I blinked, grasping for at least one of the threads of the conversation. “Vengeance?”
“Well, vengeance for Sally, in a manner of speaking. Kayla and Tess De Vries tattled to Coach Rigby about Lindsay pulling down Tess’ Student Council Vice-President posters a few weeks before. This was after Jeremy Burliman put ketchup packets on Sally’s chair to stain her pants red and then claimed Tess had done it. Sally, of course, was quite upset that afternoon.”
I tried desperately to follow the intricate machinations she described.
“Coach Rigby kept Lindsay off the volleyball team on grounds of unsportsmanlike behavior, despite her impressive spike and dig percentages in the tryout scrimmages and the immense effort she’s put into improving her game.”
“We’re talking about the same girl, right? Lindsay Cass? Not a different Lindsay?”
Ms. Marle rolled her eyes, unfolded a school newspaper sitting on her desk, and pointed to a small black-and-white photo under the headline, “Volleyball tryouts bump right along.”
There, in the photo, was Lindz, mid-jump, wearing a tank top and athletic shorts I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen before.
“This is all to say,” said Ms. Marle calmly, like she hadn’t just upended my entire worldview, “that you might do well as a parent to model friendship, good sportsmanship, and a focus on the big picture to your daughter.” She flashed me a caustic smile. “Instead of focusing so intensely on racking up your own victories and accolades, maybe try putting her first for a change.”
I stood up. I’d had enough of this woman lecturing me. I needed to walk out with grace and dignity and go win an election so I could make my first move as member of the school board firing this horrible person.
“Why,” I said with impressive calm, “do you think I’m running for school board in the first place?”
She cocked her head at me. “Honestly? I imagine it has something to do with your narrow-minded focus on competitiveness and achievement, your disregard for both other people and any sort of rational interpretation of the world around you, and your own puerile amusement.” She narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you might be compensating for something as well.”
I drew in a deep breath, and she stood up.
“It’s been… enlightening to meet you, Mr. Cass. Now if you’ll excuse me, our time is up and I need to talk to Mrs. Hansen.” She pointed to the door.
Seething and all too conscious of my inability to form rational sentences at that moment, I clenched my jaw and my fists and stalked out of the room.
***
Nick winced when I walked into the department office.
“I promise I wouldn’t have called you in on Election Day under any other circumstances, Jon, but—”
“No worries,” I said, trying to shake off my glower. “Where are the documents?”
“Right here,” he said, pushing a stack of maybe sixty pages towards me. “I flagged where you need to sign.”
“Thanks.” I took the proffered pen and started signing.
“Everything okay?” Nick asked, his voice tentative.
“Yes,” I said. “Well, no. Not really. I just got ripped a new one by some stupid math teacher who thinks she knows what my kid needs better than I do.”
“That’s ironic,” chimed in my least favorite voice from the corner of the room.
I ground my teeth hard, and focused on the paperwork. I could ignore Erickson for two more minutes…
“‘Look at me,’” Erickson said, switching to a tone of even more blatant mockery. “‘I’m Jon Cass! Vote for me on Election Day. After all, I’m a family man!’”
Something about those words, said in that tone, stoked my anger, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.
“Meanwhile, if I don’t finish this stupid paperwork,” I continued to Nick, doing my best to drown out Erickson’s taunting, “—which, of course, has to be signed in the next three hours, because who doesn’t love jumping through bureaucratic hoops—and chat up approximately half the town of Palo Alto before they cast their votes, I’m going to lose this election. And then I can’t replace that sour battleax of a math teacher with an actual professional who knows her place. And worst of all, I’ll be losing to an overblown, stuffed shirt incumbent who can’t even be bothered to learn the names of his competition and a ninnyhammer who thinks we should lobotomize our children by focusing on the lowest common denominator in the classroom through non-violent communication.”
The room was silent—tensely silent—for a long moment. I barely noticed it through my anger. I directed the bulk of my attention to trying to sign the stupid documents without punching the pen through the paper.
Then Erickson said, “What did you say?”
I sighed and put my pen down and turned to face him. “What?” I mentally reviewed the conversation.
I’m a family man…
“Wait,” I said. “Wait. What did you say?”
The image of my campaign photo, its mouth spewing ridiculous nonsense as it clacked open and shut with low-tech animation, swam into my mind. The Crimson and Cardinal my cartoon family wore threatened to overtake my vision.
“The YouTube video. That was you,” I said, pointing my finger dramatically.
“What did you say about Jasmine?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
“I can’t believe you would sabotage my campaign like some low-life—”
He stalked forward and swatted my accusatory digit away. “Say it again, Cass. Say what you said about Jasmine.”
I smiled nastily. “Why, Erickson? She your girlfriend or something? Wow, I didn’t realize she took her agenda of radical inclusion all the way into the bedroom!”
And that’s when Erickson’s punch hit me, square on the jaw. I fell right on my butt, staring up at him, more shocked than in pain. Not that it didn’t hurt, mind you. Just that never in a million years would I have expected physical violence from Erickson.
Rage suddenly boiled in me, the kind I hadn’t felt since I was a kid on the playground being teased by older, meaner kids.
Or since earlier that day, when I’d been told my own kid’s unhappiness—the unhappiness I hadn’t even noticed—was partly my fault.
I could see the same rage reflected in Erickson’s eyes.
Vaguely, in the background, I could hear Nick chattering, maybe even on the phone with Security.
I didn’t care.
I wanted to throttle Erickson.
He wanted to throttle me.
His nostrils flared—
His nostrils.
His nose.
I paused, arrested for a moment by that shape. That familiar shape. Long and curved, with an upturned tip.
My anger evaporated in an instant, and I got to my feet, backing away from the still fuming Erickson.
“Jon, are you okay?” Nick asked, hurrying to my side. “Do you need me to—”
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Fine. Thanks. I, uh, I need to go. Now.”
I walked towards the door.
“Jon?” Nick called after me hesitantly. “But… but what about the documents?”
“Later,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Sorry.”
And then I stumbled out into the cool November air, my mind whirring like a rocket about to launch.
***
“Okay, on three,” said the photographer from the paper. “One.”
“Jon,” Amy said, bumping her hip against mine. “Focus.”
I tore my eyes away from Jasmine Imbali, who was across the park, kneeling to talk to a third-or fourth-grader.
“Two,” said the photographer.
Amy reached across me to poke Lindz, who was trying to sneak a peek at the cell phone she’d grudgingly stashed in her pocket.
I tried to plaster a smile on my face. I’m pretty sure I looked like I was about to vomit.
Erickson is Jasmine’s dad.
“Three,” said the photographer.
And every jerktastic thing he�
��s done has been to support his daughter, while I ignored mine and tried to beat his.
The camera clicked, then clicked again.
Erickson—Erickson—is a better parent than I am.
The photographer frowned. “Uh, Mr. Cass, could you smile, please?”
“Sorry,” I said, forcing the corners of my mouth up.
“You okay?” Amy asked me as we walked away from the photo spot. Lindz was already back on her phone, weaving through the crowd without looking up.
“Yeah,” I said.
Amy peered at me. “And you’re sure the parent-teacher conference went okay?”
I opened my mouth, but then closed it again. What was I supposed to say? Did you know our daughter tried out for the volleyball team? Did you know Sal’s her only friend? Did you know I’m the hugest idiot in the world?
I’m pretty sure the answer to all of those was affirmative.
“Yeah, it was fine,” I said. “I can give you more details later. I need to go vote.”
She nodded, still frowning. “Meet you up by the stage when you’re done.”
I waved vaguely and walked the few blocks to the fire station.
I passed a crow winging its way back towards its nest, a big load of twigs in its mouth. I spotted a squirrel scampering up a fence, somehow managing to clutch an entire persimmon from a nearby tree.
Where are all the animals who eat their young, or leave them to fend for themselves after birth? I wondered. I could use a favorable parenting comparison right about now.
Another photographer was stationed by the polling place. I smiled another sickly smile as I ducked around the curtain.
I stared at the ballot for a long moment.
“Non-violent communication,” I murmured to myself, rubbing my sore jaw. “Inclusivity.” The terrible word outcast swam across my vision again, followed by Jasmine’s smile—her genuine smile—to every person she met.
I poised the pen next to my name—and then moved it decisively.
I knew what to do. I knew what to say.
I ducked out of the ballot booth and strode purposefully back towards City Hall.
Towards the stage set up there.
Towards my destiny.
“Sir? Uh, sir!” came a voice from behind me. “You have to put your ballot into the box.”
I sighed, turned around, and deposited the ballot correctly. Then I strode purposefully back towards City Hall.
People tried to accost me on my way up to the stage, including Marcie from the TV station.
“Get your cameras rolling,” I told her. “I’ve got something to say. In front of everyone.”
She frowned but scampered off.
Nick came up to me. “Jon, your sabbatical documents—”
“After this,” I told him.
Amy waved worriedly from the front of the crowd as Lindz and Sal glared at me, hands on their hips in identical postures of teenage disgruntlement. I waved back, but kept walking.
Miriam Soo, standing in the audience, gave me a pointed look. I let it roll off of me.
Someone wearing a security uniform tried to stop me. I told her to talk to Marcie, without breaking my stride.
Doug Burliman, mid-handshake with a soccer mom, raised his eyebrows at me patronizingly. I ignored him.
Jasmine Imbali caught my eye and smiled. I kept walking.
The hubbub was drawing a crowd. Good, I thought. I want everyone to hear this.
I mounted the steps to the podium. I tapped the microphone. The sound echoed through the suddenly silent park.
“My fellow Palo Altans,” I said, trying not to cringe at the volume coming from the audio system. “I’m Jon Cass, one of your school board candidates. I have something to say to you.”
Everyone held still, leaning towards me.
Patti Blake was in the front of the crowd, a pen poised over her pad of paper.
The TV cameras were rolling.
I took a deep breath.
“I’m withdrawing from the school board race and throwing my enthusiastic support behind Jasmine Imbali.”
Sound erupted—murmurs, gasps, questions. I ignored them. I kept talking.
“Let me tell you why,” I said, my voice booming over the noise of the crowd. “I entered this campaign because I thought my daughter wasn’t getting the education she deserved. And I was right. But I was wrong about the solution.”
My eyes scanned the crowd. There, near the back, was the person I was looking for.
“I thought the answer was harder math and language arts classes. I thought more academic rigor would solve all our problems. Frankly, I thought we probably needed better teachers. Well, it took a very good teacher to remind me today that education isn’t just something that happens in the classroom. It’s not just about algebra and analogies. It’s about modeling how to be a good person. How to be respectful. How to lose gracefully. How to put someone else’s needs first.
“And sometimes, it’s not our kids who need to learn those lessons. It’s us, the parents. It’s me.”
It was hard to tell from that far away, but it looked like, in the back of the crowd, Ms. Marle gave me a slight, reluctant nod.
I nodded back. Then I returned my attention to the crowd.
“Today, it hit me”—I didn’t add literally, no matter how much I wanted to—“that parents have one job, day in and day out, from the moment their children are born or even before. That job is to be there for our kids. To advocate for them. To drop what we’re doing to help them, anytime, no questions asked. To fight for them and encourage them and coax them into maturing and growing into wonderful adults. To put aside our own aspirations to help them achieve their dreams.
“When we become parents, we’re supposed to trade a lifetime of self-absorption, of accumulating our own trophies and awards, of a single-minded focus on what we want, for our kids.
“We generally don’t succeed. Because we’re human, and short-sighted, and self-centered. And that’s why precisely why we need professionals like Jasmine Imbali to help us realize our mistakes. To help us learn even when we’re way beyond school age.
“And that’s why I can’t serve on the school board at this time. I need to look past my own desires and to my daughter’s. And the school district needs someone who’s not a parent, who can look objectively at classrooms full of children to see overall trends, instead of just fixating on one person—even the most important person in my life—and her particular needs.”
I looked over at my family.
“Believe me when I say that I could never have gotten this far, never made it on the ballot in the first place, never even dreamed of running for school board without the love, loyalty, and support of my friends and family. Thanks especially to Amy, my better half in literally every way, and to Lindz, who’s the fiercest of friends and always my biggest fan even when I forget to be hers.” I grinned down at them. “You guys are the best.”
Then I looked out at the crowd.
“Many of you here today support Jasmine Imbali. So do I. She’s a teacher, not a parent. She looks at the big picture, and she knows that, in the long run, education is more about becoming a good, kind person than it is about math or language arts. Jasmine Imbali is a remarkable advocate for our young people, and she will make a wonderful school board member.”
I spotted Erickson near the middle of the crowd.
I nodded to him, one father to another.
He sneered and gave me the finger.
I smiled, ignoring the ache in my jaw.
“It’s said that nice folks finish last. Well, not today. Because, as far as I can tell, Jasmine Imbali is as kind and genuine as they come—and she just got my vote. Thank you.”
I got off the podium. Applause and voices crackled around me, but I made my way to my people.
To Amy, gorgeous in her scrubs, her eyes shining and her smile radiant.
And to Lindz and Sal, who were both staring at me, their mouths wide open.
“Amazing?” I said. “Eloquent? Something so touching you’ll recall it with fondness for the rest of your life?”
“Soooo stupid,” Lindz finished.
I bit my lip and huffed a laugh.
“Mr. Cass,” Sal said, a little more hesitantly, “the newspaper ran an exit poll this afternoon. Right before your speech, we overheard one of the reporters talking about the results. You— You probably lost by a landslide anyway.”
“Yeah, what was all that about losing gracefully? Couldn’t you have just done that?” Lindz asked.
I glanced at Amy and then back at the girls. “I think I just did,” I said.
Lindz cringed and ran a hand over her face.
“Parents,” said Sal in a long-suffering tone, draping her arm over Lindz’s shoulder as they turned in unison away from me.
And, incidentally, towards the podium, where Jasmine Imbali, flanked by a smiling Erickson and a woman with Imbali’s eyes and build, was starting her acceptance speech.
Amy’s hand crept into mine as we listened to Imbali’s gracious thanks to her supporters and her excitement for the opportunities ahead of her.
Amy leaned over and whispered, “Are you sad it’s not you giving the acceptance speech today?”
“A little bit,” I murmured back. “But look.”
I motioned to where Sal and Lindz stood, leaning against each other, their attention rapt on Imbali’s words about inclusion and friendship and building supportive communities, their phones forgotten and dangling in their hands.
Amy smiled and kissed my cheek. I squeezed her hand back and let Imbali’s words soak over me, thinking about a brighter, better future.
And trying to ignore Miriam Soo’s wobbling tree pose a few rows up. Namaste.
Hip Hop Goes aCourting
Hip Hop thinks he’s the world’s leading expert on everything, but I disagree.
(Hi. If we haven’t met yet, I guess I should start with introductions. I’m Zie Harris, half-elf, sophomore at Kaine Academy, and budding telepath. I was also the one who should have been winning the debate with the chickadee. Hip Hop, the bird in question, is one of my closest friends. That didn’t make him any less wrong, though, about the topic at hand.)
Saxifrage & Starshine Page 11