“Seriously, Madison?” I grumble into the phone, still half asleep.
“Get up, get dressed, and get to the office.”
“It’s 4:30 in the morning. What could possibly be so import—”
“Check the news. There’s another player in the race,” I hear her say almost with a growl.
“So?” I reply, groggily. I don’t hate mornings, but this is beyond ridiculous. My ambitions may be limitless, but getting up early has never been one of them. I never bought in to the whole ‘early to bed, early to rise’ thing because so much work is done late at night over a good blended Scotch. In my line of work, I get more accomplished at a tavern at ten p.m. then at a desk at seven in the morning.
“This is important, Blake! You think I would wake you up this early on a Monday if it were just some washed-up nobody? Check the damn news!” Madison practically shouts, causing me to hold the phone away from my ear. I grumble as I sit up in bed and turn on the light. It’s way too early for this.
“Okay, okay. What news site?” I ask, assuming she is referring to something specific.
“The Hartford Courant, Danbury News-Times, Waterbury Republican. Any of them,” she responds dismissively.
I scan the article posted online in the Courant, not believing what I’m reading.
“This is on all the major Connecticut news sites? How is that possible?”
“Kylie,” she says, the anger in her voice palpable. “I’ll see you in a few,” and ends the call. I check some more of the news pages for Connecticut’s broadcast affiliates for the major networks, and there are articles there too. That means it could see television news coverage tonight. I even browse a couple of big-name political sites like Politico and Real Clear Politics on my iPad. The article is not featured on them, at least yet. I curse under my breath and launch myself out of bed with a purpose.
Less than an hour and a half later, I am striding into the congressman’s outer office. I toss my backpack down next to my corner desk and immediately head to his inner sanctum. The door is open and he is reading from the News-Times while Roger and Madison listen.
“Who the hell is Michael Bennit?” Congressman Beaumont angrily asks nobody in particular.
I spent the time on the Metro reading the article and doing some research. Every local paper picked up identical stories, and now even the Associated Press wire has it. The byline read the same for every article – Kylie Roberts. Damn her.
“He's a high school history teacher—” I begin to say before being silenced by the congressman.
“I don’t give a shit who he is, Blake. I want to know why I am only hearing about this now when it appears in the goddamn News-Times and every other newspaper in the district!” the congressman states, his voice rising in volume to a near shout. “This guy announced over a week ago, so why is it suddenly news now?” He stares at each of
us in anticipation of an answer no one wants to offer.
Chance favors the bold, but I’m not about to put myself in Winston Beaumont’s crosshairs. Sure, Kylie Roberts may be a monster I helped create, but she’s still Madison’s sister. Let her take the fall. Roger, not one needing to worry about the congressman’s ire being directed at him, must feel the same way. We both look at her.
With no other choice, Madison comes clean. “My sister made it a story.”
The congressman’s face morphs through a range of emotions, starting with confusion and ending with fury. He says nothing, but takes a closer study at the byline of the paper he’s holding to confirm what we already know to be true. Despite his rather indignant reaction, he chooses not to direct his rage at us. After all, we were all complicit in the sentencing, yet Winston Beaumont himself carried out the execution order. His call to her editor, a long time friend and drinking buddy, is what cost Kylie her job.
He turns to gaze out his office window onto the busy Capitol area below. The great political gamesman has gone to work. “Roger?”
“Most likely this is a short-term story. The teacher-student angle and campaigning only on social media are both unique, which will get it media exposure,” Roger explains, “but the story doesn’t have legs. It can never carry through to November and poses no threat to us.”
Under normal circumstances, I would agree with his analysis, but this is driven by a woman scorned with a serious ax to grind, and the means to grind it. Kylie could earn this regional and even national coverage. I don’t want to disagree with Roger, and I also can’t afford to end up on the wrong side of this. I am the expendable one in the group, sitting at the intersection of two dangerous paths, one of which Deena will be happy to shove me down when she arrives.
“Madison, you know your sister better than all of us. What do you think?” I ask, coming up with a quick plan in my head.
Madison’s face flushes from being put on the spot. The congressman continues to look out the window, so he doesn’t see it. Roger gives me a smirk, knowing full well I just threw the girl I’m dating under the bus. I am sure he’s thinking he sees a lot of himself in me. That was how he got to the top.
“She’ll never relent. If the story fades, it won’t be for a lack of her trying to keep it alive,” Madison says, looking at me with daggers in her eyes. Time for some expert analysis only I can provide.
“Sir, it’s September and I’m guessing Madison’s sister somehow thinks she can keep this in the news until Election Day by providing the mass media exposure that will let this Bennit guy ride a social media wave right into the election.”
“He brings up a good point, Winston,” Roger says. The congressman’s head bobs up and down slightly, but he still does not turn.
“I agree, sir,” Madison blurts out as she begins to realize I am stealing her thunder. “I think we should start The Machine.” The comment ends any threat Madison Roberts posed to my increased involvement in this race. Roger closes his eyes in anticipation of what’s about to happen.
The congressman, a moment ago the picture of serenity as he quietly admired the nation’s capital out the window, immediately morphed into a man in desperate need of anger management classes.
“Have you lost your mind, Madison? You think this Bennit character is really enough of a problem where you feel compelled to make that recommendation?” he yells, crossing the office and pulling up within inches of her face. “No political upstart warrants that, I don’t care how cute, or special, or unique his story is!” he continues, his voice loud and dripping with sarcasm. “Understood?”
Madison is taken aback by the aggressiveness and cowers like a cat in a thunderstorm. “Yes, sir,” she responds meekly. “Good. Get out. I will have Deena instruct you with how we respond when she gets here.” Madison does not look at either me or Roger as she turns and leaves quickly.
I hate to say it, but she isn’t wrong. If I were in the congressman’s position, I would’ve heard her out about starting The Machine. An expensive proposition he was hoping to avoid this election season for sure, but better to spend the money and win than risk losing through inaction.
Over the past eight terms, Representative Winston Beaumont has managed to acquire an incredible amount of political capital and financial support. His monetary war chest for campaigns contains tens of millions of dollars. The greatest asset of The Machine is a huge network of people, from mayors and elected town officials to media contacts and business owners. They are all people who owe IOUs for past favors that he can call on to support him in a tough race. When put together, the effort acts as a giant machine, thus the name.
By picking Richard Johnson, the Republicans essentially handed Winston Beaumont a ninth term. Now all those cash reserves and favors can be saved until a tougher challenge ensues. Madison thinks that this will get far worse, and she is probably correct. It was not the savvy way to broach the subject with the boss, a man who is a political animal to his core.
I feel bad for her for a moment. Madison won’t get fired, but she won’t be included in the inner circle of this campaign for a while either. I made an enemy out of her today, but such is life. She can be replaced both as a friend and a lover. When opportunity knocks, you answer. With Madison now cowered and dismissed, Deena’s conspicuous absence, and with Roger’s support, I just earned a seat at the table. Now it’s time to make the most of it.
“Sir?”
“What is it, Blake?” the congressman asks, impatient and angry. Roger gives me a stern look of warning to tread with caution.
“It was premature and imprudent for Madison to suggest starting The Machine, but there are some sensible, less costly alternatives. We should consider getting some oppo and enhanced polling to track what effect, if any, this yahoo is having.” I am on the mark as the wrath in the congressman’s eyes flickers out.
‘Oppo’ is short for opposition research, the seedy underbelly of American politics. Its activities range from the benign search of public records for embarrassing information to the far more despicable tailing of the opposing candidate to catch something awkward. Candidates distance themselves from this activity, but in politics, most campaigns go negative at some point before the polls open. This research helps a campaign fight back once it does.
Enhanced polling is just that. While we do the occasional internal poll to track where we stand with the voters in our district, our enhanced polling is far more rigorous and detailed. The near-constant effort allows us to track trends and determine the effect both sides are having on voters. This is what money buys, and we have lots of it.
The congressman picks up his copy of The Hartford Courant. The local press will find the whole digital campaign thing intriguing, but there is sure to be some contentious op-ed pieces decrying student involvement. Most will be sparked by us if we can’t coax the genie back into the lamp. Unfortunately, I fear we’re going to see more journalists and reporters gushing over this guy, using words like ‘pioneer’ and ‘innovator.’
The venerable Winston Beaumont has seen enough. He shows us the paper and points to it. “This guy is not a saint! Everyone has skeletons in the closet, and Roger, Blake, so help me God, find his!”
Let the games begin.
.
-TWENTY-THREE-
CHELSEA
I always used to like the first day of school. While I was never eager for summer vacation end, there was always an excitement around new classes, seeing friends, and getting a year closer to graduating. I thought day one of my senior year would be much of the same. I was wrong.
It’s been a week since our disastrous announcement at the Buzz. After that, the campaign pretty much ended. Vince stormed off, and everyone else effectively called it quits along with him. I tried to rally them back to the cause, but didn’t get a lot of interest. It was a long summer, and I guess the result wasn’t as exciting as everyone thought it would be.
So with nothing to do over the past week, I just h
ung around the house. Dad said I was moping and should go hang out with my friends. Basically, the same conversation we have been having forever now. He meant well, but I wasn’t really up for either hanging out or getting nagged about it.
Classes will be a little challenging this year, but Contemporary Issues with Mister Bennit was the only one I was really looking forward to. Brian, Peyton, Vince, and the rest of the gang will all be in the afternoon class with me. Between working on the campaign and how much fun we had in American History, I thought it would be great. Now I am dreading it. Each tick of the clock brings me closer to the inevitable, like a prisoner walking to the gallows.
While most kids labor to find out where their BFFs are on the first day of school, I spent the morning avoiding my two closest friends. I know they are upset with me because I did nothing with them this summer, and I don’t want to try to justify why. Considering how things turned out, even I think it was wasted time. I can ignore their calls, texts, and Facebook messages, but the school is only so big. Not seeing them so far has only been matter of luck. Waiting in this obscene cafeteria line to pay for my salad, my luck runs out.
“Long time, no see, Chels,” Cassie says from behind me, a frosty edge to her voice. She looks tanned, no doubt the product of frolicking on the Jersey Shore half the summer. Her family takes regular trips to Seaside Heights, and since about the fifth grade, I always went with them two or three times during the break.
“Yeah, I'm sorry, Cassie, it was a busy summer.” I don’t know what else to say. The excuse is pathetic, and she knows it. I never even picked up the phone to call her. Now the guilt is setting in.
“Sure. I can see how you’d be too busy for your friends.” I deserved that, but the words still cut a little deep. Stephanie joins us and is even more pissed off than Cassandra.
“I told you guys what I was doing. I would have asked you if you wanted to help, but didn’t think you’d be interested,” I plead meekly.
The iCandidate Page 10
