THE STUDENT COUNCIL

The Wednesday night campfire had been Google’s idea. His long-standing complaint that nothing ever happened in Oil City was no longer valid. Now everything was happening, and all at once. The four friends needed to stay on the same page, or at least keep reading from the same book.

Google selected a location beside Oil Creek, the very spot where a girl named Mindy introduced him to manhood the summer before last. William brought beer. Paul produced marijuana that Amy had discreetly slipped into his pocket. Once the fire was burning brightly, they sat comfortably around it.

“I’ve talked to lots of reporters,” the Barn Door said, lighting a joint, “but only about football. Now they want my thoughts about education! Too funny, right? I wish I could say, ‘Talk to Coach Westin.’”

William spent much of the day being interviewed too. “Just refer them all to me,” he offered. “I don’t mind at all.”

Amy studied the chief council spokesman, the evolving celebrity. He’d been a hit on Good Morning America, where he was pretty much the whole show. Gwen Simpson and Trisha Berman mostly nodded and smiled. “You’ve been great, William. Oil City’s proud of you. Try to remember to praise others like you do Miss Berman and that Cornell professor. Let the school board and administration share the spotlight.”

The spotlight, Google thought. Strange how things worked. Amy wrote the screenplay. He was her technical director. William was just an actor who recited his lines and got all the fecognition. But like Amy said, the president was doing well. He had real acting talent. “That’s right,” Google chuckled. “Remember to thank all the little people. You’re going to have plenty of chances. Our website is full of requests. National Public Radio wants to schedule an interview right away.”

“I prefer television,” William said, exhaling some Biddy Early. “I never heard of national radio or whatever.”

“Don’t go Little Billy on us,” Amy scolded. “NPR has good listeners, mostly thoughtful and well-educated. Do that interview together with Berman and let her do some of the talking.”

The teacher was a sore subject for William. She failed to come around in New York, at least the way he hoped. Why did she insist on treating him like a little brother? “Fine. I’ll do it.” He took a big swallow of Miller High Life. “By the way, Amy, how are your Samaritan Apple Pie sales coming along? Maybe we should be calling them Amy’s Humble Pies.”

Google took his turn with the joint. “Hey, six pies in four days isn’t that bad. She matched the council’s entire earnings from last year!”

William’s laugh was more like a cackle. “Two of the sales were to Paul! One was to Berman and another to my dad.” He raised his beer can in a toast. “Here’s to Amy! The marketing genius!”

A week ago, Amy may have laughed along, poked fun at herself. Now she bit her lip. Everything else was going as anticipated. The Samaritan merchandise sales were going to be a monster hit. She may have dismissed the pie idea as an excusable error in judgment, if William hadn’t teased her. “It’s too early to say how the pies will go. We’ll see.”

“You said hundreds,” William cackled again, feeling the hardy effect of the weed. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Amy, they aren’t as good as your mother’s,” Paul pointed out. “Slightly under baked or something. Maybe the apples aren’t sliced small enough.”

“And they baked three dozen,” William laughed still again. “They might as well give them away.”

Watching the boys pass the weed around, Amy saw a marketing plan take shape. She broke into a grin. “It ain’t over ’til this fat lady sings.”

“You ain’t hardly even plump anymore,” William pronounced with Biddy Early abandon. “You were a babe at the game Friday night!”

Goggle stared at Amy. She’d always been a babe. Both smart and beautiful. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

Thoughts of Friday night reminded him of Fred Waltz. “How could I forget this?” Google exclaimed. “Cow Pie came by my house earlier tonight. He said he wanted to pick up the laptop I promised.” He told the other boys about the challenge that he’d extended to the new boy. “Standing right on my doorstep, he recited the names of all the states alphabetically. All the years of statehood too. I took him downstairs to my computer room and made him repeat it all again. He had it all right except for two of the years!”

Amy clapped. “I hope you still gave him the computer.”

“Of course. How many people could do that? One in a billion?”

William crushed his beer can in his hands. “That ain’t right! When a guy’s given extra between his legs, it’s supposed to be subtracted from his brain.”

Paul shoved William and laughed. “If that were true, I’d be dumber than shit.”

When Amy entered the kitchen the next morning, she found her mother at the table, gazing out the back window. Why was she still home at nine o’clock? Then she noticed her father’s truck in the driveway as well. “What’s going on?” Amy asked. “Why aren’t you and dad at work?”

“Your father isn’t feeling well,” Emily said without turning. “There’s a problem with work.”

Amy hurried to the window so she could face her mother. She’d been crying. “What is it?” Emily shook her head and stared at the floor. “Please, tell me.”

“It’s the new school. We can’t get the contract.”

“Dad said it was sole source! Of course we have it.”

Emily lifted her empty coffee cup and tried to drink from it. Amy rushed to pour her more. “Mother, please!”

“It’s about a surety bond. You wouldn’t understand.”

Did her mother think she was stupid? Performance bonds were required for any publicly-funded building project. It was the law. “Bonding has never been a problem for Westin Construction. Is it too expensive this time? Is that it?”

Her mother raised her head in surprise. “They teach you about bonding in high school?”

“In economics,” Amy fibbed. “Tell me the problem.”

“We can’t get bonding. The project’s too big and our finances are too weak. Westin Construction’s has lots of debt now. Nobody will work with us. Too much risk.”

Amy paced the floor, trying to think. Should she have seen this coming? Had she assumed too much? “Try not to worry,” she finally said. “This will work out. I know it will.”

She left her disconsolate mother and pulled out her phone. Paul Barner wasn’t at the mall working. He was home resting a bad knee. The housekeeper answered the landline. “I’d like to speak to Paul, please.”

“I have instructions to wake him at ten,” she announced. “Not a minute sooner.”

“I understand. I’ll be ringing your doorbell at a minute after ten.”

After a long run along the river, Amy stood sweating at the Barner house. Big Seven Three himself opened the huge front door. “There’s kind of an emergency,” she said. “Can we take a quick walk together?”

Paul stepped out in a T-shirt and shorts. “What’s the deal?” he asked, calm as always.

She led him across the street before starting. “You know my dad was offered the contract to build the new high school, right?”

“Yeah, he’s the best.”

Amy’s throat was suddenly dry. She was trapped in a corner, knew what she had to do, but it was still difficult. Paul had always been so good to her, even back in Little League. He was a giant among dwarfs on the diamond, capable of throwing a fastball by everyone. Whenever Amy stepped up to the plate to face him, however, he always tossed her one off-speed pitch, gave her that single chance. She knew the changeup would come, and patiently waited for it. She hated to abuse such loyalty. “Westin Construction has run into a problem,” she said hoarsely.

“What’s that?”

“The company has had difficulty the last few years. Because of that, my father can’t get the insurance the school district requires. It’s called a surety bond. He can’t get the contract without it.”

“Does he need to borrow money? I could talk to my dad.”

While most Oil City residents assumed that Big Ed Barner was a billionaire, Paul assured his close friends that the wealth was a more modest two hundred million. Ed had acquired his fortune the old-fashioned way - by inheritance - and managed it well. Two divorces barely put a dent in it.

“Westin Construction doesn’t really need money,” Amy continued. “The company needs more like a sponsor. My father needs your father to stand behind him, that’s all. With one phone call, your dad can fix everything. He could get a bond approved.”

Paul smiled and nodded. “I’ll take care of it then. I’m sure my dad will help. Anything else?”

“It needs to happen quickly. If your father will call mine, I’m sure they can work it out.”

“I’ll talk to him as soon as he gets home from the golf course. I’m starving. Want to come in for breakfast?”

Amy wrapped her arms halfway around her friend and pushed a cheek into his belly. Would Big Ed say no to his son? She hoped not. “Call me right away, Paul. Gotta run.”

She turned and broke into a jog, yelling, “Beat Meadville! Tomorrow night!”

Customer response to Leo’s new product was positive, just as his wife predicted. He no longer smoked himself, not with three kids to consider. At least one parent needed a clear head at all times.

Only ten and a half ounces had left the Wiener Wagon since Sunday, but things were sure to pick up. Nature would run its course without him calling customers to advertise. That was too much like work.

Music announced the arrival of a phone call. The calling number was familiar by now. “It’s only Thursday, Joan. You said I’d have peace ’til Sunday.”

“Called to brighten your day.”

“It was bright enough, thank you.”

“I want to discuss some charity work. Have you noticed the kids have started their own high school?”

“Humbug. I liked the old one.”

“Don’t be a scrooge. We’re going to donate a hundred and fifty ounces to a good cause.”

“We have an awful connection. Never repeat that again.”

“Just listen. It’s advertising, goodwill and charity. You’ll let people know that for a charitable donation of two hundred and fifty dollars, they get a huge Samaritan apple pie from Venango Bakery. When they bring you their receipt, they collect an ounce of Biddy Early for being good citizens. Your treat.”

“My treat? No. My ass!”

“Imagine it! A pie and an ounce and it’s all tax deductible. You’ll be seen as a saint. You’ll win over every customer in Oil City. And you’ll be doing it in the name of education.”

“This is all a joke to you. I see that. I have a family to support.”

“And a community to support. Think of the big picture. In your heart, Leo, you’re a caring guy. You used to sponsor a Little League team.” Amy knew that all too well. As an eleven-year-old, she had played on the Wiener Wagon team. The boys all teased her about being the only player without one.

“A few hundred for Little League, sure. Forty-five thousand for the damn high school? I’d rather donate a testicle.”

“It wouldn’t cost you that much. We’d split it fifty-fifty, but you’d get a hundred percent of the credit.”

“Speakin’ of a hundred, there’s a hundred people standin’ in line for hot dogs. Get back to me in a year or two.” He shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Joan of Goddam Arc,” he shouted. “Total nut job!”

An hour and two customers later, Leo was still stewing. Before answering his phone, he checked the caller ID. His old lady. “Morning, dear. You’re up early today. It’s not even noon.”

“I just got off the phone with our partner Joan.”

The blood rushed out of Leo’s head. He staggered from the counter to the driver’s seat and sat down. Joan dragged his wife into it? “She’s crazy. You know that, right?”

“Crazy smart,” Wendy Sykes chuckled. “And a good Samaritan.”

Leo knew he was screwed. His wife was a sugar bun, but a very soft touch. He both loved her and feared her because of it. “Wendy, she wants to give our product away.”

“Her product, Leo. When did it become ours? You can be such a tightass.”

“This tightass pays the damn bills! If we give away that much, it’s gonna be a long time before we can sell any at all.”

“Not true,” Wendy said. “It’s a great way to capture the market. I’ll get the word out about the pies and the donation. You better go pick up enough weed to cover it. There’s going to be a stampede.”

Leo sighed. “I’ll need more hot dogs too.”

“Want to hear something funny?” his wife asked.

“Funnier than what you just did to me?”

“Much. You know that Australian guy who does the Noble Toyota commercials? Joan told me he’s a total fake. It’s all an act. He’s from Boston or somewhere.”

“What the hell?”

“Exactly.”