With many years of marital practice, I pushed that mental image right out of my head. “Thank you,” I said to Amy.
“For what?” she asked, cocking her head.
“For believing in me.”
“Of course I do, honey,” she said, leaning down to kiss me.
Then she pulled away. “And you know it goes without saying that I’ll still love you and believe in you even if you lose, right?”
I groaned and reached for the pillow again.
***
The next Friday, Lindz had one of those before-school orthodontist appointments that were clearly invented for the sole purpose of tormenting parents. Amy hadn’t come home from her shift until three o’clock that morning, so I decided to reset her alarm and let her sleep for a few more hours.
Besides, as much as I didn’t want to brave the traffic and the chirpy receptionist, it wasn’t like I could sleep longer anyway. Not two weeks before the election.
Lindz messed with her phone the whole drive there. I had only the buzzes of her incoming text messages and my own anxieties to keep me awake through the late October drizzle.
“Good morning, Lindsay, Mr. Cass!” said the receptionist, peeking out from behind a near-opaque screen of fake cobwebs and plastic spiders. “Dr. Greene is almost ready to see you! You can just have a seat, and we’ll call you when we’re ready! Grab some candy corn if you want!”
She gestured enthusiastically to a plate of meticulously cut-and-skewered together, orthodontist-approved triangles of yellow and orange bell pepper and white jicama.
I wondered how much caffeine it took to achieve her present level of peppiness.
“What color bands are you going to get?” I asked Lindz as we took our seats in the waiting area. “Orange and black?”
“Naw,” she said.
“Do you have something else in mind?”
She shrugged, her eyes still glued to the phone. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Do you want to go over your vocab flash cards while we wait? Or, ooh, we could practice some analogies!”
She gave me a look. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Then she went back to texting.
I sighed and looked out the window. All of the houses I could see across the street had Burliman signs, and two had Imbali signs as well. I craned my head one way and then the other, but I couldn’t spot any Cass signs as far as I could see in either direction.
“Dr. Greene is ready for Lindsay now!” warbled the receptionist. I dutifully followed Lindz—who managed to navigate the crowded orthodontist office effortlessly, despite never looking up from her phone—to a chair in the back, by another window. That one showed a view onto a larger neighborhood street. Which just meant that I got to spot more cars drive by with Burliman and Imbali stickers.
I sighed again and rubbed the bridge of my nose.
When I looked up, Lindz was staring at me, her phone forgotten in her lap.
“Dad? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sweetie,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
“Really?” she said. “Because you don’t look fine. You look worried and stressed and… sad.”
I huffed a laugh. “I was just thinking I should probably concede the school board election right about now. Save all of us some time and anxiety. I don’t think I’m going to win.”
Her brows drew down and she opened her mouth to say something when Dr. Greene breezed in.
“Hey there, Lindsay, how are the braces feeling?”
There was the routine fiddling and adjusting and checking, and then the orthodontist left and her assistant came over. I tuned out their conversation, morosely checking my phone for campaign news—preferably, of Jasmine Imbali quacking like a duck in public or something equally problematic for her Election Day success—while they negotiated band colors and installed the new hardware.
“Okay,” said the assistant. “You’re almost done. Let me just get you some more toothpaste and then you’re off to the races.”
Lindz responded with a fake but well-meaning laugh. She waited until he walked away, and then leaned forward.
“Look,” she said. “Do you really want to win this election?”
“Yes, I do,” I assured her. “But I don’t think that’ll be in the cards.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “I saw you looking at all those campaign signs outside. You want to know why you’re going to lose? Not because you’re not the right person for the job. Not because your ideas are dumb or the ideas of the other candidates are better. It’s because you’re still playing fair.”
I frowned. “Of course I’m playing fair. That’s what I’m supposed to do.”
She gave me a level look. “You think Mr. Burliman has signs all over the place because everyone loves him? No, everyone loves him because he has signs all over the place.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And Jeremy told everyone that the reason he has signs all over the place has nothing to do with what the neighbors think and everything to do with three black outfits and a bunch of flashlights.”
I frowned, puzzled.
She rolled her eyes. “Jeremy and Angelina and their dad go out at night and plant the signs. At least, they did for Mr. Burliman’s campaign eight years ago.”
My jaw dropped. “Doug Burliman takes his kids out to illicitly plant his campaign signs?”
“Not anymore. And Jeremy’s real pi— I mean, annoyed, about it too.”
“But he used to.”
She nodded. “That’s how he got elected in the first place. And, I’m just sayin’, you have a daughter. Who owns black clothes. And some flashlights. And Mom said she’s working late again tonight.”
I lowered my voice further. “You think we should go plant Jon Cass signs in the neighborhood tonight?”
She grinned. “I think we should go tear down Imbali and Soo and Burliman signs tonight.”
Just then, the assistant came back. “Here’s your toothpaste. You’re all set for another three weeks.”
I looked back at her as the assistant walked away.
“If you want to win, Dad, you need to fight.” She made claws with her hands and bared her teeth. “Tooth and nail.”
“Hey,” I said, feeling deeply touched. “You did your nails and your bands in my colors.”
“Dad,” she said, giving me a look. “It’s red and blue. First of all, it’s for the volleyball game at school next week. Second, aren’t those everyone’s colors?”
“Just let me have this moment,” I said.
She shook her head and picked her phone back up.
***
We met in the living room at 10 pm that night. Lindz had pulled out all the stops on her black outfit. She even wore a big pair of ski mittens, and she had one of Amy’s dark scarves to wrap around her face.
“I’m like 95 percent sure liquid eyeliner wouldn’t give you a rash on your cheeks,” she assured me.
“I still think this outfit is good enough without it,” I said, looking down at my nice black slacks and black biking jersey. I certainly didn’t look fashionable, but I have to admit, I did look pretty ninja-like. Well, other than the electrical tape covering up the reflective stripes on the jersey.
“Do we have everything we need?” I asked. “Flashlights?”
“Check,” said Lindz.
“Cass campaign signs?”
“Check.”
“Trash bags for the other campaign signs?”
Lindz grinned and patted her pockets. “Check.”
“Alright then,” I said. “Let’s do this.” I put out my hand, palm down.
“What are you doing?” Lindz asked, frowning.
“That ‘Goooooo team!’ thing. You know, where we all put our hands in the middle and then say—”
Lindz made a face. “Aren’t ninjas supposed to be silent? Let’s stick to that, okay?”
I made a face at her, but led the way to the front door.
We walked down the dark neighborhood
street, listening to the staccato thump of drums and the sound of horns from Paly—the tail end of a football game or band practice, I couldn’t tell which—and, in the lulls, the faint sounds of partying drifting from Stanford’s campus.
We walked a few blocks and then Lindz stopped abruptly. “Dad,” she hissed in an urgent whisper. “Someone’s watching us!”
“What?!” I whispered back. “Where?”
“Up there!” she said, pointing across the street.
I looked over and up—and nearly had heart failure at the sight of the ghostly, red-eyed figure swinging in the upstairs window.
And then my brain kicked in, and reminded me it was only a few days until Halloween.
Lindz started laughing hysterically.
I shook my head at her. “What happened to ninjas being silent?”
“Totally worth it for the look on your face. Trust me. Oh man, I wish I had gotten that on video.” She dug out her phone.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Lindz, maybe let’s not post photos of us doing incriminating things on social media, huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m just texting Sal.” She typed at approximately light speed and then held out the phone to me. “See, I didn’t even mention the campaign signs to her. And it’s Sal. Besides, we’re studying for our vocab test.”
I read the text.
“Aplomb:” it read, “When someone deals with a situation with calmness and great composure. As in, ‘My dad showed very little aplomb when he freaked out at the sight of the neighbors’ Halloween decorations.’”
Sal had already responded “lololololollloolool”.
“Very funny,” I said. “If we’re going to do this, let’s go do it, okay?”
“Fiiine,” she said, tucking her phone back into her pocket and leading the way down a side street.
Once we were a reasonable distance away from our house, we got to work. Lindz was a genius for picking out spots on property lines or ambiguous patches of landscaping across the sidewalk from the houses, where the sudden Cass sign placement would be less obvious.
And when we spotted Burliman, Soo, or Imbali signs, they went into the ever-expanding trash bags we carried. At first, I was stealthy and smooth and silent when pulling up their signs, but pretty soon I was ripping them in half with as much delight as Lindz before stuffing them with the others.
We had worked our way through a few of the quieter side streets when we turned onto Waverley—and nearly ran smack into an older gentleman walking his dog.
“Hey,” he shouted. “What are you kids doing?”
Lindz and I looked at each other in a panic.
“Run!” I said.
We ran.
Had the neighbor had a pit bull or a Doberman on the end of his leash, things might have turned out differently. Because his companion was of the small and yappy variety, though, we were in serious trouble.
The yapping commenced. The lights went on in a few nearby houses. We ran faster.
Three or four streets and a dark alley later—I didn’t even know Palo Alto had dark alleys—we slowed down and then stopped, panting.
When we could both breathe again, we looked at each other.
“We have to go back,” she said.
“What?! Why?”
“We have to pull down the Cass signs too, or everyone will know it was us.”
“That… has an unfortunate ring of logic to it.” I sighed. “And here I thought this was going to work.”
“It will work, Dad,” she told me, her eyes shining with intensity in the darkness. “We still tore down the signs from your opponents. And if those signs aren’t all over the place, they’ll stop having as much of an advantage. And if anyone asks you about it, you can complain about those dumb kids who tore down your signs too.”
Is Chief Manipulation Officer something that companies are looking for these days? I asked myself. I guess that one doesn’t even require strong math skills.
“Okay,” I said. “But we go around the long way. And no more walking on Waverley!”
“Agreed,” she said.
Half an hour later, we were home, the trash bags were stuffed in the garbage bins, and we were sitting on the couch in non-black, non-suspicious attire.
Which was good, because that’s when Amy walked in early.
“Hey, you two. Having a good night?”
“Yep,” I said.
“Nah,” said Lindz. “Super boring.”
I gave her a look.
She gave me a look back.
Amy gave us both a look. “I see.”
***
Halloween was on a Monday, much to the chagrin of the neighborhood kids, and much to the delight of the parents. After I dropped Lindz off at school—dressed as a nurse in some of Amy’s old, rolled up scrubs—I swung by the department office.
“Hey Nick,” I said as I walked over to my mailbox. “Nice vampire costume.”
“Much better than your failing political candidate costume, Cass,” said a familiar voice. “Oh, wait—that’s just your face.”
“Ha ha, Erickson,” I said, turning around. “Happy Halloween.”
He snorted. “Like I need any felicitations on the Annual Day of Incessant Doorbell Ringing.”
“Could you just put out a bowl of candy and turn off the lights?” Nick suggested.
Erickson turned his glare in Nick’s direction. “Do you think I’m an utter imbecile? That doesn’t stop the racket anymore.”
I made a mental note to look up Erickson’s address, though I hadn’t quite decided if I should warn Lindz and Sal away from it, or bribe them to go ring the doorbell a few dozen times.
“Are we talking about the school board signs again?” asked Mehta as she walked in.
Nick gave our department head a warning look and a headshake.
“Don’t even get me started on that,” snapped Erickson.
I gave an awkward laugh. “Yeah. Stupid kids.”
Everyone turned to look at me.
“I mean— I just— My campaign signs were torn down too!”
Nick gave a sympathetic nod and Mehta looked like she’d forgive my use of the S-word, given the context.
Erickson said, “Ha! Not like there were too many of those to tear down.”
I waited until he left before turning to Nick. “Hey, you don’t have an extra copy of the faculty directory by chance, do you?”
***
“You sure you don’t want to go trick-or-treating?” I asked Lindz and Sal yet again. “I know a great house where there’s sure to be all kinds of awesome candy. Especially if you ring the doorbell extra loudly and many times.”
“We’re not really into candy anymore,” said Sal.
“Yeah. So unless you know someone handing out Starbucks gift cards…” Lindz said.
“Uh, can’t think of any.”
“Right,” she said. “We’ll be in my room if you need us.”
They headed up the stairs.
I turned to Amy. “What’s the point of dressing in costume and Sal coming over if they’re not going trick-or-treating?”
Amy raised a brow. “I’m guessing it has something to do with Snapchat. Why do you think they chose nurse costumes?”
“Because you’re a doctor?”
“Mmm,” said Amy. “Maybe.”
The lightbulb went on. I goggled. “Should— Should I go up there? Make sure they’re not doing anything dangerous? Or posting anything they shouldn’t be?”
“No,” Amy said. “Their costumes were pretty tame. Besides, they’re teenage girls. They’ll be fine.”
That seemed like a contradiction in terms to me, but I let it go. Mostly because Amy grabbed two Costco-size bags of Halloween candy and poured them on the table.
“Help me sort this, would you?” she asked.
I, ever the diligent and obedient husband, got right to work. “Lindz can’t have Twix, right? Or Crunch? Because of her braces?”
Amy flashed me
a grin. “Better take out the Snickers too. Just to be safe.”
“Right,” I said.
Soon there were three piles on the table—peanut M&Ms and Kit Kat and some of the Reese’s for the girls; Twix and Crunch and Snickers and the rest of the Reese’s for the adults; and Almond Joy, plain M&Ms, and Milky Way for the trick-or-treaters.
“This isn’t too cruel, is it?” Amy asked.
“Nope,” I said through a mouthful of Snickers. “Besides, Lindz and Sal were the ones who claimed they didn’t want any candy. More for us. Wanna bite?”
That was right when the doorbell rang. Amy and I hurried over to hear the heart-stoppingly cute chorus of “Twick or tweat!!” from the Nguyen triplets, dressed as a tiny Mario, Luigi, and Princess Toadstool. They were even too young to be anything but excited at the Almond Joys and plain M&Ms.
“Love your costumes,” I said.
Dave Nguyen pushed his Yoshi hood out of the way to grin at me. “Thanks, Jon!”
Ted—or at least I assume it was Ted—said “Ook, ook” from under his Donkey Kong mask and started herding their children towards the next house.
Next came a herd of Paly kids. I squinted at them. “Who are you supposed to be dressed as?”
The lead teen, sporting a bowtie and a pair of Harry Potter glasses, said, “Trick-or-treaters.”
“Duh,” said the girl behind him. Who, to give her credit, was dressed as Clueless-era Valley Girl, so maybe it was just her way of staying in character.
They grumbled at the plain M&Ms we offered but took them anyway and hurried, giggling and chattering, off to the next house.
“I hope that’s not Lindz in a few years,” I said as I closed the door.
“Might be preferable to spending the whole night upstairs on social media,” Amy pointed out.
The doorbell rang yet again.
I opened the door, ready for another round of little kids in costumes—and froze when I saw Miriam Soo. She was wearing her normal flowy blouse, long skirt, and Birkenstocks. A tall blue wizard’s hat was her only nod to the holiday.
“Miriam,” I said. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“Okay…” I said.
“Over by the bins,” she said.
I frowned. “By the—” Then I froze. The garbage bins. Where Lindz and I had thrown away all the campaign signs we’d torn down. Which, now that I thought of it, wasn’t a particularly genius plan. Though, to be fair, who goes through other people’s bins?
Saxifrage & Starshine Page 9