The iCandidate (10 page)

KYLIE

“Hello?”
I ask, groggy from the escapades of whatever dream I was just rudely awakened from.

“You near a computer?
I sent you a link.” I reach for my phone and see it is 6:07 in the morning. Being an early riser was a requirement of my old job, but I’m not a morning person. Since being fired months ago, waking up before eight or nine a.m. has been a rare occurrence.

“Bill? Jesus, do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah, time to rise and shine. You are going to want to read this,” he says.

“Okay, at least give me the highlights while I open it
,” I respond, groping for the laptop I’m sure is at the foot of my bed somewhere. With no boyfriend in the picture, the small computer is the only thing I share a bed with these days. Finding it teetering precariously a mere inch from the edge of the mattress, I open the top and screen comes to life.

“Someone entered the race against Winston Beaumont as an Independent
,” Bill deadpans.

“You woke me up for that
?” I ask, disgusted. “Some retread cast out of his party and making a run at a firmly-entrenched incumbent is hardly worth calling me for this early.”

“You open the link yet?”

“Page is loading now,” I sigh, trying to stifle a yawn.

The browser
opens to an article posted last night by an online news site in the Danbury, Connecticut area. Not a well-written product, but easy enough to conclude the author thinks this campaign is some sort of joke. He doesn’t write a single complimentary thing about the candidate or his election effort. Even caffeine-deprived, I am starting to see why Bill thought I may find this interesting though.

“He’s a teacher?”

“A teacher whose
students
are running his campaign,” I hear Bill point out, almost amused. “Either they don’t know what they are getting into mixing it up with Beaumont, or just don’t care.”

“Wait! Does this say what I think it does?”

“You talking about the virtual front porch campaign? Yeah, but the writer doesn’t offer much of an explanation.”

I reread the article in case
I missed something, which I didn’t. Whoever wrote this sorry excuse for a story didn’t spend a second more covering the press conference than needed. Probably a recent college grad, he adopted the ‘write, submit, and move onto the next, hopefully more interesting assignment’ mantra. It happens all the time in journalism, especially on crappy sites like this.

“No, they
don’t, but I think I know where they are going with this,” I say with a smile.

“What does that
mean?” Bill asks.

“It means I
need to track down this Vince Orsini kid and find out. Thanks for the heads up Bill.”

“Sure.
Good luck,” he says before disconnecting the call.

* * *

Two hours later, I’m heading north on the Hutchinson River Parkway toward the small Connecticut town of Millfield. After losing my job, I almost got rid of this little Honda Accord to save some money. Living on the island of Manhattan, there is no real need to own a car considering the mass transit options. Parking in the city can be pricey, but as I hurl north, I’m glad I decided against that particular cost-cutting measure.

Locating
Vince Orsini, or at least where he lives, was laughably easy. It only took a few minutes to get a street address, so I dedicated a little time finding out what I could about him. Not much was available, but that’s expected for a teenager. The bigger surprise was the dearth of information on his teacher, Michael Bennit.

Only two media outlets, if you can call them that, picked up on his campaign announcement.
The rest of my findings showcased his various activities in the school and community. From what I discovered, he is both active and well-liked. There was a clipping from an article that announced something he did in the Army, but the caption was light on details and made no mention of his position or unit.

I also checked out a couple of
‘rate my teacher’ pages where students get to either praise or lambast them for the world to see. I’m no expert, but a ninety-seven percent positive rating has to be phenomenally good. I thought I would see comments about how easy and chummy he is, but was shocked to read the exact opposite. The phrases most students used to describe him included things like ‘tough, but fair’ and ‘incredibly hard.’

My last bit of
investigating involved a quick background check which yielded nothing of interest. I showered and dressed, thinking I could not understand why this guy would run for a national office. I only scratched the surface during my fifteen minutes of research, but there was zilch that led me to believe he was a political creature. He doesn’t have the connections, pedigree, a particular cause or ax to grind, and neither the money nor the free time to run for the U.S. House of Representatives. Town council I could see, but what is driving this crusade is a mystery.

It’s just before lunch when I pull into the obscenely small parking lot belonging to the
Millfield Public Library and look for an unoccupied spot. I find one, which surprises me because there are only a dozen stalls serving a building this big. Either people park on another street or this place is flat out empty while the residents of the town enjoy the last vestiges of the summer heat.

Turns out to
be the latter, because the spacious library is relatively still, with only two people at the bank of computer terminals and a couple of others reading. A mother stands at the book checkout with her young son and daughter, as a librarian scans out a pile of children’s books. I survey the main room and find no one in their teenage years anywhere to be found.

I
stopped by the Orsini residence when I got to town and Vince’s mom, intent on keeping her garden from wilting under the late-August sun, told me I would find him here. To say I found that highly unlikely is an exercise in understatement. More likely, he told his mom he was coming here to avoid a litany of questions from the parental units, as teenagers are prone to do every so often.

I was about to give up the search when I
notice a young man seated in a plush chair in the far corner near the magazine racks. He is buried in a paperback novel, feet propped up on a matching chair across from him. Bingo.

“Hello
,” I say as I stop next to him.

“Hey.” That’s all I get from him after a quick once over with his eyes.
I must be showing all thirty years of my age these days. He turns back to his book, so I stick my hand out in the way we obnoxious journalists do when we’re not done with a conversation.

“
I'm Kylie Roberts.”

“Vince
,” he states, shaking my outstretched hand half-heartedly. “Look, I hate to be rude, but I’m not really in the mood to talk.” And with that, he goes back to reading his fiction thriller, or at least pretending to.

“I thought it would
be hard for you to find time for pleasure reading, you know, while helping run a congressional campaign.”

Vince's head snaps around in surprise
so fast I half expected it to break right off his neck and roll across the floor. At least I have his attention now, and am not going to share it with whatever teenage fantasy novel he’s reading.

“
I'm not exactly involved in the campaign ... Who did you say you were again?”

“
Kylie Roberts. I'm a freelance political columnist who used to work for
The New York Times
.” Yeah, I still name-drop from time-to-time. “I'd like to learn a little more about your candidate and his staff if you have a moment. That is, unless you’re not involved anymore.”

“No, I can help you
,” he says, perking up a bit.

“Great! And I’d like to meet Michael Ben
nit as well.”

“Sorry, that you can’t do.” Vince frowns.
“At least, not yet.”

“I don’t understand, why not?” I
’m genuinely perplexed. I would expect to be welcomed with open arms considering his campaign has no traction with the media.

“
Miss Roberts, he’s the iCandidate. I’m sure he’ll grant you an interview, but not in person,” Vince says to me, smiling now. “But that’s why they invented videoconferencing.” I get it. If you are going to run a virtual campaign, you might as well go all the way with it.

For the next two hours, I
squeeze Vince like an orange for all the background information I can. He was remarkably forthcoming for someone who is the public face of a campaign, providing as much detail as he could on himself, the other students on the staff, and Michael Bennit. He probably gave me too much information. After bleeding Vince dry of information, we got the iCandidate himself on video chat and it was nothing like I expected.

On the drive home, everything I
had learned over the last few hours swirled inside my head. The students seem amazing, and their teacher even more so. He’s handsome, intelligent, articulate, manly, a decorated soldier, and dare I say, a good candidate. I may not agree with his not wanting to address issues with his voters but I do understand why, at least as a short term strategy.

W
here he lacks in solid positions he makes up for in patriotism and dedication to spirit of what America really is. It is the message that will best distinguish him in every way from a scumbag like Winston Beaumont. The honorable newcomer with no money and a small staff of teenagers battles against the ultimate corrupt incumbent who commands a massive staff and war chest of political riches. It’s the ultimate underdog story. Scratch that, it’s the ultimate American story, one I know I can sell.

Freelancing
has allowed me the time to touch base with dozens of my contacts, and in a few days, I can hand them all a feel good story. Midterm elections are not renowned for high drama, and mainstream media will be scampering for stories to keep viewers tuned in and papers selling. Hell, with a well-worded threat or two to my former editor, maybe even by my old employer. Yes, I can make this happen.

“Watch out Winston Beaumont, you are about to meet the iCandidate
,” I say to myself, laughing. I hope my sister is well-rested, because when I pull the lid off this, she will need all the energy she can muster. I have enough material for a series of stories, each one stoking the fire until it grows into a raging inferno. Yes, I can make this happen. For the first time in months, I feel a genuine smile creep across my lips.

MICHAEL

The
Friday before school starts is reserved for faculty preparation. It is the time allotted to have meetings with our departments, get classrooms organized, and otherwise prepare for the start of another school year. Since the campaign disbanded, for lack of a better word, following the disastrous press event last week, I had the time to get my lesson plans ready. With those done, the only unfinished business left is setting up the classroom.

Preparation activities means
casual dress is allowed for the faculty, evidenced by the normally formal Chalice Ramsey wearing blue jeans. Of course, whereas she is dressed in a more business-looking top, I am wearing a simple T-shirt. At least I won’t get scolded until tomorrow when I wear roughly the same thing.

I write the words
‘Welcome Back!’ in big, bold letters with a dry erase marker on the white board in the front of the room. I have already arranged the seats in my custom horseshoe formation, and the ‘stage’ is literally set for another year. I was thinking about grabbing Jess and skipping out when the short, middle-aged man-child I love to hate shuffles into the room and closes the door behind him.

“
Principal Howell, are you paying a visit to criticize my curriculum already? School doesn't start until tomorrow.”

“A little birdie told me you were running for Congress or something.
Not that I found anything on it in the newspapers,” Howell says with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“Yeah, we kept that secret pretty
well,” I respond, organizing the lesson plans on my desk and hoping he would just go away. No such luck.

“
Was there a point where you thought that it might be a good idea?”

“
Good idea to what, run for office?”

“T
o ask my permission.” Whoa. Now the little hairs on my neck stand at attention. Either the building just got hit by lightning or my spider senses are telling me this goofy lout just waltzed into my classroom to pick a fight.

I nonchalantly grab the Magic 8-
Ball from the corner of the desk and shake it vigorously. “Should I have asked Principal Howell?” I smirk and show him the result. “My sources say no. I’m not sixteen, Robinson. Your permission isn’t required.”

“It’s Principal Howell to you, not Robinson
. I’m your boss, and anything that affects this school, or the students in it, is my responsibility.”

“There’
s a laundry list of things affecting this school you won't bother getting out of your chair for. Why’s this any different?”

“
Because it is.”

I have an incredibly low threshold for stupidity as a result of too many years serving Uncle Sam in the Army.
One thing about Special Forces, we have a hard time tolerating the antics of regular line units. No doubt my face has betrayed this emotion as Howell's eyes narrow at me in response. I shake the toy a second time.

“
Reply hazy, try again.”

“
Don't mess with me, Michael. You’ve involved your students in a
political
campaign. That is not an appropriate teacher-student relationship. So, I will only tell you this once. You’re going to drop out of this race and you’re going to do it by tomorrow.”

I was going to
inform Robinson that the campaign is basically over anyway, but now I’m seeing red. I hate ultimatums, and the fact it is coming from him makes it even worse. If Chalice had asked me, I probably would have agreed it was the best course of action. Now, I just want to be obstinate and rude. I shake the Magic 8-Ball once again, look at the window, and shrug theatrically.

“
My reply is no.”

Principal Howell glares at
me with rage in the eyes behind those bespeckled brown glasses. I’ve met goats in Iraq I was more scared of, so I just stare back at him blankly.

“
Your insubordination is noted.”

“
Wouldn't be the first time.”

“
That's because you can't follow orders. Pretty remarkable for a Green Beret, actually. No wonder you aren’t one anymore.”

I feel the heat
as my face flushes with anger. My free hand balls into a fist and, for a fleeting moment, I have the thought of dispatching this jack wagon of a principal on a one-way trip to the hospital. Everyone has buttons that can be pushed, and he just pressed mine. Seeing my reaction, and mistaking it for me being on the ropes, he moves in to finish me off. Or at least prod me to do something I’ll regret.

“
I make the rules in this school, Michael. You do what I tell you to. I dictate what to teach and how, so they can pass their standardized tests and—” There’s my opening, and I cut him off.

“
You don't want to educate, you want to control. That's the difference between you and me. You think memorizing a bunch of math formulas and useless facts for a test is education. Standardized testing doesn't measure jack, and any decent teacher will tell you that. Real education comes from experience and applying book knowledge to solve real-world problems.”

“I don’t
agree.”

“
Of course you don’t. You know what our problem is? You don't like me because I teach students to think critically instead of simply comply. To learn to use knowledge instead of just acquire it. Practical skills they can apply once they graduate from here.”

“Are you saying math
isn't practical?

“
Solving mathematical equations is practical because it teaches the methodology of working through a complex problem. Forcing students to memorize the first twenty-five digits in pi is ridiculous, but you don't understand that because you are content to accept whatever the state tells us to do.”

Howell dismisses
my comments with a wave of his hand. “You don't understand the politics involved. That's why you’ll never be a department chair, principal, or any other leader in education.”

“
I understand the politics just fine. You hold your hat out to the state like a beggar, and when you take their money, they own you. As for being a leader in education, I think what happens in the classroom is what’s important.
Being a bureaucrat in the front office will never equal the difference I can make standing right here.”

We return defiant stares for a few moments before
Howell stalks off toward the door. We are at an impasse, and I am impressed with the restraint I showed in not decking him. Chalk one up for anger management skills.

“You're an idealist
, Michael,” he says without looking at me. “Central Office is going to get involved in this mess. Having students run a political campaign for you will put your chances for tenure at risk.” He turns a little over-dramatically to look at me. “Do yourself a favor and ask yourself if sacrificing your career is really worth it.”

Principal Howell
finally walks out just as Jessica enters. “Do I dare ask what that was about?”

“
The harbinger of career-ending death paid me a short visit,” I say, as effortlessly as I can, knowing the truth is written all over my face.

“The campaign?”
she asks in her ‘I knew it’ manner.

I nod.
“Yeah, what’s left of it.”

“
Are there going to be problems?”

I look at
my stunning fiancée and shake the Magic 8-Ball one last time. The caption in the window causes me to smirk. While I doubt a ten dollar toy can channel my fate, it has been dead on so far. I hold it up to her so she can read what is in the window.

“
Without a doubt.”