Eau de Loser.
* * *
Coming in second too many times is tough on anyone’s self-esteem, but it was especially hard for me, because it brought back memories I’d prefer not to dwell on. Back when I was in high school, I lost an election for President of the Student Government Association because a teacher—our civics instructor, if you can believe that—tampered with the votes.
It sounds crazy, but it’s true. This crooked teacher—a man I’d liked and respected and learned a lot from—wanted my male opponent to win so badly, he tossed two ballots into the trash, turning me from a winner into a loser. That’s how close it was—I won by a single vote—which was humiliating in and of itself, because I was so overqualified for the job it was ridiculous. I’d been preparing to run for President ever since middle school, and probably even before that. I’d climbed my way methodically up the ladder of Student Government—Homeroom Representative as a freshman, Secretary the following year （highly unusual for a sophomore）， and then Treasurer as a junior—putting in the time, doing the work, earning the trust of my fellow students. Or at least I thought so, until half of them stabbed me in the back by voting for my completely unqualified but super-popular rival.
For a while, in my twenties, I tried to turn it into a funny story, but no one ever laughed. I think it just made people wonder if there was something wrong with me, and I couldn’t help wondering that myself, because why else would a teacher hate me so much that he’d ruin his life just to stop me from getting something I desperately wanted and totally deserved?
In the end, the fraud was exposed. The teacher resigned and I became President, but my victory never felt as good or as clean as it should have. The whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth that still hasn’t gone away, and I doubt it ever will.
* * *
That said, things appeared to be looking pretty good on the GMHS front. Kyle had told me back in August that I was the overwhelming favorite, and it still felt that way at the beginning of February. My first-round interview had been a lovefest, one softball question after another lobbed at me by a large and diverse panel of friendly faces. I made the case for a Flick administration, strategically distancing myself from Jack without throwing him under the bus, or casting a shadow on my own performance as Assistant Principal. It’s not an easy tightrope to walk—just ask Al Gore—but I thought I handled it pretty well, promising new energy and a shift in emphasis, rather than a wholesale change in direction.
It was refreshing to find myself on the inside track for once, talking to people who already knew me, and had firsthand experience of my leadership capabilities. They understood how much of Jack’s workload had been shifted onto my shoulders in recent years, and they’d seen me run the school for a semester and a half while he was recovering from his heart attack. During my tenure as Acting Principal, GMHS hadn’t missed a step. If anything, we’d done a little better than usual, showing small but significant improvements on test scores and various metrics of student satisfaction. I made sure to downplay my responsibility for these good outcomes—though I also made sure to mention them every chance I got—which earned me points （I hoped） for modesty as well as competence.
* * *
The first sign that something was amiss came in my second-round, one-on-one interview with the Superintendent of Schools. I went into it feeling cautiously optimistic. After all, Buzz Bramwell had hired me at GMHS, and he’d never expressed anything but satisfaction with my work.
As soon as I arrived at the Admin Building, though, I could sense that something was off. Buzz kept me waiting for fifteen minutes, and didn’t apologize when his secretary finally admitted me into his office.
“Dr. Flick,” he said, without even a trace of a smile. “Thank you for coming.”
No Tracy. No Nice to see you. All business.
“I’m happy to be here, Dr. Bramwell.” Normally I would have called him Buzz, but it felt safer to mirror his formality. “I appreciate the opportunity.”
“So,” he said. “I hear you were a big hit with the stakeholders.”
“It was a friendly crowd. But they asked some tough questions.”
He nodded judiciously, not so much in agreement with me as with some private hypothesis of his own. Buzz was maybe five foot four, bald and boyish at the same time. He was meticulously dressed as always—tweed three-piece suit and a plaid bow tie—and he had an air of dignity and quiet authority I’d always admired.
“I’m sure they did,” he told me. “And I’m sure you handled them without a hitch. You’re very quick on your feet.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, but I thought I detected a hint of criticism, as if being quick on my feet was a character flaw, a sign of shiftiness or opportunism rather than a virtue.
“Thank you,” I said. “It was a very productive dialogue.”
He removed his round rimless eyeglasses, sprayed the lenses with fluid from a small pump bottle, and wiped them clean with a shiny cloth.
“Principal’s a big step up,” he observed, guiding the glasses back into place, taking a moment to balance them properly on the bridge of his nose. “What makes you think you’re ready?”
This struck me as a patronizing question, considering that I’d already done the job, but I kept my poker face.
“I’ve paid my dues,” I told him. “I’ve learned a lot from Jack Weede, and from you, and I’ve formed strong working relationships throughout the building. With all due respect, I believe I’m the most qualified person to lead Green Meadow High School into the twenty-first century.”
“I’ve got some news for you, Dr. Flick. We’re already there.”
“The world is,” I countered. “But our school is lagging behind. We have some catching up to do.”
“I don’t disagree.” He made a micro-adjustment to his bow tie. “Can you give me some specifics?”
I started in the obvious place, drilling down on our deficiencies in STEM subjects, and computer science in particular. It wasn’t just a matter of upgrading our hardware. The deeper problem was the CS faculty, none of whom had real-world experience in the tech sector, or genuine expertise in the subject. Our advanced students knew a lot more about coding, 3D printing, and computer graphics than our teachers did.
“Maybe that was forgivable twenty years ago when Kyle Dorfman was a teenager, but at this point it’s a travesty that—”
He held up his hand to silence me.
“You know what, Tracy?” He sounded annoyed. “Why don’t we leave Kyle out of it?”
“I was just using him as an example—”
“Mr. Dorfman’s not here,” he said. “It’s just you and me. Two professionals.” He gave me a tight, unfriendly smile. “Please continue.”
I took a breath and forced myself back into the moment. Something weird had just happened, something I’d have to ponder later on, but right then I needed to focus on the interview. I couldn’t afford to get rattled.
“It’s not just a STEM problem, Dr. Bramwell. It’s an across-the-board issue in our Honors and AP classes. We have a number of veteran teachers who’ve gotten lazy and complacent, and it’s a disservice to our students. That’s going to change if I’m in charge. I don’t care if you have tenure, or if you were Teacher of the Year in 2008, or all the kids think you’re funny and cool. If you’re not working up to your potential, if you’re not taking concrete, measurable steps to expand your knowledge base and upgrade your skill set, you’re going to have to answer to me. No more phoning it in. Not on my watch.”