November Surprise

by Laurel Osterkamp

  The following Wednesday Mrs. Fischer wants to discuss the election. Reggie is quick to offer up his opinions.

  “The right guy won,” he says. “Dukakis is a turd, and in the end, the country couldn’t make a turd their president.”

  People laugh even though Mrs. Fischer scoffs at his inappropriateness. I raise my hand.

  “Lucy, yes.” Mrs. Fischer calls on me.

  I clear my throat before I speak. “We all knew Bush was going to win,” I say. “There was a time right after the Bentsen/Quayle debate when I thought maybe things would turn around. But obviously they didn’t.”

  “Because Dukakis is a turd,” Reggie says from his spot several desks behind me.

  “It’s Lucy’s turn to talk,” Mrs. Fischer scolds.

  I appreciate her quieting him, but it’s actually not what I want. I have been afraid to look at Reggie since the party; I’ve spent the last two days in school avoiding him at all costs. But now, in the safety of this classroom, I take my chance for the most risk-free confrontation possible. I turn in my seat so he can see my face and I can see his. Of course, his bangs are covering his eyes. What a coward.

  “You know what, Reggie? Sometimes you can win the battle, but still lose the war.”

  “Okay…” he says, like I’ve just said the most stupid thing possible, and the only possible response is to shake his head and laugh at me. And it works. Several other people laugh at me as well.

  “Lucy,” Mrs. Fischer says, “Do you wish to elaborate?”

  I turn back around and respond to her. “No. That’s all I want to say about it. For now.”

  “Well, this is most likely the last time we’ll discuss the election. Now is your chance.”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Fischer. I’ll have another chance someday. You can count on it.”

  People around me exchange eye rolls and I catch a silent “She’s so weird,” being mouthed across the room. Oh well.

  Later the bell rings, and I watch Reggie go. He doesn’t look at me nor does he say anything, although he has the chance. I guess now that he’s won, the fun is over.

  But I know some things. Life happens in cycles, seasons die, and high school doesn’t last forever. Perhaps more importantly, there will be a new election in another four years.

  Chapter 3. November 1989

  We’re lying on the floor of his room.

  “You still like U2, right?” Jack reaches up and turns on his stereo. Bono’s voice begins to croon – “All I Want is You.”

  He lies back down next to me. “It’s so good to see you, Lucy. I’m really glad you’re back.”

  I stare into his face. He looks the same, still young for his age. Even though he’ll be eighteen soon and he’s tall by anyone’s standards, he’s so skinny and guileless, he could easily be mistaken for someone younger.

  “Jack,” I remind him, “I’m only back for a couple of days.”

  “Then we need to make the most of our time.” He props himself up, leans over me, and goes in for a kiss. I don’t have time to push him away before the door to his room swings open.

  Jack jumps up and I scoot away and raise myself to a sitting position. When we see that it’s Jack’s brother, Monty, and not his parents, Jack relaxes a little and I feel my face go red.

  “Ever hear of knocking?” Jack demands.

  “Sorry.” Monty smirks and looks briefly at me. “Hey, Lucy. Home from college?”

  “Just for Thanksgiving,” I reply. Most of my conversations with Monty are like this: perfunctory and generic. A year ago, at the bonfire party, when Monty played interference for me with Reggie, I knew he’d never remember me. I was right.

  “Yeah, me too.” He hangs in the doorway, clearly unembarrassed by what he just walked in on.

  Jack clenches his jaw. “Did you want something?”

  Monty looks back at him. “Yeah. Have you seen my car keys? I can’t find them anywhere.”

  Jack throws his arms up in annoyance. “They’re not in here.”

  “Okay.” Monty looks like he’s fighting laughter. “Do you mind if I search a little…”

  “Get out, Monty!”

  Now he’s laughing outright. “Okay, okay. Relax. I guess I’ll just wait for a ride.”

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  Monty leaves and closes the door behind him. Jack shakes his head. “Sorry about that. He can be so rude.”

  Last spring, when I met Jack, I was unaware that he was Monty’s younger brother. I think that was part of my appeal, because Jack has been living in Monty’s shadow all his life. In turn, with Jack I found someone who saw me as something other than this shy, unconfident girl who was traumatized by the whole Reggie incident. Jack and I started dating last summer, and it was great until I left for college. Jack is a year younger than me, and still in high school. It’s become difficult to carry on a long-distance relationship when we’re living in different worlds.

  Jack moves closer to me, but I hold my hands up to stop him.

  “Jack,” I say. “I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t it be better if we were just friends?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Better, how?”

  I pick up a softball that’s lying on the floor, and toss it from hand to hand. “You know. We’ll still talk on the phone and stuff, just like we have been all fall, but we won’t be dating anymore. That way we’ll both be free, you know, to date other people…”

  Jack’s head drops and he stares into his hands. “You’re breaking up with me.”

  I put the ball down and scratch my head. “I guess you could call it that.”

  He releases a despondent sigh. “God. Why didn’t I see this coming?”

  “Jack…”

  “No, I get it Lucy. You’re in college now. You want to date college guys, right?”

  I bite my lip and consider my answer. He’s not wrong, but the truth is more complicated than that. “Your friendship is so important to me. Seriously. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t in my life. And if we keep dating, eventually we’ll just be each other’s exes. I don’t want that. I want to still be friends with you when I’m fifty.”

  Jack shakes off what I just said, stands up, and turns off his stereo. He sits down on his twin bed and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, sure. Let’s talk about it more later, okay?”

  “You’re mad, aren’t you?”

  He rolls his eyes in an exaggerated way. “Yes. Of course I’m mad. You just broke up with me. I think I have the right to be mad.”

  I get up and sit next to him on his bed, but he scoots away. “Jack, come on.”

  “I mean it, Lucy. You should go. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

  He’s staring at the wall with his Star Wars poster on it. He told me before that the poster has been up ever since he was seven, and he just never bothered to take it down.

  Whatever. He’s refusing to look at me right now.

  “Okay,” I say, in defeat. “So you’ll call me later?”

  He nods. I walk out of his room, filled with regret. Did I just do a terrible thing?

  I’ve fished my car keys out of my bag, and I’ve walked outside when I’m confronted with Monty, who is sitting on his front step. We’re barely more than acquaintances, so I don’t feel the need to strike up a conversation. But Monty will strike up a conversation with anyone.

  “Leaving so soon?” he asks.

  I run my hand through my hair. It’s already messy. “Yeah. I have to go.”

  He straightens himself up. “Could you give me a ride?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just to the mall.”

  Inwardly I groan. If I could think up an excuse quickly enough for why I can’t drive him, I would. As it is, I just gesture towards my car and say, “Get in.”

  Once we’re on the road Monty gives me a sideways glance. “Are you okay?”

  I stare out ahead. “Fine,” I answer back.

  Monty continues to look r
ight at me, and his gaze is intense. I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable by it, but then he speaks up. “You just broke up with Jack, didn’t you?”

  I momentarily take my eyes off the road to look at him. “How did you know?”

  Monty relaxes into his seat and looks out the passenger window. “Just a feeling.”

  I sniff back tears, but it does no good. Now I’m swatting one off my cheek, and the more I try not to cry, the harder it becomes.

  Monty reaches into the pockets of his jeans, and his hand comes out with a crumpled Kleenex.

  “Here,” he says as he offers it to me. “Barely used.”

  I accept the Kleenex and wipe my face.

  “You know,” Monty says. “Usually it’s the dumpee who cries, not the dumper.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know. This is my first breakup.”

  Monty nods his head in sympathy. “They get easier.”

  “I’m really worried we won’t be friends any more.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says flippantly. “He’ll come around. I’ll talk to him for you.”

  I keep one eye on the road, but the other eye looks at him with suspicion. “What are you going to say?”

  He rolls his gaze toward the ceiling in contemplation. “That you want him to stick around, and not be some stupid romantic relationship that doesn’t last. You’d rather keep things platonic so he’ll be in your life, long-term.

  I grip the steering wheel in disbelief and clench my jaw. “You were listening in on our conversation!”

  “What? No!” His face is serious. “I was outside, I swear.”

  “You were outside? Why? Were you hoping that somebody would magically come along and offer to drive you to the mall?"

  He raises his hands in bewilderment. “Maybe. Somebody did come along, after all.”

  “But I didn’t offer.”

  “True.” He taps his fingers against his leg and looks out the window. “But I knew Bryan Davenport was meeting everyone at the mall, and he lives down the street. I thought he might drive by, and I’d flag him down. But you happened along first, so here we are.”

  I squint sideways towards him, communicating my skepticism.

  He laughs. “Come on. You think I stood outside Jack’s room, listened in, and then quickly tiptoed downstairs and outside as soon it sounded like you were coming? How pathetic would that be?”

  “Okay. So, then how did you know?”

  If he’s feeling defensive for being accused, he doesn’t let on. Casually he says, “I just figured it out. It would make sense. Lucy, honestly, I wasn’t listening in.”

  I pull up to the mall, but I don’t relax my grip on the steering wheel. “Okay. I guess I believe you.”

  “Really?” He presses his lips together, and they’re sort of turning up in a smile.

  I peer at his face, searching for signs of sincerity. But all I can see is that Monty’s hair is longer than it used to be, especially in the back. And he now has an earring.

  He flinches under my gaze. “What?”

  “When did you get an earring?”

  He fingers it self-consciously. “September.” He grins in modesty. “I did it to impress a girl. Now the girl is gone, and this stupid thing keeps getting infected.” He tugs on it. “I’ll probably just take it out. Lesson learned, Lucy. Never compromise yourself for a relationship.”

  I nod my head solemnly, trying to match his mood. Does he think he’s being profound?

  “So, anyway,” Monty says. “You believe me, right?”

  I consider his question silently. I’ll probably never know if he’s actually telling the truth about eavesdropping, but I may as well give him the benefit of the doubt. “I suppose it’s possible you could figure out what I said on your own. Jack always says you’re a genius. Aren’t you finishing college in three years?”

  He looks down in modesty. “Only because tuition is expensive, and I need to pay for law school, too.”

  For a moment neither of us speaks.

  “Well,” he says, “thanks for the ride.”

  “Thanks for saying that you’ll talk to Jack.”

  He smiles at me. “Don’t worry about it. And I won’t say anything bad.” He releases his seat belt and with a tentative hand, gives me a clumsy pat on the arm. “Seriously, don’t worry. Jack will call you in a day or two.”

  At that he gets out of the car, waves goodbye, and disappears into the mall.

  Two days later, Jack calls me.

  “Of course we can still be friends,” he says. And he actually means it.

  Chapter 4. 1992: Clinton vs. Bush vs. Perot

  The receiver is pressed to my ear, and my arm is tired from holding the phone for so long. Jack continues to talk.

  “So you think I should grovel? Or would that make me seem weak? I really don’t know which way to go, here.”

  Jack has just had another fight with his girlfriend, Petra. Rarely does a week go by when he doesn’t call me, asking for the female perspective on whatever issue they’re having. I just hope all the makeup sex makes it worth it for both of them.

  “I think you should sit tight for a while,” I say. “Let her call you this time.”

  “Really?”

  My shoulder is beginning to cramp and I’ve run out of advice. It’s not like I’m an expert on relationships, anyway.

  “I don’t know, Jack. Maybe you should ask someone else. What about Monty?”

  Jack scoffs. “Please. He’s terrible at advice. Life is too easy for him. He has no idea what it’s like to actually have a problem.”

  “I doubt that’s true.”

  “He’d tell me to dump her and move on, that there’s always another girl out there. And for him, maybe that’s true. But I live in the real world, inhabited by flawed people.”

  I rub my temple. My head is beginning to hurt. “Well, then maybe you should call her.”

  Now that I have given Jack permission to do what he obviously wanted to do all along, our conversation winds down pretty quickly, and we say goodbye. It’s a relief, because I have a lot to do today.

  But before I do anything, I stand, stretch, and think about what Jack said.

  I, no doubt, also inhabit the real world of flawed people. And actually, I wouldn’t have it any other way. There are a lot more of us who are flawed than who are perfect, and I know this now through life experience. Because in the spring of 1992 I found the flawed man I had been waiting for – twice.

  The first man came in the form of Bill Clinton. He seemed perfect at first; how I could I not fall in love with his southern charm? Besides, underneath he had a good mind full of ideas on how to bring our country back after the Reagan years by focusing on education and opportunities for the little guy.

  Then he lied about smoking pot, and was accused of cheating on Hillary and of dodging the draft.

  At around the same time, I found another guy who also seemed perfect in a flawed sort of way. I met Bryce at a party around the end of my junior year at the University of Minnesota. I was standing in a small group, drinking beer and debating over whether or not Clinton had actually inhaled. One guy wasn’t saying much and I was trying not to stare. His big brown puppy-dog eyes were the type that could look right through you, and I knew I would have remembered him, had I ever seen him before. I thought this party was going to be the standard-issue poly-sci-major get-together, filled with the same idealistic yet driven guys I either already sort-of dated, or had been rejected by, or had rejected myself.

  The third or fourth time I glanced in Bryce’s direction he caught my eye and smiled. We moved away from the group, and introduced ourselves.

  “How come I’ve never seen you before?” I asked.

  “I’m only here because I live here,” he said. “Adrian and me are roommates.”

  “Oh, sure.” I nodded my head. “Adrian and I are in the same public policy seminar together.”

  “Yeah. That sounds fascinating.” His deep brown eyes were hypno
tic, and I wondered if I ought to be looking at him indirectly, like through a mirror or something, the same way I’d view an eclipse.

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  I laughed because his bluntness was such a contrast to the loophole-filled conversations I’d become accustomed to, and we talked all evening about music (his major), post-college plans, and a bouquet of other topics, which were distinctive only because they bore no relation at all to politics. All the while his puppy dog eyes entranced me.

  So when he called several days later, I had to pretend not to be so enthusiastic at the prospect of a date. I didn’t want my excitement to scare him away. I played it cool, and our first date led to many others. We went to movies, concerts, and coffee houses, and talked about simple subjects. He quizzed me on music, and I inevitably failed since my knowledge of The Cure, R.E.M., Nirvana, and Nine Inch Nails was hopeless, and honestly, I didn’t really care about grunge bands or how the alternative movement actually wasn’t alternative because it was becoming so main-stream.

  I told myself that my connection with Bryce was profound, and that our lack of similar interests was irrelevant because when we were together, the world felt lighter and I liked myself more. But sometimes, in my darker moments, I asked myself if I’d feel this way if Bryce had normal-person eyes.

  Then summer came.

  Clinton secured the nomination, and Democrats agreed that no matter how flawed he might be, we needed to embrace our candidate. And somehow, it became easier and easier to forgive him for his transgressions, because when he spoke, you wanted to stand up and cheer. Contrast that to Bush, who said we were enjoying sluggish times but not enjoying them, and was surprised when he went to a supermarket to find that they now had product scanners. His fumbles made Clinton look like the kind of guy you want to take home to your parents, and I started to fall in love all over again.

  I was sure the opposite would be true for Bryce.

  “Take care,” he said, standing on the curb next to my beat-up Toyota, which was packed to the gills with my college-possessions. I was about to drive away for the summer.