THE STUDENT COUNCIL

From Amy’s bedroom window, her father’s bulldozer, loader and a huge dump truck looked like yellow dots. After three sixteen-hour days, the end of one job was already in sight. A merry-go-round of trucks had hauled away most of old Oil City High School. By tomorrow, those same trucks would be delivering fill instead of carrying off charred bricks and lockers. Her father would finish the job by grading the empty lot himself, putting his personal signature on the completed work. That’s the way he always did things. Hands on.

The first text of the day came from Google at 8:08. R U up?

Since 7, she pecked.

When no immediate response came, she headed to the kitchen for a first cup. She was officially a coffee junkie.

Google called the second time. “Big news. For William, that is. Gwen Simpson just showed up. She and the king are flying to New York City tomorrow. Good Morning America, starring William Noble. Monday morning!”

“And you?”

“Nope. I guess I wasn’t tall enough for that ride. Wait, that couldn’t be it. Barner’s not invited either.”

“That’s for the best. You’re too important right here.”

“Thanks for that. Better go. They’re getting started.”

“Wait! I nee ... we need Berman to go with them. She needs to be on that show.”

Google chuckled. “I’m sure William would be all for that, but it sounds like only the two were invited.”

“Tell William it’s his chance to be bossy. Have him tell Simpson he’s not going unless Trisha Berman’s on the show too. End of story. It’s William they really want.”

“Don’t we need Berman here?”

“We have you. That’s enough.”

“I’ll call you in an hour, at the first break.

Amy looked at her dark television screen. In forty-eight hours, Trisha would be sitting there, stealing the hearts of America. Beautiful, articulate, and enthusiastic. Was a nomination for Pennsylvania State Teacher of the Year in her future? Why aim low? National Teacher of the Year sounded better.

A May graduation was definitely in Amy’s future. She would do whatever it took. Then again, graduation might be postponed until June. The high school would have lost days to make up. Whenever school ended, she would invite Trisha to move with her - anywhere she wanted. Money wouldn’t be a problem, thanks to Fred Waltz and his late father.

Thinking of Fred, she typed Titusville Pa. attorney on her search engine. The third name rang a bell. Attorney Charles Augustine. She called the number on her toss-away phone.

Augustine himself answered. She said, “I understand you’re handling the George Waltz estate. Is that correct?”

“Who is this?” he asked gruffly.

“This is a friend of Fred’s mother, calling on her behalf.”

His laugh turned into a cough, like a heavy smoker’s might. “Tell her there’s nothing for her. She’s got no legal right to anything. She abandoned the kid.”

“She’s not after anything. His mother lives in California now and just heard about George’s death. She wants to do something nice for her child ... buy him a car. I told her I’d check to see if anyone had a problem with that.”

“Problem? Hail, no. The boy’ll shit a gold brick. Tell her he needs insurance too. He’s on a tight budget ’til he’s eighteen. No insurance, no car.”

“That won’t be an issue. Thanks for all your help.”

“Hold on! Don’t you need his phone number or address? Fred’s living in foster care in Oil City.”

“That would be helpful.” Amy asked Mr. Augustine to repeat the number a second time, as if she were writing it down.

She searched online for Toyota trucks. The new Tacoma looked right, starting at under twenty-four grand. She could probably get a discount at Noble’s lot. With a sound explanation in place, no one would question the presence of a flashy new truck in the foster home driveway. And Fred would believe that his mother was thinking of him, whoever and wherever she was.

How soon might her share of marijuana sales amount to enough for the purchase? Maybe a month? By then Fred should have a driver’s license. She’d get Google to help him study for the test. With new fashion sense, his chin held high, and the hottest high school wheels outside of Paul Barner’s Hummer, Fred would be soaring. He’d be Cow Pie no longer.

Google finally called again. “Berman’s a go ... or will be going. Simpson contacted New York. William’s calling it a honeymoon. I told him his cart’s a little ahead of the horse.”

More than a little, Amy thought. “What’d Berman say? She excited?”

“I think so. She keeps a straight face about all this. I’d describe her as professional.”

“Perfect. What else is happening?”

“Barner showed up only an hour late. He’s limping a little.”

“No wonder,” Amy said, replaying the game in her head. “They were cut-blocking him all night! The damn officials wouldn’t throw a flag.”

“He says he’ll be okay in a few days.”

“Have you talked to Janet about the pies?”

“Heard from her, yes. I scanned your recipe last night and emailed it with your questions. She texted that such huge pies, over five pounds each, would cost at least eight bucks to make. I don’t think your bake sale idea’s gonna fly. How much can you charge for a pie?”

“And how many can the bakery make in a day?”

“She didn’t say.”

Amy played with her hair, something she only started doing last night. Her mother was an excellent stylist. “I’m gonna write to her about the pies and send it to you. Copy the text and pass it on.”

“Why do you need a middle man? I’ll give you her email address.”

“I’m not on the student council.”

Google laughed. “Hello? You are the founcil! Paul and I both know that. All these people are walking around here, scratching their chins, thinking they’re visionaries. What were they doing before you thought of all this?”

“Just be quiet. I never got elected to the council.”

“You never ran! Come to school looking like last night and you’d get every vote ... at least from the boys.”

“You’re being stupid. Are you with me or not?”

“With. Always with. ’Til death do us part.”

“Then get back to work. Tell Seven Three he was great last night.”

Leo Sykes was still in bed at 10:30 a.m., enjoying Saturday. On weekdays he had to rise early to get the kids off to school. The old lady was a late sleeper every day. He heard the television blaring downstairs, and knew all three children were gathered there. They were excellent about pouring their own cereal on weekends. Messy, sure, but so was he. They were damn good kids.

His phone started singing. Rolling to the edge of the bed, he grabbed it from the pocket of a shirt on the floor. “Nobody eats hot dogs for breakfast,” he growled. “Call back in an hour.”

“It’s Joan.”

“Give me an hour. I’m not ready to think yet.”

“My apologies. I’ll call back in fifteen minutes.”

Amy dropped her disposable phone and started composing her message to Janet. If the bakery uses the best ingredients, including only apples from the Angelo farm (they’re perfect right now) the student council will pay Venango Bakery $20 for each pie sold. The Paul Barner Special Recipe Samaritan Apple Pie will be sold directly at the bakery counter. Receipts will include the school district’s non-profit code information. You’ll need to make a promotional banner for the front window. Advertise the pies as a sweet thank you for a $250 donation to the student council. We’ll send you a recipe card to include with each pie. It’ll have Barner’s picture on it. Start by making a dozen today, but be ready to make hundreds.”

Noticing the time, she called Leo back. “Are you ready to talk?”

“Let me go out to the truck. That’s where my calculator is.”

“I’ll talk while you walk. Can we agree that the jars hold about thirty-one hundred ounces?”

“Sounds ’bout right. I’m gonna save us time and bother. I’ll give you a hundred grand and you’re clear of everything. You’ll get the cash today.”

Amy wanted to leap into the air and celebrate. How simple was that? So much money! Joan, however, was having no part of it. “Let’s see. Last time we talked, you tried to take it all for free ... telling me there was nothing at the farm. I’ll assume you’re joking again, because that’s what you do with friends.”

“That’s all I got. You can’t squeeze blood from a turnip.”

“I’m not a wholesaler, Leo. We’re partners. We split the proceeds as you sell it, right down the middle.”

“That ain’t how I work. I buy it, own it, and sell it how I see fit.”

“That’s how you used to work. How much did you make all of last year?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Let me check my tax records.”

“Very funny. Put it this way: How long will it take to move over three thousand ounces?”

“Years for me. Two minimum.”

“How much would you sell Biddy Early for?”

“That’s my business.”

“Really? It’s not your weed. Up until now you’ve been selling ounces for three hundred.”

“That’s too cheap for this stuff.”

“Good. Then three hundred it is. You’ll capture the whole Oil City market and people will come to you from all around. It’ll be gone in no time and we’ll each walk away with almost half a million. That’s not even counting what we get from the plants.”

Leo considered the idea. Most of his sales were in quarters. He got a hundred for those, meaning he could net a lot more than three hundred an ounce. Paying her a flat one-fifty would be a good deal for him. “Sounds like we have a plan. Once it’s all sold, you’ll get your money.”

“Not so fast. You’ll give me my weekly share every Sunday.”

“You’ll get one-fifty an ounce, right?”

“Right.”

Leo smiled. She wasn’t so smart after all. “Then we’re done, I guess.”

“Almost. We haven’t talked about the plants yet. What will we get from them? Another six hundred ounces?

“I won’t know until it gets processed. And you ain’t getting any one-fifty for that. Processing costs money. I have to pay somebody.”

“We’ll talk about that later. I’ll call a week from tomorrow.”

Leo dropped his phone into his chest pocket. Was he stepping in shit? Could it all be a setup? Just didn’t seem likely. If somebody wanted to bust him, they could have done it without all the bother. And pretty much whenever they wanted. He always carried at least half a pound in the truck. Now he wouldn’t have to buy any weed for at least a year. The strange lady had done him well, as far as he could tell.

Amy was mowing a neighbor’s yard when her phone rang. Her preoccupation with other matters hadn’t stopped the grass from growing.

“Two hundred and fifty bucks for a pie!” Google exclaimed. “People don’t have that kind of money around here.”

She shut down the motor. “The town loves what you’re doing and loves Paul. They’ll buy hundreds to support the new school.”

“The idea to sell hats and sweatshirts is great, even Berman says so, but I think you’re bonkers with the pies. William wants to talk to you.”

“Amy, we’re not that desperate,” the council president said. “With the two million from the state, we’re pretty well set. We don’t need to beg our neighbors for donations.”

“William, you don’t want handouts from Pennsylvania! Not if you can avoid it. Taking that position will make you extra special. Legendary even! You want the council to pick up the tab as much as possible. Think about it. The state has money problems. You’re a thinker and a helper, not some wild spender. Talk about that on television Monday.”

“Hmm. A thinker. A concerned citizen. I sort of like it. Everybody here is dreaming up ways to spend the whole two million. I could talk about keeping costs low, saving the state as much as I can.”

Amy grinned. “Yes! The governor will give you a commendation when this is over. It’s your moment in the spotlight. Spend it wisely.”

“You could be right. I’ll bring up the idea with Trisha, see what she says.”

“Good. Put Google back on.”

“What did you say to him?” Google asked. “He took off running.”

“I’ll tell you later. About the pies. Get a photo of Paul in his jersey. Set it up as a background for the pie recipe. Print it up on heavy paper, the size of a postcard. Maybe three hundred to start with. He can sign them all.”

“Shouldn’t we check with Paul first?”

“Have him call me. We need to get those printed off for Janet by tonight, at least a few dozen to get started.”

“Yes, sir!”

Amy chuckled. “I love it when you talk military.”