THE STUDENT COUNCIL

Google had news to share on the walk home. “This is going to floor your asses! I was texting with someone from Boston during the meeting.”

“Floor me,” William said. “I need to come down. That was an amazing turnout.”

“It’s about that fool selling cars for your father,” Google laughed. “Raja Coopa has never been out of the good old United States! He’s a total fake! An Assie, not an Aussie.”

Amy sucked in a breath.

Paul muttered, “What the hell?”

William asked, “How did you find out?”

Google’s jaw dropped. “You already knew that?”

“Yeah. And I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourselves. The man sells a shitload of cars for us!”

“He sells bullshit,” Google said. “His name is Austin R. Cooper, born and raised in Boston. It took me days to run him down. I friended a couple classmates from his old high school and asked if they remembered him. The kid was a total nerd. After graduation he worked at a video store for like ten years ... until that shit finosaured ... then seemed to disappear. Somebody who knew him from Boston walked into a tavern in Philadelphia a few years ago and there was Austin. Except it wasn’t Austin at all. It was Raja Coopa. He was working behind the bar. Ladies were lined up on the stools, eating his Aussie act right up.”

“You’ve got that part right,” William said. “It’s the women who can’t say no to a Camry once he starts his engine.”

“He pretends to be Australian?” Paul asked. “Isn’t that illegal or something?”

“Are you kidding me?” William countered. “Illegal to speak a foreign language?”

“It’s not a foreign language,” Google laughed. “It’s English with more exclamation points and different inflection. Catchy colloquialisms too.”

“It’s unethical for him to talk like that,” Paul insisted.

William held up a hand. “You guys are being unfair. Is it unethical for Adele to drop her English accent when she sings? She’s catering to the international market, that’s all. Same damn thing. Americans love the way Australians talk. Roger capitalizes on that.”

“Amy,” Google called out. “You haven’t said a word. What’s our official position on this cultural fatrocity?”

She’d been wondering how her mother might react to the news. “I’m not sure yet. I think William has more to tell us.”

A van pulled up beside them. The man behind the wheel yelled, “Programs for tonight just arrived from the printer, Seven Three. Could you sign a few?”

Paul stared down at William. “Not a word until I finish. I’m not missing any of this.”

The others watched as the driver passed Paul one program after another. Seven Three’s signature was P. Farner – Google’s idea. When fans suggested that the B looked like an F, the big guy said it was just a lazy B. He normally signed twenty or more covers. Due to his interest in Roger Cooper, he begged off after a dozen.

“Okay,” William said. “You have to promise that not one word goes beyond the three of you. I promised my dad I wouldn’t say anything. I guess it was only a matter of time before Googs got curious.”

The other two boys nodded agreement. William assumed Amy did too. “He came looking for a job a few months ago. Dad saw his potential right away. It’s Oil City, right? This guy was unique. When he did a background check on Roger, some questions came up. Roger was desperate for a paycheck and told dad his life story. When the Blockbuster store he worked at closed seven years ago, he felt like he needed to make a change. He was a big Paul Hogan fan ...”

Paul snorted. “So he became Crock-a-shit Dundee? What’s this world coming to?”

Google shook his head. “Poor bastard’s nuts. He thinks he can act his way through life?”

“Isn’t that what we all do?” William asked. “One way or another, aren’t we all imitating somebody? Roger liked the way people reacted to the Dundee character. It wasn’t necessarily because he was from Australia; hardly anybody knows shit about that place. It was that catchy speech and mannerisms! There’s no patent or copyright on the way Australians talk. Roger sees it as a personal preference that brings him success.”

“Until people find out,” Amy said. “He can’t be in Oil City because of personal preference.”

William turned to her. “Exactly right. Somebody has always exposed him eventually. He figures to have a better chance here.”

“Are you suggesting that we Oil City folks lack sophistication?” Paul said, feigning anger.

“Something like that,” William chuckled. “Why not let the man live out his dream?”

“If only it were so simple,” Google muttered. “What does he tell people when they ask where he’s from? I doubt he says he was born and raised in Bah-stun.”

Paul burst out laughing. “Think about that! If a guy with a Boston accent moved anywhere else in the country, he’d have no chance of ever getting laid again. No normal woman would tolerate the sound of a Boston accent.”

“See?” William said, chuckling again. “Roger’s just trying to survive! All’s fair in love, war, and earning a living.” He checked Amy’s expression. “Right, Amy?”

She took a moment to think. “There’s nothing wrong with a person trying to re-invent himself. All we have to do is look at you, William. You’ve changed a lot in three days.”

Google poked Paul. “He’s trying to score with a teacher. That calls for drastic measures.”

Seven Three poked back. “I’ll bet Crock-a-Shit Dumb-Dee is getting plenty of oil on his dipstick in our little town.”

The boys slapped palms while Amy shuttered, then said, “William, back to Google’s question. When people ask where Cooper’s from, what does he say?”

“He claims to be from a small town on the Australian coast.” William cleared his throat with a mock cough. “He never names it specifically because he doesn’t want to lie.”

All four had to laugh.

Once Google and William were gone, Paul addressed Amy. “The game tonight is dedicated to you, Coach Westin. I’m not going to say anything else. Well, one more thing. I’ve never been this up for a game.”

Good, Amy thought. He was finally lining up in the middle of the defense. About time. She looked up at the broad face topped with putting-green hair – an eighth-inch long and seemingly manicured every day. “What you did with the pizzas today was heroic. Thanks from everybody. As to the executive committee, you’ll be the senior representative of course. Google will be the junior. Do you think the sophomore and freshman should be girls to balance things out?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Makes sense.”

“Are there a couple young girls on the council who will always side with you?”

Seven Three shrugged. “What’s the difference? We three guys control the vote.”

“That’s not what I meant. Don’t you think it would be best if there was never dissent? Shouldn’t everyone always be on the same page?”

“That makes perfect sense. Teamwork. We’ll be careful to choose the right ones.”

A steady drizzle fell on Oil City as game time approached. Not even a downpour could have dampened spirits or prevented the uncovered bleachers from overflowing. Although sunset was officially forty minutes away, the field was fully lit by eight banks of lights on rusting steel towers.

Amy and her parents walked toward the gate in full rain gear, hoods pulled over their matching school caps. The large navy blue and gold sign over the entrance read: Oiler Field. Three years had passed since the school nickname was changed to Samaritans, but the administration left the sign alone. Maybe the cost of repainting it was a problem. Maybe they assumed that “Samaritans” was a temporary whim. Or maybe the rest of the town found the new name as embarrassing as Amy did.

The fourth Westin, Amy’s sister Sadie, would join her family at the game in more than spirit. At college in Cleveland, she would listen to her father’s play-by-play of the whole contest on a cell phone. She would disconnect only at halftime for a quick recharge.

The visiting Corry Beavers, fresh off a forty-mile bus ride, ran onto the field first. Fired up after a twelve-point win over Titusville last week, they converged into a large huddle on the sideline. Hopping up and down, slapping each others’ helmets and shoulder pads, they chanted: “Cor-ree! Cor-ree!” A couple hundred of their fans stood in the bleachers, yelling with their team.

Amy counted thirty-four of the red jerseys with yellow and black numbers as the Beavers ran a pre-game lap. There were a few big boys among them, but all plump and plodding. Paul would chew them up and spit them out like Copenhagen.

The thirty-member Oil City band started playing the team’s new run-out song. After hearing the music being practiced every day for a week – the sound resonated through the entire school – Amy could puke out every verse. The Edge of Glory? Wasn’t Lady Gaga in a retirement home somewhere? Amy decided to be the first to drop a suggestion into the student council box. Different song!

Big Ed Barner, Paul’s father, stood on the home sideline at midfield. His housekeeper was on night duty, holding an umbrella over him so his cigar wouldn’t be extinguished by the rain. No smoking was permitted on school district property, but rules didn’t apply to Big Ed. As the music blared, he rocked and swayed beneath his canopy, waving his arms at the home crowd. Neither the band nor Ed had any sense of rhythm. No one seemed to care.

All focused on the Oil City banner at the east end of the field, held by saturated cheerleaders beneath the goal post. When the chorus began, Seven Three burst through the paper sign. Dressed in new home-white uniforms – a gift from Ed Barner – the team followed their leader. The Barn Door looked as big as an entire barn. Amy saw an image of a mother goose being followed by a waddling brood of forty.

Corry won the coin flip, the last of the team’s good fortune for the night. After the kickoff, the red-shirted returner rushed out of bounds as soon as Seven Three came within ten yards of him. Most of the crowd made clucking sounds, teasing the timid runner. Amy shook her head in disagreement. He was a smart boy. A survivor.

Paul surprised everyone by lining up in front of the opposing center on first down, especially the center himself. After the third play, the Corry boy was carried off the field on a stretcher. Amy saw the contact clearly, a knee to the chin as Paul ran over him. Nothing dirty or inappropriate. Just tackle football.

The injured center’s replacement ran onto the field with his chest out, pointing at Seven Three and wagging the finger. His snap to the punter reflected his true mindset, soaring four feet over the kicker’s head. Oil City recovered the loose ball and ran it in for a score.

Only diehard fans knew the true importance of a center to an offense, and Amy was definitely one of those. The snapper was relied upon to start every play on time and in rhythm. He also was expected to prevent an inside rush from blowing up everything. He was both the ignition and the anchor. When facing Paul, the Beaver center became a hole in the dam, just as every opposing center would now become. She would have suggested Paul’s position change years ago, if only he had asked.

With the outcome settled after a single quarter, Amy gazed at Oil City High School, less than two blocks away. Her mind had been there all along. She was watching for smoke. Waiting for deliverance. Noah was going to do it. She believed it. She had seen it in his eyes, hadn’t she?

But why was she looking for smoke now? He would do it later at night, while the town slept. Two in the morning would be perfect. That was logical. No witnesses. The fire department would be slow to respond.

Amy turned to her father. His broadcast to Sadie was half-hearted at best. With the score at 32-0 as the second quarter wound down, his older daughter might not even call back to hear the rest of the game.

Emily Westin sat to Amy’s other side. She tracked her mother’s stare to the sideline, not the field itself. William’s father stood near Ed Barner, listening and nodding. His Toyota dealership was the main sponsor of the team’s radio broadcasts - another excellent marketing move on Mr. Noble’s part - and meant he could stand on the field with the team. But her mother wasn’t watching those men. Her eyes were on the short fellow in the dark cowboy hat and alligator boots. Roger Cooper.

Amy considered leaning close to her mother’s ear and whispering: Did you hear about that little fraud of a salesman at Noble Toyota? He pretends to be Australian because it helps him get laid! Isn’t that just the funniest thing you ever heard?

On the other hand, what would her mother’s humiliation accomplish? Amy was disgusted with her behavior, but also sympathetic. Noah Ragsdale would fix everything with a flick of a Bic. The real Grant Westin would rise from the dead. The spark in his eyes would reignite her parents’ romance. Amy knew them both too well to believe anything else.

The final score was 57-0. It was hard to find fault with such a performance, but Amy did. She would discuss it with Paul whether he asked or not.