THE STUDENT COUNCIL
Chapter 36

The title of the composition was “Antivirus for Apathy.” The theme was the future of public education. The author was Amy Westin. At noon on Wednesday, Trisha Berman sat erect in her chair, stunned, fascinated, enthralled, overwhelmed. The class assignment had been a commentary on any chosen aspect of the new high school. Two hundred words. Amy had discussed every element of the new program in eleven hundred. Above the title and again at the conclusion, she had typed: CONFIDENTIAL.

The thought of a sixteen-year-old conveying such a message, in such a precise and eloquent way, seemed unfathomable. The fact that Oil City High was now the very antivirus she prescribed was earth-shaking. Indirectly, Amy had laid it all right on the table; this school was her doing, her answer. And she wrote it in no time at all! Trisha had emailed the assignment at nine.

The teacher read the final paragraph a second time. Oddly enough, when it comes to treating physical diseases, we approve even experimental drugs without hesitation, praying they will help. We view the student apathy epidemic very differently. Old generation decision makers refuse to break tradition, and continue educational blood-letting despite proven options for improvement. They fear that retirement of the book and blackboard standard will somehow diminish them and signal the end of their own relevance. Hopefully, Oil City High School will open eyes and signal a new beginning for public education.

Trisha leaned back and closed her eyes. Was this even possible? Could one young student both envision all this and bring it to life? Had the three boys not only listened to Amy, but followed her specific directions? Trisha had heard the composition before, in bits and pieces. William, Google, and Paul had voiced the words and phrases with convincing commitment. They were something more than Amy’s soldiers; they were her disciples.

And the student council was her vehicle. Every speech – Amy’s words. Each resolution – Amy’s work. Web page, donations, fundraising – all probably Amy too. Which brought Trisha to her own involvement. Was that also part of the girl’s design?

The teacher thought back to the first days of school. Amy had invited her to a barbecue and acquainted her with the boys. In hindsight, the hostess barely said a word, but somehow evoked an air of authority. The boys were very aware of Amy, perhaps even performing for her. Trisha’s recruitment as student council advisor had been Amy’s idea, no question about it.

The only question was why. She had spoken to Amy for the first time that day. What did the girl see in her? Was it her youth and enthusiasm? Amy had described her as dedicated. She remembered that now.

Somehow the reason didn’t matter. Amy’s faith itself had been the ultimate compliment. The past few weeks had been a thrill ride, beyond her imagination. Her present and future were so exciting she could barely sleep at night.

The recent absence of communication from Amy’s father, something that would have crippled her when she first arrived, was a dwindling concern. She was no longer a lovesick little girl. She had a life of her own to consider now, a world of possibility beyond tiny Oil City or even Erie. She was respected. In demand.

And it was all because of Amy Westin, a girl who reminded her of characters on Glee – someone playing the role of a high school student despite being in her mid-twenties. Wondering why her student finally decided to reveal herself, she tapped out an email. Amy, let’s conference about your composition at two o’clock. My office.

A response came a minute later. That wasn’t my composition, just ideas for your next speech or interview. I’d rather have a Zumba lesson tonight at eight. Old Forever Fit.

Sitting at her computer next to Google, Amy watched her screen for Trisha’s response. Writing everything down had been a risk, but she wanted the teacher’s serious attention. She had made a point of bumping into Miss Berman a few times over the last two days, but her teacher seemed too busy to visit. That might have been Amy’s own fault; she may have dumped too big a workload on the council advisor.

The answer arrived. Your essay got an A++. Zumba at eight.

Smiling, Amy turned to Google. Her friend was suffering next to Fred for the second straight day, his left ear subjected to nonstop whispering about a new Tacoma pickup. She’d been happy to listen herself - for the first few minutes. Now she was ready to spike Cow Pie’s tires.

She leaned in front of Google, directing her words to Fred. “Congratulations on the truck. If you say another word about it, you’re moving to a different seat.”

Fred looked to Google, his new best friend, who added, “You’ve almost worn out the tires just talking about it.”

Amy grinned at Google’s tire reference. The two thought so much alike.

For dinner, Amy slow-roasted the last piece of venison from the freezer. It wasn’t her favorite meat, but probably the healthiest. For five years, she had accompanied her father on his annual one-day deer hunt. She never carried a rifle herself; her only mission was to spend a day together, share an adventure. A string of unsuccessful trips finally ended last November.

Standing over the fallen whitetail, her father had handed her his Buck knife. “I’ve done my job,” he announced. “Now it’s your turn.”

He may have been joking, but she had accepted the challenge. She shoved the six-inch blade into its belly and field-dressed the large deer. Upon finishing, she said, “I’ve done my job. Now you can drag it three miles back to the truck!”

At the dining table, Grant Westin recounted that story between sips of cabernet. Less than two weeks ago, Amy’s mother wouldn’t have paid attention. These days, she wouldn’t stop laughing.

“Time for football practice,” Emily said, pointing out the back window.

Google had arrived, cloaked in his gridiron attire. The team didn’t have gear small enough to fit him properly, so he looked like a kid dressed for Halloween. Since joining the team Monday, he had followed Amy’s prescribed routine: practice with the team from four to six; ten minutes of catching passes from the quarterback afterward; and then another half hour of taking tosses in her yard.

Emily started clearing the table. “I’ve got the dishes. You two go have fun.”

Always an advocate for the underdog, Amy’s father was intrigued by the Runsfeld boy’s determination to play football. “Dream big and work hard” had always been his own credo. When his nine-year-old daughter once proclaimed she wanted to be a baseball player, he’d purchased a ball and gloves the next day. Whenever the ground was clear of snow, he helped Amy develop her game. Once she donned a Little League uniform, he never missed a game. For him, assisting Google was like listening to his favorite old music on the radio – a sweet reminder of the good old days.

As he’d done for the past two nights, Google lined up ten yards to Amy’s left. He watched as she called signals, lifted the ball, and faked a hand-off to an imaginary runner. That was his cue: look disinterested until that moment, then streak toward the corner of the end zone. Grant served as the defender. His job was to lift his arms and distract the receiver, provide a hint of realism.

Google caught four of Amy’s first five tosses before Emily summoned her daughter with a shout. “Amy, you have a call. It’s about school.”

As Amy trotted to the house, Grant tapped Google’s helmet with his knuckles. The boy could barely hear inside the oversized lid. Google unfastened the chin strap, removed the heavy white helmet; and sighed relief.

“I don’t get it,” Grant said. “We run the same thing over and over. You should be running a variety of pass patterns.”

“That’s not what Amy wants, Mister Westin. This is my touchdown play.”

Grant chuckled. “There’s a whole playbook! You have no way of knowing what play the coach will call.”

“You don’t understand. The plan is for my career to be just the one play. I’ll score a touchdown that I can tell my grandkids about. Amy has it all figured out.”

“Amy?” her father laughed. “Amy’s not your football coach. She has no say.”

“Like I said, you don’t quite get it,” Google replied, putting the headgear back on. “There’s nothing your daughter can’t do. She’s the reason Oil City’s undefeated, having its best season ever.”

Grant leaned close to the left earhole in Google’s helmet. “What are you talking about?”

“She moved Barner to nose tackle. That’s why the defense is so good.”

Complete nonsense, Grant thought. Everyone knew the decision to change Paul’s position came from his father. Big Ed had been bragging about it for a month.

Google handed him the football. “Can you throw me more passes until Amy gets back?”

In the kitchen, Amy took the phone from her mother. After hearing the caller’s voice, she carried it to the living room.

“I couldn’t wait another hour to thank you,” Miss Berman said excitedly. “The council passed your resolution at the meeting after school. The Trisha Berman Foundation? Unbelievable! This is like the greatest day of my life.”

The phone was shaking in Amy’s hand, slapping against her ear. “We all loved your idea about paying for college classes, encouraging higher education. And we appreciate all your fundraising work.”

“We?” Trisha said. “That resolution was pure Amy. Would you like a ride to the school for Zumba?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll pick you up in front of your house. Eight sharp.”

When Google left, Grant wrapped an arm around his daughter. “Your friend says you’re going to help him score a touchdown. Is that true?”

Amy stiffened, then giggled. “I’m helping him practice, that’s all. Paul’s going to try and make it happen. The coach owes him.”

Her father smiled and nodded. “We all owe Paul Barner. He’s been an even bigger force since moving to nose tackle. How did that all come about?”

“I heard it was his father’s idea.”

Grant smiled again. Order was restored. The Runsfeld boy had taken one too many hits on the practice field.

“Thanks again for helping out,” Amy said, patting the hand on her shoulder. “You’re my hero in every way.”

“How’s the mall working out? Kids happy?”

“It’s far from perfect, but everybody’s happy because they’re working on a computer all day. An interior hallway would have been nice, especially come winter. And having the gym attached was better.”

Her father nodded. “I could have given them all that and more and saved the district ten million.”

“What do you mean?”

“I would have sold them the mall for ten million. I could have done all kinds of modifications, including adding a gym, for maybe ten million more. That all could have been completed over a couple summers. They didn’t have to build a brand new school.”

Amy filed away the information. “Well, the new school will be great, your signature achievement. I do have a question. What would it cost to add a second bathroom to each of our classrooms? A single toilet for forty kids is a problem. We should have separate rooms for girls and boys.”

Her father closed his eyes, calculating. “We could run off the existing plumbing, connect to the sewer line. I’d ballpark it at seven thousand each.”

“Go ahead and prepare a proposal then. Give it to William. The council will pick up the tab.”

“The council?” he laughed. “That’s district office business.”

“Of course it is,” Amy smiled, “but everyone works together now.”

Leaving her parents to a game of backgammon, Amy readied herself for Trisha. Another touch of blue on the eyelids. Her hair in a ponytail. She was waiting on the curb at five to eight.

Trisha’s white Chevy was a minute early. Amy opened the door and saw a gift-wrapped package on the passenger seat.

“It’s a present,” her teacher announced, “for making so many dreams come true. Wait until we get to school to open it.”

Amy’s heart skipped even more. “Well, thank you.”

Trisha stepped on the gas. “One question for now: Why me? Why did you choose me to advise the student council?”

“I saw everything in you from day one, at least everything I value. You seemed sincere, genuine, energetic, passionate, dedicated, determined ... all those things. I knew there was a single word for all that, but had to search for it. The word is earnest. It’s rarely used these days. Maybe that’s because there aren’t so many earnest people.”

Trisha clutched the wheel, unsure of how to respond. Her own father described her to others as a good worker. Her mother called her smart and pretty. Grant said she was warm and delightful. Amy Westin saw so much more than everyone else.

Her passenger continued. “Why have you been so kind to me? No girl ever treated me like you do.”

The teacher shifted in her seat, suddenly uneasy. It was unsettling to have a student refer to her as merely another girl. Then again, Amy was a teen only chronologically. The tougher thing to accept was the reason she had fawned over her student. She was preparing to be the future Mrs. Grant Westin, Amy’s stepmother. Her motivation had been selfish, an attempt to gain acceptance. She could never admit that to Amy.

Fortunately, there was other truth that Trisha could relate. “I knew you were gifted ... wise beyond your years ... when you set me straight about those adjectives on the second day. What I didn’t know is that you’re wise beyond anybody’s years. You’re a freak of nature.”

Amy winced. “Please, don’t call me a freak. I just try to do the right thing.”

Miss Berman pulled up in front of the school, where a hundred students were reluctantly leaving the building. The doors were open until eight, but many hated to leave at all. “Believe me,” she said, stepping out of the car, “I meant that in the most positive way. As far as I’m concerned, you’re Wonder Woman.”

Inside the exercise room, Amy opened her gift. A red Spandex workout outfit! When Trisha removed her sweatshirt, she revealed a matching suit. Amy hurried to the dressing room to change, relieved she had dropped so much weight.

When she returned a minute later, Trisha was setting up a playlist on her iPhone. She looked up at her student and grinned. Maybe she just liked the outfit, Amy thought. Hopefully, Trisha approved of the way she wore it.

After requesting a five-minute demonstration, Amy sat on the floor to watch. Flo Rida spoke through a pair of wireless speakers and Trisha’s body listened. Her movement put Amy in a trance. Without a doubt, Miss Berman was the whole package. Athletic and graceful. Feminine, but strong.

Amy memorized the moves. When Trisha restarted the music, they kicked into gear together, watching one another in the mirrors.

The teacher glanced toward the windows and stopped abruptly. She collected her sweatshirt and covered herself, then dashed to the front door. Louis Sorvino stood outside, staring through the glass.

“Why are you standing there?” the teacher asked sharply. “We aren’t performing for you.” The security guard shrugged and walked away.

Amy felt a fresh rush of affection for Trisha. She wasn’t putting up with any Sorvino bullshit. “I never noticed him out there,” Amy admitted.

“All the faculty’s upset,” the teacher explained. “The man’s around day and night, always poking around, asking questions. He came to see me this afternoon. He wanted to see the seating charts for all my classes at the old high school! What the hell, right? I told him they burned with the rest of the school.”

Amy wondered why he wanted them. Not knowing was troubling. “And that was all?”

“No. I called the principal and asked what was going on. He said to give Sorvino full cooperation, by order of the superintendent.”

“This is all wrong,” Amy muttered. “Not supposed to happen! The council was given authority to disapprove district expenditures. How did the hiring of a security person get past you?”

Trisha’s jaw dropped. Had she just been reprimanded by her student? “I wasn’t aware of any such authority. I can’t believe the school board would allow such a thing.”

Amy eyed the teacher and remembered. Trisha wasn’t at the school board meeting where the agreement was reached. “I’m sorry. William or Google should have brought that to your attention. Review the school board minutes. It’s there. I recommend action to eliminate the security position immediately. I assume you’re tight with Gwen Benson by now, after your two trips together.”

Trisha suddenly saw the full picture. Amy had balls as big as her brain. Getting rid of Gary Cole and orchestrating the whole new school maneuver had taken equal amounts of both. Personally, she’d love to play a role in getting rid of Sorvino. Something was all wrong about him. “I think Gwen’s okay. She’d probably go along with the council on anything. All the publicity suits her.”

Amy smiled at the teacher’s choice of words. “And how about you, Trisha? Does the publicity suit you?”

She returned the grin. “I’m adapting. Life’s not what I expected. You’ve seen to that.”

“How was your speech in Chicago?”

“I wish I’d read your composition beforehand. Why did you finally decide to open up to me? What happened to invisible?”

“You told me you love me. I love you too. You have to put your faith in someone, don’t you think?”

The teacher drew a deep breath. Amy was watching her intently. Most people tossed the “L” word around pretty casually. Trisha was guilty of it herself. Amy seemed different. There was no casual in anything the girl said or did. “Faith is important,” she finally replied. “It’s the root of true friendship.”

Amy nodded. “Have you ever been in a serious relationship? Ever had a boyfriend ... anything like that?”

The question hit Trisha like a slap. Had she grown so indifferent to Grant Westin that she blocked him from her mind? Had visions of more speeches and interviews and accolades completely overtaken her? Her affair with Amy’s father wasn’t a mere elephant in the room; it was a whole damn herd of them. What would Amy do if she found out? She had done away with Gary Cole, an attorney, like he was nothing but a weed in her garden. Louis Sorvino bothered her? Kiss him goodbye! Trisha sensed she’d be packing her bags and looking for a new job. She cranked up the music volume. “It’s getting late. Let’s go hard for twenty minutes and call it a night.”

As the ladies left, Amy stopped at the windows. “My father can make the exercise room more private. There’s dark film to cover glass. Mention that to Benson right away, okay? The council will pay for it.”

Trisha realized that the general had issued another order. “That’s a great idea. No more peeping Toms.”

On reaching the Westin residence, Amy took Trisha’s right hand from the gear shift with her left. She pulled it to her face and gently kissed the back of it. “To us!” she whispered. “Let’s do it again tomorrow night.”

Trisha watched, listened, and considered. She returned the kiss to Amy’s hand. “Yes, until tomorrow.”