The iCandidate

by Mikael Carlson

  “You think that’s what your sister is telling Beaumont?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t talked to her since June,” I snap, getting annoyed at the mere mention of Madison.

  “Well, maybe he should consider putting you on the payroll for everything you are doing for him. How are you staying afloat financially? You’ve been out of work for what, six months now?”

  Normally, I would tell anyone who had the audacity to question my impartiality and ask me about my financial affairs in the same breath to go piss up a rope. But since Bill got me involved in this escapade in the first place, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “I made some freelance money on the deep background articles I have written about the campaign. The rest is coming from my rapidly dwindling savings account. Now, are you just a concerned friend, or are you pre-qualifying me for a loan?”

  “Just making conversation,” he replies, a sly grin creeping across his lips.

  I lean into him, forcing him to pry his eyes off whatever female has his attention at the moment. “I am staying in a cheap hotel, and have been upgraded to a platinum frequent customer card at Subway for eating there so much. I’m getting by. Now, that’s my story. What’s yours? What are you working on?”

  Bill smiles, always amused at his ability to get me worked up. “Nothing you don’t already know about.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Richard Johnson and the Republicans.”

  “Yeah, what about them?”

  “Except for some signs up around the district, and the occasional sound bite or appearance, his campaign has been almost non-existent. Apparently they don’t have much in terms of financing and aren’t getting help from the party.”

  “You’re right, I know. Bennit might have more in his campaign account than they do.”

  “I am curious as to why the Republicans are mailing this in. Beaumont looks vulnerable now because of Michael Bennit. Johnson’s campaign manager Miles Everman saying something snarky in the press is the sum of their contribution to the media bazaar going on up there.”

  “Not much of a story there, Bill,” I say, climbing off my stool and putting on my light jacket. “Johnson’s a twit and Everman’s a moron. The GOP named their candidate in April when Beaumont was a shoo-in. Now they’re stuck with him.”

  I pat Bill on the shoulder and head for the door, fully aware that he is staring at my ass.

  “Kylie?”

  “Yeah,” I say, turning around. This better not be about my ass.

  “It’s only a matter of time before Beaumont goes after Bennit. Deep down, you know that. Whether you work for his campaign or not, be sure you don’t end up in his crosshairs when he does.”

  .

  -THIRTY-TWO-

  CHELSEA

  The amount of time the campaign has been soaking up is getting more noticeable, so I’m not surprised to pull into my driveway to find the living room light still on. It’s just after 11 p.m., and usually Dad is in bed by now. Since he is not a fan of Saturday Night Live, it can only mean he is waiting up for me.

  I kind of feel like I missed curfew and am busted, only I don’t have one. Until recently, being out late was never a concern Dad had to deal with. Considering I have a cop car following me, and an eruption of camera flashes to illuminate the sidewalk to the side door, I rule out attempting a stealthy entrance.

  It must be quite the strobe effect from the perspective of Dad’s recliner in the living room, even with the curtains drawn. Do these photographers think I am going to flip them the middle finger or something? What could be so interesting about walking from my car to the house? I swear to God, I will never understand how celebs put up with this on a daily basis.

  Dad is practically deaf from years of working at the factory, so I can hear every word from the local news from the kitchen as I drop my things. Not surprisingly, the coverage is about the race for the 6th District. As much as the constant media attention is great for the campaign, I can’t believe they have nothing better to do than report live about us in the dead of night.

  “It’s a circus atmosphere in the Connecticut Sixth District as the iCandidate hits his stride,” the reporter says, apparently from somewhere in town. “The latest Quinnipiac poll of likely voters has Michael Bennit at forty percent, within five points of incumbent Winston Beaumont. Republican hopeful Richard Johnson is lagging way behind at just seven percent. Eighteen percent of those polled say they are undecided with a little over a month remaining until Election Day.”

  Dad mutes the television as I sit in the worn chair across our small living room from him. I’m beat and would like nothing more than to dodge the grilling I’m expecting to get, but he has been so patient through this. I owe him better than most teens give their parents.

  “You’re looking pretty worn out, Snuggle Bear,” Dad says, eyeing the bags under my eyes. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m just a little tired is all,” I respond honestly.

  “Do you have homework to finish tonight?”

  I finished most of my assignments during study hall, but an English essay needs my attention. He doesn’t need to know that though.

  “Finished it before I left school.”

  Dad leans forward in his overstuffed recliner, measuring his words before speaking.

  “Honey, I have tried to be supportive through all this. I hope you know that.”

  I nod. He actually has been, but I know what’s coming next. My father isn’t into social media, nor does he like any of the reality TV shows I watch. No doubt he’s not thrilled his only daughter is being treated like I’m on one.

  “But I am really worried about you. This is getting ridiculous,” he says, pointing toward the window where the curtains are pulled to shield us from the legion of press camped on the street. “All the phone calls, the police escort … It’s a lot for anyone to deal with.”

  “I am dealing with it fine,” I reply curtly.

  “I’m not so sure you are. I think I have given you too much freedom to pursue this campaign. Maybe it’s time to dial it back some and start refocusing on school,” he says in the most parental voice I have ever heard him use.

  “Dial it back? We’ve come this far and accomplished so much! I’m not giving up now!”

  “Chels, I—”

  “No, Dad! Last year you said I was spending too much time studying. You wanted me to do something fun. Now I am having fun, and you want me to start studying harder? Which is it?” At some point during my rant, I stood up defiantly. A mistake only equaled by me cutting him off mid-sentence.

  “Sit down, Chelsea,” he says sternly, with a look that could melt ice. I comply immediately, more out of respect than fear. “I’m giving you the opportunity to talk to me as an adult, but the moment you start acting like a spoiled teenager is the moment I’ll start treating you like one. I’ll hear you out, but if you want to act up, I’ll make the decision for you.

  “A lot of people in the town think we are bad parents for letting you and your friends get involved in Bennit’s campaign,” he says, continuing. I am trying to hide the disgust on my face and failing miserably. I do know enough to shut up and let him finish though.

  “Now, I don’t give a damn what other people think, but I do care about you. So when I see you looking like you’re strung out on heroin, I begin to think they’re right. So tell me, why should I let you continue this?”

  “Because it’s important to me.”

  “More important than applying to colleges?”

  “Dad, have you seen the stack of stuff in the kitchen colleges have been sending?” I know he has, because the ’Leaning Tower of College Literature’ accumulating on a chair has toppled over at least twice. Since the campaign, I have gotten everything from hand-written notes from admissions offices, to signed letters from university presidents to go with with the usual propaganda materials colleges send to prospective students.

  “Yes, I’ve seen them, but have
you acted on any of them?”

  “Still plenty of time for that. Look, Dad, I know what I am doing. I’m not a child anymore. I’m eighteen, and I know how much I can handle.”

  “Chelsea, you may think you know everything at eighteen, but you don’t know anything. You’ll realize that when you’re my age. But you’re also my daughter, I love you dearly, and until you’re out of this house, I get a say in how much you can handle.”

  “So you’re going to make me quit? I thought you taught me to never quit?” I say with a little too much attitude. Does he not understand what this means to me? Why it’s important? I don’t know why he can’t seem to understand. All I know is I won’t quit. I won’t let him make me.

  “No, I’m not going to make you quit. Whether you know it or not, I am proud of what you are accomplishing and will support you as best I know how. But I will tell you this. The moment I think this is no longer in your best interest, we are going to have a serious conversation about how involved you should be in this campaign. I don’t care if the idiots outside think you’re Madonna by then.”

  .

  -THIRTY-THREE-

  BLAKE

  “Who would have thought that a social media campaign for a history teacher, run by teenagers, would become the talk of the country?” I hear Roger say as he sits down next to me.

  My love affair with the District of Columbia started with my eighth grade field trip here. Something about the National Mall at sunset draws me to it whenever I can break free from the confines of the Rayburn Building. Adorned with museums and monuments marking our greatest achievements as a nation, it’s purely American.

  From my regular spot on the steps on the west side of the Capitol Building, the sun is setting behind the Lincoln Memorial and casting the entire National Mall in a glow of oranges, reds, and pinks. The bath of color is a rare moment of peace and tranquility in a city normally anything but. Unfortunately, the time to enjoy it is over because Roger is all business.

  “The press is calling our campaign ‘befuddled’ and ‘stuck in neutral’ if I remember today’s headlines correctly,” I say with no small amount of disdain.

  “A multi-million dollar ad buy is hardly stuck in neutral,” Roger says. “But it’s not having the desired effect. We‘ve flooded the airwaves in Connecticut with countless messages and none of them are getting through to the voters.”

  “And all of Bennit’s time on TV is free,” I add, noting the obvious.

  “We started The Machine weeks ago. It should have turned things around by now, but we’re a month away from the election and are still hemorrhaging votes. All the hopes of avoiding a hard campaign season are gone now. When this session ends, Winston is going to have to go to Connecticut and fight for his political life. You’ve read the polls.”

  “Quinnipiac has us up by three. We’re down by one in both Rasmussen and Gallup. Marist has us in a dead heat.” Yes, I memorized ones published today, and the results were not good news.

  “Deena says our internal polls have the race within the margin of error. Madison is up there working her ass off, but it isn’t making any difference. You can imagine Winston is fuming.”

  Congressman Beaumont is an old-school politician. He won’t embrace social media or the more modern ways people use to communicate. He wouldn’t be able to send a text message if his life depended on it. The fact that a novice is tied with us using those very methods must be infuriating to him.

  “We’re fighting an unconventional war using conventional means.”

  “I’ve read the Art of War, Blake.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. So you also realize The Machine is not going to work in this race.” And it won’t. Sun Tzu would love this guy. The Machine is designed to bludgeon an opponent in a straight-up, nasty fight. It worked against the Republicans every time, so Bennit simply changed campaign tactics. Now relying on this strategy is about as effective as charging a tank with a bayonet.

  “Are you suggesting we try to play the game at his level?” he asks. “Because that’ll never work, and Winston would never approve it anyway.”

  “Maybe we should just keep beating on Bennit for not taking a stand on a single issue.” It was a desperate response, but I don’t know what else to say. We can go negative, but there really isn’t any dirt on him juicy enough to cool down this craze surrounding his campaign.

  “The voters aren’t listening to that message. It’s like Beatlemania up in Connecticut. Everyone has lost their minds. The kids running his campaign are being treated like they’re pop stars. Bennit could say he was the reincarnation of Stalin and nobody would give a damn.”

  “Everyone has an Achilles heel,” I point out.

  “He does,” Roger says looking at me. “What did our oppo team learn about his staff?”

  “His staff?” I ask, confused. “You mean his students?”

  “Yeah, Blake, I mean his students. What did they find?”

  “A couple of things on some of them,” I respond, half-heartedly. “Pretty inconsequential stuff, really. If I thought it was anything important we could use to discredit Bennit, I would have told you. You planning on going after the kids?”

  “No, Blake, I’m not going after them,” Roger states while getting up from our seat on the steps and brushing himself off. He regards me for a moment. “I’m sending you up to Connecticut to go after them for me.”

  .

  -THIRTY-FOUR-

  MICHAEL

  I woke up in a foul mood this morning. To be expected after another verbal mixed martial arts bout with Jessica last night. To say this campaign is straining our relationship is an exercise in understatement. Not surprisingly, the wedding planning ground to a halt right after the school board decision. Whether the campaign is causing her second thoughts is anyone’s guess, because she isn’t talking about it.

  Running late, I take an even more circuitous route around the Main Office than usual. My new path takes me down a hallway in the back of the school where students are pouring into the building from their buses. That is not out of the ordinary, but the mass of reporters and cameras outside the doors is. They have been cordoned off away from the building by police for weeks now, but their normal exile to the other side of the street is not in effect this morning.

  The activity suddenly picks up as the media congeals into a huddled mass of humanity fifty feet from the entrance. At the center of the mob, Vince struggles to make his way to the door. It takes him a full minute to push through the crowd, open the doors, and squeeze in. Only once inside the second set of doors is he visibly secure in the thought that the horde of press will not dare try to follow. He sees me and smiles, and after a quick salute, heads off down the hall to his locker.

  Safely inside the building, he is having roughly the same experience with his peers. Students gather around him like he was a movie star, and meeting up with Amanda and Vanessa down the corridor only causes the pack of admirers to grow larger. The popularity of my staff in this school has reached epic proportions.

  Only then do I detect Principal Howell standing nearby with his arms folded across his chest, looking exceedingly unhappy. There’s another curiosity, because our fearless leader never mingles in the halls before classes start. He always looks displeased about something, though I like to attribute it to chronic constipation. This is different.

  “You didn't take my advice,” Howell says in an arrogant tone from down the hallway. “Look at this mess! Kids can’t even get in the building, and you’re to blame! You have lost complete control of this and the school board is going to hear about it!”

  I know a setup when I see one. In Afghanistan, we all developed a sort of sixth sense as to where the bad guys would plant improvised explosive devices to ambush us. Right now, I just caught my principal planting one of his own, metaphorically speaking. Howell has become more belligerent toward me and the campaign with each passing day. He has a point to make, and he’s going to use this fabricated incident as the impetus
to make it.

  There is no doubt in my mind he asked the Millfield Police to stay off school grounds in an effort to orchestrate this little fiasco. The problem is I can’t exactly accuse him without any proof. Well, can’t is a word of defeat. I probably shouldn’t make the accusation. Yeah, Chalice has definitely gotten inside my head.

  “Control is an illusion, Robinson. If there’s a problem with students getting in and out of the building, handle it. After all, anything that affects this school, or the students in it, is your responsibility, remember?” I catch his face turn beet red as I walk past him.

  “Bennit!” he exclaims, commanding the attention of every student in the hallway. I give him a quick wave of my hand, refusing to turn back. I’m just not in the mood.

  * * *

  My classroom, in many respects, is a refuge. Even when the campaign’s inner circle shows up during F Period, the focus is on their education and not our race for Congress. It may be a contemporary issues class, and we may be the dominant contemporary issue, but I need the freedom to escape for a while. My opponents create the illusion I am working on the campaign during school hours. Nothing could be further from the truth. I know people are watching, and wouldn’t even be shocked to find my lessons are being recorded.

  So I bide time in the morning before classes start doing what all teachers do and prepare the day’s lessons. The retreat is welcome considering the crazy rollercoaster ride this fall. The tell-tale click of high heels announcing the grand entrance of the love of my life shatters my solace. Two months ago, it made my heart flutter. Now it just fills me with dread.

  Jessica stalks over and tosses a magazine on my desk without preamble. The graphically busy copy of Teen Week Magazine features a picture of Peyton and a headline that reads: Make-Up Tips for the Politically Active Teen.

  “Are you saying I need to change my shade of eye shadow?” I ask her sarcastically. Unfazed, she drops another magazine in front of me. This happens to be one of Brian on the cover of Wired Magazine. Okay, that’s cool. The caption next to his photo reads: The Master of Viral Campaigning.