THE STUDENT COUNCIL
Chapter 8

William and Google found Amy as the crowd left the field. “It was a barn dance out there tonight,” William exclaimed. “I didn’t think Barner could get any better, but that was a whole new level.”

Google added, “There were like twenty college recruiters here. USC. Miami. Michigan. I don’t know why Paul doesn’t commit to Penn State now and save them all time and money. We all know that’s where he’s feaded.”

“His father enjoys the recruiting game,” William explained. “Loves the attention. It’ll make for a bigger deal when Paul chooses the old alma mater.”

“I want to drink some beer,” Amy blurted.

“As in half a can?” Google asked.

“At least that. I feel like getting drunk.”

William winked at a couple passing girls. “Where’s the party tonight, ladies? Looks like the bonfire is rained out.”

“Come with us,” one of them answered. “We have room for you two boys in the car.” She glanced at Amy and wrinkled her nose.

“Sorry,” William grinned, wrapping an arm around Amy. “We’re with this lady.”

Three party visits later, the time approached eleven o’clock. “One more stop,” Google pleaded. “I’m looking for one girl in particular.”

Amy was four sheets to the wind, as in four beer inebriated. One and a half cans had been her old record, but circumstances were different now. Stress had set in as her deadline approached. She was ready to go home to the chair in front of her west-facing bedroom window. The high school was visible from that vantage.

William was at the steering wheel of his blue Corolla. “One more it is.”

He pulled up in front of the Donovan home, a smartly landscaped split-level. The living room window framed a dozen young dancers, all with a cigarette, joint, or beer in hand. Absent parents were enjoying a vacation they might regret once they returned and surveyed the damage.

Google shot up an arm and pointed. “There she is!”

Amy didn’t recognize anyone from a distance. Everything was a blur. When the boys opened the car doors, she considered lying down on the back seat to wait. Google took her arm and pulled her along.

Inside the house, the boys rushed upstairs to the dancers. She took the turn less traveled, steps leading downstairs. She wanted only peace and quiet.

In the family room, she encountered a single person on a couch. Fred Waltz was watching Braveheart on a five-foot screen. “Hi, Fred. It’s Amy from seventh period.”

He put a long finger to his lips. “Shh! I’ve never seen this!”

Amy giggled. Never seen Braveheart? “I watched it three times. After that it started getting perd ... predictable.”

Glued to the sacking of York, the boy ignored her. She stepped between Fred and the television, swaying side to side. “It’s Amy,” she repeated. “The girl you asked on a date.”

He nodded and switched off the TV. “I’m sorry. That was impolite of me. I can tell you’ve been drinking like the others, that’s all. It’s against the law and I can’t get in trouble.”

She drifted toward the couch and plopped down at a comfortable distance. “So what brought you to our fine school, Fred Waltz?”

“I was moved to a foster home here, which is fine with me. I was tired of all the Titusville kids teasing me about George. It wasn’t right.”

Amy’s eyes widened. His penis had a name? George? “I wouldn’t pay attention to all those boys. They’re probably just jealous.” Was she really talking to a boy about his privates? No more alcohol.

Fred squinted. “Jealous of what? My dad was pretty crazy. I’d be the first to admit that. He got confused by the war. Viet Nam.”

She shook her head back and forth, trying to clear it. “George is your father’s name?”

“Was. He died a month ago.”

“I’m totally sorry,” she mumbled, feeling queasy all the sudden. The sensation was sickeningly familiar. Years ago, her father took her fishing on Lake Erie. Just that once. The water was choppy and the small, open boat was bouncing, bouncing.

Dizziness overcame her. She collapsed to her side, her face landing in Fred’s lap. Her stomach emptied onto his canvas overalls.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and William’s voice called out. “Amy! Let’s bail. Googs is going to stay.”

She upchucked a second time as her friend entered the room. William cried out, “Oh ... my ... god.”

Revived by the stench, Amy pushed herself up into a sitting position. She looked at Fred, still frozen in open-mouthed shock, then at William. He was lifting his phone to take a photo.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned. “Please replace some paper towels.”

As William spun to go back up the stairs, she ordered, “Stop right there. Not a word about this to anyone. Not ever. Your lips are sealed.”

“Sealed like hell! That’s a totally unfair request.”

Amy pointed a finger. “No talking.”

“But look at that poor bastard. You blew him up! It’s the funniest story I’ll ever tell. The whole world needs to hear it.”

“Needs to hear what?” she asked. “About your Australian car salesman?”

The white mansion was quiet when Amy returned. Her parents had no reason to wait up, no cause for concern. Not when it came to their younger daughter. She had always been low maintenance. Back when Grant Westin used to joke, he would introduce her to dinner guests as his triplets: a beautiful daughter; a cook; and a housekeeper. Dinner parties were a thing of the past, just like her father’s good humor.

For Amy’s parents, the workday had always started at first light. Grant had job bids to prepare, a labor force to oversee, supplies and materials to order, and a cell phone that never stopped buzzing. Emily held the challenging position of chief accountant. She not only paid the bills and handled payroll, but maintained separate ledgers for every individual job. The two had been a great team, one that was always asleep by ten.

In her dark room, Amy sipped iced tea and looked at the dimly lit high school on the hill. Drinking the additional liquid would diminish a hangover. The caffeine would keep her alert. She was watching for smoke again and realized her mistake. If Noah followed her directions, the lights would go out first. Without electricity, no alarm would sound. There would be extra time for the fire to do its work.

Suddenly Amy had doubts about shutting down the power beforehand. What if someone was up late and noticed the school go dark? Would they call 911 and report a problem? Would police arrive and catch the arsonist red-handed? Turning off the water to kill the sprinklers was necessary for sure. The power was more problematic. Under any circumstances, there’d be a risk of getting caught. If not for that, she already would have done the job herself.

Eventually, she nodded off.

With the high school still standing on Saturday morning, Amy was ready to begin her day by ten-thirty. After an exchange of texts with her working mother, she gassed up the riding mower and backed it out of the garage. She cut the grass every Saturday and took care of the adjoining lawns at the same time. While the two neighbors viewed her effort as a welcome courtesy, she saw their properties as extensions of her own. They had to stay sharp.

A Cadillac Escalade slowed in front of the house and parked. A well-dressed, middle-aged lady stepped out of the fancy ride and started snapping photos. Amy pegged her as a threat - a damn home shopper - and ambled down the driveway to shoot the breeze.

“You have a magnificent house,” the woman said as a greeting. “How long has it been for sale?”

Amy laughed as if she’d heard a joke. “All these old houses are for sale, whether there’s a sign or not.”

“What do you mean by that?” the lady asked.

“Well, houses are like people. When they get really old, they need constant care. The roof. Wiring. Plumbing. The foundation. It’s as if you have a couple ninety-year-old grandparents living with you. Know what I mean?”

The woman dropped her camera back into her purse. “So you’re telling me your home has problems?”

Amy shook her head. “I don’t really see these things as problems. When a building is a hundred and ten years old, it’s sort of a miracle that it’s even standing. Don’t you think?”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” the woman said, edging back toward her car. “Thanks for the visit.”

Amy headed back to the garage. If her parents got wind of the discussion, she’d say the woman misunderstood. With his business so slow for the last few years, her father had replaced every wire and pipe in the house. Every window, though designed to look original, was new and efficient.

Before she could restart the mower, another vehicle pulled up - part of one anyway. Half the body of the white or blue truck had rusted away and the rest moved in the breeze. Fred Waltz stepped out of the driver’s seat in what looked like the same overalls. He waved and walked up the driveway toward her.

Awkward, she thought. With a capital A. Nice enough boy. Sympathetic story. The last person she wanted to see. What was he doing at her house?

“Have we met before?” she joked.

The lanky boy cocked his head and stared. “Amy, it’s me. Fred Waltz. You still sick?”

She realized he wasn’t kidding back. Ouch. “I know who you are, Fred. I was just teasing.”

“This is some house,” he said, scoping out the surroundings. “A real castle! My house ... the farm ... is going to be sold too.”

“This house isn’t really for sale, Fred. We’re just getting a feel for the market.”

“What’s that mean? Feeling the market?” His head had tilted again.

Amy shook hers. “Never mind. Thanks for stopping by, but I have grass to cut. Sorry again about last night. Looks like your pants cleaned up fine.”

“I soaked them, just like you suggested.”

“Alrighty then. See you around.” She turned and sat on the lawnmower, but Fred didn’t budge.

“I want to drive you out to my farm,” he said softly. “I have a problem and need advice. You’re my only real friend.”

She rubbed her forehead. His only friend? How was that? By virtue of puking all over him? Amy decided he deserved another minute of her time. “Okay, what’s the problem?”

Fred stepped closer and whispered, “Marijuana. George grew it. Now I have to get rid of it.”