The iCandidate (4 page)

“I
wouldn’t know where my colleagues are in their lessons.” Not exactly accurate as I know where each one of them is. “I measure the speed of teaching by the effectiveness of the students to learn.” That part is true however.

“Yeah,
right,” he responds, moving toward me.

Recognizing
my productivity will be zero, both during and after the lecture I know is sure to come, I put the quizzes I was grading back into a folder and begin to pack up my stuff. “Is this a social call, Robinson, or are you just going to sling derisive comments my way until I leave?” He smirks, perhaps thinking I might seriously think he was making a social call.

“I
heard some concerns voiced about a few of your recent lectures. Things you discussed outside of your approved lesson plans.”

“Really?”
I feign surprise. “Concerns from whom?”

“I
am really not at liberty to say.” Of course he isn’t. “But I heard you dedicated class time to the history of shopping. Is that true?” Howell folds his arms across his chest, the body-language way of saying I don’t care about your explanation.

“Oh.
I thought you were here to scold me for something not included in the lesson plan,” I reply, barely able to contain the smile desperate to emerge on my mouth. Robinson Howell, for all his bluster and banter, is a schoolyard bully at heart. First he preys on the weak, untenured teachers with little capability or guts to fight back first.

Once
that appetite is satiated, he moves on to making sure the department chairs are forced to do his bidding, thus the conversation with Chalice this morning. Finally, if he feels he has something on one of the stronger personalities in the school, he will confront them individually. Today is one of those days.

He
gives me a puzzled look, trying to recollect what he read in my lesson plans. “You never mentioned–” I don’t let him finish his sentence because I know he finds interruptions irritating.

“We
talked about the evolution of shopping as part of the lesson on the economic boom during the Roaring Twenties. We also discussed the chronology of the skyscraper and the urbanization of America, in case you’re curious.”

The discussion was a
nother end of the week causality example for my students. Fridays are always the toughest days to teach, so I like to reserve them for topics of interest. A necessity if you want to keep students engaged when they are all looking forward to the weekend.

The
lesson was a simple one. You start with a product one of the students happens to be carrying, in this case a girl’s purse, and talk about how she bought it. In this example, the bag was purchased at one of the countless women’s accessory stores in the Danbury Mall.

We traced
how she would have purchased the same item back through American history. Strip malls, online catalogues, the department store, and so on to the local village merchant who imported the item from England prior to the American Revolution. The whole exercise was exceedingly interesting for the girls, although the boys got something out of it too.

“I
don’t think the State of Connecticut would approve, nor do I believe parents would think much of it either,” Howell says, clearly off-balance.

“
So you are telling me, that as principal, you feel understanding mercantilism is not an important part of American history and who we are as a society today? Because last I checked, consumerism is one of the pillars of modern American culture.” Howell starts to respond, but I’m on a roll. “And while we can agree or disagree on whether the importance we place on material things is healthy for our society, understanding this in a historical context is an essential part of learning and what teaching American History is all about.

“The
question you need to ask yourself, Robinson, isn’t why I’m teaching this. It’s why everyone else isn’t.” I sneak a quick look at the clock to see if I can hit the door at precisely three p.m. if I take my time getting downstairs. I normally wouldn’t care leaving a minute or two early, but Chalice was right about one thing. I shouldn’t be giving Howell any more excuses to come after me.

I
walk past my stunned principal and wait for him to follow me out into the hallway. He puffs his chest, or at least what can loosely be called a chest, as he walks out of the room. Howell is balding, wears the goofiest glasses imaginable, and hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since George Bush was in the White House. The father, not the son.

I
can feel his eyes burning into me as I close the door and lock it. Howell probably practiced this confrontation in his office all afternoon, and it did not turn out the way he imagined. Losing gracefully is not his style, so cue the final words on the subject.

“Stick
to the curriculum, Michael. It’s developed by people who are far more educated than you. If a single parent complains about this, you’ll be hearing from me again.”

There
are so many things I could respond with, but I choose to bite my tongue as Robinson Howell stomps back down the hallway. In poker, discerning when to raise is just as important as knowing when to just call, win the hand, and take the pot. Besides, I will need to save my strength for an evening at Jess’ parents anyway. With that thought, I head for the door.

BLAKE

As an up and coming congressional staffer, long hours are usually the first requirement. However, while performing duties for our bosses may be the order of the day, just as much business is conducted at night. The area around the Capitol is rife with establishments where young congressional staffers, lobbyists, and government types gather after the official work day is concluded. To that end, I spend an inordinate amount of time at places like the Hawk and Dove and Capitol Lounge developing contacts and trading information.

On
the rare nights when no work responsibilities demand my attention I head to the Adams Morgan section of town. The intersection of 18th Street and Columbia Road is the place to be if you’re in your twenties and living in Washington. With neighborhood spots like the
Toledo Lounge
and
Millie and Al's
,
nightclubs like Heaven and Hell and Habana Village, the area trumps the college crowds you find at bars in Georgetown. While Wisconsin and M streets offer a great nightlife, the crowd is a little too young and touristy for my tastes.

For
tonight’s outing, I could have chosen to meet at a place around the MCI Center. As hip as they are, brew pubs like the Capitol City Brewing Company or Gordon Biersch are also favorites of Roger and Congressman Beaumont. Since all I wanted was a quiet night out with the lovely Madison Roberts, I thought a romantic Monday dinner in a small Arlington bistro would be perfect. I hold her hand across the table as another round of drinks is delivered by an all-too-eager waitress.

“How
’d it go in Connecticut?” There is a dual purpose to my question. As always, I’m looking for information, but also want her to know that I missed her these last five days.

“
It was fine. All the media outlets are on board. Pretty much everyone knows this election is going to be a joke,” she says as she sips her Merlot. “Had any more fireworks with the Ice Queen since I’ve been gone?” The Ice Queen being the malevolent Deena Shilling.

“T
ook her a few days to talk to me after my brilliant stunt when I was late last Monday, but she got over it and returned to her typical peppy self,” I reply, with not just a little sarcasm.

“You
were lucky you dodged the proverbial bullet that day. What would you have done if Marcus wasn’t finished with the poll and the opposition research?”

“I’m
not sure, but I am supremely confident in my abilities. I would’ve come up with something.” Plan B still would have been brilliant, if not as elegant as Plan A turned out.

Dinner
comes and Madison and I continue the small talk about the staff, campaign, and what will happen following the impending victory of our liege. In her role as press secretary, she can never really turn off the propaganda. Everything is pro-Beaumont all the time, and she absolutely believes every word she utters without reservation.

My
views may be a little more jaded, since the allegiance I swore to Beaumont hinges on his ability to advance me to the next level. I will play along with Madison tonight, because it advances that ambition. My unqualified support of Congressman Beaumont will get back to him through her, while serving the dual purpose of helping me explore a separate agenda after I bring her home.

We
share a dessert after our meal, partly because as a beautiful woman in the public eye she is always concerned with her physical appearance. She may not want the added calories, but I just think it’s romantic. So before we finish the final bites of a decadent chocolate mousse cake, I broach a subject that I need to learn more about with extreme caution.

“On
a more personal note, have you spoken to your sister since ...” I let my voice trail off on purpose.

“Since
she was fired from
The Times
? No. You know we have a complicated relationship, and this will only make that worse.” Madison is clearly uneasy, but I am not sure why. I knew her and her sister were not close, which is surprising since the fields of journalism and public relations are not that far removed.

“
You think she’ll find out we were behind it?” I try to ask as matter-of-fact as I can.

“
Let’s hope not, but if she does, it won’t be because I tipped her off.”

“Has
she found another job yet?” I ask, not really caring, but at the same time acting like I do.

“I’m
sure Mom will tell me when she does. Knowing Kylie, she’ll find something before too long. Look, I don’t want to talk about my sister anymore. I want to talk about us.” She flashes the brightest smile I have ever seen. “More specifically, Mister Peoni, where exactly we are going after dinner?”

I
return her smile. Work is done for the evening, so let play time begin. “As in, are we going dancing or for a romantic stroll in the park?” She reaches across the table and squeezes my arm.

“No,
I was thinking more along the lines of your place or mine?”

KYLIE

The big problem with being married to your work is the divorce is ugly. When you devote as much energy, time and resources to the job as I did, a sudden change like getting fired leaves behind a colossal void. My career was everything, and without one for almost a month now, I feel like I‘m trying to fill the Grand Canyon with pebbles.

It
took about a week to pull myself together after my termination. At least I had better luck than all the king’s horses and men had with Humpty Dumpty. I finally called Mom back to face in the inevitable inquisition and sermon rolled into one. The conversation was not as bad as I feared it would be. Perhaps she heard my melancholy tone and took pity on me.

I
was vague in my explanation to family and friends, except for one in particular. Bill Gibbons has been a long time acquaintance of mine and exactly who I needed to confide in. And he is the reason why I am sitting in a Starbucks on Madison Avenue right now, sipping a five dollar café latte while collecting unemployment.

I
am managing to score a little freelance work on occasion, but after being blackballed by my boss at
The New York Times
, landing something steady has been more of a challenge. The news business is a small world, despite the number of possible employers. So when an editor makes it known to his friends and colleagues that hiring a rogue journalist like me would be an incredible risk, they listen, and I remain jobless. The question is, why would he do that?

Firing
me is one thing, but punishing me by sabotaging chances to find work anywhere else is quite another. I enlisted Bill’s help to find out why I am persona non grata in journalism circles. I didn’t notice him walk in, and am startled when he comes up behind me with a tall cup of coffee in his hand. I must be off in my own little world, since this particular Starbucks is not large.

“It’s
a nice day. Let’s take a stroll,” he almost whispers, nodding towards the door. Since I have no real job, no real life, and no other place to be, I grab my purse and coffee and follow him out the door into the pleasant mid-May Manhattan weather. We turn and begin walking toward Bryant Park, moving with the flow of office workers escaping their cubicles to enjoy one of the nicest days of the spring so far.

“So
are you just keeping me in suspense or did you come up empty?” I ask.

“I
assumed the story you were working on about modern politics was a puff piece,” Bill says, stroking his hair and admiring a woman in heels and a short skirt breezing by. “But it was bigger, wasn’t it? You had dirt on people.”

“Yeah,
some, but the majority was innuendo and hearsay and was not printable using any journalistic standard,” I defend. Okay, so that’s not the whole story. Bill doesn’t need to know I had much more than simple rumors and a piece on the cusp of being ready for print. He is a friend, but nobody is registering well on my trust meter these days.

“Well, s
omeone thought it could be.”

I
stop dead in the street, the stark reality finally dawning on me. “Are you saying someone got me fired?”

Bill
realized a few paces later that I was no longer next to him. He turned, retrieved me, and said nothing until we made our way into the park. The small space, a stone’s throw from Times Square, is packed with the lunchtime crowd on this beautiful day. Improbably, Bill finds what must be the only small green table and chairs available, and we sit down. People are moving all around us, some leaving their seats to return to the mundane tribulations of work, but most desperately searching for a place to enjoy their lunch.

“Look
Kylie, I only know what I was told. A friend of a friend said someone squeezed your editor. A player with significant clout in Washington,
and
a good enough relationship with your former paper to get you fired.”

Bill
has never been notorious for his focus. He possesses an uncanny ability to notice everything going on around him, which is probably why he is good at his job. But right now, in this instant, I have his undivided attention even with the leggy women in high heels walking by. Bill is a good-looking guy, tall with a square jaw and on-camera looks. I am surprised he chose print instead of television journalism.

“Who
did you talk to about this article?” he asks.

“
Other than my editor?” He nods. “A few coworkers and possibly a friend or two.”

“One
of them talked to the wrong person. Not sure if it was malicious or harmless, but you are living the result.”

I
don’t what to think about this. On one level, I’m stunned someone would do this to me, whether they meant it or not. Journalism can be a cut-throat occupation, especially when mixed with politics, so I shouldn’t be too surprised however. I feel a resurgence of last week’s anger at my editor, but I also want a new target. I want the person responsible.

“Can
you find out which slimy piece of crap did this?”

Bill
exhales, and for the first time breaks eye contact with me. I am not sure why exactly, but he looks conflicted. “I could, but I won’t.”

“You
know, don’t you?” I study his face, looking for the small tell-tale signs you can see when a person is about to lie to you.

“You
have a remarkable gift Kylie, and if you want to waste it by running off half-cocked chasing powerful men, I can’t stop you. But the end result is you are going to end up right back where you are now.”

I
scoff at his portrayal of me running off half-anything. My mantra has always been anything worth doing is worth doing one-hundred percent. After all, you can’t get a little bit pregnant. But I let him finish.

“Let
me give you a piece of advice. You can find out on your own who is responsible. The pieces are there for you to put together. And if you really want to bring … whoever … down, I’m sure you can find a way. Of course, you will also destroy yourself, your credibility, and your career in the process.”

That’s
not what I wanted to hear. He is probably right, but I have bloodlust for some serious payback right now. Some of the information I obtained touched a nerve and has someone running scared enough to get me fired. Now I want to find out what information bothered whom and keep digging until I get what I need to destroy them.

“
I don’t care,” I say, meaning it.

“Right
now you don’t, and I can’t say I blame you. But I would wait. Do what you need to do to get yourself back in the game, and when the opportunity presents itself, get your revenge then.” Bill gets up from his seat and surveys the beautiful greenery of this urban oasis before looking at me. “I need to get back to work. Good seeing you, Kylie. Think about what I said.” With that, he falls in behind a throng of pretty Asian women leaving the park.

Despite
my best efforts not to, I am thinking about what he said. The voice of reason chirps in my head like one of Suzanne Collins’
The Hunger Games
mockingjays. I don’t really want to listen. I have always been driven to achieve a result. Rushing in has served me well, but maybe not this time. Maybe being patient is the right approach.

“Get
yourself back in the game,” I hear myself whisper. Yeah, but how?