The iCandidate

by Mikael Carlson

  Experience is the ultimate learning tool. Bureaucracies use standardized tests to measure academic performance, but how can you measure what these kids learned over the past three months? How do you quantify the strength these young adults developed and relied on throughout this process? It is impossible, which is why people like Robinson Howell are so eager to dismiss its importance.

  “I underestimated you, and have from the beginning. Miss Slater recognized that from the day I made the bet, and as much as I hate to admit it, she was right.” That tasted funny coming out of my mouth. Sometimes being honest with yourself just plain sucks.

  “For as special as you guys are, I didn't expect you to make history by almost winning. You worked so hard on this campaign, but who could ever have expected that out of a group of teenagers? So no, you didn’t get me elected to Congress. You only changed the face of the American political process, at least for a little while. That’s your legacy, Chelsea.”

  The students are motionless as they digest what I tell them. Peyton wipes a tear from her eye. Vince nods in understanding. The others are in various stages in between. I look around the room I spent the last three years in. The eyes of Washington and Lincoln stare at me, just as they’ve always done. I wonder what they think now. I hope they approve of what I’ve done these past few months.

  “I am proud of you all,” I tell my class, fighting to hold back my own emotion. We may never again all be in the same room. This will certainly be the last time I ever address them this way. “We've been through a lot, and learned some hard lessons along the way. You are the new voices of your generation because you’ve earned the right to be. So when you speak today, speak well.”

  “What do you mean when we speak?”

  “I scheduled our campaign’s first and last press conference for this afternoon at the Buzz. I made my point. Now you get to make yours and influence how America thinks about all this. Remember, he who controls the message, controls history.”

  “Will you be there?” Chelsea asks.

  “No.”

  “How do you not go to your own press conference?” Vince ponders aloud.

  I let a smile slip from the corner of my mouth. “Simple. It’s not my press conference, it's yours.”

  -SIXTY-FOUR-

  KYLIE

  The media vans that spent the last three months across the street from the high school and the Perkfect Buzz are gone. With their conspicuous absence, the whole town sports a different vibe now. The normalcy returning to this sleepy New England enclave feels anything but.

  Now I do feel a like a stalker, waiting for Michael outside his townhouse. The chill in the air leading up to the election has given way to a more frigid temperature. The breeze coming out of the north is just adding to the bite. Maybe this is a bad idea. Basking in the warmth of the heat cranking inside of my car would be preferable to leaning against it in the cold.

  The thought escapes my mind when I see him come down the drive and pull into his parking spot.

  “Stalking is illegal in all fifty states,” he says with a smile, as he shuts his engine off and climbs out of his car. Sometimes I swear this guy reads my mind. I wonder if he realizes those are the same words he used the first time we ever met in person in the coffee shop parking lot. Talk about coming full circle.

  “So they did let you on school grounds. I’m a little surprised,” I say to deflect his attention away from wondering if he needs a restraining order against me.

  “Give me a little credit, will ya? I still have some pull around there.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but the security guards all voted for me.”

  We laugh for a moment when he comes up next to me. I can almost feel the heat radiating off him and it warms my heart. Or maybe it’s just the heat being generated between us.

  “You’re not going to the press conference, are you?” I ask, trying to distract myself.

  “Just like I told them, it’s not for me. By the way, I wanted to thank you. For the article I mean. It was a fantastic read.”

  “Sure. Just don’t ever ask me to do it again.” And I’m serious about that. It’s hard enough to write bad things about a candidate you like. It’s worse when the candidate is a man you like.

  “Fair enough. How about I make it up to you?” he asks with a devilish grin on his face.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Dinner in New York City?”

  “Okay, you're basically unemployed now—”

  Michael holds his index finger in the air. “Suspended.”

  “Oh, right. So if they offered you your job back right now, would you take it?”

  He pauses as if he’s mulling it over. He’s full of crap. Michael is a brilliant teacher, but he will never instruct again in a high school. Not so long as people like Robinson Howell are running them.

  “I thought so. You're unemployed and may never get a teaching job again. So tell me why you want to blow three hundred bucks on dinner in the city?”

  “Call it a celebration.”

  “Of what?”

  “How about accomplishing my goal?”

  “I’ll admit, you know how to make a point in style. Of course, it cost you pretty much everything.”

  “It's not what they take away from you that counts. It's what you do with what you have left. Hubert Humphrey.”

  I fold my arms across my chest playfully and tap my foot against the asphalt. This guy has a quote for every occasion.

  “Fine, how about celebrating a new beginning?” Michael asks, trying a new tactic to lure me for a night out. Not that he needs to. Like Jerry McGuire, he had me at ‘hello’.

  “No win, no job, and no Jessica?”

  “Sure. You know, I told her I wouldn't win.”

  “No, if I remember correctly, you said you told her you would get trounced,” I point out to him.

  “I did get trounced.”

  “You lost by seventy-eight votes!”

  “I know. It was a landslide by any measure,” he mocks.

  I shake my head in disbelief. “So, what do you do for an encore? I mean, now that you're unemployed.”

  “Suspended,” he playfully corrects again. “You mean after I take you out to dinner?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, ironically, there is a conference between the Palestinians and Israelis next week. How about the Nobel Peace Prize? I can hold meetings over Skype and we can tweet—”

  “Oh, just shut up,” I say, pulling him by his jacket closer to me. He wraps his arms around me and we share a kiss usually seen only in old Hollywood movies. Passionate, yet tender, strong, yet still soft and romantic. The kind of kiss every girl dreams a man will give her at some point in life.

  “Maybe we have something to celebrate after all,” I say after our lips part. “Now get in the car. I’m driving.”

  “If you drive, how will I get home?”

  “Who says I’m ever letting you go?”

  .

  -SIXTY-FIVE-

  CHELSEA

  Is this part of the experience Mister Bennit was talking about? After all, there aren’t many opportunities for press conferences when you run a campaign on social media. The Perkfect Buzz is now a sea of reporters and cameras, and I’m not just unnerved, I’m terrified.

  I spot my dad in the back of the coffee shop. He smiles at me and nods in encouragement. I wonder what he is thinking. Six months ago, his Snuggle Bear was still a shy teenager trying to figure out her place in the world. Now she’s giving a press conference that will be seen in living rooms around the world.

  Most of the reporters, journalists and cameramen have cups of coffee in their hand, either through guilt, love of Laura’s brews, or her persuasive sales ability that combines both. A podium is set up in the corner with dozens of microphones from recognizable national and local news outlets mounted to it. Some of the mics have names and logos I’ve never seen or heard of. The sheer magnitude of press present a
week after the election just goes to show how closely followed this race was.

  Vince, Peyton, Amanda, Xavier, Brian, Emilee, and Vanessa lined up behind the podium with me. Vince gives me a look and I nod to him. It’s show time as he steps up to the microphones and clears his throat lightly to steady his nerves. This is new to him, too.

  “Thank you all for coming out today,” Vince says as the reporters hush each other. The room grows quiet, filled only with the sounds of cameras clicking away. The flashes coming from our audience creates a strobe effect I would expect at a Grammy performance.

  “I know it has been a week since the election, but I appreciate your patience with us. Having you all here is a first for us, and well, we had to find a podium,” he continues, eliciting hearty chuckles from everybody in the room. “Before we take your questions, we would like to make a brief statement. Chelsea?”

  I am really nervous as I step forward and stand in front of the podium. Cameras continue to click away as I look at the journalists before me. This should be a piece of cake considering I’ve faced the media under much less forgiving circumstances, but I find myself wondering whether I should be getting some sort of course credit for public speaking out of this.

  “When we started this campaign, Mister Bennit wanted to show us how much easier talking about making a difference is compared to actually making one. We didn't really understand what he meant until today.”

  My nerves start to settle and the high pitch of my voice takes a more normal tone.

  “Election night was the most disappointing moment of our lives. But today, Mister Bennit reminded us the journey, and not the destination, matters most. And, as usual, he was right, because now we understand exactly what the journey meant.

  “It required us to make sacrifices we never imagined. Time spent with our family and friends, scrutiny of the press and public, and the constant judgment of others. We endured dirty looks, vicious emails, and slanderous lies. But through our struggles, our laughs, and our tears, Mister Bennit was there, supporting and encouraging us every step of the way. Always the teacher, he has given us the greatest gift a mentor can give his pupils. He gave us the gift of experience.”

  I find my father in the crowd of media and see him rubbing his eyes to fight back tears. I look away quickly because I am already emotional, and seeing Dad cry will start my own waterworks.

  “He showed us our voice and can make a difference in the world. What we have learned cannot be taught by books or measured by standardized tests. Experience is a valuable part of education and often the most neglected. It’s a lesson we will all cherish for a lifetime.”

  For the first time, I notice Principal Howell standing off to the side near the counter. Who let that jerk in? His lips are pursed and he’s shaking his head in disapproval. Screw him.

  “Hopefully America learned something from this campaign as well. The world is changing, and the way we communicate and interact as a society is changing with it. As the tools we use to communicate become a more integral part of our lives, we must remember not to sacrifice personal contact with each other.

  “Mister Bennit sacrificed a lot to teach us that lesson. It cost him dearly, both personally and professionally, but it was what he demanded of himself. If I could ask one thing from all Americans today, it’s that we honor his sacrifice by demanding more from those who want to lead us. We get the politicians we deserve. Maybe it’s time we realized, as a nation, that we deserve much better.”

  The room is eerily quiet. Reporters hold tape recorders in the air to capture my every word. I don’t know if the statement we prepared is any good, or will relay the message that we want it to. Maybe in the end it doesn’t really matter.

  “I speak for all of us when I say we would not trade the last six months for anything. While we failed in sending our teacher and mentor to the House of Representatives, we learned the lesson he was ultimately trying to teach us. Mister Bennit, thank you for caring enough to make a difference in all our lives.”

  .

  -SIXTY-SIX-

  BLAKE

  State parks in Connecticut close at sunset, or so the sign tells me as I pull into the drive and head up the small hill to the parking area. At this time of November, the days are pretty short and people seem to abide by the rules. All except one person in particular. Despite all the open spots, I park right next to her aging Toyota Camry.

  I walk out of the parking area and past some picnic tables before picking up a wide trail that leads to an old iron bridge over the river. The night is crisp, as one would expect during late fall in New England, but a nearly full moon casts enough illumination so I don’t need a flashlight to show me the way. After a minute or two of walking, I see the bridge and the lone person standing in the middle of it. She must hear me coming, but she doesn’t turn, instead continuing to look up the river toward the little town she calls home.

  I make my way over to her, the moonlight reflecting off her snow-white coat like a beacon warning sailors of the rocks. Perhaps I should heed that warning. I almost want to, but that defeats the whole purpose of the drive up here. She looks peaceful, almost content. Like an angel, with her red hair falling on her shoulders and her green eyes visible even in the moonlight. My God, she is beautiful.

  “Hello, Chelsea,” I almost whisper, not wanting to pierce the serenity of the moment.

  She turns to me, and with a little smile, slaps me as hard as she can. The cracking sound of her right hand against my flesh echoes off the hills around us as my vision explodes in stars. For a petite girl, she packs a wallop, and the chill in the air only makes my stinging cheek hurt that much more. She turns back to her view, saying nothing.

  “Glad we got that out of the way,” I say sincerely. “I deserved it.”

  “You deserve to be stabbed in your black heart and tossed over this railing,” Chelsea replies coldly.

  “Guess I should be thankful you aren’t wielding a knife.”

  She turns to me and coolly produces a long k-bar knife from the deep pocket of her coat. Did Bennit give that to her? She holds it near my face so I can see the dark blade with a gold eagle, globe and anchor etched into it. Even in moonlight, the emblem of the United States Marine Corps is unmistakable. Message received.

  I memorized the whole opposition report on her. The reports on Bennit, his fiancée, and his staff were incredibly thorough. I know exactly whose knife this is and have no doubt he taught her to use it. Fathers are protective that way.

  “Dad got it when he left the Corps,” she says, returning it to her pocket. “Thought it may come in handy tonight.”

  “Let’s hope not,” I almost wish instead of just say.

  “What do you want, Blake?” she asks after a moment.

  “To say I’m sorry.”

  “To say ‘I’m sorry’,” she scoffs. “Sorry for what?” she asks turning toward me, the pain evident in her eyes. “Sorry for dragging us all through the mud? Sorry for lying about me sleeping with my teacher? For causing a rift between me and my father? For making me a laughing stock in front of my peers and trying to ruin my life? Sorry for actually ruining Michael Bennit’s? Which part, Blake, huh? Which part are you sorry for?”

  Actions have consequences. Sometimes we do things without fully appreciating all the outcomes. I tried to help win a campaign. That was all. I wanted to be a player in the political arena, and Beaumont and Roger promised to make me one. But it was all lies. I was their patsy, the most expendable asset they had to do their dirty work. By the time I realized my role and the hurt and damage I was causing, it was too late. But I never meant to hurt her, her family, or her friends. Or even Michael Bennit. I want to say all this to her. I need to tell her how I feel.

  “I tried to fix it,” is all that manages to come out of my mouth. Fail.

  “Well, la-di-da for you.”

  “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  She sighs deeply and turns back to her view of the river. She wipes the t
ears starting down her cheek with her sleeve. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?” I ask quietly.

  “It doesn’t matter that you tried to fix it,” she mumbles, still trying to stifle her emotion. “It was a nice gesture, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you did it in the first place,” she exclaims, whirring around to face me once more. The emotion and hurt she was feeling mere seconds ago has transformed into something else – anger. “Who does that? What kind of person is willing to destroy others without giving it a second thought? Do you have any conscience at all? Or is your moral compass so broken you just didn’t care?”

  Words can hurt as surely as the knife she’s carrying. She didn’t actually need to stab my black heart with her dad’s k-bar. Her words just did it for her.

  I was blinded by ambition with no values or code other than my own success. I even embraced those concepts. But coming out of her mouth, it sounds all so much different. Maybe because when we first met she had this optimism that only comes with youth and innocence. Or maybe it’s because I now realize that under the shell of maturity, toughness, and confidence I saw at the debate lays a fragile teenage girl, full of insecurity about the world and her place in it.

  For the first time in my life, I can honestly say I hate myself. Chelsea has put a human face on the toll of all the shady and slimy things I’ve done for Winston Beaumont. I hate that I didn’t have courage to stand up to Roger and refuse to make up the story in the first place. I hate that I took the wrong path when the right one was so easily recognizable.

  “Did you see those picnic tables near the parking lot on your way to the bridge?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I manage to croak out like a frog, still lost in my own thoughts.