THE STUDENT COUNCIL

As she did every Monday afternoon during football season, Amy led Paul through her Pearly Gate and to the home’s grand kitchen. The rest of the football team was on the practice field. Paul had Mondays off since his sophomore season.

Amy knew that, given a choice, he’d be sweating with his teammates. The extra rest was precautionary, a decision by the coach, his doctor, and primarily his father. He’d been on the field for every play of every game his entire career, always double-teamed at the very least.

Already an Oil City legend, Seven Three still had his senior season ahead of him. As a freshman, he’d been six-five and two-forty. His fighting weight was now three hundred. Spectators that used to focus on quarterbacks were now fans of line play. The Barn Door was the left tackle on offense and the left end on defense, a one-man demolition crew on either side of the ball. Most locals presumed his name would hang in the NFL Hall of Fame one day, ideally on a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey. They also assumed he would attend college at Penn State, where his father played defensive end forty years ago. For Oil City residents, Saturday drives to home games at State College would be three hours each way – barely an imposition.

For Amy and her parents, attending high school games together had become a ritual. When the team didn’t play at home, the Westins were part of a traffic parade to Meadville or Bradford or even Erie. They had traveled to Waterford for the season opener on Friday night.

The Monday pie in the Westin kitchen was another ritual. When Amy’s family moved to Millionaire Row six years ago, they invited all the new neighbors to a Sunday picnic. For young Paul, Mrs. Westin’s cinnamon apple pie inspired love at first bite.

A crisp mound of perfection awaited the teens on a table set with fine china plates, forks on linen napkins, and an antique silver pie server. Amy knew the vase of black-eyed-Susans was intended as a romantic touch. Her mother always took a pie from the oven at two-thirty on autumn Mondays, set the table, and then disappeared until dinnertime.

Amy cut a two-inch sliver and placed it carefully on her plate. Paul sighed and headed for the freezer. He lifted the lid off a carton of Old-Fashioned Vanilla and anxiously took his seat. With fork in hand, he shivered as Amy took away his plate and replaced it with the pie pan itself.

Paul groaned his delight. “The Granny Smiths have to be my very favorite. Did she use those again?”

The hostess nodded. She loved the way he ogled a pie, clearly his favorite view in the world. Hers was the room around her - the twelve-foot ceilings, the ornate crown molding, and the shining hardwood floor.

Admiring the flowers, Amy didn’t begrudge her mother for dreaming. Why wouldn’t any mother see Paul as a great catch for a daughter? He was famous, respected, and full of potential. And his father had more money than the rest of Oil City combined.

None of that mattered to Amy. She was young enough to have a longer wish list, one she was still putting together. Her eventual partner would have the best attributes of each of her three friends: Paul’s humility and work ethic; Google’s curiosity and individuality; and Billy’s good humor about everything that came along. Most importantly, that partner would recognize and appreciate her own unique qualities. When the right person came along, she’d shed twenty pounds in a blink, slather conditioner in her hair, and choose clothing from a closet instead of dresser drawers. She would become Miss Berman.

Instead of chatting today, Amy left Paul to his business and pondered her own. Her parents’ company, Westin Construction, had been the largest contractor in the tri-county area for over a decade. When the price of natural gas took a precipitous dip several years back, the area economy dove with it. Her father had seized the opportunity to buy more equipment from all the failing competition. His storage yard soon overflowed with bulldozers, trucks, cement mixers, excavators, pavers, and every toy a dedicated builder could want. He also took advantage of the “temporary downdraft” by purchasing highway property for a song and building the Allegheny Mall. Cold-hearted locals now called it the Albatross Mall.

Anchored by a ten-year lease to Greenstone Groceries, the mall had spaces for twenty-two additional businesses and parking for three hundred cars. At its peak, four years ago, the mall had only four vacant spaces and sufficient revenue to satisfy the $30,000 monthly mortgage. Then Greenstone went Chapter Eleven, an earthquake that left her father straddling a crack that widened each month. He searched everywhere for a new primary tenant, even offered a year of free rent. There had been no takers. Only two small businesses occupied the entire mall now, and they were begging to get out of their leases.

Amy’s parents never talked finances in her presence. Not knowingly. She caught the news after they retired to their second-story bedroom at night, where they no longer closed the door. Leaning against the wall in the hallway, she heard all the ugly secrets. There were no large construction projects on the horizon, no foreseeable source of cash to stay afloat. Without divine intervention, the end was near.

The answer had come to her a week ago, while lying awake late at night. Two years back, Westin Construction participated in the engineering and design work for a new high school, even prepared the cost estimate. The $32,000,000 project currently ranked twenty-seventh on Pennsylvania’s school priority list. Under normal circumstances, the contract would eventually be awarded to Westin Construction. No question about it. The company built the newest local elementary school seven years ago. On time and on budget. They built another elementary school three years before that. All local hire. A boon to the community. The problem was timing. In three or four years, the time it would take the state to work down the list, there would be no Westin Construction. The company might be history in three or four months. The state’s priority list had to change immediately. The new Oil City Area High School had to leapfrog to the very top.

A catastrophic fire at the existing school would accomplish that. No one would be harmed. Little would be lost, certainly nothing that couldn’t be replaced. The old school was destined for demolition anyway. Seven decades old, it had never been renovated, not really. The personal benefits were obvious: save her parents’ business; save the family; and keep her home.

Her list of selfless benefits continued to grow. The school district and state would benefit from an insurance settlement. Dozens of construction workers would get off unemployment and go back to work. The tired community would get a shot of adrenalin and prosperity. The pluses went on and on.

A single negative weighed heavily against all the good. What if she got caught setting the fire? Over and out. Life down the drain. That thought kept her stomach churning.

And now made her consider the enigmatic Noah Ragsdale. Could he somehow be induced to take part in her plans? Unlike a typical wannabe, Noah had proven himself to be more than a bunch of bullshit bluster. He had followed up his restroom assault by stealing a car two years later. With a small gang of faithful cheering him on, he drove the Jetta down a fifty-foot embankment into Oil Creek - just to prove he could survive the crash. Those with compassion for the stupid and disrespectful were glad that the airbag saved him. There were damn few of them.

Was Noah capable of an act so outlandish as torching a public school? Might that represent a natural regression for the dark-minded boy? She’d have to keep thinking. Taking the matches out of her own hand would be ideal - one less thing to worry about.

With the pie pan empty, Paul eyed the remaining five percent of goodness on Amy’s untouched plate. She raised her fork and slid her tongue across her upper lip. Then she passed him her portion, just like always.

After polishing off the final crumbs, Paul produced a joint from the chest pocket of his T-shirt. Amy led him outside to the private rear patio, screened from neighbors by trellises of hanging ivy. Half of the high school enrollment smoked weed, about the same percentage as the local adult population. Paul lit his with the long butane lighter from beside the charcoal grill. After sitting on a lawn chair that creaked discomfort with the load, he exhaled a cloud and said, “I’m having a problem.”

Amy knew every male in Oil City would gladly trade problems with Paul, but she didn’t laugh or even smirk. She dropped into a chair and waited for details.

When he shook his head, his shoulders moved with it. His neck was too thick to function normally. “I’m losing my love for the game.”

Paul rarely talked football. The subject was usually off limits away from the field, part of his charm. Amy felt honored to be his confidant. “Of course you are,” she said quietly, nodding to the baby-faced giant. “I could see that Friday night.”

He sat straighter, making the aluminum chair cry out again. “You could see it?”

“You were perfect on offense. Great pass protection and run-blocking like always. It’s defense where you’ve lost your spark. Don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault.”

“Not my fault?”

“You’re not the one who makes you line up at left end every down. It’s the coach. The other teams run everything away from you now. Every damn play goes the other way. You should be lining up right over the center. Then you could raise hell on every play, disrupt the whole offense.”

“Amy! That’s brilliant! I could get back to making plays!” His smile quickly drooped. “My father wouldn’t go for it. He’s got me pegged as a left end in college and the pros.”

“I know how your dad is. I’ve also heard him tell everybody you have the talent to play anywhere on the line. All you have to do is make him believe that moving you to the middle is his idea, a way to make All State first team on both offense and defense. How many tackles did you have last week? Only three or four?”

While Paul drifted off into puffing contemplation, Amy’s thoughts shifted back to Noah. She decided the village villain had real potential. And judging character had always been her greatest strength.

With Paul gone, Amy settled into the chore of building dinner. She always had it on the table at six. She planned to serve skillet-fried chicken and gravy, garlic mashed potatoes, and sweet corn on the cob. Unknown to Big Seven Three, a second pie was secure in the oven for dessert.

At quarter to six, Amy watched through a kitchen window as her mother Emily pulled up in her Explorer. Before leaving the car, she flipped down the visor to inspect herself in the mirror. After fluffing her blonde perm and adding gloss to her lips, she shoved the visor back up and headed for the house.

“How was the pie?” she asked, entering through the back door. “Did Paul get his fill?”

“You bet,” Amy nodded. “Ate the whole thing again.”

Emily’s cheeks appeared to be flushed. Her blouse was untucked in back and one of the buttons on her skirt was unfastened. Two explanations came to mind. Her mother had been jumping around in an aerobics class at Forever Fit or test-driving the new Australian car salesman at Noble Toyota. Exercise classes were on Tuesdays and Thursdays. At seven-thirty in the morning.

Emily smiled, while avoiding eye contact. “There was another pie in the oven if you needed it.”

“Five thousand calories were probably enough for him with dinner so close,” Amy said, trying to maintain good humor. She had concluded that her mother was having an affair after Billy’s revelation, but took no pleasure in being right. “Billy told me you’ve been looking at Toyotas.”

Her mother had an explanation ready. “I have a friend who’s looking for a new car and asked for my advice. After checking around, I’m going to recommend a Honda.”

Amy wasn’t about to launch an inquisition. She knew why her parents stopped closing their bedroom door over a year ago. Their romance had died with her father’s spirit. If the new TV commercials for Noble Toyota were any indication, the Aussie was a regular charmer. Billy’s father had been clever to feature the most unique voice and presence in Oil City. Still, Amy had two best friends in the world. Her mother and father shared equal standing. Her father would be crushed if he knew, more than he was already.

Amy hoped her mother had gotten her subtle message: It’s a small town. People are watching.

Shortly after dinner, Amy rolled her red Schwinn out of the garage. Most kids her age had a driver’s license, but she felt no urgency to sit behind a wheel. She had nowhere to go that two tires couldn’t handle. Besides, adding her as a driver would increase the family’s insurance cost.

The Riverfront Hotel was only ten blocks away. Amy nodded to a yawning desk clerk as she walked through the lobby, heading for a guest telephone on the wall. She punched in the high school principal’s home number.

Norman Johnson’s wife answered and summoned him. “This is Norman.”

Amy scowled and spoke in a shrill blast. “I was picking up my daughter after school and saw that awful Ragsdale boy! Since when can students look like that? He’s a freak with that hair!”

The principal produced a disarming chuckle. “Kids come up with some wild looks these days, don’t they?”

“Not in our school. We have rules about distractions like that. The dress code is right there on the school district website. I suggest you read it.”

Norman cleared his throat with a cough. “We try to be flexible in applying it. That code is thirty years old.”

“Who’s we? The school board makes policy and it’s your job to enforce it. Let me read.” Amy opened a folded sheet of paper. “Any dress or hairstyle that is considered contrary to good hygiene, distractive, or disruptive in appearance, or detrimental to the educational environment or the public image of the school, will not be permitted.”

“I’m sorry,” he said politely. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it! You think I’m going to let you gossip about me? Get my daughter in trouble with the bad kids? You’ll meet me at the next school board meeting ... me and a hundred other parents that are outraged by this!”

After a moment of silence, the principal responded, “There won’t be any need for that. I appreciate your concern and thank you for bringing it to my attention. I’ll take care of it right away. Did your daughter enjoy her first day?”

Amy disconnected. No surprises. Johnson always fuckled.