THE STUDENT COUNCIL

Leo Sykes had his shirt unbuttoned and open. He was catching the last of the hottest sun on a lawn chair next to his Wiener Wagon. Three in the afternoon was a quiet time for hot dog sales. A time to relax. The weather had been warm all summer, and September was rocking it too. Eighty-three degrees! When Leo reached into his cooler for another Coors, he grabbed a handful of ice cubes too. He lifted the waist of his Wrangler jeans and dropped the ice inside, where his own wiener was roasting beneath the dark cotton.

He let his phone sing for a few seconds while he enjoyed the chill between his legs. “I’m at the park by the river. Be here ’til six.”

“It’s Joan, Leo.”

“Joan of Arc! Biddy Early for you to be calling.”

Amy got the joke. He must have been holding on to it, just waiting for her call. Judging by photos on the internet, her plants were a cannabis strain called Biddy Early. “What’s your verdict?”

“My verdict?” he laughed. “State your case first. You looking to wholesale some hot dogs?”

“Well, I don’t want to compete with you. I’d rather you distribute them for me.”

“How much do you have?”

“Maybe two hundred and forty.”

Leo ran some numbers through his head. “All like the ones you served me?”

“The same. Some’s a few years old, but it’s been sealed in mason jars.”

“I can’t pay much for that shit. One of those bags was pretty dried out.”

“Really? Some of your customers tried it and said you’ve never sold anything half as good. And that was the oldest stuff.”

Leo laughed half-heartedly. His wife and a few of her friends already polished off both of the quarter-ounce bags. All the old lady could talk about was getting more. “I’ll tell you where to drop it off. After I have a look-see, I’ll make you an offer. You say there’s about fifteen pounds?”

“Two hundred and forty pounds, Leo.”

He was tempted to cut off the conversation. Hadn’t she been talking ounces? He rarely bought more than ten pounds at a time from his supplier. It took over a month to move that. Was he being set up or something? “I’m afraid you’re out of my league, Joan of Arc.”

“How can that be? I’m not asking for a dime up front. You’ll do nothing but make money.”

Leo knew he had to at least listen. If someone else hit the local streets with that Biddy Early, he was done. Customer loyalty went only so far. The better product always prevailed. If the aged stuff was sealed in a bag with some iceberg lettuce for a few days, it would smoke almost like new. “Just tell me your story.”

“It’s like this: the marijuana was a gift from a home grower. Most is stored in sealed mason jars, two ounces in each. There’s a hundred and thirty-one cases. You’ll need your truck to carry it all. Maybe a couple trips. Do you have a safe place to store it?”

“Just go on,” Leo repeated.

“There are fifty full-grown plants that have to be harvested too. At least I presume they’re mature. What did you think about that branch? Was it ripe or whatever?”

Leo realized he was talking to a rank amateur. Somehow that was reassuring. “The plant was getting close. Another week or two wouldn’t hurt.”

“Well, it needs to be harvested right away. That’s just the way it is. If you’ll agree to pick up the jars and cut down all the plants, I’ll give you directions. The place is remote and deserted. You won’t have any problems being seen or anything.”

“Right.” Leo answered. “Bring it to me yourself if it’s so easy.”

“If you’d rather I do everything myself, I might as well sell it myself too. If you don’t want to be my partner, just say so.”

Leo figured his wife could process the plants at her parents’ farm. They were retired, living in Florida, and the place was sitting empty only fifteen miles away. He could store the jars there too. “Describe this partnership.”

“Even split. You sell it and give me half.”

“You forgot the part about why I should trust a complete stranger.”

“The way I see it, I’m the one that’s doing all the trusting. I don’t even know where you’re going to take it. I don’t want to know.”

“Okay. So why do you trust me?”

“Because you’re a good citizen, a man with roots and a reputation to preserve.”

The chill in Leo’s crotch moved up his back. Was that some kind of threat? Who was this Joan of Arc? Then again, maybe she was just being honest. He was a damn good citizen. He paid property tax like everybody else. “Where’s this place you want me to go?”

“Do you agree to hold it all until we’ve talked again?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“About twenty feet behind your truck there’s a park bench. Next to that is a trash receptacle. You’ll find a white envelope inside, right on top. It says ‘Joan’ on it. Go and get it.”

Leo recovered the envelope and opened it. A Google map and a key were inside. He looked at the spot that was marked by a star, then busted a smile. The location was barely a mile from his in-laws’ farm! Small world. It was the Waltz place. Maybe that crazy bastard hadn’t been so crazy. “What’s the key open?” he asked.

“The back door to the house. The door to the basement is in the kitchen. You’ll want to take a light. The power’s turned off.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“Just watch out for thorns around that big patch behind the house. That’s where all the plants are growing.”

There was risk, Leo figured, but not much. In exchange for a few ounces, he could get a couple of the local policemen to play lookout for him, guys he went to school with at Oil City High. It was a shame about the old school. A damn shame.

Emily Westin texted her daughter at five p.m. Your father and I won’t be home for dinner. Eating out.

Amy judged that as both good news and bad. Dining out together was a positive, a step in the right direction. On the other hand, “your father” struck Amy as an ice cold reference by her mother, the furthest thing from “Grant” or “Dad.” During most of Amy’s lifetime, her mother had always used one of the two. On her father’s part, it was always “Em” or “Mom.”

Twenty minutes later, while Amy reviewed messages on the student council’s Facebook page, a Pizzarama delivery arrived. Why did mother think salads were right for her, and that her daughter should be scarfing pizza? That had been the old Amy. So last week. She put the unopened box in the refrigerator. When her mother noticed that the medium pizza was untouched, she might get the message.

According to the antique clock on the kitchen wall, William’s speech would be recorded in half an hour. It would be posted not long after. As much as she wanted to listen to him recite her words in person, her game plan prohibited any exposure. She had to keep her distance. Remain invisible.

Inspired by her refusal of pepperoni and cheese, Amy opted for another run. According to YourPerfectBody.com, which analyzed physiques based on submitted photos and measurements, her ideal weight was a hundred and twenty-one. A few days of fasting already trimmed four pounds from her starting figure of a hundred and thirty-eight.

Oil City wasn’t overrun with jogging enthusiasts, but the popularity of the paved path along the river made it seem so. Because Westin Construction laid the blacktop several years ago, Amy studied the surface as she loped along, inspecting for cracks or crumbling at the edges. The path was still like new. As her father explained it, there were three secrets to a perfect application: a well-prepared base; a thoroughly blended mix of the stone aggregate and liquid asphalt; and two coats of sealer. The second coat made all the difference.

After being passed by a handful of speedsters, Amy tried to keep up with a chicken-legged woman in her sixties. Looking ahead, puffing hard, she suddenly stopped breathing altogether. Dressed in familiar powder blue and white, Trisha Berman was approaching. The third-best miler on her high school track team, according to Google, she seemed to glide above the bike path.

Amy wondered how Trisha was handling her temporary dismissal as council advisor. One way or another, she would get the teacher reinstated. Someone had to make things right in Oil City.

Trisha appeared to be daydreaming as she drew close, her body on autopilot. When she flew by without stopping, Amy called out to her. “Hey!”

Her teacher glanced back and put on the brakes. “Hey right back! I didn’t know you were a runner, Amy. I didn’t even see you.”

“Are you okay?” her student asked, retreating to join her. “William told me they tried to take the council away from you.”

“More than tried. The superintendent gave me the ax.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Trisha seemed to consider the offer before nodding. “I would.”

“Let’s go down by the river,” Amy suggested. “We can skip a few stones.”

The Allegheny was low, normal for September. Small stones were scattered all along the bank. Amy picked out a flat piece of shale and side armed it out across the smooth surface. She counted seven splashes before it sank.

“You have a great arm,” Trisha observed.

And you have great everything, Amy thought. “I played Little League baseball. My position was catcher.”

“That’s so awesome!” Trisha picked out a similar chunk of rock for herself. When she tried to duplicate her student’s throw, it disappeared in a single splash.

“You throw like a girl,” Amy giggled.

Trisha half-smiled. “Apparently I think like a very little girl. I was so blown away by the initiative of the council that I thought others would be impressed too. I mean, how could they come up with such an interesting plan for their school overnight? It’s remarkable.”

“Those boys are like a three-headed monster,” Amy said. “Google’s the thinker. William’s the talker. And Paul makes everyone pay attention. He’s like a god here. He makes everyone proud to live in Oil City.”

“Well, I hope they don’t give up. I think the town could benefit from exploring options.”

“Where did you go to school?” Amy asked, picking up another piece of suitable skipping shale.

“I was very lucky,” she replied, counting the splashes from Amy’s toss. “That was nine! Very good! Anyway, I went to a school in Erie that’s specifically for college-bound kids. You have to apply for admission. Can you believe that?”

Amy found a grassy spot to sit. “Was it hard to get accepted?”

“I think about forty percent of applicants made it back then. I had a couple close friends that didn’t. That really hurt.”

“Tell me about your family ... growing up,” Amy said.

“Do you want me to braid your ponytail while I talk?”

Amy nodded and Trisha dropped to her knees behind her, pinching her student’s hips between her thighs. While weaving a braid, she talked about her parents, two older brothers, and growing up in “Dreary Erie, the Mistake on the Lake.”

“Erie always seemed like an exciting place to me,” Amy offered. “I love the amusement park and the beaches of Presque Isle. Haven’t been there in a while, but my father spent a lot of time there this past year. He does construction work. There hasn’t been much of that here.”

Amy leaned back into Trisha Berman. She dropped her elbows onto her teacher’s thighs, using them like armrests on a cozy recliner. Cupping her hands around Trisha’s knees, she also felt the softness of the chest beneath her shoulder blades – a luxurious backrest. Amy envisioned herself as the River Queen, sitting on a magnificent throne.

Trisha used the rubber band from Amy’s ponytail to secure the bottom of the braid, then gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “I have to get back to my run now. I’m still stressed over getting punished like that.”

Reluctantly, Amy pushed herself up. “Exactly how did that go down? I’m curious to know.”

Her teacher stood and flexed, shaking the kinks out of her knees. “Nothing to tell, really. The superintendent was there with the principal and a guy from the school board. She said I was done as advisor and asked if I had any questions. She kept looking at Mister Cole, the school board guy, so I assume he was involved. I’m told he pretty much runs the board.”

Amy bit her bottom lip. Used to run the board, she decided. Gary Cole, Mr. Attorney at Law, was officially dead meat. “The student council won’t take your dismissal lightly.”

Trisha frowned. “They need to forget it. I’m not looking to make trouble. At least I still have my teaching job.” She reached out and brushed Amy’s cheek with soft knuckles. “Thanks for listening.”

Amy knew Trisha’s pain would soon be alleviated. William’s speech would cast her as a heroine. And not just in Oil City. Across the nation.

She watched Trisha dash up the bank and scoot off down the path. Now that Amy had a braid like Trisha’s, she wanted an ass like hers too – one that flexed instead of wobbling. With that in mind, she sprinted toward home.

Feeling superhuman energy, Amy ran onward, ever faster. She ignored breathless lungs, cramping muscles, all the aching in her sides. Trisha was her very special friend! She would look out for her and protect her. She would shoot down Gary Cole and his opposition to the new school. Trisha had provided her with ammunition.