November Surprise
a novel
by
Laurel Osterkamp
PMI Books, Boulder, Colorado
Praise For Laurel Osterkamp's Books:
Campaign Promises:
"Short and sweet, Osterkamp creates a world of politics and high school memories that meld together to form a novella that works." – Keri English (Indiereader.com)
"Campaign Promises is a intelligent peek into one woman’s journey into adulthood as her naivety and idealism are nurtured into mature self-awareness. At 75 eBook pages, Campaign Promises is the perfect companion for short trips, lunch hours, or an early afternoon with a cup of tea that leaves you feeling accomplished and satisfied. " — Christine @ Bitchlit.com
Following My Toes:
Winner! 2008 Indie Excellence Award for Chick Lit.
"A wonderful story of learning to forgive yourself and others, trusting your instincts and not giving up... a great read." —Muse Book Reviews, July 2006
"Ms. Osterkamp has penned a tale that is pure delight and will touch the reader on many emotional levels." —Love Romances June 2006
"Following My Toes connects the reader to the feeling of chatting with a close friend." —TCM Reviews, June 2006
"Osterkamp's background as a comedy writer is readily apparent with the nice balance between the humor and the serious." —BookPleasures.com, December, 2006
"Faith's realization of her faults and that she is more than everyone thinks she is, makes a very good story." —Coffee Time Romance (coffeetimeromance.com), June 2006
November Surprise
a novel
by
Laurel Osterkamp
PMI Books, Boulder, Colorado
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Laurel Osterkamp
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
eISBN (Kindle): 978-1-933826-45-5
Published by PMI Books
an imprint of Preventive Measures, Inc.
254 Spruce St.
Boulder, CO 80302
http://www.pmibooks.com
Discover other titles by Laurel Osterkamp at
http://www.laurelosterkamp.com
Table of Contents
Praise For Laurel Osterkamp's Books:
Chapter 1. August 1988
Chapter 2. 1988 - George H. W. Bush vs. Michael Dukakis
Chapter 3. November 1989
Chapter 4. 1992: Clinton vs. Bush vs. Perot
Chapter 5. September 1995
Chapter 6. 1996: Clinton vs. Dole
Chapter 7. December, 1999
Chapter 8. 2000: Al Gore vs. George W. Bush
Chapter 9. December, 2002
Chapter 10. August 2003
Chapter 11. 2004: George W. Bush vs. John Kerry
Chapter 12. November 2007
Chapter 13. 2008: Obama vs. McCain
Praise for Starring in the Movie of My Life
Preview of Starring in the Movie of My Life
Chapter 1. August 1988
The night is noticeably drier and cooler than it has been all summer. Fall is definitely in the air. Still, the heat of the bonfire has become a little overbearing, so I step away. It’s not like anyone will miss me.
Once I have a little space, I breathe deeply and look up at the sky. All the stars are out. Should I pick one and make a wish? I know that’s not how it works; you’re supposed to wish when there’s only one star in the sky. But I’m on the cusp of my senior year in high school, and my best friend is leaving for college in two days. I need all the help I can get.
I’ve settled on the brightest star to wish upon, and I’m focusing and planning my wish, when I feel him come up from behind me.
“Hey, Training Bra.” That’s his pet name for me, but it’s always been one of malice rather than affection. I hear him slur, “What are you going to do now that your stronger half is leaving you?”
He’s referring to my best friend Sharon, whom I came here with tonight and who helped me stand up to his bullying years ago. But soon she’ll be gone at college, and I’ll be left alone. He’s right. I’m nervous about standing up to him without her help.
I shrug my shoulders and try to act nonchalant. “Reggie, let’s say we call a truce?” I don’t wait for an answer but start to walk away. He grips my arm, tightly, and keeps me from making a smooth exit.
“How about you get over yourself?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” And I don’t. I know I’m not perfect, but that’s sort of the point. Having a huge ego has never been one of my problems.
“You think you’re so smart,” he says. “Always trying to one-up me in class, raising your hand and spouting off. Nobody cares about what you have to say.”
“Fine,” I say with a forced laugh. “I’ll get over myself. Now can you let go of my arm?”
He pulls me in closer. His breath stinks and makes me want to gag. “You’re so pathetic. That’s the irony. You do know what irony is, right?”
I struggle to free myself. “Of course I know what irony is. I’m in honor’s English. But so are you. We’re both smart, okay? Can’t we just leave it at that?’
His grip tightens. “You think you’re so superior.”
Now I’m getting mad. I raise my voice. “Reggie, seriously, let me go.”
But he’s a lot stronger than I am, and instead of releasing me, he pulls harder on my arm. “In a minute, you big baby,” he sneers. “First I have something to say.”
I’m still trying to escape, when all of a sudden I hear another voice come from behind.
“Hey, Reggie. If you have to hold on to her so tight, it means you should let go.”
I turn and see that the voice belongs to Monty Bricker. He just graduated, and we aren’t friends. I know him only because everyone knows him. He was the class valedictorian, student council president, star soccer player, and homecoming king. On the first day of school, whenever teachers called roll and they said “Montgomery Bricker,” he would always say, “Montgomery Bricker is my grandfather. Please call me Monty.”
Now Reggie laughs and releases me, pretending like this is all a big joke. “Sure, Man. We were just playing around.”
Monty shrugs his shoulders and addresses me. “You okay?”
I nod and look at Monty. He’s wearing jeans and a Cure 1987 World Tour t-shirt, his hair is dark and his face is in shadows. And, now that he’s gotten my confirmation of okayness, he turns to Reggie.
“Is it true you broke up with Amanda Kantor?” Monty asks as he takes a swig of his beer.
“Yes. She was getting on my nerves.”
Monty laughs. “I heard she was the one who dumped you.”
Reggie defends himself, and the two of them talk as if I wasn’t there. That’s okay. I’d rather be someplace else, anyway. I walk away without saying anything more to Reggie, and without thanking Monty. What he did was nice, but it was a simple reflex, what any decent person in that situation would do. Now that it’s over, it’s like it never even happened.
It’s not like Monty will ever remember this, or me, anyway.
Chapter 2. 1988 - George H. W. Bush vs. Michael Dukakis
I know I’m not normal.
There are signs everywhere. First, most seventeen-year-old girls spend lots of time making their hair big and poufy, unconcerned that they’re depleting the ozone with all the aerosol hairspray they use. I’m constantly taming my hair down; if I d
on’t, it will turn into a big, tangled, light brown afro. Second, at school most people have no problem talking to each other, joking around, and thinking up clever things to say. But if they’re called upon in class, they freeze up. I’m exactly the opposite. And third, I actually read books during summer vacation. I’m not talking novels either; I’m talking big, dense history books that I find on the dustiest shelves in the library.
At first I didn’t notice there was anything different about me. Then I started junior high, and I hung up a poster of Robert Kennedy in my locker. My mom and I had watched a mini-series about him, and that’s when I fell in love. He was so principled, so handsome, so witty, and sooo powerful. I went to a flea market that sold old photographs, and spent three dollars on a reprint of a Life magazine cover featuring RFK. And I hung it up in my locker.
My mom had her doubts.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather hang that in your room, Lucy? Your dad could frame it for you and mount it to the wall.”
“No thanks,” I told her. My locker door had been bare for too long. All the cool kids had something to decorate their space. I was proud I finally had something too.
But when I heard snickering from a couple of girls two doors down (who incidentally had taped up images of Duran Duran and Bon Jovi) I knew I had gotten it wrong, at least by junior high standards.
I can’t help it. My idols are those who lead with compassion. It’s about as uncool as you can get, but to me it makes a lot more sense than worshipping rock stars like Milli Vanilli. I bet people would worship them even if they couldn’t sing at all.
Now I’m a senior in high school, and I’m counting down the days to graduation. It’s only the end of October, so it’s a long count. However, today I’m walking to school with a smile on my face because memories of last night’s debate are still floating through my mind. Lloyd Bentsen really gave it to Dan Quayle. Bentsen knew ahead of time that Quayle would compare himself to JFK. So, when the opportunity came, Bentsen seized it. He was so calm, standing at his podium, simultaneously looking and speaking down to Quayle.
“Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy, I knew Jack Kennedy, Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy.”
The crowd roared, applauded, and some cried out in protest. Quayle got all huffy and told Bentsen that his remarks were uncalled for. My mom and I, sitting comfortably in our living room, laughed our heads off.
I think of this as I approach the front doors of my school, and I’m still grinning. Then I see Reggie Hanson, and my grin disappears. His dark hair is hanging in his eyes, and his Levi 501s are ripped at the knee. Even though most guys look similar, somehow he has an extra air of rebellion.
“Hey Lucy!” he shouts. “Wanna hang out after school?” I don’t look over at him. He yells louder. “How about lunch time! Between third and fourth period?” I keep my head down, and he laughs at my cowardice. “Come on,” he jeers, “you know you want to!”
My cheeks burn and I walk away, the laughter of Reggie and his buddies echoing in my ears. Reggie has been teasing me since third grade.
I’m not really sure why he hates me so much. The only reason I can think of is back then, when we were voting for class officers, I decided I wanted to be class reporter. Reggie wanted to be president, but he lost to Gerry Presscott. The next “election” (which consisted of the class raising their hands and voting) was for vice president, so Reggie ran for that too, but he lost to Margaret Close. And so it went for secretary and playground monitor, until finally we got to the last election, which was for class reporter. Reggie just wanted to win something, but I had dreams of one day being a journalist, and I was sure this was the perfect beginning to my writing career.
Reggie and I had to wait outside while people voted. I was sure he’d win, because there were more boys in the class than girls, and I figured all the boys would vote for him. But when we were asked back in I found out I had won, unanimously.
Shortly after that his bullying attacks began.
At first he would kick me whenever he was behind me in the lunch line. But that wasn’t the worst Reggie did. Once at recess, when I was hanging from the monkey bars, he ran up beneath me and pulled my skirt down. Everybody saw my Strawberry Shortcake underwear, and it took the rest of the school year for me to get over the embarrassment.
In junior high he would sneak up to me while I was standing at my locker and snap my bra strap. “Hey, training bra!” he’d shout. “It takes more than wishful thinking to grow a pair of tits!”
Five minutes after he walked away I would come up with the perfect response to his abuse, like “Hey Reggie, it takes more than idiotic behavior to develop a personality!” But when the abuse was actually being inflicted I was paralyzed, unable to defend myself, and hating that I’m such a wimp.
Then in eighth grade I made friends with Sharon Williams. She wasn’t afraid of standing up to Reggie, even if I was. When I confided in her about his years of torment, she came up with a plan.
“Have a squirt gun in your locker,” she said. “The next time he comes up and snaps your bra strap, spray him with it, but do it in the crotch so it will look like he peed his pants.”
I took her advice and had my spray gun ready, so when he inevitably came up behind me I grabbed it, whirled around, and in my adrenaline-filled confusion, threw the gun at his crotch rather than spraying him.
It had the desired effect.
The water gun ejaculated upon contact, so not only was Reggie hit in the soft stuff with some fairly hard plastic traveling at a fairly fast speed, he got a fairly large water stain in the crotch of his khaki pants.
Sharon and I laughed about it for days, and every time she saw Reggie she’d yell, “Hey, Hanson, toilet trained yet?”
It was enough to make him choose somebody else to pick on for a few years. Then Sharon, who is a year ahead of me, graduated, and I was without my role model.
Reggie can smell my fear.
I walk into school, find my locker, and deposit my blue felt coat inside. All I have now is a mirror hanging in my locker door, and I check my reflection. My hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and tendrils are already escaping to form into renegade curls. I smooth them back, and pick up my textbook for first hour. As I close my locker door, my sort-of-friend Anna, who just moved here and is a fellow member of Young Democrats, comes rushing up to me.
“Did you watch the debate last night?” I ask.
“Oh my God! Yes!” Anna cries. She grabs my arm. Anna does everything with a sense of urgency. “It was unbelievable! Lloyd Bentsen was amazing! I wish he was the one running for president!”
I nod my head, but I don’t really agree. Commentators said similar things on the news this morning, but as much as I enjoyed his moment last night, I don’t think Bentsen would make a good president. Actually, I don’t even like Bentsen that much; we just don’t see eye to eye on gun control.
I’m about to explain this to Anna when I feel a tight hand grip my shoulder.
It’s Reggie.
He looms over me. Most people loom over me, since I’m not even 5’2”. But his height difference, like everything else, seems menacing.
“Lucy, why’d you walk away? I thought we had something. You’re not breaking up with me, are you?” He jeers, then he pushes me a little and walks away.
“What was that about?” Anna asks. Her voice becomes low and conspiratorial. “You’re not going out with him, are you?”
“He was just kidding around.” I start walking towards my first hour class, and Anna follows me. Luckily the turnoff is immediate, so I easily escape without having to explain anything more. “See you later.”
She waves goodbye.
My day goes by fairly smoothly after that. Seniors are allowed to leave campus for lunch, so later I walk to the nearby convenience store, buy a Snapple and a bag of pretzel cheese Combos, and sit outside and enjoy the Indian summer day. Someone close by in a car has U2 cranked, which is on
e of the few popular bands I can recognize. I enjoy the solitude of sitting by myself and listening to good music.
By evening I’m home and in a good mood once again. That’s partly because there was a letter from Sharon waiting for me. It’s full of happy news about classes, roommates and boys, and the end of the letter was the best part.
Lucy, college is so much better than high school! Just think, in less than a year you’ll be in college too, and you won’t have to deal with all those idiots every day. Believe me, you will be SO MUCH HAPPIER! So hang in there, the best is totally yet to come.
I decide she’s right. My days of high school and Reggie Hanson are numbered, and coming up is what will probably be the best time of my life. All I have to do is wait it out.
The next morning Reggie is outside the school doors again, hanging with his buddies, but he either doesn’t see me, or he doesn’t care, and I walk away from him unscathed.
The day goes by pleasantly enough,
Then comes third hour. I sit in my Advanced Civics and Modern Government class, the one class I share with Reggie. He sits towards the back, and I sit in the front row, so at least proximity isn’t an issue. But I can feel his eyes on my back, and I bury my head into my textbook, hoping that his glare is a figment of my imagination.
Still, it’s my favorite class. Mrs. Fischer, a fiery Asian lady in her mid-fifties, is an awesome teacher and she loves to engage us in political discussions. It is one arena in which I shine.
“What did you all think of the debate?” she asks. Yesterday she had a sub, so it’s our first chance to discuss it.
Nobody says anything.
She crosses her arms and peers at us over her glasses. “Who watched it?” Anna, myself, Reggie, and about a dozen other people raise their hands. Mrs. Fischer smiles. “Wonderful,” she says. “So what are your thoughts?”
“I loved it,” says Anna. “Bentsen totally gave it to Quayle. It was classic.”
“So what?” demands Reggie. “Everybody knows the vice-president debate doesn’t mean anything. Bush is still going to win.”
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