The iCandidate (5 page)

CHELSEA

“
So, I will ask the question again. If the twenty-four hour news cycle existed in 1932, does this country elect FDR? Could he have survived the blogs, cable news, and social media all questioning his ability to lead because he was bound to a wheelchair? Vanessa?”

Yeah,
Mister Bennit is on a roll today. The school year is waning, but he amped up this discussion as if the calendar still read February. With final exams only, like, two weeks away, the class has sort of fallen into a routine of discussing whatever Mister Bennit feels like talking about. The rest of the time he devotes to preparing us for a final sure to resemble a torture worthy of medieval Europe.

“
No way,” Vanessa responds. “His opponents would’ve used the media to humiliate him. And all that would be shared over and over on Facebook, Reddit, and Twitter. People would see him as an invalid and not presidential.”

I
love Vanessa. She’s athletic and confident, but when she isn’t wearing her jersey, looks like a J-Lo starter kit. And in this case, she’s wrong. My hand shoots up to join others who are waving theirs frantically.

“
Good point, Vanessa,” Mister Bennit says. “Chelsea?”

“
You’re not giving people enough credit, V,” I say. “I don’t think it’d matter at all. Before Obama, they said a black man could never be president. Chris Christie was a cheeseburger away from a heart attack before his surgery, and he became governor in New Jersey, of all places. People elected Roosevelt to pull the country out of the Great Depression. Regardless of what the media said, if people thought he was the guy that can end soup lines and get Americans back to work, they’d vote for him.”

My
comments bring on an avalanche of rebuttals. This class can be pretty jaded, so there aren’t too many people in my corner. Amanda is shaking her head feverishly. Brian, the ultimate cynic, is stopping just short of calling me naïve. The rest of the class has broken out into side arguments.

Mister
Bennit is standing in the middle of his stage smirking. At over six feet tall with an athletic build, he doesn’t resemble any other teacher in the school. What strikes me most are his blue eyes. They can be bright and convey warmth and understanding or turn grey and melt steel. With one look, I have seen him completely terrify a misbehaving student.

Today, his eyes show amusement
, and I can tell he loves starting this. Getting a group of generally apathetic teenagers to argue about history must give him a lot of satisfaction. I don’t know how he does it, and other teachers in the school can’t figure it out either. There is just something about him that brings out the best in his classes.

Mister
Bennit holds his hands in the air to settle everyone down. The class dials down the noise level back to a tolerable decibel level.

“
One at a time guys. Em?”

“
All today’s media really cares about is ratings. There are too many mediums to choose from. If they felt those pressures back then, FDR would’ve been trashed 24-7.”

“You
don’t give the media much credit,” I say. “Even they must abide by the rules of political correctness these days.”

“Oh,
good point Chels,” Mister Bennit chimes in.

“Yeah,
but bloggers don’t,” Brian interjects. “There is a whole subculture on the Internet acting like journalists without any standards.”

“Who has time to read blogs?” Peyton asks.

“Blogs get shared on Facebook, Peyton,” Brian fires back. “For the more news savvy, there’s also Reddit, Digg, and Tumblr. You know what all those sites share in common? The highest trending articles are always the most controversial.”

“
Excellent points all around. I’m sure you all have more to say on this, so we’ll continue the discussion on Monday.”

Vince
raises his hand. I have never been able to figure him out. He dresses like he's in a grunge band, and all his friends have absolutely no interest in school. There are much easier teachers than Mister B, so I wonder why he is even here.

“
Oh, I feel a nightmare coming on. Go ahead, Vince.”

“I
think I speak for the class. Since we're all going to ace the final, let’s say you just give us an A now and we'll play video games on exam day instead?”

The
class snickers. Vince theatrically mimics working a game controller. I laugh too, but only because the thought of us all getting over an eighty on this exam is just comical.

“
Vince, I swear you're a case study on the effects of marijuana on the teenage mind,” Mister Bennit replies, probably only half-joking.

“
What if we did all get an A?” I have no idea why I am indulging this, but I guess I am still in an argumentative mood.

“Really
, Chelsea? This is the most intelligent and gifted honors American History class I have ever taught, and I still wouldn't need all ten fingers to count the number of A grades you guys got on your midterms. Now you all think you'll smoke the final? Nice wish.”

“
But what if we did? What do we get?” Amanda asks, keenly interested in the conversation.

“A
grade,” Mister Bennit replies with his usual sarcasm.

“
Other than a grade?”

“A
really good grade.” We all look at our teacher impatiently. Peyton even begins tapping her finely manicured fingernails on her desk. Most teachers don’t like being challenged. Mister B is not one of them. “I don't do bribes, hand out candy, or dole out rewards of any kind. You all know that.”

“
So you, like, don't think we can do it?” Peyton asks, not willing to back down. You would think she is all style and no substance by looking at her. She will be Homecoming Queen and the Prom Queen next year, but under pretty wrapping of designer clothes is a tough, smart girl when she lets it show.

“
Peyton, I have the utmost confidence in the capabilities of this class. In that spirit, no, I don't think you have a chance.”

“
Fine. How about a bet then?” Vanessa just threw down the gauntlet.

“
What, are we at the track now? No, I don’t bet with students.”

“Chicken.”
Oops. That sort of slipped from my mouth.

“
Chels, you may be the only student I have who can get away with calling me that.”

Vince
starts flapping his arms and Vanessa and a few others make clucking noises, resulting in the desired effect.

“
Fine, I’ll play your game. What are the stakes?” As much as he was protesting, I think Mister Bennit kind of wants to do this. Or at least hear us out. It has to be something good though.

“
You can buy us new video game consoles,” Vince offers. I roll my eyes. Mister Bennit said good, not ridiculous.

“
You swear off espresso for a month,” Amanda tries. Right, you would have better luck asking the women on the
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
to stop getting plastic surgery.

“
Um, no.”

“
A week?” asks Xavier.

Mister
Bennit just starts shaking his head and keeps shaking it.

“
A day?” offers Vanessa.

“
Five minutes?” Brian asks.

“
Thirty seconds?” Emilee meekly adds.

Vince
breaks the string. “Oh, right, and I'm the addict!” Everyone begins laughing, but not me. I am serious about making this bet, I’m just not sure why.

“Bell’s
about to ring. If that’s the best you can—”

“You run for Congress.” The class hushes as I cut him off. I now have everyone’s attention, which is surprising since I really didn’t think it was that good of an idea. I don’t even know where the thought came from, but I go with it. “If we all get an A on the final exam, you run for Congress in the fall.

Mister
Bennit is one of those teachers who rarely expresses his own opinions. When discussions about politics come up in the course of teaching history, he goes all devil’s advocate on us. I can never figure out what views are his. He is so informed about issues, he can convincingly argue for either side. We have seen him switch positions in the middle of class debate, and it’s wildly entertaining.

The
rest of the room breaks into enthusiastic agreement with my idea. Mister Bennit is über-military and has no tolerance for politics or pandering. He is a leader, not a politician, so it’d be an awfully interesting term in office if he won.

He stands in the middle of his stage and
folds his arms across his chest. “You all clearly lost your minds. Are you that desperate to get me out of here?”

Vanessa
pounces. “Mister B, all year we've listened to you lecture about making a difference in the world.”

“
You said those who have the ability to act have the responsibility to. Those were your words, right?” Brian is practically a human tape recorder. No doubt those words were said at some point during the year.

“
Mister B, we just want to see if you walk the walk as good as you talk the talk,” Xavier says.

“Be
careful, Xavier,” Mister Bennit warns. “I walked the walk and sacrificed more than most Americans ever will. And I can show you the scars from multiple tours in the Middle East to prove it.”

“
Everyone knows you'd be great,” Vanessa almost whispers.

“Great
at politics?” he says with a laugh. “Just so we're clear. You want me to run for office knowing the only thing I despise more than lawyers are lawyers who become politicians?”

“Nobody
expects you to be any good at politics, Mister Bennit,” I chime in. “It’s not about politics. It’s about leadership, and service, and commitment to community. It’s about the things nobody sees in Washington anymore.” Mister B isn’t going to be swayed by calling him out or trying to guilt him into doing something he doesn’t want to do. But he does respond to direct appeals to his sense of duty and to country.

“You
have the honor, integrity, courage, and selflessness we should demand from our leaders. It is the same qualities the American people complain about politicians lacking. Why not be the candidate they claim to want and see what happens?”

T
he entire class is floored. They are riveted by my little speech, and that’s saying something for my AD/HD generation. Our attention span can only be measured in tenths of seconds. Everyone turns their focus back to our teacher who, for perhaps the first time since this class began in September, stands speechless.

When
he finally opens his mouth, the words were not exactly what I was expecting. “Clearly, helping you all improve your debate skills this year was a bad idea. But since there is no chance in hell of you guys pulling this off anyway, I’ll take your bet.”

“So
you’ll do it?” Emily says. Of course, she was also drowned out by about a dozen others who ask a variation of the same question.

“
Yes, if you all think you are good enough to score an A on the final, I'll do it.”

“
Ha! We are going to smoke this final just to watch Mister B get humiliated on national television!” Vince exclaims, earning him a playful slap on the back of the head from Vanessa.

“Funny,
Vince. By the way, how do you all plan on enforcing this bet? You are out of here in a couple of weeks.”

“
Most of us signed up for Contemporary Issues with you next year,” Peyton adds in a matter the fact tone.

“
I must be losing my touch. Didn't you guys get enough abuse?”

“Yeah,
but we're sadists,” Vince responds. He’s partially right. The word on the street is that he is much easier on his seniors in that class than his American History students. I am eager to find out whether the rumor is true.

The
bell rings to dismiss the class. We pack up our remaining belongings and erupt into a cacophony of conversation as we collectively head toward the door. I am smiling, pleased not only getting him to agree to the bet, but at the prospect of actually forcing him to pay up.

As
we start out into the hall, I hear Mister Bennit call out to us. “Hey, let's keep this bet between us. Nobody tells Miss Slater. I don't want to end up on the couch tonight!”

MICHAEL

I never make bets with my students. I am not against it in principle, just not of the opinion bribes should be used as a form of motivation. Some teachers swear by these techniques – using bets and bribes to encourage learning. It’s just a tactic I choose not to employ. It is not something Jessica believes in either. Word of this wager will no doubt spread like a California forest fire through the school. I can only hope nobody whispered the news in her ear already.

I
park outside my condo, right next to Jessica’s blue Nissan. I had to stay late at school to get some planning done for finals, otherwise I would have beaten her home. I retrieve my trusty old military assault pack from the back seat and head for the front door. The bag has been repurposed from carrying ammunition and the tools of war to books and other various materials of a teacher.

Entering the foyer, I
drop my keys in a dish on the small table and look up to see Jessica. She looks sexy standing in the entrance to the living room wearing her workout clothes. “I put an extra blanket and pillow on the couch for you for tonight ... congressman.”

She
stalks off down the hall. Uh-oh. I peek into the room and, sure enough, a blanket is folded neatly on one of the cushions with a pillow perched on top. Damn, so much for the class keeping this on the down low. Now it’s time to find out just how much trouble I am in.

“
So, we are skipping the fight and going straight into the consequences?” I ask, and am not rewarded with a response.

I
change into my own gym clothes and we pile into the car in complete silence. In fact, we are almost done with our matching forty-five minute workouts on the treadmill before I even attempt communication. When she slows to a walk and removes her iPod ear buds, I seize the opening.

“
So, which one of my students threw me under the bus?”

“
Does it matter?” she sharply responds, not even looking at me.

“I
just need to know who to fail,” I respond playfully. Nope, she is having none of that.

“You
made the bet,” Jessica replies coldly.

“
As if they have a chance of winning.”

Jessica
stops her treadmill, towels off her forehead and turns to me, an icy look in her eyes.

“Correct
me if I’m wrong, but haven't you told me a few dozen times never to underestimate your honors American history class? But whatever,” she says, as she picks up her water bottle, turns and walks away.

The
dreaded ‘whatever.’ It is the word women use to say ‘I’m right, you’re wrong, and the sooner you realize it, the sooner we’ll start talking again.’ It also means this conversation is over for now, forcing me to wait to find out exactly why this is bothering her so much.

That’s
the only thing I reflect on during our drive back to my place. I can understand her being a little miffed about the bet, but she is more than miffed. She’s pissed, yet not angry enough to head south and stay at her place tonight. Yes, my fiancée has well-documented degrees of anger.

Jessica
essentially moved in with me when we got engaged over winter break five short months ago. My condominium is a full hour closer to the school than her residence down near the Long Island Sound, so it made plenty of sense that she stay with me. My place being far too small to make any accommodation for her furniture and, not wanting to take a chance of her things being ruined in storage, she decided to keep her apartment. Despite my pleadings about wanting to save money, she will continue to pay the rent until we do the post-wedding furniture reconciliation.

Since she maintains this retreat, i
f she were upset enough, some geographical distance would be inserted between us instead of simply banishing me to the couch. A skeptic would think that’s the actual reason she keeps it. I’m trying not to be that cynical.

Once
home, we each take showers and then eat in relative silence. After dinner, she retires to the small office originally intended to be a guest bedroom, and I am left with complete control of the television. The eleven o'clock news is on when Jessica walks into the room dressed for bed and sits next to me. She grabs the remote and turns off the power.

“
Why did you make the bet?”

“
Why is it bothering you so much? What does it really matter?” Answering a question with a question is a classic in the art of deflection and usually annoys her, but works this time.

“It
matters because you are doing it again,” she replies, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

“
Doing what?”

“You
really don’t see it, do you? It’s a losing proposition for everyone. If they don't win the bet, they feel they let you down. If they do win, you have to humiliate yourself running in an election you could never hope to win.”

Jessica has always been critical
of the lofty standards I set for the kids in my classes. It has been the source of countless discussions and arguments between us since the moment we met. Once we got engaged, we reached a tenuous détente, but neither of us has changed our minds on the subject.

“
Three years of teaching and I have never had even half of a class all earn an A on any exam, much less a final. You know they are incredibly hard.” True statements, but also a pretty weak defense.

Jessica
takes a moment to think about her words. “You are counting on them losing this bet. But you are underestimating yourself and your class. Did you put any thought at all into what happens if you lose?”

“
It'll be fine, honey. Trust me.”

“Never
trust an old Army sergeant who says ‘trust me.’ You’d better hope you’re right.” It was more of a warning than a statement. “C'mon, time to go to bed.”

“
I can't, you’re sitting on it,” I reply playfully, sensing the worst is over.

Jessica
stands up and reaches her hand out to me. “I'm not asking again. Come to bed, congressman.”

I
flash a little smile, turn off the light, and follow her down the dark hallway. She is right about one thing. I haven’t considered what would happen if I lose this bet. Maybe Chelsea is right and I possess all the principles the American public claim to want in a politician.

Romantic as that sounds, d
eep down I realize I could never win. I have nobody willing to contribute money and no connections. Even if I did, I am too direct, loathe the games politicians play, and could never subject myself to the personal scrutiny the modern public figure has to endure. I’m not sure how I could deal with the media’s voracious appetite for news and political enemies who will use any small detail to forge an advantage in the polls.

“It
won't get that far, you know,” I say, more trying to convince myself than my future wife.

Her
reply makes me believe she somehow already knows how this is going to turn out. “I'll remember you said that when it gets that far.”