WARREN
I FOLLOWED THEM to her house. I sat on my bike by the mailbox and waited.
Now I knew how Mom felt the day she found out about Dad and Sarah Stiller. It was a complete coincidence. She'd taken off the afternoon to drive me to the eye doctor. On the way home, we happened to pass the Arrowhead Motel just as Dad walked out of the office.
Mom pulled into the parking lot of Giant Carpet, just in time for us to watch them slipping into room 16. Dad held his hand on her big butt and glanced furtively from side to side like a criminal. He looked so pathetic, a potbellied guy in a tweed rain hat, about to do the nasty.
Our original plan was to wait there until he came out, but Mom changed her mind after a few minutes, maybe because of me, I don't know. We drove home and she cooked dinner, just like any other night. Dad got home at six-fifteen, kissed her on the cheek, asked me about school. They stayed together three more miserable months.
I didn't chicken out like Mom. I forced myself to stay and watch. Two hours passed before Paul finally emerged from Lisa's house, blinking like the sun hurt his eyes, but by that time, I'd already decided to run for President.
MR. M.
THE CANDIDATE ASSEMBLY usually ranks as one of the duller rituals of the high school calendar, full of the windy rhetoric of commencement, but without the sense of festivity and true accomplishment that makes the excesses of graduation speakers so forgivable, and sometimes even touching.
I knew better than most people how little to expect because I had read and approved all the speeches in advance in my capacity as SGA advisor. I'm told that this custom of prior review dates back to the early seventies, when an honor student shocked the Administration by running on a pro-marijuana platform, and received a standing ovation.
“A joint in every locker!” he was supposed to have pledged. “Two buds in every bong!”
The speeches of 1992 looked to be nowhere near as interesting. Tracy Flick focused on herself, of course, her many talents and accomplishments, her proven ability to lead. Paul outlined a misty vision of a new kind of school, a cooperative, productive place without cliques or outcasts, an oasis of learning where students were equals in one another's eyes and teachers functioned as guides and helpers rather than narrow-minded disciplinarians. It was inspiring enough, but utterly beyond anything he had the power to achieve as SGA President.
Tammy was the wild card. On the morning of the Assembly, she submitted a woefully unfinished draft for my approval. It began with some interesting remarks about the school not meeting the needs of ordinary students, the ones who weren't academic or athletic superstars, but then it just fizzled out. The language was tentative and disconnected, and I remember thinking as I read it that she was in way over her head.
“Tammy?” I said. “Are you sure you want to do this? You can always try again next year.”
She studied me through her glasses, and I thought for a second that she was ready to back out. But then she shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I better go through with it. I think it'll be good for me.”
Up to that moment, I'd been baffled by her candidacy, unable to see what an anonymous sophomore had to gain from competing head-to-head with an older brother who was a star athlete and one of the most popular kids in the school. But now I saw—or imagined—that she was doing it as a personal challenge, a way to move out of Paul's shadow and emerge as an individual in her own right. I knew the feeling, having spent my own adolescence locked in psychological combat with an older brother whose charmed existence always seemed to diminish my own.
“Can you finish this by seventh period?”
She nodded. “I'll work on it during lunch and study hall.”
“Okay.” I initialed the draft and slid it across the desk. “It's up to you.”
TRACY FLICK
I THOUGHT TAMMY WAS a dweeby sophomore with some kind of weird death wish. From my perspective, she didn't alter the dynamic of the election at all. It was still me against Paul. Competence vs. Popularity. Qualified vs. Unqualified. Tammy was just a distraction.
LISA FLANAGAN
I WAS SO NERVOUS the day of the Assembly. It was my speech, after all, that Paul was going to deliver to the whole school. I didn't mind not getting the credit. Paul knew whose words they were, and that was enough.
In recent weeks, I'd become totally engrossed in the real presidential campaign and was learning for the first time about primaries, consultants, pollsters, spin doctors, all the behind-the-scenes players. I saw myself as Paul's strategist and chief speech writer, his girlfriend and secret weapon, a cross between Hillary and Peggy Noonan.
We'd arranged to meet outside the auditorium before seventh period so I could give him my good luck charm. As soon as I saw him, I knew we were in trouble. He was pale with dread, and his lips had turned an alarming shade of blue, as though he'd been swimming for hours in icy water.
Two years earlier, right after my parents' divorce, my dad brought me on a trip to the Bahamas. The second or third day, we took a boat out to this coral reef where there was supposed to be fantastic snorkeling, big neon fish that swam right up and kissed you on the mask.
There were maybe twenty people on board, and when we got to the reef, everyone jumped in the water but me (I was mad at my dad and had decided to punish him by not having any fun). A couple of minutes later, this tall skinny man climbed back onto the boat and sat down across from me, still in his flippers and life jacket. He told me he was on his honeymoon and had had a panic attack the moment his face went underwater. His voice was normal, and I didn't realize how spooked he was until he tried to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking so hard he couldn't direct the match to where it was supposed to go. I had to do it for him.
Paul's hands were shaking just like that right before the Assembly. He reached up to fix his hair and almost missed his head.
MR. M.
HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS are a notoriously tough crowd. They're suspicious of fancy rhetoric and sensitive to the slightest sign of self-importance. Raised on sitcoms, commercials, and MTV, their attention span for the spoken word is next to nonexistent. They arrange themselves in rowdy clusters and set their bullshit detectors on Red Alert.
Tracy understood this. Knowing she was a slightly ridiculous, slightly scandalous personage in the eyes of her peers, she decided to neutralize potential hecklers by emphasizing rather than soft-pedaling those aspects of her reputation. Sheathed in a startlingly short, body-hugging red dress and black tights, she delivered an unapologetic self-appraisal that was as accurate as it was provocative.
“I know you like Paul better than you like me,” she said in summation, “and I don't really blame you. He's a nice, sweet guy and I'm a—well, I'm not nice and sweet, let's just leave it at that. But when it comes down to the wire, who do you want fighting for the students of Win wood High? Do you want Mr. Nice Guy?” She put her hands on her hips
