Saxifrage & Starshine

by Megan Kempston

  I could feel Amy’s gaze on my back.

  “Sure,” I said hurriedly to Miriam. “I’ll be right back, honey,” I said over my shoulder, flashing Amy a quick and entirely fake smile.

  We walked a few feet away, and then Miriam turned to face me. “I know what you did the other night.”

  I gulped as nonchalantly as possible. “Wha— What are you talking about?”

  “The campaign signs. I know you took them down. I saw them in your bins.”

  “Who goes through other people’s bins?”

  She gave me a look. “You say that like that’s the problem here, when you’re the one who pulled down all those signs. Besides, I was just checking to see if you sorted your recycling correctly. So I could alert the press if you were doing it wrong.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Okay. Hypothetically, if I did take down all those campaign posters, would you be going to the press about that too?”

  She folded her arms. “Here’s the thing. Alerting the press that other school board candidates aren’t recycling correctly? That plays right into my campaign promises and talking points. Tattling on you for tearing campaign signs down? That sort of hurts my ‘love everyone’ image.”

  “Okay…” I said.

  “Plus, you’re polling ahead of me at this point, for whatever insane reason, and we’re both trailing Imbali, so it’s pretty unlikely I’d win, or that you’ll win either. And the whole campaigning thing was kind of messing with my chi, I think.”

  “So you’re not going to tell anyone?”

  “So I’m not going to tell anyone,” she confirmed. “I’m also dropping out of the race.” She narrowed her eyes before I could jump up and down for joy or anything. “But I want something in return.”

  “Anything. Name it,” I said.

  “Smiley faces instead of grades.”

  I groaned. “Anything but that.”

  She frowned.

  “Seriously, Miriam—you can’t tattle on me because it would hurt your image, but my whole image is built on academic rigor. There has to be something else you want.”

  “Well…”

  After a ten-minute negotiation that included more funding for school gardens, BPA-free chairs for students, and kefir and kombucha dispensers in the cafeterias, I walked back to the house, shaking my head and muttering.

  “Don’t forget to compost your jack-o’-lanterns tomorrow!” Miriam called from the sidewalk. “Namaste!”

  I walked inside. Amy handed me a Twix. “School board stuff?”

  “School board stuff,” I confirmed, unwrapping the candy and jamming it in my mouth.

  “Specifically, campaign poster stuff?” she asked sweetly.

  I coughed, and looked at her in alarm, and then coughed some more until I finally could chew and swallow. “You really shouldn’t do that,” I said, wiping my streaming eyes. “I could choke.”

  “I know the Heimlich,” she said. “When were you going to tell me about the posters, Jon?”

  I winced. “Ideally, never?”

  “You thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

  “No, no,” I said. “I hoped you wouldn’t figure it out. Foolishly, apparently.”

  “Yes, well,” she said, the hint of a smile playing around her face. “I re-sorted the recycling for you. Imagine what Miriam would have done if she had found those posters in the trash.”

  ***

  “You’re sure?” I asked again.

  “That you’re not having a heart attack?” Amy replied on Monday night, after Lindz had gone to bed. “Yes, I’m positive.”

  “But look right there,” I said, pointing at my laptop. “It says that symptoms include a feeling of squeezing in the chest, sweating, a fast pulse, and a sense of impending doom.”

  “Yes, well,” she said with superhuman patience. “I assure you that, according to both my extensive medical training and my wide-ranging experience in the ER, those are also symptoms of anxiety. Which makes sense. After all, tomorrow’s—”

  “Don’t say it!” I said. “Those two words make my pulse go even faster!”

  “—Election Day,” she finished firmly.

  “Urnghh!” I said as I clapped two fingers to the opposite wrist to take my pulse for the hundredth time.

  She took my fingers gently from my wrist and wrapped my arm around her shoulders instead. “Look, hon. It totally makes sense that you’re nervous right now. Tomorrow is huge for you. I bet that even Doug Burliman is sweaty and worried right now.”

  “Heh,” I said, allowing myself to be temporarily diverted by the mental image. “I bet he’s having a triple Scotch as we speak.”

  “Right,” she said. “And he’s the incumbent. Imbali’s probably hyperventilating into a brown paper bag.”

  I frowned and switched to checking the pulse in my neck. “Except that she’s great. And wonderful. And everyone likes her. And she’s going to win. And I bet she’s not even one little bit nervous because she’s just that wonderful.”

  Amy kissed my cheek. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re way more wonderful than she is. Now, should we go over the schedule for tomorrow?”

  I switched to rubbing my temples. “Show up to the park by nine o’clock,” I grumbled. “Shake hands with people and answer voter questions. At noon, go vote at the fire station. At 1:30, the short speech about how great Palo Alto is. At two o’clock, check in at the Historical Association’s event. You and Lindz join me at four for the family smile-and-wave photos in front of City Hall. Preliminary results at eight. Final results whenever they come in. Concession and acceptance speeches to follow.” I groaned. “Though I think we know which one I’ll be giving.”

  “You read both your speeches aloud to Lindz and me yesterday. Whichever one you give, you’ll be great. And we’ll be there, smiling at you from the audience.”

  I looked over and tried to smile back. It felt more like a grimace. I patted my lips. “Isn’t inability to smile a symptom of a stroke?”

  She took my hand again. “I know a way to prove to you beyond a doubt that you are just fine.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. “MRI or CT scan?”

  “Neither,” she said. “But your pulse might keep racing.”

  Then she smiled.

  ***

  Election Day dawned overcast and gloomy.

  Despite the endorphin high of the previous evening, my dreams had been full of laughing Doug Burliman bobblehead dolls that patronized me constantly, a dozen variations on snarky Imbali acceptance speeches, and the echoing laughter of a huge crowd of Palo Altans who were all pointing at me. I got the feeling my unconscious mind wasn’t telling me to add more jokes to my speeches.

  My mood wasn’t improved by the 4 am wakeup call, either.

  “Tell them to shove their phone where the sun don’t shine,” I grumbled sleepily, burrowing my head under the pillow.

  Amy ignored me, answering with a chipper, “Dr. Cass here. Right. Right. No problem. Be there in twenty minutes.” Then she rolled over and ran a cool hand down my back. “Hey, babe,” she whispered.

  I lifted my head to give her a gimlet eye. “You’re going in, aren’t you?”

  One side of her mouth quirked up. “Ross woke up with projectile vomiting this morning. No work for him today, and I’m first on the on-call list.”

  I slowly pushed my head back under the pillow. “I liked my idea better.”

  “Alas, phones don’t fit there, dear. Believe me. I have all too vivid an idea what does fit up a rectum after last month’s case with the—”

  “Lalalalala,” I said, sticking my fingers firmly in my ears. “Let’s focus on my pain for a while, not that guy’s. My wife is leaving me at four in the morning on Election Day.”

  “Well, I wasn’t thinking of leaving permanently. Unless you think that would help your ratings.”

  I glanced up again just to make sure she was smiling at that because, well, you never know.

  She lay back down next to me to give me
a warm and very thorough kiss.

  “Is that for luck?” I asked.

  “It’s because I love you,” she said. “But good luck too. Gotta shower now.”

  I grabbed her hand. “You’ll be there at four this afternoon, right? For the pictures? And then for the results?”

  She grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world—even if it means Ross has to drag his vomity self into work to cover the rest of my patients.”

  “Kay,” I said, rolling over into her warm spot as she slipped out of bed. The shower susurrated gently, and I fell back to sleep.

  Until 5 am, when my phone rang insistently.

  “Wha?”

  “Sorry, hon,” Amy said, “but I completely forgot to tell you earlier—Lindz’s parent-teacher conference is at three o’clock this afternoon. White will be in to take over for me at 3:45 so I can get to the park, but she can’t get here any earlier. I need you to go to the conference. I already tried to cancel, and that’s the only spot available.”

  I was suddenly and completely awake. My mind split itself into two sections, one trying frantically to rearrange the umpteen, nearly overlapping color-coded appointments on the schedule, the other generating a thousand speedy protests. Luckily my mouth was faster than either part of my brain. “Okay. No problem, hon.”

  “Really? I mean… well, I suppose it’ll look great for your campaign too. A dad working on his own daughter’s education on Election Day.”

  “True,” I said, brightening slightly.

  “And I’ll make it up to you later,” she purred.

  Good job, mouth. You win.

  “Sounds good,” I told her, trying to purr back, but mostly sounding like a phlegm-clogged garbage disposal. “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  It was only after the phone was safely off that I let myself turn my head back into my pillow and mumble a string of profanity that would make Lindz’s hair catch on fire if she ever overheard it.

  Then I sighed, hauled myself out of bed, and headed off to the shower.

  ***

  My phone rang again while I was still toweling off. I frowned at the number and answered it.

  “Nick? Why are you calling me so early? And from your house?”

  “I’m really sorry to bother you on Election Day, Jon,” said the department administrator. “But I got a call that your sabbatical paperwork will be in at noon today. And”—he hesitated—“it needs to be signed by 5 pm.”

  I groaned. “I have eight million things I need to do between noon and five today. Can I get an extension until tomorrow?”

  “I already asked,” he said. “They said no. I’d forge your signature for you—with your permission, of course—but the university is really strict about things like that. If we get caught, we both get fired. I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head. “No, no, don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. I’ll— I’ll figure out a way to be there sometime today. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

  “It’s gotta be before five o’clock to be official.”

  “Before five,” I echoed. “Right. Thanks, Nick.”

  Then I hung up, leaned naked against the bathroom wall, and mentally rearranged my schedule yet again.

  ***

  At 2:50 that afternoon, I sat in a too-small blue plastic chair in one of the hallways at Lindz’ school and refreshed the search results for “Jon Cass school board” on my phone.

  I had answered voter questions in the park as rapidly as possible, delayed voting until later in the day, shortened my “Yay Palo Alto” speech, and skipped out early on the Historical Association event.

  You’re still on schedule, I assured myself. Mr. Jones will understand if you want to make this short and sweet, and you’ll have time to swing by Stanford and sign the sabbatical paperwork before you make Patti Blake happy by looking like a totally put-together school board family.

  I couldn’t help wondering how a sweating candidate with a nervous smile, a gorgeous woman looking tired in purple scrubs, and a teen who wouldn’t get her nose out of her phone would look on camera. I sighed.

  “Worried?” asked the blonde woman on my left with a smile.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “Just a lot going on right now.”

  “I totally get it,” she said. “My daughter is behind in at least three subjects. I never realized when I was a kid how nerve-wracking these parent-teacher conferences must have been for my parents!”

  I huffed a laugh. “It’s great to meet another parent whose kids aren’t perfect. And one who will admit to not having been the perfect student herself.”

  She grinned. “I’m Erin,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Jon,” I said, shaking hers.

  Just then, the door opened. Two parents left, beaming at each other. Erin and I gave each other a look, rolled our eyes, and glared at them.

  A petite woman, her hair dark despite her middle age, walked to the door and shouted, “Cass. Amy Cass?”

  I stood up. “That’s me.”

  She gave me a look. “You’re Amy Cass.”

  “No, no,” I said. “I’m her husband. She couldn’t be here today. Guess Mr. Jones is stuck with me, huh?”

  I grinned over my shoulder at Erin. She didn’t smile back.

  Neither did the dark-haired woman. “Mr. Jones couldn’t be here this afternoon either, so no. I’m stuck with you.” She jutted her head towards the classroom. “Come on. Dragging our feet won’t help either of us. Mrs. Hansen, I’ll be back shortly for our chat about Kayla.”

  I bit my lip, decidedly did not look at Kayla-of-the-bra-stuffing-and-crying’s mom, and followed the other woman inside.

  She shut the door behind me, and then had me sit in yet another too-small chair across from her perfectly adult-sized desk. “I’m Ms. Marle.”

  “Ah,” I said, glancing around at the numbers and mathematical symbols decorating the room, and the big bin of protractors on a table in a corner. “Lindz’s math teacher.”

  “That’s right. And you’re Jon Cass. I recognize you from your campaign materials.”

  I flashed her a smile. “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  My smile faded. “You oppose academic rigor?”

  She snorted. “No one opposes academic rigor, Mr. Cass. I oppose chronic and appalling myopia.”

  I tilted my head, trying to determine if she were speaking literally. I mean, she was wearing glasses…

  “But we’re here to talk about Lindsay,” she continued.

  “Right,” I said, struggling to get back on track. “Lindsay. Er, her grades on math quizzes seem to have improved lately.”

  Ms. Marle arched an eyebrow. “Marginally.”

  I fought not to squirm. “And her most recent language arts assignment had a lot less red pen on it.”

  Her pursed lips thinned even more. “Mmm,” she said.

  I started sweating in earnest. “And other than that, she seems like she’s doing great,” I wrapped up lamely.

  Ms. Marle stared at me for a long moment before folding her hands and placing them on the desk in front of her. “Mr. Cass, let me ask you this— Do you have any idea what Lindsay’s social life looks like?”

  I frowned. “Sure. Snapchat, texting, hanging out with Sally Griffin. Normal teenager stuff.”

  “And her interactions with her other classmates, besides Sally?”

  I shrugged. “Fine, I assume.”

  “You assume,” she said, looking down her nose at me. “Would you say you take seriously your role in Lindsay’s life as her parent?”

  I jerked back, my worries replaced by quick anger. “What kind of question is that? Of course I take my role as Lindsay’s parent seriously,” I sputtered. “Why else would I be running for school board? Why else would I be sitting here with you, wasting my time at a parent-teacher conference, on Election Day?”

  She arched her other eyebrow, seemingly unruffled by my increasing volume.
“There are three things I would like to discuss about your daughter, Mr. Cass,” she said.

  I opened my mouth to protest, but she raised a finger to quell me. “First, Lindsay has the lowest grade in the class in both math and language arts.”

  “Are you saying—” I started.

  “If you’ll wait just a moment for me to finish speaking, I think I’ll address your questions.”

  I fumed silently.

  She held up another finger. “Second, Lindsay’s grades in those two classes, as far as I can tell, are not due to any innate problems with those subjects. They’re due to simple inattention.”

  “Inattention?”

  Ms. Marle gave me a flat look. “Yes, the inability to focus on and comply with instruction.” She arched a brow. “Clearly not something you’d be familiar with.”

  I bit my tongue and tried not to start reviewing the list of heart attack symptoms.

  “Third, and related, Lindsay learned a few weeks ago that she did not make the volleyball team despite her hard work and strong athletic abilities.”

  I blinked in utter bafflement. Volleyball team? Athletic abilities? Were we even talking about the right kid? Maybe Ms. Marle had me all mixed up with some other parent. I opened my mouth to clarify—

  She frowned at me. “You seem… confused. Maybe I should add a fourth point that I thought would be obvious. Lindsay has very few friends in her class. None, actually, besides Sally.”

  “What do you mean, no friends? She talks about her classmates all the time. Jeremy, Tess, Kayla, that Derek guy.”

  “Classmates, yes. Friends, no. Which is why she was so focused on making the volleyball team, to the point where she was obsessively reading the rules manual under her desk in math class instead of learning algebra. Membership on a sports team is seen as an instant popularity boost around here—with good reason. It’s hard to be seen as an outcast if the whole school cheers for you when you heroically win the game.”

  My mouth formed the word “outcast,” but no sound came out.

  “On the other hand, making another student cry during class, while possibly a satisfying form of vengeance in some ways, doesn’t often help make friends. Especially when Kayla Hansen, the student in question, is the star of the volleyball team.”