by Gordon Jack
“I’ll meet you at school tonight and help you hang them,” he said before driving away.
Stacey thought the banners should be up when the first students arrived at school in the morning. Technically, campaign posters weren’t allowed on campus until tomorrow, but Stacey wanted to grab the high-traffic areas before anyone else. The school grounds at Lincoln were open, giving her access to the quad and hallways. The only security the campus had was the custodial staff, but Stacey had already spoken with them to make sure they wouldn’t remove her banners as part of their evening cleaning.
Stacey went back into the garage, which they had converted into a printmaking studio, and put away the brushes, paint, and markers. The lettering on the posters was still a little damp, so Stacey left the eight-foot-long strips of butcher paper drying on the floor. She didn’t want to roll them up too early because then the ends would curl, and she’d prefer that they looked ironed flat when they hung from the walls of her school. She painted a quick No Parking sign to hang on the garage door to warn her dad that the space was being occupied. He was used to her commandeering the garage for her various projects. Just a few months ago, the area was filled with boxes of canned peaches from her holiday food drive.
On her way to the stairs leading to the kitchen, Stacey passed the collection of cardboard boxes her mom was supposed to move to her new place. They still occupied a large corner of the garage, and Stacey was tempted to throw them out. What had it been? Four months? Surely Mom had time to collect these things that were so important they had to be removed from the house and stored here. Stacey glanced at the labels her mom had affixed to each of the moving boxes. Kitchen, Office, Shoes. Stacey was tempted to dribble an open can of paint into each one. Sorry, Mom, she’d say all innocent-like. I don’t know how that happened.
There was a large box in the back with Stacey’s name written on top in Sharpie. Stacey had avoided it for months, worried about its contents. What mementos from Stacey’s childhood would her mom deem important enough to take to her new home? She pictured baby blankets, finger paintings, lanyards, and other childhood detritus crammed inside. What Stacey didn’t want to see were folded baby clothes. Her mom was in her late thirties, old but still young enough to have another child. What if the box was filled with Stacey’s hand-me-downs? The cute outfits she’d give her new baby? The one she’d raise in a happy home, with a stable family, and twenty-four-hour access to a martial arts studio?
Fuck it, Stacey decided, pulling the container free from its location. This box might as well have “Pandora” written on top. Whatever lay inside was going to upset her. Might as well rip off the packing tape like a Band-Aid and stop worrying about getting hurt.
As she folded back the cardboard lid, the first thing Stacey thought was that this was her mom’s treasure chest. She had only written her daughter’s name on top to hide the fact that it was filled with pieces of gold. Then she realized the objects inside were only gold-plated figures of girls posed as athletes and scholars. The statues looked like toy dolls that had been turned to stone by some tiny Medusa.
Looking at the collection of trophies, Stacey wasn’t sure what was more depressing: the fact that these were the only mementos her mom cared about or the fact that she left the box in a neglected corner of the garage. She picked up the largest trophy—the one she won at her last Tae Kwon Do tournament—and held it over her head, as if in tribute to her crowds of adoring fans. Then, in one sweeping motion, she brought the statue down onto the cement floor and broke the gold figure off with a crack. The plastic girl, forever frozen in a fighting stance, bounced a few times before finally landing on her side next to a twenty-pound-bag of cat food.
Stacey took a deep breath and inhaled the garage’s odor of wet paint and motor oil. That felt good. She should do that more often. Imagine her mom’s face when she opened this cardboard trophy case and found all her daughter’s statues decapitated. What a fitting metaphor, Stacey decided. Her mom would get to keep all the awards; Stacey would keep all the girls.
Just as she was lifting another gold-plated figure above her head, her dad drove up. She quickly threw the trophy back into the box, sealed the lid, and placed the container back in its original place.
“What’s all this?” her dad said, getting out of his ancient Volvo. The car, like him, was in need of a wash. Stacey had to start laying out his clothes the night before classes to make sure he didn’t dress like a slob. His look was less absentminded professor and more midlife-crisis hobo.
“Brian came over and helped me with some banners,” Stacey said.
“I thought you were running unopposed.”
“Not anymore.”
Seeing the clutter, her dad detoured and entered the house through the front door. Stacey walked up the stairs to the kitchen entrance and hit the button that brought the garage door sliding down from the ceiling.
“I thought I’d heat up that lasagna for dinner,” Stacey said. “That is, if you’re not sick of it.” Stacey had too much going on at school to give herself daily assignments in the kitchen, so she made meals that could be portioned out for weeks.
“That sounds great, honey,” her dad said, dropping onto the couch.
Stacey tried not to let his sagging energy level frustrate her. The divorce had been hard on him. The marriage had been hard on him too. If Stacey felt pressured by her ambitious mother to succeed, she couldn’t imagine the stress her eggheaded father felt. All he wanted to do was tinker in his lab and teach a few physics classes at the university, not create the next billion-dollar mobile app.
At least he was leaving the house every day. That positive step had come about only after Stacey persuaded her dad to teach one class this term. After the divorce, her dad had taken a sabbatical (i.e. vacation) from the university so he could research (i.e. drink beer and binge-watch Cosmos) his book (i.e. proposal) on relativistic energy. The Intro to Physics class he was teaching this quarter was probably a no-brainer for him; it was the act of getting out of bed that required the most effort.
“Dad, I need your help with a project,” Stacey announced, bringing him his dinner. She placed their plates of reheated lasagna and side salad onto the coffee table. Before he could get up and get a glass of wine, she marched back to the kitchen, filled two glasses with ice water, and placed them on coasters in front of him. Her dad looked like a child who’d just been given fruit for dessert.
“What’s up?” he said.
“I want to build a drone,” Stacey said. She didn’t really want to build a drone. She wanted her dad to build a drone. Now that she had gotten him busy during the day, she needed to find a way to occupy his nights. This was the perfect project for him. And it would make a nice gift to the ASB on her first day in office. She wasn’t sure what the ASB would do with a drone, exactly, but she was sure she could find a way to use it. Aerial views of football games, perhaps. Or a spy cam to catch careless polluters.
Stacey threw a copy of Make magazine in front of him and watched him slowly become absorbed by the step-by-step instructions. Pretty soon he was talking less to her and more to the pages of the magazine. When he was done with his meal, she cleared his empty plate and went back to the garage to put the banners into her car.
“You think it’s doable?” she asked, coming back in to say goodbye.
“Yes,” he said. “I have to order some of these parts, but I’ve got most of the tools.”
“Great!” Stacey went over and gave her dad a kiss on the cheek. “I gotta go hang some banners.”
Stacey drove to school, swinging by the Tea House on her way to pick up Brian’s usual order. She wanted to do something nice to thank him for all his help, and she didn’t have time to make another batch of gluten-free cookies. There were only so many men she could take care of, she thought. Besides, if she didn’t stop baking for Brian, he’d be as chubby as he was freshman year.
When she entered the darkened student lot, Brian’s car was already parked near the e
ntrance to the school. She pulled up next to him and handed over the milky Earl Grey he loved so much.
“Decaf?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, wishing she felt as confident in her order as she sounded. “Sorry for flipping out on you today.”
“That’s okay,” Brian said, taking a sip. “I know how you feel about surprises.”
“I really appreciate your help.” Stacey popped the rear door of her Honda Fit and pulled out the rolled banners.
“Happy to do it. The less time I spend at home with Kyle, the better.”
“How’s his therapy going?”
Brian shrugged. “It hasn’t made him any nicer.”
“Maybe you should have bullied him more growing up. That’s what most older brothers do. You’re too nice.”
“Thanks, Janet.”
Janet was Stacey’s mother. Brian was always quick to remind Stacey of her lineage whenever she adopted her mom’s tough-love talk. He knew how terrified she was of turning into Janet and did his best to lightly nudge her away from the dark side. Stacey thanked him by dumping the pile of rolled-up banners in his arms. “C’mon. Let’s hang these.”
They hit the high-traffic areas first, hanging banners in the quad, by the gym, and near every bathroom. When they moved in the direction of the science wing, Brian started lagging behind.
“Why are we heading back this way?” he asked.
“I’ve mapped out all the events taking place on campus this week,” Stacey said, grabbing him by the arm and hustling down the empty hallways weakly illuminated by sporadic lighting. “Hackfest is Thursday, which means the science building will be packed with students who want free pizza.”
“Genius,” Brian said.
“There’s also a big calculus test on Friday, so people are going to be using the tutorial center more. I thought we’d head there next.”
They finished twenty minutes later. After taping up the last banner, they paused and took in the quiet of the campus at night. Off in the distance, a bent man pushed a cleaning cart down an illuminated hallway. “We’re all done, Oscar!” Stacey shouted from the walkway that connected the student parking lot to the main quad. Oscar turned and waved and then continued on his way.
The two walked back to their cars on the empty lot. On their way, they passed a bike chained to the racks that hadn’t been there before. Stacey looked at her watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. “Whose bike is this?” she asked.
“Yeah, who would be crazy enough to come to school at this hour?” Brian said, nudging Stacey.
“Shut up,” she said. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”
Brian shrugged. “Not really. It’s probably some freshman who needed something in his locker.”
Brian pulled Stacey back to their cars. Before getting in, Stacey gave Brian a big hug and thanked him again for all his help.
Brian drove off, leaving Stacey alone in the empty lot. She knew she should race home and start working on the homework she had put off, but she had to know who the owner of the bike was. It was a surprise seeing it appear like this, and Stacey didn’t like surprises. After waiting thirty minutes and still seeing no one appear, it was even more unsettling. She was just about to go investigate when her father texted her, demanding she return home at once. After telling him she was on her way, she started her car and pulled out of the parking lot, making sure to watch the campus through her rearview mirror for any signs of movement.
10
THIRTEEN DAYS TILL ELECTION DAY
THE MORNING SUN lit up Brian’s room like a migraine. He tried to smother out the burning rays with his pillow, but it was no use. The light had frightened sleep away, and it would not be returning until fifth-period trigonometry.
Brian yanked himself free of the covers, stood up, and rubbed his eyes. There was a reason he slept with his curtains open, wasn’t there? He liked to rise with the sun, rather than be awoken by Skinny and the Mooch on the radio. Why was this morning so difficult?
It was because he couldn’t get to sleep last night. After helping Stacey hang her banners, he raced home to call Julia. They talked a bit about their biology project and then segued to other topics, like music (their love of Mitski, specifically), movies (Brian liked comedies; Julia, foreign films), and travel (Machu Picchu was on both their bucket lists). Julia told Brian about all the things she found strange about Lincoln—the open campus, the devotion to group work, the ubiquitous technology. Before he knew it, it was one a.m. and Julia had to go. Brian was so keyed up by the conversation, or by the tea Stacey had given him, that he didn’t fall asleep for another hour.
Now he was stumbling across his carpet like a zombie looking for caffeinated brains. He plugged in the electric kettle on his desk and waited for the steam to emerge from the spout. When the water had boiled, Brian dug through his tin of tea until he found an Earl Grey bag. He plucked it from the metal container and dropped it in his Garfield-shaped mug that had I Hate Mondays on it. Stacey had given it to him as a joke a few years ago, but it turned out to be the perfect size for his morning brew.
He blew the rising steam emanating from Garfield’s head and stared at the photo tacked up on his bulletin board of him and Stacey dressed as Harry and Hermione last Halloween. He shouldn’t feel guilty for talking to Julia last night, right? It’s not like he told her any of Stacey’s campaign secrets. As long as they focused on biology and other nonelection topics, there wasn’t a conflict of interest. So, why did he feel the need to keep his conversation secret from his best friend? Did Stacey feel threatened by Julia because she was running for president or because Brian liked her? Brian wished he had someone he could talk to about this.
James, maybe? He was another thorn in Stacey’s side, but at least he wasn’t a threat politically or romantically. Now that the nomination process was over and no one was running against him for ASB vice president, James might have some time to help him work through his feelings. That is, if James would agree to a meeting, which Brian doubted he would.
Brian leaned over and took down the photo of him and James at the National Scouts jamboree from a few years ago, pinned just below the Halloween photo. The two of them stood in the center, their uniforms crisply ironed and covered in badges. James was already wearing his signature oversize glasses, advancing the geek look before it was trendy. If he could have fit a bow tie on the uniform without breaking regulations, he probably would have. The other boys surrounding them were sloppily attired, their neckerchiefs as crooked as their smiles. No one in the troop took scouting as seriously as Brian and James, both of whom sought to maintain high standards of conduct at all meetings and jamborees. When James finally dropped out, it left Brian with no other rule follower. On the last camping trip, the other boys tied him to a tree and put a banana slug down his pants. Brian quit Scouts soon after that.
Given the unpleasant end of his Scouts experience, it was strange that Brian kept this photo tacked to his bulletin board. He should probably take the picture down, but it was the only evidence he had of guy friends, and for some reason this comforted him. Why didn’t he like the things most guys liked? Even his tea drinking was suspect. “You tea bagging it today, bruh?” his little brother, Kyle, was fond of saying when he saw him with his cup, which was part of the reason he drank his beverage in the privacy of his room. Maybe if he switched to coffee, he would blend in more. Or beer. That’s a manly drink, especially when it’s poured into your mouth from the tap of a keg while a bunch of football players hold you upside down.
After showering and getting dressed, he headed down the hallway for breakfast. The nice part about having a mom who wrote fantasy novels was that she was always home in the mornings. When Brian entered the kitchen, she would stop working and join him, sometimes making his favorite French toast if she knew he had a stressful day ahead.
“Morning, honey,” she said as he stumbled in.
“Morning,” he said. He grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat down at the kitchen c
ounter. “Kyle up yet?”
“What do you think?”
Most days, Kyle didn’t emerge from his bedroom until Brian was walking out the door, which was fine by him. Brian liked to get to school early—to get a head start on his day—whereas Kyle skateboarded in, usually arriving late to first period. Mom called them yin and yang, never identifying who was dominated by darkness and who by light. But it wasn’t hard to guess. Only one of them was in therapy, and it wasn’t Brian.
“Why don’t you wake him up?” Brian asked.
“You want to wade through that minefield?” his mom asked. It was true. Besides the piles of dirty clothes, shoes, and skateboards, Kyle had booby-trapped his room to keep out unwanted visitors. The other day, Brian had activated a trip wire that launched a partially eaten meatball at his head.
His mom got up and poured herself a cup of coffee. “What do you think is the better superpower: Shape-shifting or mind control?”
“Hmmm.” Brian thought about it. “Are we talking world domination here?”
“Yes,” his mom said.
“Then mind control, for sure. But I’d rather be a shape-shifter.”
“Why?”
“Well, shape-shifting lets you transform yourself into anything, whereas as mind control gives you control over others’ thoughts and perceptions. One gives you power over the body, and the other power over the mind.”
“Yes?”
“I’d rather have control over my body.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Brian felt trapped. His mom often did this—cloak personal topics under the veil of fantasy. A discussion on dragons could somehow magically segue into a talk about masturbation. “It would be cool to be able to change into an eagle and fly, I guess.”
His mom sighed. “You’re right. Mind control is more powerful, but it’s kind of boring, unless there’s some way to stop it. Like Magneto with his helmet.”
“Yeah, why don’t all the X-Men villains wear those?” Brian asked. It was a question that bothered him.