“Not in a dancing mood?” she asked.
“Maybe later,” I lied.
She touched a finger to my sleeve, just above the elbow.
“I like your dress.”
“Thanks. It was my mother’s.”
She didn’t reply, but I could feel the question she wasn’t asking.
“I miss her,” I said.
She gave my arm a quick, supportive squeeze, and turned her gaze back to the dancers, all those flailing arms and happy faces. She was wearing a black dress, very simple, and her hair was gathered into a messy updo that was casual and glamorous at the same time.
“That’s my ex,” I said, nodding towards Philip. “We broke up at Thanksgiving.”
“Really?” She gave me that startled look I’d received so many times before. “Dr. Kinder?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky me, right?”
She snorted and bumped me with her shoulder.
“Someone got lucky,” she said. “But I don’t think it was you.”
- 17 - Kyle Dorfman
We had the second Committee meeting in Jack’s office. I would have preferred a leisurely meal at a good restaurant, but everybody else wanted to meet on school grounds. More time efficient for the administrators, and less disruptive for the students. Whatever. The majority rules.
It was a week before Christmas, and you could feel it inside the building—that giddy sense of winding down, slacking off, vacation right around the corner. A fair number of kids had decorated their lockers with wreaths and stockings, and a handful of proud nerds were walking around with fuzzy antlers on their heads. If I’d been their age, I might have been one of them.
I stopped by Tracy’s office on the way in. She was hard at work, as usual, hammering away at her keyboard like she was mad at the letters.
“Knock, knock,” I said from the doorway.
“Oh.” She stopped typing and forced a smile. “Is it that time already?”
“I’m a little early.” I walked over to the desk and handed her an envelope. “Just wanted to give you this. It’s from Marissa.”
Tracy studied the envelope with a puzzled expression. It was made of handcrafted pulp stock—turquoise flecked with lavender—and tied with a piece of twine.
“She took a paper-making class,” I explained.
“Oh.” Tracy looked surprised. “That’s very… impressive.”
“She’s a big knitter too,” I said. “If you need a winter hat, just say the word.”
Tracy Flick
Front Desk Diane handed out the short list, then checked with Jack.
“Anything else?” she asked.
Diane was wearing a red sweater with a big white snowflake on the front, but her face looked drawn and anxious, devoid of holiday spirit. She’d been having a rough semester. A couple of weeks earlier, I’d found her crying in the Faculty and Staff Ladies’ Room. When I asked what was wrong, she said it was nothing, just hormones, and I left it at that. We’d worked together for a long time, but I was her boss, not her friend.
“Thank you, Diane.” Jack gave her a curt nod of dismissal. “I think we’re all set.”
She left the room, shutting the door softly behind her. Jack clapped his hands, calling the meeting to order.
“Okay, then. Here we are.” He nodded slowly, acknowledging the solemn duty that was resting on our shoulders. “As you can see, we have a diverse array of candidates to consider, alumni with significant achievements in a wide variety of endeavors. Some young, some old, some living, some… no longer with us, I’m sorry to say.” He observed a brief moment of silence, then brightened again. “I think our biggest challenge will be finding a common denominator, a standard of measurement that will allow us to compare apples and oranges without doing a disservice to either fruit.”
He went on like that for a while—Jack had a weakness for lengthy preambles—but I was only half listening. I was still a bit perplexed by the envelope in my blazer pocket, the sweet, very brief note from Marissa—Great to see you at the party! I really enjoyed our talk… xoxo, M.—followed by her cell number and email address, along with the postscript Let’s hang out soon!
It seemed a little excessive. We’d only chatted for a few minutes, and then she’d gotten summoned by the caterer, and I’d slipped away without saying goodbye. It was a perfectly pleasant interaction, but it hardly warranted a handwritten note on handmade paper.
Lily Chu
The short list read as follows:
Vito Falcone, 1994 （Professional Athlete）
William Finley, aka W. K. Finn, 1952 （Accountant/Novelist）
James Haggerty, 1969 （Gold Star Veteran, Vietnam）
Kelly Harbaugh, aka WhisperFriend47, 2016 （Internet Personality）
Matthew J. Keezer, 1973 （Automobile Dealer）
Principal Weede had called it “a diverse array of candidates,” and I guess there was some truth to that. The finalists came from different eras, they did different things, and yes, some of them were dead. There was even one woman in the group, which was definitely better than nothing, even if she was a college dropout who made videos with titles like I Love Your Hair and Let’s Make You Even Hotter.
But come on. It was 2018—almost 2019—and five white people was the best we could do?
It was embarrassing.
Nate Cleary
We did the easy part first. Principal Weede said that his secretary had spoken to Vito Falcone, and that Vito had promised to attend the Induction Ceremony if he was selected for the Hall of Fame.
“In light of this excellent news,” he said, “I propose a vote on the candidacy of Mr. Falcone. All in favor?”
He raised his hand, and Kyle and I did the same. After a brief hesitation, Dr. Flick joined the majority, followed a moment later by Lily, though she didn’t look too happy about it.
“All righty.” Principal Weede nodded his approval. “The Committee is unanimous. One down, one to go. Our next candidate is William Finley, the author. Did anyone else have a chance to look at his book?”
Kyle and I shook our heads. Dr. Flick said she’d skimmed it, but hadn’t been too impressed. Lily said she’d stopped after the first chapter.
“It was too confusing. It just kept skipping around. I didn’t know whose head I was in.”
“That’s a common modernist technique,” Principal Weede explained. “I’m not sure it’s aged very well. I guess that’s an ixnay on Mr. Finley.”
We bogged down after that. Everyone felt bad for James Haggerty, but not bad enough to put him in the Hall of Fame. Kelly Harbaugh did a little better. Weede and Kyle thought she’d be a refreshing choice, but Lily and Flick disagreed, on the grounds that it would send the wrong message to the girls of Green Meadow, what with Kelly being so focused on makeup and talking in that weird whispery voice. It came down to me—and like I said, fuck her—so she didn’t get a majority, either.
“That leaves us with Keezer.” Principal Weede made a sour face. “Personally, I’m not crazy about the idea of honoring a car salesman.”
Nobody else was, either, so we just sat there and stared at one another.
Lily Chu
I didn’t want to be a pain in the ass, especially so close to the holidays, but I didn’t want to be a coward, either, so I forced my hand into the air.