History of the Trap: November Harvest Part 3

3

Under 1,000.

That council meeting the first week in November; that is what stood out most sharply with me.  Our count was now 983.  There were a number of losses, due to accidents, illness, and even a few disappearances.  The loss that hit me the most was the one murder.  I could hardly focus on the rest.  It was her loss that I could not stop thinking of.

There were no losses among the student council rep attending the meeting.  We were the same group we had been since the beginning.  From my class, attending the meeting with me was Wilbur Jones, still carrying an air of superiority about him.  He was both a top athlete and academic, close enough to the top that he might have wound up as our class valedictorian.  He had a particular dislike for me, although I wasn't quite sure why.

One of the two senior representatives attending was Jan Houser, without question the destined valedictorian of her class. She was tall (well, taller than me), had short blond hair, and a pronounced mole on her left cheek near her eye.  It was considered by most as a beauty enhancement.  She was polite to me, at least the rare times we interacted.  The other senior representative was David Deneau, a scholar/athlete like Wilbur Jones, but the flip side in attitude and temperament. There was no arrogance coming from David.  In many ways, I felt like David represented the very best of us. And sometimes, in the trap, that was a very dangerous thing to be.

The sophomores were represented by Donald Granite and Lindsey Starn. Donald was a younger brother of Mark Granite, our track superstar and boyfriend of Morgan Tigh.  Donald had not much to recommend himself other than being Mark's brother, but that was all a star struck electorate needed to vote him on to student council.  He had contributed nothing at our meetings, and seemed bored by the whole proceedings.  Lindsey I knew very little about at the time, other than she was a cute, petite blonde who listened intently and rarely spoke, except to positively affirm some of the administration's suggestions.  She smiled at me occasionally, so at least she knew I was there.

The freshman had two representatives as well; Josina Hernandez, the sister of senior cheerleader Rosie Hernandez, and Allen Northman, a slightly chubby boy whom I did not know well.

My father's side, unlike ours, had suffered some serious losses, most prominently two of his closest friends and allies, Vice Principal Oscar Crowler and Guidance Counselor Joe Oliver.  Mr. Larry Tate, Vice Principal in charge of discipline was there.  He didn't always see eye to eye with my father, so there was clearly more tension in the room than there used to be. 

Mr. Jerry Bruchow was central to our meeting.  The biology teacher had been at the forefront of our agricultural and tunnel projects.  He might occasionally disagree with my father, but they had great respect and admiration for each other, so they were usually able to smoothly reconcile differences.

A new figure at the meetings was Mr. Charles Stein, a math teacher who had been elevated to Vice Principal, taking over many of the responsibilities of Mr. Crowler.  He was selected by a committee of select administrators and staff, and it was unclear at this point whether he was more closely aligned with my father or Mr. Tate.  And yes, those divisions would grow to be more important in the coming months.

"The garden we have planted has exceeded all our expectations.  Fruits and vegetables and grains are all germinating at a rate I can't explain.  Even the seasonal expectations can be thrown out the window.   Whatever the reason, by the end of this month, we should be able to supplement our foodstores in a significant way.  In addition to the raspberries, strawberries and potatoes we were first getting, we are close to harvest for corn, cucumbers, blueberries, navy beans, broccoli and onions," proudly spoke Mr. Bruchow. 

My father smiled.  "And we are grateful to you, Mr. Bruchow, that you had a large inventory of seeds to help kickstart this cornucopia.  And we owe much to you and your student volunteers who have worked so hard to make this garden a success."

"And we are grateful to you, Clive, for your expertise and advice as well.  Many of your ideas have helped contribute to its success," said Mr. Bruchow, calling my Dad by the more familiar Clive instead of Mr. Martin, as was Mr. Bruchow's tendency.

Mr. Tate had enough of the mutual self-congratulation society.  "That is good news, but we also have to continue to make sure our foodstores have been secured.  We need to continue to guard and ration the supplies we've found in the tunnel."

"You want to increase the size of the security team?" asked my father,

"Yes, I think it's necessary.  We've had several encounters with unsupervised students trying to break in down there," answered Mr. Tate.

"I don't know if we have the staff personnel to maintain a large presence down there," my father mused.

Wilbur Jones decided to put his two cents in.  "Sir, I know how we can supplement the security down there."  All eyes shifted to Wilbur.  Well, except for Donald Granite, who was engrossed in examining his fingernails.  "You can supplement the security staff with students."

Most of the administration at the meeting looked uncomfortable with the notion.  "Hear me out," continued Wilbur.  "I think some trustworthy students to help enforce the tunnel areas, under strict adult supervision, would be a great help, and a confidence booster to the students.  It would help make them feel more a part of things."

"I'm still not satisfied that the tunnels are completely safe.  I don't want any more student casualties down there," reasoned my father.

"Maybe," considered Mr. Charles Stein, the new Vice Principal.  "But I don't think it's healthy to always keep the students on the sidelines.  We need for them to feel like they are a part of things."

Freshman Allan Northman cleared his throat and said, "The history of deploying civilian militias has not always turned out well.  They can sometimes take over in unexpected ways, or enforce the more negative, strong-arm elements of civilization." Okay, I may have to start more attention to this kid.

My father considered it for a moment.  "All right.  Mr. Tate, let's look into the possibility of adding a few student volunteers to the security staff.  I'll have to think about the tunnel areas, but maybe they can help in other ways."

Mr. Tate hesitated, as if he were trying to figure out how this could benefit him.  "I'll take a look at it.  But I reserve the right to review the applicants and have final say on who is selected."

You could almost visually see my Dad's feathers get ruffled.  "You can have final say, pending my review of the selections."  This was to say, Mr. Tate would NOT have final say.

Mr. Tate slowly nodded his acceptance.

A second football game was discussed.  It was decided to concentrate on other events for right now, and save that possibility for down the road.  It was even considered that four teams might be organized instead of just two, with teams sharing uniforms.  The basketball tournament was such a success, that it inclined some to see if football could emulate that.

The play Charley's Aunt would be performed later in the month, and the marching band was planning a festive Christmas performance for December.  There was much discussion of a November Harvest scheduled for Thanksgiving, along with a Harvest Dance.  I didn't want to hear about any dance.  I didn't really want to go to a dance ever again.

Mr. Tate mentioned that it might be a good idea to have student elections again, that those of us on Student Council had already served several months longer than we would have otherwise.  My father was amenable, and a date was set in mid-December. The only objections came from Wilbur Jones, who might not have been concerned he could be re-elected.  I'm not sure why he was insecure about it.  As far as I knew, he was as popular as ever.  As for me, it was hard to care.  I was pretty sure I didn't even want to run again.  My only reason for trying to stay on would be to help back up my father in an increasingly hostile environment.

The meeting went on and on, and it became harder and harder for me to stay focused.  I looked around the room, and remembered that this was the office where I had sneaked in with Lisa to consume the last bottle of cola, and it was where I first kissed her.

When the meeting was adjourned, I did not hear it.  I sat in my chair oblivious to the movement around me.  My reverie was broken by a light tap to my shoulder.  It was Lindsey Starn.  "Hey, Lance," she spoke quietly to me.  "Meeting's over.  You might want to go, unless you want to stay and talk to your Dad."

I looked at my Dad.  He seemed kind of isolated, still at the end of the conference table, as everyone else poured out.  I thought for a second about staying, but then I was afraid if I did, I would break down.  "Thanks, Lindsey. I'll go on in a second."

She put her hand on my shoulder again.  "Okay, sure.  I just wanted to tell you how...."  It was almost like she was starting to say one thing, thought better of it, and switched topics. "...how...much I enjoy Sands of Loren.  You're a real good writer, Lance.  It helps give me and many others something to look forward to."

I was at a loss as how to respond.  I just nodded appreciatively, and she left.

I got up, shakily, overwhelmed by my memories of Lisa.  I could see us, on the floor together, reaching out to each other, embracing, kissing, caressing.

How long would I feel this way?  How long, Doctor Duncan?

I tell you what.  When it stops, I'll let you know.