THE STUDENT COUNCIL

Watching Cole’s departure, Amy marveled at the sensation overwhelming her. She had felt it once before. At her bedroom window. When she saw flames glow over Oil City High. Triumph. Power. Control. She would protect those who mattered. Destroy the Gary Coles. Over fifteen hundred people had filled the gym tonight. All at her beckoning.

Her boys were doing well, even better than expected. Confidence was the key. Once legions had praised William over the internet, and a whole army raised thumbs in tribute, he was feeling it. For Paul, confidence had never been an issue. From the time he was ten, standing nearly six feet tall on a Little League field, life had been a joyride. How many no-hitters had he pitched? Something like eleven? And how many young boys had learned about lovemaking from professional tutors? According to town whispers, Saint Paul earned a Master’s Degree in Sex Education before his sixteenth birthday, compliments of his filthy-rich father.

Amy glanced around the gym, wondering if the evening’s heroine would make an appearance. Trisha’s absence was understandable, but her star had just broken clear of the clouds. Oil City’s warm-hearted residents - and there were many - would deliver casseroles, cakes and cookies to her apartment door in coming days. Flowers too. Other teachers would celebrate her victory.

A boy broke from the herd of students and made his way toward Amy. Fred Waltz wore the same bib overalls; she recognized a torn label. “Can I sit with ...” he started.

Amy grabbed a handful of canvas pant leg and pulled him down to the floor beside her. She held one index finger to her lips and pointed to the meeting with the other. William had started to speak again.

While the council president reviewed the many drawbacks of double-shifting, getting nods from everyone, Amy considered a makeover for Cow Pie Fred. She could hit up William for a bag of ‘Little Billy’ clothes that he recently abandoned. Fred was a couple inches taller, but the jeans would fit; they were all sloppy long. Cow Pie’s hooves looked like size 11½ or 12. Her father had a few pairs of handsome tennis shoes that size, all still in boxes because he wore only Wolverines or dress shoes. Fred wasn’t model material, but the package would sell if the wrapping was right. Girls who looked inside would find a big heart, and probably a lot more.

William moved on to discussing the suitability of the Allegheny Mall. He referred to the rent as manageable, without revealing numbers. The one board member who would have pressed for details was probably home gulping Jack Daniels by now, wondering what the hell had just happened.

When the topic shifted to the support and generous offers the council was receiving, the crowd looked stunned. Amy also noted another reaction, one she hadn’t anticipated. The adults, mostly parents of the students, were smiling at each other, raising their eyebrows. Pride was plastered all over their faces! They were blown away by the surprising initiative of their “indifferent” teenagers.

Amy admired William’s father, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. He looked incredibly proud of his son, who now owned the gym.

“Although we have hundreds of used computers available to us now,” William announced, “we may get brand new ones. NuTek Computers will donate over six hundred of their Model C-Two Thousand and Fifteen units to us if we make the conversion to software learning. Those have a value of over three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” The gym erupted with applause. “According to Oil City’s foremost computer expert, the guy sitting to my left, that model would serve us well.”

In Amy’s mind, the NuTek proposal was a win-win. The company had introduced a new model, the C-2017, and had a large inventory of the old ones. Their accountants could write off the charitable donation at retail value and the company would garner positive press at the same time.

“Of course, having good machines is only half the battle,” William added. “You need the right software to make them matter. To report on that, here’s our expert, Google Runsfeld.”

Google swallowed and stepped up to the plate. “Two different providers of complete education software contacted us today. I had follow-up discussion with one: Screen Saviour of Houston, Texas. Their product has already been approved by Pennsylvania’s Department of Education and has a solid three-year track record. The company will not only install that product in every system we have, but send a representative to train all our teachers in its use. In return, all they want is to monitor student performance and freely publicize the results.”

Hearing only scattered, subdued applause, William remembered Amy’s final advice: Have Paul take care of Cole and make sure Google gets his due. He lifted the microphone from the table, rose to his feet, and faced the bleachers. “One thing my friend Google never does is blow his own horn. The software he referred to has a retail value of over half a million dollars! It’s the heart of all we’re after for our students. Everything you’re hearing tonight, all these plans for improved education, it’s due to him more than anybody. The student council website? Our Facebook page? All Google. I feel like he deserves an ovation from all of us.”

Big Seven Three rose and stepped to his pint-sized friend. Grasping him just above the knees, Paul hoisted him high over his head and shouted, “Let’s hear it! For an Oil City hero!”

As Paul spun slowly, showing off his buddy like a trophy, everyone came to their feet. The student section chanted, “Google! Google!”

Spotting Amy, Googs extended his right arm and pointed directly at her. Her grin disappeared. Serious security breach! Anonymity was essential. The mall belonged to her parents. There could be an appearance of impropriety. Hell, there was more than just an appearance. And she was only getting started!

Amy looked to her side. At Fred. “Smile and raise your arms ... quickly!”

Fred followed orders while she applauded him. “Why am I doing this?” he asked.

“So everyone gets to know you. You’re going to be very popular. Wait and see.”

A man in a business suit made his way to the middle of the gym, strutting with an air of self-importance. He handed Gwen Simpson a cell phone. After a brief conversation, she addressed the crowd. “Our governor has called with an important message. I’m going to put the phone on speaker and hold it close to my microphone. If everyone is quiet, you might all be able to hear.”

“This is Governor Carl Ward,” a deep voice said. “I realize your community is deeply troubled by the loss of your high school and concerned for your children’s education. You are not alone. The great State of Pennsylvania stands with you. I’m pleased to announce that the leaders of both our State House and Senate have agreed to support me in authorizing immediate funding for a new high school. I am also approving the use of up to two million dollars from our Disaster Relief Fund to assist with extraordinary expenses related to opening and operating a temporary school.”

Amy stifled a laugh. The governor should have made the same statement yesterday or even the day of the fire. Instead, his only response had been: “We’re assessing the situation.” So limp. After William’s speech last night, he had to be catching heat. The man in the suit was probably sent to monitor the board meeting. Once the governor’s goal of double-shifting was no longer achievable, he decided to sail with the political wind. In spite of the nonsense, Amy couldn’t be angry. The governor had delivered everything she wanted and more.

“Before I sign off,” Governor Ward said, “I’d like to commend the Oil City High School student council and their leader, William Noble, for taking a proactive role in charting the course for their education. I’ll make arrangements for the entire council to visit Harrisburg as my special guests in the very near future. Best wishes, Oil City. And good night.”

The crowd cheered another Oil City touchdown. The governor himself had promised a new school. Everything was going to be fine.

Amy knew the most enthusiastic applause should have been coming from her parents. They were off managing the cleanup from the fire, a job that began that morning. With two eight-hour shifts a day, the work would take no more than a week.

With one matter left on her evening agenda, Amy pecked another message to Google. Be clear. U, W and P are part of all planning. EC signs off on all purchases and contracts.

Empowered by his earlier recognition, Google assumed the microphone himself. “One last thing, Madam President. It may go without saying at this point, but we’d like it understood, actually mandated, that our executive council be part of all planning and organization from this point forward. That would include having final approval on all purchases and contracts relating to the high school.”

At the opposite end of the table, Gwen Simpson squinted and shifted in her chair. She glanced at Gary Cole’s empty seat, then shook her head. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking, Mister Runsfeld. Of course we’re willing to listen to you students. We’ve been listening for the last hour. But financial decisions are made by the administration and the board. We’re accountable to the people of Oil City.”

William swept the microphone from Google. “Madam President, I think we’re the people of Oil City who are most affected. Are we capable of making decisions? We were just commended by the governor himself.”

Tired as she was, Amy’s eyes flew wide open. William was getting cocky. Dangerous even. She started a new message.

William went on. “Did Oil City just get approval for a new school because of something the administration or board did? I don’t think so. I put the governor’s feet to the fire with my speech last night. We got two million dollars from the state in emergency funds. We got computers. Software.”

Seeing Amy’s new text, Google reclaimed the microphone with a quick swipe. “Madam Simpson ... er ... President, there should be no misunderstanding. We’re not saying we should be making decisions for the board. We just want to be part of the process. We want to be sure our voice is heard. If we don’t put our stamp of approval on something, there will be a good reason for it. We’re asking for respect, that’s all.”

The Board President looked around the table to measure member reactions. They appeared to be equally divided – half stared at their laps and the others at the ceiling. Only Denny Noble made eye contact. Gwen said, “Denny, do you have something to say?”

“I do. The student council has shown tremendous initiative. I have no problem with allowing them final approval on matters that affect them directly. We’d be a progressive board to do so. I would vote in favor of their request because we can’t go wrong. If there are problems, we can always vote to reverse the decision.”

Mrs. Simpson surveyed the bleachers. Murmurs and nodding heads. “Put in those terms, it may be workable. We’ll discuss it in executive session.”

William raised a hand. “There’s no need for that.” He lifted another sheet of paper. “We actually have a school board resolution ready for you vote. It’s formatted exactly like all your others. Even numbered sequentially.”