Vito took a lazy step backwards, raising his hands in mock surrender, as if he had no intention of crossing anyone’s boundaries. He was six inches taller than Carl, and fifty pounds heavier. He looked like a grown man, like a movie star.
Whoa, he said in a soothing voice. Take it easy.
Carl lowered the scoop. His face was a bright, hectic red.
I’m just trying to make my sundae!
Vito smirked at his football buddies. They were gathered right behind him, a whole gang of them in their green-and-yellow varsity jackets. They’d just completed an undefeated season—the sundae bar was a gift from the Booster Club—and they were in high spirits.
You guys hear that? Vito said. Give the man some room.
And that was what they did. The football players stepped back and watched with exaggerated interest, murmuring their approval—Good choice, bro; Gotta love the butterscotch—as Carl clumsily assembled his dessert. To make it even worse, they gave him a polite round of applause as he headed back to his table—he always sat by himself in the back of the cafeteria—his face an even deeper shade of scarlet than before.
That should have been the end of it, but Vito grabbed a can of whipped cream and brought it over to Carl just as he was sitting down.
Dude, he said. You forgot something.
Carl shook his head. I don’t want any.
No, you do, Vito insisted. It’s the most important part.
And then he did the thing Glenn would never forgive. Vito raised the canister, pressed his finger to the nozzle, and deposited a mound of whipped cream on Carl’s head.
There. Vito added one last dollop for good measure. He looked so pleased with himself. Now you’re all set.
Carl didn’t say a word, didn’t even try to wipe himself off. He just picked up his spoon and started eating. Of all the memories Glenn had of his brother, that one was the most vivid: Carl trying to smile, polishing off an ice cream sundae with a crown of whipped cream on his head.
* * *
The doctors could never agree on a diagnosis—some said schizophrenia, some said bipolar, others said other things—but whatever it was, Carl got worse after high school. He dropped out of college after one semester, started medicating himself with drugs and alcohol, and wound up homeless in Manhattan, where he died of a heroin overdose at the age of twenty-four.
No one would have even known it was suicide, except that he’d taken the trouble to write a goodbye letter to his parents. It arrived in the mail a day after they’d been notified of his passing. Carl apologized for the pain and disappointment he’d caused, and explained that he’d felt like a stranger in the world—an unwanted guest—for as long as he could remember, and couldn’t see that changing in the future. He asked for forgiveness, and thanked them for everything they’d done on his behalf. And then he added a little note to Glenn.
You were a good brother to me. I know it wasn’t easy.
It was sweet of Carl to let him off the hook like that. But it wasn’t true and they both knew it. Glenn wasn’t a good brother. He could still picture himself in the cafeteria that day, watching quietly as Vito humiliated Carl in front of everyone; he didn’t do a thing, he just let it happen. And when it was over, Glenn didn’t confront Vito, or even bring some napkins over to Carl and help him clean up. He just sat there and ate his own lunch, one bite after another, until he cleaned his plate, and then he got up and made a sundae of his own, hot fudge with a little blob of whipped cream, and a maraschino cherry on top.
* * *
Glenn stood guard in the parking lot after the game. His last duty of the night was making sure the visiting team got safely on their bus without suffering any abuse or harassment. The Green Meadow kids looked pretty glum as they trudged out of the locker room—despite Marcus Turner’s stellar performance, they’d ended up losing by twenty points. Glenn gave a fist bump and offered a kind word to each of them as they climbed aboard.
“Good game… Way to go… You’ll get ’em next time.”
He was extra nice to Blake Dooley, who’d had a rough second half.
“Good job.” Glenn craned his neck to meet the tall kid’s eyes. “You made some terrific shots out there.”
Blake muttered his thanks and stepped onto the bus. Marcus Turner was next. Bundled in his winter coat, he looked younger than he had on the court, a lot less fierce. He paused after the fist bump, waiting to be told how great he was.
Glenn hesitated. He wanted to say, Don’t be a dick like Vito Falcone. Treat other people with respect. You’re not better than anyone else. But the words stayed in his throat.
“Great game tonight,” he said. “Really outstanding.”
Marcus nodded, accepting his due. There were a few more Green Meadow kids after that, and then the bus drove away, white smoke pouring from the exhaust pipe. When it was out of sight, Glenn did a few jumping jacks in the empty parking lot, warming himself up, killing a little time, wishing there were someplace to go besides home.
- 19 - Tracy Flick
I’ve never done any online dating—it seems like a terrible idea for a woman in the public eye—but I’ve heard numerous colleagues complain about how exhausting it can be, meeting stranger after stranger, serving yourself up like the daily special, and then somehow finding the energy and optimism to do it all over again with the next person in line.
You want to know what’s a hundred times worse? Interviewing to be a high school Principal. If a date doesn’t work out, you’ve only lost a few hours of your time. But the interview process can stretch out for months, requiring you to jump through multiple hoops as you advance from one round to the next. And there are so many people involved in the vetting process—parents, the School Board, politicians, curriculum specialists, paraprofessionals, and on and on—you never really know who’s making the decisions, what kinds of discussions are going on behind closed doors, or even whether an entire job search is a sham with a foregone conclusion. It’s possible to do everything right—impress the stakeholders, wow the Admin Team, nail the budget analysis—and still come up empty-handed.
Believe me, I’ve been there. By the time I was interviewing to be Jack Weede’s successor at GMHS, I’d already been a finalist to lead three other high schools. I guess you could look on the bright side and say, Hey, that’s pretty good, you’re clearly a viable candidate, it’s only a matter of time until you land the top job and get your chance to shine, and sometimes I was able to do that, to maintain a positive attitude and a healthy sense of perspective. But I’d be lying if I said that every one of those defeats didn’t take something out of me. They undermined my confidence, sapped my energy, and damaged my reputation.
All the jobs I’d competed for were within half an hour of Green Meadow, and word got around. My prospective employers checked references and made phone calls, and some of them even visited GMHS to speak directly to my colleagues and supervisors. So everyone in the local education community knew that I was looking to ascend to the next level, which meant they also knew that I’d failed to achieve my goal, because there I was, still the Assistant Principal, Jack Weede’s loyal sidekick. Once that happens a few times, you start to get that stink on you—the stink of the runner-up, the also-ran, the perennial bridesmaid. If you’re not careful, it can become your signature odor, your very own personal scent.