THE STUDENT COUNCIL
Chapter 17

The stately Runsfeld home appeared to be unoccupied on Thursday. Phone calls to the cavernous residence went unanswered. No one responded to melodic door chimes that came all the way from Austria.

Entrenched in the basement, three young men were hard at work that felt like play. Each told parents they’d gone hiking in the hills for the day, which seemed like the whitest of lies. They were definitely on an adventure and wanted no interference or distraction.

Sitting between Paul and William at a triplex of computer screens, Google said, “This is just what our new school will be like, all of us getting down to business, elbow to elbow. Fawesome!”

William’s speech had launched a thousand ships. Responses continued to pour into YouTube, Facebook, and the council webpage. Each boy monitored a different site, interrupting the others to share comic or insightful comments.

The many cheers of support were easy to zip past. Stand and be heard! Love ya, Oil City. LMAO – you’re so right on. I’m moving to your town. A Noble effort. William yer so hot. Old school boards=old ideas. Oil City SC rocks!

Hundreds of other responses were another matter, some reading like dissertations on the subject of modernizing education. “Whoever thinks kids don’t give a shit about school should read these,” Google exclaimed. “We’ve touched a nerve.”

“I had no idea there were so many brilliant minds out there,” William chuckled.

Paul laughed with him. “Definition of brilliant: people who agree with us!”

The Barn Door suddenly snorted. “Check this out! Just got an email from the Penn State athletic director. Let me read it: ‘Sorry about your fire, Paul. The U has over two hundred Dell OptiPlex 780 computers that we retired this year. Four years old and great condition. We have more in storage at other campuses. Say the word and they’ll become Oil City’s. We can get them there in a week. We also have tons of surplus furniture from our old library, maybe all the chairs and desks you need. You’re welcome to come down to State College and pick out whatever you can use. Give me a call. P.S. Congratulations on a great game last Friday!’”

William nudged Google. “Are those good computers?”

“Very good. You’re using the exact same model right now!” He looked up at Paul. “Is Penn State worried about signing you? I thought that was a done deal.”

The recruit shrugged. “It’s probably more about my dad. He donated five million for their new library.”

“Maybe we should be talking to Michigan and Ohio State,” William suggested. “Maybe they’ll offer even more for the best lineman on the planet.”

Paul snorted again. “If I even took a call from Ohio State, my dad would disown me! Nittany Lions hate Buckeyes with a passion.”

Google said, “Forward that email to Amy, ’kay Barner? That’ll make her smile.”

“Where the hell is Amy?” William asked. “I’ve texted her five times to get over here and she doesn’t answer. Last night she said I did a great job and that was it. She deserves to come along for the ride.”

Paul picked up a pen and tossed it at William, bouncing it off his keyboard. “That’s the funniest thing you ever said, Billy Boy. She’s not along for a ride. It’s her damn jet we’re flying on! She’s nice enough to let us have a turn at the controls.”

Google nodded. Paul’s observation hit the bull’s eye, but wasn’t a message Amy wanted the council president to hear. “She’s full of good ideas,” Google injected, “but our council president is making all this happen. Like the President of the United States, he uses speech writers and strategic advisors, but he’s calling the shots. William deserves the credit.”

William beamed and went back to reading Facebook commentary on his speech. How many girls had asked for his personal information? Had to be hundreds!

Google silently read still another text from Amy. Had she been up all night? She sent two new print-ready council resolutions earlier. Now she had more suggestions for preparing William for tonight’s performance. Her “suggestions” sounded more and more like instructions, but that was fine by him. Amy and he had always been on a similar wavelength, minds that made music together. Well, almost. The original lyrics and melodies came mostly from her, but once he heard them, they felt like his own.

Looking side to side, at the intent faces of the other boys, Google considered the enormity of what was happening. His reservations from a day ago, whatever they were, had been washed away. Quiet, unassuming Amy Westin had opened a floodgate. Where did she get her finspiration? How had she been able to predict such a powerful reaction? Had he been walking back and forth to school with a genius all this time?

While reading responses to the speech last night, he had doodled non-stop on his notepad. He didn’t realize what he’d written until the paper was full. A single name appeared over and over. Amy. The “m” was shaped like a feart!

Sleep had provided no escape. He kept seeing Amy in a garden, wearing that black dress and the golden crown of flowers. Was he merely starstruck by her beautiful brain? He had never thought of her in a romantic sense before, not once. Amy herself had never shown a hint of special affection for him or any other classmate. In hindsight, why would she? What Oil City boy could capture the fantasy of such a unique spirit?

Google decided that if anyone had a shot at impressing Amy, it might be him. She always called on him for research assistance. He was her chosen confidant now, her conduit to the others. He wasn’t handsome like William or muscle-bound like Paul, but Amy would look more deeply than that. Besides, his father claimed Runsfeld men had always been overachievers when it came to replaceing a mate. His own wonderful mother was proof.

A new message on the webpage, directed to William, captured Google’s attention. A professor from Cornell University offered to come to Oil City to help set up the new school. He praised William for his presentation and suggested that he apply to Cornell for admission.

Google laughed aloud. William? An Ivy Leaguer? What next?

Lounging on her bed, laptop on her knees and iPhone at her side, Amy sipped on her fifth mug of coffee. She read the note from Cornell. William didn’t have the grades a top-notch school normally required, but was emerging as a special case. His impromptu comparison of a school to a restaurant was darn good stuff. She’d been humming the tune of the ancient Bob Dylan song, “Alice’s Restaurant,” since last night. Now she sang lyrics. “You can have anything you want, at William’s Restaurant.”

Helping Billy Noble blossom into William had always been a big part of her scheme. As of now, he intended to enroll at Grove City College. His goals were a degree in business management and a career at Noble Toyota. She knew her friend had more capability than that beneath his hood. Oil City was his starting line, not the checkered flag.

A message from the Temple University School Of Education appeared. If Oil City High indeed went with a computer-based curriculum, Temple wanted to reassign three student teachers to the school immediately. Amy sucked in a breath. She hadn’t thought of that. It seemed only natural that aspiring educators would jump at such an opportunity. Attracting student teachers, thus decreasing the student/teacher ratio, was still another huge selling point. The current Oil City faculty would be ecstatic. What teacher wouldn’t love the idea of an assistant to help shoulder the load?

Amy’s thoughts shifted to one teacher in particular. Trisha Berman. Constant musings about Trisha were driving her crazy, distracting her from the business at hand. Neither Google nor she had found evidence of romance in Trisha’s life, past or present. There was an old photo with a high school prom date buried on her Facebook page, but no further mention of him or any other boy. How could that be? Such an attractive girl had to catch attention everywhere she went. She had the entire male enrollment of the high school on their knees. Was it possible that the teacher had no interest in boys at all? More significantly, was Trisha attracted to her? Plain, chunky Amy Westin?

That question led to a still bigger one. How did she feel about that possibility? The answer, at the moment, was both shock and joy. Compared to yesterday, the shock was less and the joy more intense – exhilarating even. Her heart had taken charge.

Their age difference seemed inconsequential. After all, Amy would be seventeen in March. Her being a high school student was an issue, but didn’t have to be for long. After taking a larger course load than other students for two years – just to avoid boredom – and completing a couple online classes over the summer, she could start looking at an early graduation. Why not toss a tassel with William and Paul at the end of May? It could be done!

In the meantime, Amy could add another chore to her growing list: Promote Trisha’s professional advancement and make her a celebrity. With enough positive publicity, Trisha would be able to choose a new teaching job anywhere. Maybe the two of them could move to California. Anywhere but Oil City.

Amy reached beneath the pillow next to her and touched the folded pink towel. Based on internet research last night, she didn’t match the profile of a lesbian. Her attraction to Trisha wasn’t gender specific; thoughts of loving another female had never stuck even a toe into the doorway to her imagination. Generally speaking, she had never enjoyed even being around other girls. So confusing.

Opening an email from Paul, Amy read about the offer from Penn State. Hundreds of computers, desks and chairs. Not bad. The news would impress the school board and help rally their support. She typed a quick response. Suggestion. Tell them thanks and you’ll get back to them. P.S. Better offers should be coming. P.P.S. Say the school district will get back to them. No recruiting violations for 73.

Amy forced herself back to work. She had unfinished plans for the elimination of attorney Gary Cole. The overwhelming response in favor of the student council might change his tune, but he had lost the privilege to take part in the Oil City Educational Renaissance. He had messed with Trisha Berman.