The Chamber of Five

by Michael Harmon

Another moment passed, and I backed off, walking toward the doors. Kennedy smirked, as usual. Carter cleared his throat. “I’ve anticipated your joining us, Jason, and in the spirit of the Chamber, I’ve arranged for some help to be given in your task.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  He waved me off. “That is all. Dismissed.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I ARRIVED AT SCHOOL the next morning and caught up to Elvis at the edge of the parking lot. He stood with his huge book bag on his back and two cans of corn in his hands. I waved. “Hey. What’s the corn about?”

  He looked away, uncomfortable. “You didn’t get a call last night?”

  “No. About what?”

  “There’s a food drive today. They called everybody. My mom sent them.”

  “A food drive?”

  “Yeah. I guess some family in town had a tragedy, so Lambert’s helping out.”

  “Huh. They didn’t call us.” A moment passed. “Did Carter talk to you about the Group?”

  He nodded. “He came to my house after the meeting.”

  “Good. And I’m sorry about what happened. It wasn’t you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You’re on now, though. And that’s what matters for the Pilkney deal, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you’ll get your letter.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I looked at him, and my stomach turned uneasy. He’d been crushed yesterday. Carter Logan had ground him to dust, and no matter how much I wanted to act like it didn’t happen, it had. “It’s not true, you know. Your dad, I mean.”

  “I’m not ashamed of him. He’s a great person.”

  “I’m sorry. I just … You know I don’t feel that way, and you know I wasn’t behind what happened, right?”

  “I don’t know what happened, Jason, but I know I don’t want to be a part of it.”

  I sighed. I had everything to do with what happened, I felt like a rotten ass, and now I was paying for it. His face told me he wasn’t mad or pissed at me. Worse. Hurt and betrayed. A little bit of fun in the Chamber, all organized by me. Just like with Brooke. Carter was better at this than me, I realized. “I’ll make sure he writes the letter, okay?”

  He looked at me. “Hey, Jason?”

  “Yeah?”

  He faltered. “Why’d it happen? Why me? Why does it always have to be me?”

  I clenched my teeth. “It wasn’t you, Elvis. It was me.”

  He looked toward the school. “You know what, Jason? It is me. I’ve always been the one, and I know that. I’m the guy, you know? Last picked, never picked, and always the butt of the joke. I was just born that way, and Carter was right. I’m a freak.” Then he walked away.

  I called after him.

  He turned, shaking his head. “I love my father more than the Pilkney Foundation, Jason. I declined Carter. I won’t take the letter. Bye.” Then he was gone, and I stood there, feeling an inch tall. Elvis had the courage that neither I nor Brooke nor anybody in the Chamber had. He’d looked at a future filled with brilliance, but he’d not been willing to sacrifice what was right. No amount of money could buy the pride he had for his father. A tinge of jealousy ran through me. I wished I had a dad like his.

  I walked across the courtyard, up the steps, and into the school. And when I got inside, I saw that the games had begun in full. I stood transfixed, my mind floating in disbelief as I stared.

  Every fifth locker down the main corridor had a poster tacked to it, and students milled around, laughing and talking before class began. The Thomas Singletary Food Drive had kicked off today, and as the posters read, canned goods could be donated in the main foyer to help the Singletarys out in their time of need. “To help humanity is to help those who cannot help themselves” was emblazoned across the posters, and below that, my name was listed as the chairman of the committee that organized the drive. I groaned.

  Then I walked to the office. Mrs. Pembroke sat behind the counter. I cleared my throat. She looked up, then smiled. “Hello, Mr. Weatherby. How are you today?”

  I pointed to the hall. “Who did that?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Well, Jason, you did. Mr. Kennedy came in this morning with a stack of posters and let me know he was to put them up.” She grinned. “Very kind of you to help like that, Jason. When a community cares, it can make all the difference in the world for a family.”

  I looked at her, realizing she truly had no idea how crappy people could be. “They don’t need help. Nothing happened.”

  “What?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. “Nothing. Never mind.” Then I left, walking down the hall and tearing the posters down. All of them. The bell sounded for first period and I ignored it, scouring the upper floors for anything else, but knowing it was too late. The box in the foyer was half full of beans and corn and soup and any other odd leftover from pantries and cupboards, and Thomas Singletary was the ass end of a big joke at Lambert.

  Compliments of me.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “YOU AGREED, DIPSHIT. Take it like a man,” Kennedy said. He had a hard time saying it, though, because I had him pinioned against a locker, my hand around his throat. It was more a gravelly squeak.

  “I told you I didn’t need help. Not this way.”

  “Did anybody ever let you know you have some serious anger management problems?” he croaked. Some sort of psychotic amusement lit his eyes even as his face turned a shade of red, and I almost pounded him.

  “No more, Kennedy. I said I’d handle it, and I will.”

  “Don’t kill the messenger, man. Kill the king.” His eyes twinkled. “If you can.”

  My mind swirled around Elvis and some punk frosh I didn’t even like who I was in charge of getting rid of. “He’s gone too far, Kennedy. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

  Kennedy read my look. “Why do you care, Weatherby?”

  “Because this is about Carter hurting people for no reason other than power, and I don’t like it.”

  He craned his neck to the left and right, taking in the gathering crowd of students. “Would you let me go, please? Dissension in the ranks doesn’t quite cut the old mustard in the Chamber, and I’m getting tired of not beating the living shit out of you.”

  I let him go. “I made a deal with Carter, and as far as you’re concerned, Kennedy, you’re out of it. Out. So stay away from Singletary.”

  “Or what, Weatherby? Your daddy will raise my taxes?”

  “Where is Carter?”

  “Not my turn to know.”

  “Tell him I need to talk.”

  He scowled. “I’m not your errand boy. Tell him yourself.”

  I smiled. “That’s what you don’t get, Kennedy. You are.” With that, I left him standing there with his pressed uniform wrinkled and at least forty kids staring at him.

  And as I walked toward the double doors, Chancellor Patterson, the ghost of Lambert, wisped toward me. His balding head, what hair was left clinging tightly to his small cranium, glinted under the lights. “Mr. Weatherby. Yes. And how are you? Your father contacted me regarding your acceptance into the Chamber of Five. We had a … beneficial conversation.”

  I stared at his gaunt and pale face. “Who gave the okay for the food drive?”

  He smiled. “Why, I did, of course. A grand gesture for this school.”

  “Who talked to you about it? Carter Logan?”

  He frowned. “Perhaps, Mr. Weatherby, a different tone should be taken with me. I am the chancellor, after all.” He eyed me. Nobody knew the guy. He was like a wraith around the school, gliding here and there, never talking to students, spending his time cooped up in his office, which we called the cave. I’d been in there only to get busted. “Is there a problem with something?” he said.

  “Who talked to you about the food drive?”

  He nodded. “The Chamber leadership.”

  “Kennedy or Carter?”

  “Once ag
ain, is there a problem?”

  “Thomas Singletary doesn’t need food, Chancellor Patterson. Nothing happened. No family tragedy. The whole point was to embarrass him, and you gave the okay.”

  He pursed his lips, still frowning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I could tell he was sincere, which made him a plain old goof-ball instead of a malicious freak of nature. “Carter Logan did it to embarrass Thomas because he’s poor. It was a joke.”

  He nodded. “I see. Lambert School for the Gifted is blind to economic status, Mr. Weatherby. I will speak to Mr. Logan concerning your opinion.”

  “It’s not an opinion, and this school isn’t blind to anything. Ask the kid if he needs food.”

  He ignored the jab. “Rest assured I will speak to both. Is that all?”

  Woodsie’s words about how that file got to the Chamber in the first place came to me, and I knew this was nothing but lip service. I paused, wondering if the chancellor was just a tool or if he really knew what went on.

  I decided it didn’t matter, though. If they wanted a power play, they could have one, because if I’d learned anything from my dad, it was how to throw other people’s weight around. And if Carter was right about one thing, it was that we all had a price.

  I looked at the chancellor. “My dad was talking about the new science and technology wing.”

  He perked up. “Yes, actually, he mentioned it in one of our previous conversations,” he said. “We’re very excited to get it going.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. One of his supporters, J. T. Thurmand, you know, from Thurmand Software? Anyway, my dad was throwing around ideas at the table about how to fund it, and J. T. was pretty interested.”

  “Interested?”

  I smiled, low-keying it. “You know how it works with politics, Chancellor. Just talk.” I paused. “But you know Thurmand is big-time into school sponsorships.”

  “Indeed they are.”

  “Yeah. It sounded like almost a done deal.”

  “Hmm. Well, perhaps you could ask your father to contact me.” He rocked on his heels. “When we spoke before your being chosen for the Chamber, he seemed interested in the new wing. I would do it myself, but I know your father is a busy man.”

  I smiled. “I’m sure I could talk to him, and by then I’m sure this mess with the food drive will have been taken care of.”

  His face flattened. “I’m sure it will, Mr. Weatherby, and you can be assured that if any skullduggery has occurred, I will correct the problem.”

  * * *

  I walked from the building to the gym after school, gathered my tennis uniform to have it cleaned, then headed to the lot, only to find Carter leaning against the fender of my Mustang. And there, nestled in a cocoon of spider-webbed glass directly in the center of my windshield, lay a big can of Dinty Moore beef stew. Carter shook his head. “Looks like you’ve got a live one on your hands, Jason.”

  I sighed. “Did you see him do it?”

  “Did I need to see him do it?”

  I unlocked the door, throwing my bag in the back. The can fell through the broken glass, bouncing from the stick shift. “Shit.”

  He laughed. “Kennedy let me know you were … upset.” His eyes twinkled. “He has marks around his throat.”

  “They suit him.”

  He gazed across the parking lot. “You know, Jason, I was thinking that perhaps you’ve decided to renege on our deal since your friend Elvis declined membership.”

  I knew I needed time to sort things out. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Good, because a deal is a deal.”

  “Why Singletary?”

  He ignored the question. “You’re still on board?”

  “Yes.”

  He cocked an eye at me. “Then why the choke hold on Kennedy? He was … flustered about the sudden inability to breathe correctly, and honestly, I’m having a hard time holding him back with you.”

  “Kennedy is an asshole, and you don’t have to hold anything back. If he wants it, I’m here.”

  He laughed. A genuine, sincere, and throaty thing. “He is quite the anus, isn’t he? Sort of like a big, dumb, blabbermouthed penguin. He slobbers when he talks. Disgusting when the saliva gathers at the corners of his mouth, yes?”

  “I can’t figure you out, Carter.”

  “What? Me? I’m simple.”

  “Why are Kennedy and Steven in the Chamber? I can understand Woodside, because he’s got a brain and he’s a decent guy, but them?”

  He studied my face. “Listen, Jason, I know you don’t like me. That’s a given. And honestly, I don’t like you. But you know why we have this problem? It’s because we’re both strong. Kennedy and Steven aren’t. They think they are, but they’re not, and that’s what makes them useful. They do what they’re told if they’re made to feel important. Thinking doesn’t have much to do with it. And Woodsie, well, Woodsie is the brain behind our budget, and his father, well, that goes without saying, so he’s in. It’s simple.”

  “Why me, then? If you knew I’d be a hassle, why?”

  A cloud crossed his eyes. “You were chosen because we need strength, Jason. The Chamber is bigger than just me.”

  “I don’t fit.”

  He shook his head. “Yes, you do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are who you are, and though I don’t like to admit it, your father has … influenced the school quite a bit.” He sighed. “Are we done with our little conversation here? I don’t like being seen around vandalized property. It makes my skin itch.”

  “I don’t need help with the kid. Stay out of it.”

  He smirked. “Put up or shut up, Jason, as the saying goes.”

  “Why does he mean so much to you?”

  He stepped away from the car, ignoring me. “I was called into the chancellor’s office today about the food drive, Jason. Can I give you some advice?”

  I smirked now. “Fire away, Carter.”

  “You can’t hurt me. And if you do anything foolish like that again, you’ll pay.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “ARE YOU STILL mad about the windshield?”

  Dad didn’t turn from the desk in his study, keeping his eyes on the computer screen and tapping a key. “Goddamned computers. I hate them.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There wouldn’t be a problem if I knew what the problem was, would there?”

  I walked in, leaning over his shoulder and taking the mouse from his hand. “See? The screen is frozen. Do this.” I punched the CTRL, ALT, and DELETE keys, and a box appeared, notifying the user of a nonresponsive program. “You’ll lose some material since your last save, but it’s the only way I know.”

  “Just make the damn thing work.”

  I clicked on the box, and in a minute, the frozen screen disappeared. “Click on the program now.”

  He did, and it popped up. “Good.”

  I leaned against the corner of his desk. After the conversation with Carter, I knew he wasn’t the one who’d picked me. The orders had come from higher up. “You talked to the chancellor at the beginning of school, didn’t you? About the Chamber?”

  He nodded, still looking at the screen. You didn’t have a conversation with my father. You had a conversation with the back of his head while he was doing something else.

  “What about it?” I asked.

  “Your new position.”

  “What did you do, Dad?”

  “Son, I’ve work to do.”

  “Tell me.”

  He grunted, then sat back in his chair. “I’m busy, Jason. This session is going to be a war. The Republicans have a good chance at taking control if we don’t do some damage control. Can you give it a break for once? Just once?”

  “You talked with Chancellor Patterson about the new science and technology wing.”

  He turned to me. “My son does attend the school, doesn’t he? Or rather, I pay a ton of money for him to get mediocre grades while com
plaining about his spoiled-rotten life.”

  I sighed. “You made it so I was chosen for the Chamber, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “What did you do, then?”

  He frowned. “I did my job, son.”

  “Tell me.”

  He furrowed his brow, irritated. “I pulled strings, Jason, just like you’d do for your son. Like you will do for your son. Is that wrong?”

  “What strings?”

  “I let the chancellor know that there happened to be a couple of my supporters who had interests in school grants and improvement issues. I offered to direct things his way if things went your way.”

  I stared at him. My dad’s entire life was backroom deals and manipulation, and I had a sudden pang of self-loathing thinking I’d done the very same thing to Patterson today to get Carter in hot water. “And you let him know that the chances of a private donation would be pretty good if I was in the Chamber, didn’t you?”

  “Son, life is about favors. I take care of the people who take care of me.”

  “You weren’t elected just to care about who takes care of you. That’s wrong.”

  He settled in, and I got ready for another lecture on politics in America. In other words, how to screw people over without making them feel screwed over. For the thousandth time, I made a bet with myself. He’d ask a question next. Every time he was about to go on and on about something, he started with a question. He nodded. “How do you think I win elections?”

  I looked at the ceiling. I should be rich. I win bets all the time, I thought. I should move to Vegas and be a professional. “You win elections by knowing the richest people in your district.” I shrugged. “They give you money, you use it to plaster yourself all over the place, then you do whatever they want when you win.”

  He sighed, shaking his head like I was the dumbest idiot in the world. “The people vote, Jason. Not just the rich. If the people don’t want me doing what I do, it is their right to vote me out. This is America.”

  “Sure. But they don’t know half the crap you do.”

  “Like what, Jason? Tell me what I do.”

  “Okay, fine. You’re prounion as a Democrat, then you meet with Michael Bosworth two months ago.”