Eliciting no reaction, she plops the rest of the small stack on my desk. I spread them out and glance at the covers quickly. Teen Vogue, Seventeen, People, Entertainment Weekly, and something called Glitter all include prominent photos of them on the front page.
“If you have a one of Vince on the cover of GQ, I’m going to be insanely jealous.” Arms folded across her chest and a stern look on her face means she is not in the mood for games or clever comments. Lucky me, she’s come to pick up where we left off last night. Joy.
“I’m glad you think this is so funny, but it’s not a laughing matter. Remember that conversation we had about going too far? This has gone way too far. Even you could not have expected this,” she chides, jamming her index finger at the magazines on my desk.
“You’re seriously pissed off this morning because they are on the cover of a couple of magazines?”
“A couple of magazines? No, I’m pissed because your stupid campaign got them on the cover of almost every magazine!” Did I just hear her right?
“Stupid campaign?” I ask with no attempt to hide my irritation. “That’s what you think this is, a stupid campaign?”
“What do you expect me to think?”
“I don’t know, maybe I was expecting a little more support from my fiancée.” I’m getting agitated. My run-in with Howell made a bad morning worse, so this isn’t a good morning to bring this up. The best thing to do is table this discussion for later.
“And I would expect my fiancé to respect my opinion and include me on decisions affecting our lives before making them!”
“Why? There’s no room for discussion with you. You just expect me to see things your way. You don’t want to be included in the decisions – you want to unilaterally make them!” So much for tabling the discussion for a later time. No u-turns allowed on this particular part of the path now after that comment.
“Maybe I should, because you’ve been wrong every step of the way!”
“What do you mean?” I ask indignantly.
“Let’s see, you were wrong about winning the bet, wrong about them joining the campaign, wrong about its effect on them, and wrong about how well you’d do. Should I continue?” she asks, with as much attitude as she can muster.
“Oh, please do. You’re on fire, so don’t stop on my account.”
Every guy who has ever been married, engaged, or in a serious long-term relationship knows there is a point in every argument where you can go too far. It’s an imaginary line you cross at your own peril. Most men do, either out of stubbornness, indifference, or ignorance. Like the Korean ‘Bridge of No Return’, once you cross, you’re stuck on the other side forever.
I’m sure the same thing applies to women, but I can’t speak to that. All I know is, with a divorce rate of over fifty percent in the United States, this line gets crossed a lot. It’s the point where it becomes more difficult to go back to the way things were than to forge ahead going separate ways. In terms of fights, we have had worse. Something about this one is different and tells me, somewhere along the way, I crossed that line.
Jessica stands in front of me with both rage and hurt in her eyes. She may have a valid concern in all this, but she picked the wrong way, and wrong time, to confront me with it. Now things have been said that cannot be unsaid. Knowing that, it’s time to check the level of damage.
“Jess, let’s not talk about this now,” I say in what is bound to be a futile attempt at ratcheting down the tension. I take a deep, calming breath. “We can work through this, we always do.”
Her eyes begin to fill with tears. “Maybe, just maybe, you are wrong about that too,” she says before turning and walking out of the room.
I guess I got my answer.
.
-THIRTY-FIVE-
KYLIE
CNN cut in with the story around one o’clock this afternoon. Obviously the leak was timed to get maximum exposure on the local stations this evening. The news is being carried nationally by every outlet, but it’s the voters of the Sixth District Beaumont needs to target. To maximize effect, the information was provided directly to one of the news stations up in Hartford, knowing it would get plenty of play. Connecticut is not known for making national headlines in politics, so they are going to run with every single thing they get, and this is no exception.
I pull my car into the driveway at Millfield High School and find a space in visitor parking. With the students gone for the day, the police are not quite as militant about keeping press off the grounds, although it still takes some effort to talk my way into the building. Knowing Michael’s relationship with the principal, I decide to skip visiting the Main Office and search for his classroom on my own.
I have spent a ton of time in Millfield since this all started, so I was able to develop a network of people who keep me well-informed about the happenings in the life of the iCandidate. I know about his continuing problems with his dweeby, power-thirsty principal and the issues with his fiancée. I even have insight into the strain on his relationship with his students’ parents. This news will make that dynamic much worse.
So when I finally find him seated at his desk in the classroom, he does not appear as defeated as one might think. It is also abundantly clear today is not going to have a positive footnote in his memoirs. Without saying a word, I take a seat on top of a student desk and wait for him to talk.
“I take it you’ve heard?”
“It’s a small school. When the transgressions of three of your students are being reported on an endless loop on cable news, word travels pretty fast.”
“You didn’t think Beaumont would sit on the sidelines forever, did you? I mean, it was only a matter of time before they came after you.
“Damn it, Kylie, they’re not coming after me, they’re going after my kids! Peyton, Brian and Vince aren’t running for office, I am.”
I look at the spread of popular magazines on Michael’s desk. Each one features one of his student staff members. I had seen a couple in passing, but I didn’t realize that they were in so many. He watches me flip to the article on Brian in Wired.
“Jessica said this was spinning out of control when she handed me those,” Michael finally continues after a couple of moments. “I can only imagine what she thinks now that Vince, Peyton, and Brian are being embarrassed on national television. I guess maybe she was right.”
“You wanted this exposure,” I point out, showing him the cover of the magazine. “You put them in the spotlight.”
“You could’ve talked me out of it.”
“I don’t work for you or your staff,” I say sharply, remembering Bill’s comment from a few days ago. “I’m only a journalist. I’m more than a little partial towards you, but ultimately you set the direction and I help where I can.”
“If you were only a journalist, you never would have been let into the building.”
He makes a fair point, but I’m not thrilled he recognizes my lack of objectivity. I am still struggling with it myself.
“Well, I went off in a direction that led to my students getting stalked by paparazzi and the media. They need police escorts to school in the morning to avoid getting harassed by members of the press. They’ve alienated their friends, given up their summer and fall, and now their teenage mistakes are being broadcast onto every television in America.”
Michael stops and grimaces. I give him a sympathetic look, because I think I understand what’s bothering him.” You’re afraid what you are trying to teach them is getting lost in the mania.”
“I wasn't counting on my kids being elevated to rock star status, and I never thought Beaumont would stoop so low as to go after them.”
“That’s what happens when they become the focus.” Michael gives me a look of chagrin. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but I’m not one to obscure the truth. “You said this was a journey for them. What is happening is part of the trip, intended or not. Politics is a dirty business. Maybe that’s a lesson you both need to lear
n.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You know, what is getting reported is petty stuff,” I say in a futile attempt to put a silver lining on this. “I mean, alcohol, marijuana, cheating and illegal downloads? C’mon, every teenager in America is doing that stuff.”
“Yeah, well, these particular teenagers happen to be working on a congressional campaign staff. And their parents don’t feel like its petty stuff right now.”
“Have you talked to them?”
“I called each of them at work as soon as school let out. Vince has a tough home life. His dad split when he was a boy and his mom is too overwhelmed to care much so long as he isn’t in prison. It’s why he is influenced by his friends, so it’s not hard to understand why he got busted for alcohol and marijuana possession. He runs with a pretty rough crowd.
“Peyton’s parents are your typical white, upper-middle class, two and a half kid, white-picket fencers. They work hard to be the perfect family from the outside. They were pissed any information about their daughter that could shatter that perception was made public. I’m sure they thought her getting caught cheating was long forgotten.”
“I can imagine. And Brian?”
Michael cracks a smile. “I think his parents figure he will get busted hacking the DoD or something, someday. Of all the things Brian is capable of, downloading music without paying for it was pretty low on their list of concerns. They were upset about hearing their son’s name on CNN though.”
“You’ve had a tough day,” I point out, as if he didn’t know that. Stupid.
“You don’t know the half of it. Tell me something, Kylie. With four weeks until Election Day, does it get better or worse from here? “
“What did Vince tell me your favorite line is? It's a matter of perspective?” That got him to smile a little broader, and even let out a chuckle.
”So, what now?”
Since the day we met, I have been amazed about how quick Michael makes decisions. He takes information, processes it, and settles on a course of action in mere seconds. It’s quite amazing to watch, especially now.
“First, I need to fight off the wolves. Then I need to pick up the spirits of the troops in the trenches.”
“How are you planning on doing that? It’s not like you’re Mister Sunshine yourself right now.”
“Ever heard of General McAuliffe?” he asks, pointing to a print tacked to the wall in the back of the room. Apparently he doesn’t know how poorly I did in social studies in high school, and that’s probably a good thing. I glance back to see a black and white poster of a man in and old army uniform and helmet.
“Is this the start of a history lesson?”
“Look around you. It’s what I do,” he responds, cracking the first smile of the afternoon. “General McAuliffe was the acting Commanding General of the 101st Airborne Division when they got trapped in Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge. His boss was attending a staff conference in the U.S. at the time, so all eyes were on McAuliffe when the division found itself surrounded by the German armor. When his aide presented him with the surrender demand, he tossed the crumpled paper in the trash with the words ‘Aw, nuts.’”
“I’m sure you have a point to this.”
“I do. His staff couldn’t figure out how to respond to the German demand until a colonel suggested using the general’s exact words. That simple reply became a rallying cry for the Screaming Eagles during the war and part of U.S. military lore ever since.”
“Nuts,” I say, still completely lost to his point. Watching the History Channel is almost a prerequisite for having a conversation with this man.
“The commander of the 327th Glider Infantry had to explain to the Germans that the message basically meant ‘go to hell.’ The moral of the story, since I’m sure you’re about to ask, is McAuliffe was in Bastogne with his men. They were stuck in the same shitty situation, and shared the same ‘we’re screwed’ thoughts. He wasn’t going to let the Germans think that though.”
“And you’re going to apply that how?” I ask, still not clear on how this applies.
“My kids made mistakes they think will hurt the campaign,” he continues. “Time for them to know they aren’t the only ones who have done things they’re not proud of. In the process, we send our own message to Winton Beaumont that means go to hell.”
I suddenly get his point, and the reason why he’s opening up. I think I’m about to find out what makes Michael Bennit tick. The determination in his eyes that makes me believe he is engaged for the first time in this campaign. They went after his kids, so now this whole thing became personal.
Since the day I met Vince and talked to Michael I have questioned my objectivity. Yes, I want to get even with Winston Beaumont in the worst possible way. No, I refuse to let myself turn into my sister to do it. Despite this, I am getting more drawn in to this campaign. There is something about this man that pulls people into his sphere of influence. Now I know where the Chelsea and the gang get their motivation from.
Michael’s students didn’t have any better success fighting this attraction, creating one motley group of friends. While they started off as classmates, they formed relationships as a staff that became real friendships. A pair of jocks, a nerd, a derelict, a beauty queen, an introvert, a hippie and I am not even sure what category to put Chelsea in. A modern version of the Breakfast Club, or at least something I would expect to see as the movie of the week on the Family Channel.
Now both they and their renegade teacher finally got a bitter taste of the modern election process I knew was coming. There were days when the personal lives of politicians stayed private. Whether it was FDR in his wheelchair or JFK’s womanizing, there were limits as to what was printed and played on television. In the age of the twenty-four-hour media cycle, those limits are long gone.
I guess all that remains to be answered is where the Bennit campaign, a media wonder that has captivated the nation for weeks now, goes from here. Will his students persevere through this latest challenge? Will it matter if the school administrators and town’s school board decide to put an end to this?
.
-THIRTY-SIX-
MICHAEL
A pang of guilt jars my stomach as I pull into the parking lot of the non-descript brick building. Kylie has already done more for this campaign than I ever should expect, and this is just another instance where she might be compelled to jump into the fray. She didn’t hesitate to help with the school board, but there is probably nothing she could do spare me this perp walk.
That is how I rationalize not telling her about the phone call I received just minutes before she walked into my classroom. Given the breaking news about Vince, Brian, and Peyton, this summons was no real surprise.
Unfortunately, the media is here too. Whether they heard of my arrival in advance, or were camped out looking for comment from the school system is anyone’s guess. Cameramen and reporters come sprinting across the lawn at me, shouting questions the whole way. They must have been getting some long shots of the building when I arrived. Lucky for me there’s more than enough distance between us for me to slip into the four-story tower of terror unmolested.
I give them a quick friendly wave before ducking in the front door. The walk to the lion’s den is a short one, and I am greeted by a receptionist in the outer office. She covers the phone with her hand as I enter and stand in front of her desk.
“She’s waiting for you, Mister Bennit. Please go on in.”
“Thanks,” I say, walking past her and coming to grips with how much my reputation precedes me these days. I have never met the receptionist before in my life.
I get waved into the office before I even reach the door. “Come in Michael, and please have a seat,” Charlene Freeman says from the executive chair behind her gigantic oak desk. As I enter the room, I begin to understand the gravity of the meeting. Standing along the wall are the town’s attorney, the teacher’s union representative, my department head, Chalice, and t
he director of personnel for the Millfield Public School District. Seated in the other stylish, upholstered chair in front of her desk is my arch nemesis, Robinson Howell.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Charlene says in preamble.
“Looking around the room, I don’t think I had much of a choice, ma’am.” She smiles politely, but also knows I am one hundred percent correct. You don’t turn down the superintendent when she calls you into her office.
“Let’s begin this, shall we? Irwin, why don’t you start?”
“Mister Bennit, I’m certain you know why you were called here, so I will skip the preamble. Were you aware of these transgressions by the students in question prior to allowing them to participate in your campaign?”
Lawyers. They can make hitting on a girl in a bar sound like a deposition. With his yellow legal pad in his hand and the accusatory look on his face, I figure this actually is one, sans the video camera.
“Yes, I did.”
“And you were okay with that?
“I was, and I still am.”
“That is a serious error in judgment on your part,” the lawyer says in a condescending tone.
“Not his first,” Robinson mumbles from the chair next to me. Smug bastard. I try to fight it, but can feel my face flush with anger. When I get mad, sarcasm follows.
“Did you know the information would be released to the press?”
“No, I didn’t. I left my Magic 8-Ball in the classroom.”
“Michael,” Charlene intercedes, “there is no reason to be glib.”
I glance over at Chalice who is looking at me with hardened eyes. The message I shouldn’t antagonize the superintendent is transmitting clear. Returning my look to Charlene, I give her a nod out of respect.
The iCandidate Page 16
