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.
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