THE STUDENT COUNCIL

Amy slid into the third chair at Google’s computer center. Fingers flying, she typed a web address. “Here’s a small fortune, maybe a big one, waiting to drop into the student council account.” The boys saw the website for Scholastic Sportswear.

“Your sophomore rep, Crystal Smith, is vice president of Mister Ramsey’s business club. All they do now is run concession stands at the gym and football field, but they do a decent job. All the profits go to our sports programs.

“Back when our school was the Oilers, they ordered and sold hats, tees and sweatshirts with the logo. They stopped when we became Samaritans. The only Samaritan shirts I’ve ever seen are the ones William ordered for himself.”

Google saw the light. “We’re huge right now! We could sell anything with an Oil City Samaritans logo. Coffee cups, water bottles, and clothes. The zillions who are writing to us, cheering us on ... they’d buy anything!”

William jumped in. “Football jerseys! Samaritans with Barner’s number. We’d sell a couple thousand here in Oil City.”

“That’s right,” Amy smiled. “The council needs to lay claim to all Samaritan merchandise sales and get the business club to do all the work. I’ve checked out wholesale prices and we can triple them. Get Crystal on it tomorrow. Scholastic Sportswear guarantees delivery within four days of an order.” Another thought took shape. This was too big a deal to trust to Ramsey alone. “I think you should have Berman oversee the whole marketing effort. She can supervise Crystal and work with Ramsey. You guys have too much to do already.”

“We’ll need money to get started,” Google pointed out, “for the first order.”

Amy addressed William. “Yes, the council will need a very short-term loan to get things started. At least twenty thousand. Maybe your father could arrange that through the school board.”

“I’ll take care of it myself,” William returned. “Gwen and I have a good working relationship.”

Amy rolled her eyes. The council president’s head was getting bigger by the minute. “One last thing on fundraising. I want to do a bake sale.”

William looked at Google. “We’re about to make the Samaritan brand a bestseller and Amy wants to sell cookies.”

Google turned to her. “What do you have in mind?”

She held out another piece of paper. “This is the recipe for the apple pie my mother makes. Janet Kaminsky’s family owns Venango Bakery. I want to know how much the bakery would charge us for twelve-inch pies and how many they could bake per day. Let me know by tomorrow.”

“Why bother?” William chuckled. “That’s chump change.”

“Just talk to Janet.”

“I’ll do it,” Google said. “It’ll get it done in the morning.”

Amy leaned over and kissed the top of Google’s head. “Last chore of the day,” she sighed. “William needs to make another speech for our camera. Highlights of the first day of the meetings.”

Trisha Berman rolled over in bed and adjusted her pillow. Sleep wasn’t coming easy tonight. So much to contemplate.

The iPhone on her nightstand lit up. 10:56 p.m. A familiar number. Subconsciously, she answered in a whisper. “I was just going to sleep.”

“I had a big day,” the caller said. “Would you like to sneak over to celebrate?”

Sneaking. Always sneaking. Taking the job in Oil City had been her own idea, an independent decision, but life here was proving to be difficult. She was only twenty-two. How could she have known? “Not tonight, sweetheart. My meeting starts at eight.”

“I’m getting the contract to build the new school! The world will be right again.”

The world will be right. What did that even mean? Living a secret life felt nothing like right. “I’m happy for you, Grant. Happy for us. Maybe I can see you tomorrow night.”

“Okay, Trish. Get your rest. Love you to pieces.”

“You too.” The teacher turned off the phone and stared at the ceiling. She had fallen in love - and now she was falling to pieces.

Grant Westin had walked into her life at the family restaurant in early June. She was waiting tables for the summer, awaiting the beginning of her teaching career at her old high school. The contract was signed.

Westin Construction had just resurfaced the parking area at the Presque Isle Motel, adjacent to Berman’s Diner. Trisha’s father was beside himself with envy. His own parking lot, a web of cracks, was an embarrassment next to the smooth black asphalt with the perfect white lines. He negotiated to have his done too.

When the diner job was complete, the owner lauded Grant as a great American hero. Such pride in his work! Such artistry! Trisha had never heard her father bestow comparable approval on anyone, certainly not any of the young men that pursued her.

Because Grant was staying next door at the motel, he came into the diner for breakfast every morning at seven. Then he started coming in for dinner too. He made no secret of his marriage or pride in two daughters, one nearly Trisha’s age. Still, he never failed to say that seeing her, feeling the warmth of her smile, made him wish he were twenty years younger.

Trisha herself had made the first move. There was no denying that. Leaving the restaurant after work one evening, seeing the light in Grant’s room, she had surprised her father’s hero with a slice of the pecan pie he always ordered. When she left the room three hours later, the whole world seemed different.

Only weeks into the affair, Grant assured her they would marry one day. It was only a question of time. His younger daughter should graduate high school before he divorced, not have her life disrupted.

On a whim, she applied for a vacant English position at Oil City High. When the job offer followed, she accepted despite objections from every direction. Her closely knit family, aware of her “association” with the married man, begged her not to leave. Grant himself was all against it; he even threatened to end the relationship. Trisha’s old principal, who had recruited her to teach at her alma mater, called it a mistake to walk away from an institution that already embraced her. In the end, love conquered all.

During her first three weeks in Oil City, romance had been limited to daily phone calls, a few romps on the couch at Grant’s office, and a single outdoor picnic. She filled her time with her job, the unexpected adventure of being student council advisor, and endearing herself to her future stepdaughter, Amy.

The Amy part was going incredibly well. The girl had a toughness about her, a protective shell, but Trisha had gotten past that. Inside, Amy was exceptionally bright and starving for female friendship. Being the girl’s stepmother would be a pleasure. She felt as if Amy wanted to hug her already.

Her only misstep had been accepting Amy’s invitation to dinner. When she called Grant to get his approval, he’d gone ballistic. She had put her foot down, telling him not to show up if he was that uncomfortable. And show up he didn’t! Meeting Grant’s wife had been a double-edged sword. On one hand, Trisha felt flattered to have been chosen by a man with such great taste in women. Emily was gracious, lovely, and young-looking too. Unfortunately, Emily seemed so over-the-top attractive that Trisha couldn’t imagine any man leaving her. The evening left her feeling concern and jealousy, which peaked at the football game in Titusville earlier. The moment she saw Grant and Emily together, she’d run for cover.

Closing her eyes, Trisha aimed her thoughts toward safer ground. She’d been featured in a story in the Erie newspaper! Friends had filled her inbox with congratulations. When she arrived at her apartment tonight, her door reminded her of a Christmas tree. Twenty gifts had been left in front of it! Knit scarves and mittens. Potted plants. Full cookie jars. Treats in Tupperware and crock pots. And all with cards and kind messages. Most important of all, she wasn’t only part of a revolutionary new school, she was sitting right at the planning table! How could she feel anything but pride and joy?