“It’s too late,” I said. “He missed the application deadline by four months.”
“The timing’s unfortunate,” Charisse conceded. “But we can extend the search if we have to. We’ve done it before.”
It wasn’t just the timing, and they all knew it. Larry Holleran wasn’t Principal material. He’d been a notoriously lazy general science teacher back in the day, famous for napping at his desk while the kids watched Jacques Cousteau. He eventually rose to the rank of Assistant Principal—the job came with a nice pay bump—but it was widely understood to be an honorary promotion, a reward for all his championships. He didn’t work very hard or stay very long before ditching GMHS for Birchfield College.
“Can’t he just be coach?” I asked. “Does he have to be an administrator too?”
“He needs the money,” Buzz explained. “He’s not doing this out of the goodness of his heart.”
“Fine,” I said. “Then let’s just give him his old job back. Assistant Principal and Head Football Coach. That’s a pretty good deal.”
“We floated that,” Ricky said. “But he didn’t bite. He wants the big office. It’s not negotiable.”
“What about Tracy?” I said.
“What about her?” Buzz snapped. “She’ll still be the number two. She won’t be losing anything.”
Tell that to Tracy, I thought.
Charisse put her hand on my arm. Her eyes were wide and hopeful.
“Marcus would be over the moon,” she said. “To be able to play for Larry Holleran? That would be a dream come true.”
“It’ll be a new golden age,” Ricky told me. “Like the nineties all over again. Remember how great that was?”
I’d played trumpet in the high school marching band, and I remembered it well, the collective euphoria of those game days, back when the football team was awesome and the whole town came out to cheer them on. I loved being in the eye of that hurricane, blowing my horn, shouting, Hey! and pumping my fist in the air.
“It was pretty great,” I admitted.
Tracy Flick
I don’t know what came over me. I could’ve just smiled and let the conversation flow by, the way I always did. One point eight million dollars, what a crazy world. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was the expression on Marissa’s face, so open and unguarded, as if we were already friends.
“I was fifteen,” I said.
“I’m sorry?” She smiled uncertainly. “You were what?”
“Fifteen.” I was struck by the calmness of my own voice. I could have been telling her any random fact about myself. “The first time I slept with a married man. I was a sophomore in high school.”
We stared at each other.
“Oh,” she said, very softly.
“He was my English teacher,” I continued, in that same matter-of-fact voice, “and I was his favorite student. I wrote a paper on Ethan Frome, and he gave me an A plus, the first in his entire career, at least that’s what he told me. He said it was a college-level critical essay, and he wanted to know where I learned to write like that. Like an adult, he said. You write like an adult. That was how it started.”
This was all true—it had happened to me—but it was hard to believe, hearing it spoken out loud like that.
“He was married.” I tried to smile, for some reason, as if I were telling a funny story, but it didn’t quite work. “I was fifteen.”
“That’s too young,” she said.
“I know. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt like we were equals.”
“Okay.” She nodded, but not the way you nod when you’re agreeing with someone. “And how long did this—？”
“Not very long.”
I still had that unsuccessful smile on my face, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. It was just stuck there.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry he did that to you.”
“I’m not a victim,” I said. “It wasn’t like that.”
She got up from her bench and sat down next to me. After a moment, she put her hand on my shoulder.
“Tracy,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know. But they all hated me anyway.”
“No,” she said. “No one hated you.”
It was true, though. I’d known it at the time, but I’d done my best to forget about it, because it’s not a thing you’d want to remember, being hated like that. The way people looked at me, the things they whispered as I walked down the hall.
I’m not sure what was happening on my face, but at least that stupid smile was gone.
“Oh, honey,” Marissa said. “You poor thing.”
I felt a weird pressure behind my eyes, like maybe I was going to cry, but it was my nose that exploded. The blood just came gushing out. I tried to catch it in my hand, but there was too much—it went right through my fingers—and you couldn’t just bleed all over someone’s sauna like that. I stood up and headed for the door.
“Thank you,” I said, but my words were muffled by my palm. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
She told me to wait, to please not go, but I was already out of the heat and into the night, blood streaming down my face and smoke rising from my bare skin as I ran across the roof to the elevator.
PART FOUR: Watch My Mouth
- 25 -
Kyle Dorfman was waiting in Baggage Claim, holding an iPad with Vito’s name on it. He was a nerdish dude with a weirdly jacked upper body, dressed in jeans and a silky V-neck sweater. He seemed genuinely excited to shake Vito’s hand.
“Welcome back, sir. We’re thrilled you could join us.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” Vito said.
He hadn’t checked any luggage, so they headed straight to the parking garage and climbed into a red Tesla that probably cost a hundred grand, though Vito couldn’t say for sure. He wasn’t poor, exactly, but he was no longer wealthy, and he instinctively avoided learning too much about big-ticket items he’d never be able to afford.
“Sweet ride,” he said as they waited in the payment line.
“I wanted the blue one,” Kyle told him. “But my wife liked the red, so…”
“Gotta keep the wife happy,” Vito agreed, then laughed at himself. “Said the guy with three ex-wives.”
Kyle made a sympathetic noise, then patted the steering wheel.
“It’s a good car, though. Elon’s the real deal.” He glanced at Vito. “I used to know him back in the day. We weren’t buddies, but you know, just to say hi at parties. We smoked a joint together once.”
“Cool.” Vito had known lots of famous athletes in his life, and had even met a few rock stars, including Mr. Steve Perry of Journey—a real gentleman, very down-to-earth—but he’d never crossed paths with any tech geniuses. “Maybe he’ll let you ride in his rocket.”
“That was another life.” Kyle gave a melancholy shrug. “Now I’m President of the School Board.”
“That’s important too,” Vito observed, and he meant it, or at least wanted to. “Education. Kids. It’s a big deal.”