I did make one minor misstep. It happened in the middle of dessert, when Kyle finally got down to business, and asked us who we wanted to put in the Hall of Fame. I guess I should have waited for the adults to chime in, but I was feeling pretty comfortable by then, and the answer seemed so obvious I just blurted it out.
“It has to be either you or Vito Falcone, right?”
He looked a little startled when I said that, like it had never even occurred to him that he might be in the running.
“Seriously,” I said. “Did you ever look at the Green Meadow Wikipedia page? They have this section, like Notable Residents or whatever? And the two top names are Vito Falcone and Kyle Dorfman. After that it’s just a bunch of randos no one’s ever heard of.”
Jack Weede
You know how Kyle got rich?
He designed a virtual pet app called Barky. His big innovation—the thing that set his virtual pet app apart from all the other ones—was that the dog barked out its thanks whenever you remembered to feed it or take it for a walk or clean up after it took a virtual shit. For a year or so, millions of people thought that making Barky happy was a rewarding way to kill some time, and then they forgot all about it.
That’s his entire claim to fame.
Kyle Dorfman
People like to mock Barky, as if it was some stupid fad from the Dark Ages. What they forget is that there was an innovative social component to the app. We called it the Love Bank. If you did a nice thing for Barky, gave him a biscuit or a bath or a bone, you would earn Gratitude Hearts—they would float up from the dog’s head and deposit themselves in a treasure chest—and you could use these hearts as currency. You could buy more bones and biscuits, or give them as a birthday gift to a friend, or transfer them to someone you had a crush on, or bestow them on a stranger who asked for help.
That was what people got excited about. Not the cute dog. The fact that the cute dog was at the center of an economy of affection and kindness, a benevolent space where one good deed led to another. And yes, it made me a lot of money. I don’t like to say how much, because it’s a shocking amount, almost obscene. But the Hall of Fame wasn’t about me.
“Just to be clear, I’m not a candidate. It wouldn’t be ethical for a member of the Committee.” I glanced around the table. “And just for the record, if everybody else wants to go with Vito Falcone, that’s totally fine with me. More than fine. I think he’d be an awesome choice.”
“It would make a splash,” Jack agreed. “But only if you could get him to attend the ceremony. We’ve tried to bring him back a few times, but he’s always too busy. No point in honoring a guy who’s not gonna show up.”
“Do you have his contact info?”
“Check with Front Desk Diane. She’s probably got something on file.”
Lily poked her hand into the air.
“Can I ask a stupid question?” She looked a little embarrassed. “Who’s Vito Falcone?”
Nate Cleary
Lily’s parents were immigrants—I’m pretty sure they went to high school in Taiwan or someplace like that—so it made sense she’d never heard of him. My dad had grown up right here in Green Meadow, and I’d been hearing his name all my life.
“Vito Falcone was the greatest football player in the history of our town,” I told her. “His junior and senior years, the Larks were undefeated and ranked number one in the state.”
“That was a long time ago,” Principal Weede told her. “You weren’t even born yet.”
“He only played in the NFL for a couple of years,” I said. “But still, nobody from here ever made it that far in any professional sport. Not even close.”
“And he was really good-looking.” Kyle whipped out his phone and did some swiping. “Movie star handsome. He was like a young god back in the day.”
He held up the phone so we could all take a look. It was a picture from Vito’s college days at the University of Pittsburgh. He was holding a football by his ear, gazing thoughtfully into the distance, as if he were about to throw downfield.
Tracy Flick
I’d heard his name before, but that was the first time I ever saw his face. That square jaw. Those vapid blue eyes. That bottomless self-confidence. Like he’d never experienced a moment of doubt or loneliness or failure in his entire life. My reaction was immediate and visceral.
Ugh, I thought. I know that guy.
From as far back as I could remember, no matter where I went or what I did, there was always a Vito Falcone. The Golden Boy. The Handsome Jock. The Big Man on Campus. Let’s laugh at his stupid jokes and tell him how great he is. Let’s pay him more than he’s worth. Let’s give him a promotion. Let’s elect him President. Let’s put his face on a bronze plaque.
I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I honestly didn’t care who got inducted into the Hall of Fame. All I wanted was for things to run smoothly, to put on an event that would make people proud of their community and their high school, and reinforce my own image as a competent and trustworthy leader.
I guess I just felt like Kyle had pulled a bait and switch on me. This was nothing like the inspiring vision he’d pitched at Kenny O.’s, the Hall of Fame that would honor musicians and astronauts and public servants and stay-at-home moms. This was just the opposite, the same old crap as always. I was trying to think of a diplomatic way to say so, when Jack raised a different objection.
Jack Weede
Yes, the money was Kyle’s, but the high school didn’t belong to him, and neither did the Hall of Fame, as much as he would have liked to think otherwise. These were public institutions; they belonged to the community, and the community had a right to be involved. You couldn’t just have one backroom meeting and pick the first person who popped into your head. That wasn’t democracy.
“The only fair thing,” I said, “is to solicit nominations from the public. Let the people tell us who we should honor.”
“Then why are we even here?” Kyle said. “What’s our role?”
“We’re the jury. We’ll go through the nominations, draw up a short list, and make the final decision.”
“That’s a lot of unnecessary work,” Kyle muttered. “Especially since we all know it’s gonna be Vito.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “But if that’s where we do land, and I agree that there’s a very good chance we will, at least people won’t feel like we shoved him down their throats. They’ll feel like their voices were heard and respected, and the result was legitimate. And if that means the five of us have to put in a little extra work, then so be it.”
Tracy Flick
It was a productive first meeting. Thanks to Jack, we came out of it with a clear process and a concrete timetable: nominations in November, short list and final vote in December, event prep in January and February, Induction Ceremony in March. It would be tight, but it looked doable.
At my suggestion, we voted to increase the number of inductees to two. At least that way we’d get a chance to honor one individual who wasn’t a star quarterback, the most obvious and depressing choice in the world.
PART TWO: Be the Flame