THE STUDENT COUNCIL

After school, Amy headed home in the company of her three friends, freshly described as inquisitive, athletic and goofy. The four neighbors lived on fabled Millionaire Row, a few blocks of century-old mega-houses along the north bank of the Allegheny River. The three-story, mostly Victorian residences now served as lavish reminders of a bygone era. The surrounding area, the birthplace of America’s oil and gas industry in the 1850s, had been pumped dry long ago.

With Oil City’s population in steady decline since 1930, when it peaked at 23,000, most of the older residents applauded the transition from boomtown to serene valley hamlet. To the less aesthetically-minded, Oil City was a skeleton of its former self. They insisted that when the wind blew just wrong, the stench of decaying bones provided ample proof. In truth, the sulphur smell emanated from a handful of operating gas wells in the area.

Inquisitive suited Sam Runsfeld, known to his friends as Google or Googs. His hundred and twenty pounds spent most of their time on a swivel chair in front of his computers – he needed three for some reason. With the wind unkind today, he declared, “Our town smells like a group fart, and the group is the whole human race! Fobnoxious.” An “f” at the front of some words was a personal trademark, the creation of an exclamation. It could be added to a word or replace the first letter.

A quiet laugh came from above. Athletic Paul Barner stood six-seven. “I smell some animal flatulation in there too. You need to do the world a favor, Googs. Invent a natural gas additive that smells like apple pie instead of an outhouse.”

Amy smiled at Paul’s reference to her mother’s specialty. A pie would be waiting on the kitchen table when she got home – green apples and lots of cinnamon sugar inside a crunchy, crumble crust.

The fourth walker chuckled. “I’d like to serve my cherry pie to Miss Berman!” Goofy Billy Noble strolled through adolescent life as a stand-up comic. His virginity was his favorite topic. He claimed the sympathy vote got him elected as student council president last May. Others thought his campaign slogan did the trick: I promise not to do a damn thing.

Amy cleared her throat. “Suggestion?” Unless asked a direct question, she normally entered a conversation with a query, a request for approval to speak. It was one of many ways she differentiated herself from her older sister, who voiced a loud opinion about everything.

Billy said, “You have the floor, Miss Westin.”

“Mister Blackwell has been the student council faculty advisor for twenty years. Why not make a change? Miss Berman might appreciate the extra duty contract.” Amy wasn’t sure which of her motives was most important, but there were a few rolling around in her head. The new teacher intrigued her.

The council president hopped into the air at the prospect. When his feet touched back down, however, he wagged his head. “We’d never get Blackwell to step down. It’s easy money for him. We hardly ever have a meeting.”

Google and Paul were also council members. Google said, “If the whole council signed a petition asking for Berman, Johnson would fuckle. You know he would.” Norman Johnson was the long-standing principal. He avoided confrontation at all cost, the key to his longevity.

Yes, Amy thought, grinning at Google’s new word. Johnson would buckle for sure.

Billy’s head kept wagging. “There are nine girls on the council. You think a single one of them would sign? They’re already calling my princess Vermin!”

Google looked to Amy. “Well? You wouldn’t have suggested it if you didn’t have the answer.”

She nodded. “Invoke Rule Number Seventy-Three.”

Right on cue, a passing convertible full of kids slowed down. The passengers started chanting, “Seven Three! Seven Three!”

Billy bowed as if the greeting was for him. Google struck a Heisman Trophy pose. Paul gave a quick wave and spit tobacco juice on the sidewalk. He had pinched Copenhagen the second he left the school building.

After the car departed, Google and Billy looked up at Big Paul Barner. Saint Paul. The Barn Door. The biggest football star in Venango County history. Number 73. Billy stuttered, “Would you do that for me, Paul? Would you ask the girls to sign a petition?”

The Barn Door spread his beefy arms. “Anything for a friend. Besides, I think Berman’s hot too. The extra face time would be nice.”

Satisfied, Amy whispered, “Question?”

The three boys answered in unison. “Please.”

“How did the new boy become Cow Pie?”

All three laughed and Google responded first. “He used to go to school in Titusville. Lived on a farm somewhere near there.”

Amy shook her head. What was wrong with farm life? Did the Oil City kids think they were big-city sophisticated or something? They all lived in Hicksville, USA.

Billy punched Google’s arm. “I don’t think that’s the detail she’s after. Tell her about the locker room.”

Google nodded. “Amy, we’re talking serious over-endowment. He undressed for second period P. E. and everybody just froze. It hangs like the pendulum on our grandfather clock.”

Billy burst into laughter. “It’s a barn door hanging on an outhouse.” He glanced up at the celebrity Barn Door. “No offense.”

“Much taken,” Paul deadpanned and spit.

“Seriously, Amy,” Google added. “How did you not know about that already? All the girls were talking.”

Amy thought about that. Despite having no real friends among the female students – not even casual friends, actually – she still overheard most of the gossip. She was officially preoccupied.

“That’s why some boys started calling him Cow Pie,” Google explained. “You know, to belittle him.”

Billy laughed again. “Belittle! Good one, Googs.”

Google saw Amy shaking her head. “The truth is that we guys are no better than the girls who call the new teacher Vermin. It’s fenis envy, that’s all.”

The explanation didn’t change her expression. It wasn’t the boys’ candor that bothered her; they always spoke freely in her presence. It had been that way since Little League, when she was the only girl in the dugout. The problem was their sophomoric thinking and behavior.

Billy scratched his mop of black hair. “Googs, you lost me. Penis envy is about girls wishing they had one.”

“Exactly,” he exclaimed. “Compared to the farm boy, we’re all girls!”

“Speak for yourself,” Seven Three objected.

Amy jammed her teeth into her lower lip, a new habit. If her ambitious plans for Oil City were going to be successful, the boys would have to grow up quickly. Almost overnight. She was going to need them at their best.

Turning left on Front Street, the group entered the world of past oil barons and river-shipping magnates. The lawns were vast and green, shaded by towering red oaks that would cover them with a foot of orange and yellow leaves in October. The homes all had expansive, covered porches that could accommodate thirty guests, which they probably did back in the days when people sat looking at the river and hills for entertainment.

Google was the first to depart. Like Amy, he was a year younger than the others. His parents were educators, the principal and a teacher at one of the elementary schools. Their eight-to-fives barely supported their main mission in life: restoring their palace to its 1903 magnificence. The renovation was in its ninth year and would continue indefinitely.

Amy understood their passion. She felt the same devotion to her own home. The stately building wasn’t just a place to live; it was a tribute to life itself. The huge front door always welcomed her as royalty. The grand entry celebrated her arrival. Every time she walked down the regal staircase from her third-story bedroom, her denims and T-shirt became a ball gown and her Adidas turned into glass slippers.

She knew Google had a different take on living in the grandeur of yesteryear. An only child, he chose to reside in the viewless basement. His top priority was the fastest internet service available. With his summers consumed by washing seventy windows every week, sweeping away a hundred cobwebs that popped up like mushrooms every morning, and keeping the surrounding yard and gardens trimmed and weed-free, no boy was happier to see the first day of school arrive. He hadn’t decided on a career yet, but proclaimed one thing as certain: He’d live in a condo or apartment. And a damn small one at that.

The Noble estate came next. Billy’s father owned Noble Toyota, a dealership east of town on Route 62. When the Nobles covered their mansion with maintenance-free Sears vinyl siding a couple years back, the other Millionaire Row owners protested by getting rid of their Toyotas. They had boycotted the brand ever since.

Billy bid farewell and headed up his driveway. After a few steps, he whirled and gave Amy another painful look at the front of his Samaritan T-shirt. He always wore one because they always got a laugh. “Amy, thank your parents for considering a Toyota.”

“Why?”

“Dad says your mom has been test driving every car in the lot the last couple weeks.”

The news stopped Amy in her tracks. Her family’s finances were strained to the breaking point. A new car was out of the question. They should be selling one of the two they owned. But that was her secret. Amy forced a laugh. “She must be looking for something with vinyl interior.”

Billy grinned and pointed at her. “Nicely played! See you guys in the morning.”

On the next block, Paul and Amy stopped in front of the Westin home. Until a week ago, Amy had always paused to appreciate the splendor of the huge white house with six two-story pillars. She was Scarlett and this was her Tara. Now she saw only the sign in the front yard. FOR SALE.