Dead Politician Society (6 page)

Diane was coming straight at him, in her shiny black rain slicker. She reminded Jonathan of an important little missile with a moving target in its sights. But her mission was moot, because Jonathan ducked into the library, and headed straight for the men's room.

His phone beeped — a text message.

Jessica:
Diane thinks Tree-Huggers have alliance with Commies. Will probably rope you into conversation.

Jonathan leaned against the window sill to type his response. His original plan had been to hide inside a stall, but the glass was frosted over — no chance Diane could see inside.

Jonathan: lol
. Ducked into bathroom to avoid her.

Jessica:
Good move. Totally raging from what Clare and I told her.

Jonathan:
Clare?

Jessica:
From Poli Real World. She's funny. I like her.

Jonathan, stupidly, felt jealous.

Jonathan:
You busy now?

Jessica:
Biochem lab in an hour. Plan to grab coffee and look over text.

Jonathan:
Want to meet in library instead? Rescue me from Diane's evil clutches?

He tapped his foot against the painted brick wall as he waited for her next message. What felt like ages was probably under a minute.

Jessica:
You're fine. Diane will be long gone by now. Scenting out new prey. Want rematch, by the way.

Jonathan:
Told you I could make you weep.

Jessica:
Hardly wept. But impressed. You had tricky maneuvers I haven't seen used before.

Jonathan wished he had some real life maneuvers. Instead of pining after Jessica, he should have spent the past two years gathering experience, so he'd be ready for her. He hoped he didn't choke when the moment came. If it came.

Jonathan:
Because I rock that game. Who's Got the Power?

Jessica: lol
. Know what game you mean.

Jonathan:
I mean say it. Who's got the power?

Jessica: omg
. Fine, you've got the power. Oh wise mighty Jonathan, with slippery moves only malevolent dictator would make.

She was feistier one-on-one than he'd imagined. Instead of taking his time undressing her, as he'd always presumed she would want, maybe she'd prefer that he aggressively rip off her clothes.

Jonathan:
Can beat you playing any country.

Jessica:
Finland?

Jonathan:
Tricky, but you're on. Probably right handicap given relative skill levels.

Jessica:
OMFG. No wonder you don't have a girlfriend.

Jonathan:
This mean you won't change coffee plans to rescue me?

Jessica:
That, and get ready to weep, Finland.

Annabel took a sip of tea from the Styrofoam cup on her desk. She hated the way it crunched in her teeth; chewy bits of foam did nothing to enhance the taste of peppermint. She'd had a terrible night's sleep. Every time Matthew twitched, she jolted awake. She'd lain there for hours, petrified that the email she'd sent to Utopia Girl would either land her in jail or in the morgue.

But now it was morning — almost lunchtime — and in the light of day, or the rainy gray that passed for light, terror had been replaced by anticipation. She glanced around at the neighboring cubicles and the big open work desk in the center of the room. If all went well, Utopia Girl would be her ticket out of this crummy place.

Ugh. Here came Penny. Annabel had been feeling attractive today, despite her fatigue. But watching Penny glide along in her perfectly cut pantsuit made Annabel feel about as polished as if she'd been climbing trees and making mud pies.

To Annabel's shock, Penny made eye contact as she approached her desk.

“Hello, Annabel.”

“Hi, Penny. Um, Ms. Craig.”

“Penny's fine. I like your hair. Where did you have it done?”

Annabel combed her fingers through her new, chin-length haircut. “I, uh, use the Aveda Institute on King Street.”

“Hmm. Well, it's a great cut. Makes you look sassy.”

“Thanks.” Annabel liked sassy. “I really like your suit.”

Penny smoothed down an already flush pocket. “Have you heard anything more from your electronic pen pal?”

“Utopia Girl?” Did Penny know she'd sent the message the night before? It hardly seemed possible.

Penny nodded, putting a finger to her lips as if Annabel didn't know enough to be discreet.

“No.” Annabel heard her phone beep inside her purse. “Just the one email.”

“Right. Well, contact me immediately if something more comes in.” Penny reached onto Annabel's desk and wrote a number on a sticky yellow memo pad. “My cell, in case I'm out of the office. Use it anytime, day or night.”

“Absolutely.”

Penny scurried off to wherever she was going, and Annabel grabbed her phone. Her heart started thumping when she saw that the new message was from Utopia Girl.

Had Penny done that deliberately? Stopped by right when she knew the instant message would be coming through?

Annabel turned her BlackBerry screen so no one else could see it.

Utopia Girl:
So you told cops about the obituary. Why should I trust you with anything else?

Annabel stared at the tiny screen. She typed out a response.

Death Reporter:
Police don't want me talking to you, so it's against my interest to mention it. You also have my word, which I'm hoping you'll come to find means something.

I'd like to work with you. Think that together, we can send the world an original message and make good money in process. Haven't figured out how you'll get paid . . . thinking anonymous bank account, or cash in post office box.

A few minutes later, her phone beeped again.

Utopia Girl:
Have two offers. Want you both to audition. Send portfolio with writing samples.

Who was the other offer from? Penny? Annabel shouldn't be surprised. At least that meant Penny was less likely to
be
Utopia Girl. Still, this plan was about taking control. Annabel wasn't about to let some crazy criminal dominate her, even electronically.

Death Reporter:
Not going to audition for this deal. You either want it or don't, and I'm not interested in entering into a relationship where I'm bullied. If your other offer comes from who I think it does, then we both work for the newspaper. You can get writing samples by Googling both our names.

Shit. That was the wrong thing to say. Penny's career was filled with brilliant interviews and editorials. Annabel's was limited to the obituary desk and her campus review.

Clearly Utopia Girl knew this, because the response came back almost instantly.

Utopia Girl:
Yes, your publications to date are impressive. Particularly enjoyed “In Loving Memory of John Doe.”

Going with you, though. The other person has more to lose, thus more likely to stab me in back if things don't go her way.

Like that you try to stick up for yourself. You're wrong, of course. I will retain absolute control over you. But maybe it will make you famous.

So congratulations. I reserve the right to change my mind.

“Motherfucker,” Annabel said under her breath. The scoop was hers.

You sure we can get the Tree-Huggers to support us?” Susannah bit off a chunk of her carrot stick and began to chew it slowly.

“I think so.” Clare told the nine other Commies about running into Diane and Jessica on the subway. “I felt mean afterwards. Diane looked crushed when Jessica shooed her away.”

“She wasn't crushed.” Brian set down his homemade chicken sandwich. “Diane has an agenda of her own. She doesn't care if people like her.”

“She must care a little.”

“Really?” Brian said. “So how come in our freshman year — Dr. Easton's second year at the school — Diane went out of her way to get him fired, even though the rest of us found him totally inspiring?”

Susannah snorted. “Maybe something to do with them sleeping together.” She turned to Clare. “Dr. Easton is a pig. Yes, he's an inspired professor. Yes, I'm glad to be taking his class. But as a man, he's despicable.”

“Is sleeping with a student so horrible? Presumably Diane was a willing participant.”

Susannah narrowed her eyes in Clare's direction. “It's an abuse of power.”

“Not really.” Brian shook his head. “It's true that Dr. Easton kind of . . . well . . . discarded Diane after a few months. But everyone knows he wouldn't screw her over for grades. He gave her all As for the rest of the term, even though some of her assignments weren't that well thought-out.”

“Grades?” Susannah slammed a hand down on the cafeteria table. “You think grades can make up for taking a naive freshman and giving her every reason to hate herself?”

“Come on, that's extreme,” Clare said. “Is it worse to get dumped by a professor than by another student?”

“It's wrong.” Susannah had calmed down a bit. “He played with her head for the sake of his penis. Dr. Easton's a good prof, and I want to take his courses. But Diane wasn't wrong to plead her case with Admin.”

“So . . . what happened with Diane's mission to get him fired? It obviously failed.”

“It more than failed. It backfired.” Brian grinned broadly. “The rest of us rallied around Dr. Easton, wrote letters saying how much he inspired us.”

Clare looked to Susannah for confirmation.

“It's true.” Susannah shrugged. “Though we didn't
all
write letters. Dr. Easton denied the affair, and came out looking like a concerned professor. He helped Diane get counseling that she, needless to say, did not want, and his two-year contract got extended to a tenure track position. He got tenure last year.”

“Diane must be livid.”

“She hates his guts.”

“So why is she in his class?”

No one spoke for a moment, then Brian broke the silence. “We're not really sure about that either.”

“Keep up the good intelligence work.” Susannah met Clare's eye. “Maybe if you could, find out for sure if we can count on the Tree-Huggers if we need them.”

“How should I do that?” Clare asked. “I'm no good at subterfuge or espionage.”

Susannah smiled thinly. “I meant keep the line of communication open. You know, maybe ask Jessica directly. Now down to business.” Susannah addressed the group. “I want to hear about everyone's proposed legislation for tomorrow.”

There was general hemming and hawing. Clare guessed that most of her fellow Commies were at about the same stage as she was with the assignment — not even close to beginning.

Thankfully, Brian spoke up. “I have two ideas ready.”

“Of course you do.” Susannah groaned good-naturedly. “Okay, Brian, let's hear them. You mentioned a housing bill already. What's the other one?”

“Redistribution of wealth. I think anyone who has a net worth of more than a million dollars should be forced to donate the rest to charity.”

Susannah rested her chin in her hand. “What about someone whose house is worth more than that?”

“A family can pool its quota.” Brian's answer came fast. “So a family of four can own up to four million dollars in assets and investments.”

Clare had never known anyone whose net worth was more than a million dollars. Still, she thought this was a terrible idea. “How would you promote a work ethic?”

“You mean, why would anyone keep working when the rest of their income would go to charity?”

Clare nodded.

“People would, paradoxically, work harder.” Brian's eyes were almost shiny. “They could choose their own charities and oversee as much or as little of the spending as they liked. How empowered would you feel if you had helped ten inner city kids get through college, when the statistics said they were more likely to end up as drug dealers?”

“I'd feel great,” Clare acknowledged.

“Better or worse than if you bought a yacht and spent your summers cruising up and down the Mediterranean?”

“Better.” Clare shrugged. “But forcing it seems so . . .”

“Communist.” Susannah put her napkin in her yogurt cup and stood up. “But that's okay. All votes are free votes, so bring it in, Brian — at the very least, it's creative — and the rest of you can vote on it how you like.”