Dead Politician Society (13 page)

Fuck me!” Matthew slammed his fist into the hood of his ancient Ford Escort. “Rusted piece of crap!”

“You shouldn't talk to your car like that.”

He turned to see that know-it-all Clare, helmet in one hand, cigarette in the other. Matthew might have found the tight jeans and leather jacket compelling if they were hugging the curves of someone he could stand to speak with.

“Sorry for the language,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Doesn't bother me.” Clare took a drag, smiled like she found it delicious, then exhaled. “It's your car that might take offense. Would you do any favors for someone who treated you like that?”

“Don't you have someplace else to smoke?”

“Nope,” Clare said. “Want me to take a look?”

“Be my guest.” He moved aside to give Clare access to the hood. “Maybe it'll like you.”

“I'll start by being nicer to it. Hello, Car.” Clare set her helmet on the ground, tossed her fancy studded black jacket over the seat of her bike — what normal student could afford designer leather? — and crushed out her cigarette with a chunky black boot. She was completely unfeminine, and yet — forget about it. Matthew would die before admitting he felt any kind of attraction to her. She glanced inside the hood. “So what's the problem?”

“Are you talking to me or the car?”

“You, dummy. I know cars can't talk.”

Could have fooled him. “It's acting like it has the whooping cough.”

“You mean smoking and backfiring when you try to start it?” Clare poked her head under the hood and appeared to study the engine. “I know more about motorcycles than cars, but maybe I'll be able to help. The thing's pretty old, right?”

“Right.” Forgive him for not driving the latest Bentley like her parents.

“Good. My dad's never owned anything newer than ten years old.” She pulled a spark plug out of its socket and blew on it.

So her father was that kind of rich guy. And why did Matthew care? “Does your father collect old cars?”

“Huh? Yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

Clare got down on her stomach and looked under the car. He liked the sight — he could at least admit that to himself — but she was back on her feet in a few seconds.

“You're not leaking anything, which is good. I'm gonna try cleaning the spark plugs — they're caked with gunk, which might be the problem right there.”

“You mean it might be something simple?” Matthew didn't want to think about the cost of a tow unless he had to.

“Maybe.” She looked dubious. “But there's a reason the plugs are so dirty. Have you noticed any small oil leaks recently?”

He couldn't remember seeing any spots on his driveway at home. “No.”

Clare returned to the hood, pulled out the remaining spark plugs, and set them gently on the ground. “Do you have a rag? Or more ideally, sandpaper?”

He grabbed an old T-shirt from the hatchback. “Will this work?”

“Thanks.” Clare took the shirt and started polishing a plug. “So did you always want to be a politics professor?”

“Pardon me?” Matthew was caught off guard. “I mean, yes and no. As a child, I wanted to be prime minister. As I grew up, I realized that the academic route would be more practical.”

“Why?” Clare blew on the plug, then appraised it.

Because his parents had laughed at his ambitions, making him believe they were out of his reach. “I'm too outspoken to toe any party line. And you can still effect change from the sidelines.”

“Is that important to you?” Clare set the first plug down and got to work on the second. “Effecting change? It seems like a constant theme in class.”

“It's more than important. It's why we're alive.”

“All of us? Because I thought I was here to be loving and kind and leave things as nice as I found them.”

“You should work on the loving and kind part,” Matthew said under his breath.

“I heard that.” Clare blew on the second plug, then set it down and picked up the third. “I'm sorry I pissed you off this morning. I don't know what got into me. I could hear myself talking but I couldn't seem to stop the words from coming out.”

“It happens to the best of us.” It was time to forgive her.

“So which party would you have joined?” Clare asked. “As prime minister.”

“I would have started my own.”

“Not too late.” Clare went for the fourth and final spark plug. “You're only what? Around forty?”

“Thirty-seven.” Did he look forty?

“Your job is the perfect recruiting ground. Let me know when you're signing up new members.” She replaced the spark plugs in the engine. “Try starting your car now.”

Matthew got into the driver's seat and turned the key. It coughed a bit at first, but the sound got smoother as the engine stayed running. He left the car on and got out to ask Clare if it was safe to drive away.

“Yep. You're good.” Clare picked up her helmet and lit another cigarette.

“Listen, I appreciate your help. Are you in a hurry to get home?” Matthew wasn't sure what he was doing.

“Not especially. In fact, if you like, we can find some sand-paper and really give those plugs a scrub.”

It would be a wonderful image if not for the sandpaper. “I was thinking more along the lines of a drink,” Matthew said. “You've saved me a fortune in repair bills.”

“Sounds fun. But listen, I'd help anyone out of a jam. You don't owe me anything.”

“Maybe not. But I'm hoping that if I get you drunk enough, you might tell me why you forced your way into my class at the last moment.”

“Huh?” She looked at him quickly.

“Come on. You know what I'm talking about.”

“No.” Clare's eyes widened. “I don't.”

“On Tuesday morning, my department head got a call from the Registrar with a firm request to let you into the class. Poli Real World admission is normally by invitation only.”

“Seriously?” Her eyes narrowed. “I thought that it looked like an interesting class. I didn't know anything about forcing my way in.”

“Well, who do your parents know? The Registrar? The Chancellor? The late mayor?”

“They don't know anyone.” She stared at her shoes. “It was late August when I decided to transfer to U of T. My dad's sick. Terminally. I came home from out east to be near him. I guess — maybe — is it possible that someone in Admissions would have taken pity on me?”

“My god. I'm sorry.” Matthew felt like an ass. “Of course it's possible. Are we still good for drinks?”

“Sure.” Clare met his eye tentatively. “Um, if you want me to drop your class, you know, say the word. I mean, I love the course. But I don't want to mess with your system. I can apply for it next year like anyone else.”

“No,” Matthew said. “No, I'd love for you to stay on. I just wish those bloody bureaucrats would have told me the truth in the first place.”

“Yeah.” Clare grinned. “Bloody bureaucrats. Someone ought to change the system.”

Jonathan liked the way Jessica's hand felt in his. It was small, and soft, and it betrayed a vulnerability that her words and actions did their best to hide. It was also a milestone; it meant she liked him back.

“Do you really think churches should pay property taxes?” Jessica said. “Or is it what you think Dr. Easton's opinion would be?”

It was well past four, but the sun was still strong. It felt like they had all the time in the world between now and the speech on campus they had agreed to attend together.

“Caught me.” Jonathan smiled at his reflection in an art store window. “I care more about getting into the mind of an egocentric old man than I do about pursuing an unattainable utopia.”

“Don't let Dr. Easton hear you call him old. I get the feeling he's sensitive about his age.”

“Probably thinks he's past it,” Jonathan said. “Which he kind of is, for sleeping with undergrads. Poor old Diane. You can practically see the venom dripping from her when she looks at him.”

“Poor old Diane?” Jessica rolled her eyes. “I'm surprised her major is poli sci and not boring religions and the morons who subscribe to them.”

“And yet you think her church shouldn't have to pay property tax?”

“I never said that. I just don't care.”

“You might care if you were one of the businesses who pick up the tax slack in this supposed era of divorced church and state.” Jonathan felt himself grow heated.

“You, on the other hand, do care.” Jessica stepped aside to avoid walking over a grate, pulling Jonathan's hand and arm along for the ride.

“Are you afraid of something?” Jon said, as his arm stretched to its full capacity. She wasn't wearing heels, which was the only reason he could think of for avoiding the sidewalk grate.

“Yeah. I'm afraid of falling in, and landing on a subway track, and getting squished by the next northbound train.”

Jonathan laughed. “We're nowhere near the subway line. Anyway, what's with
your
bill?” He poked her lightly in the shoulder once she'd returned to his side. “Can you say
personal vendetta
?”

Jessica frowned. Jonathan liked the way her lips curled down, like a child trying to solve a puzzle. “I know I didn't write my legislation well. But I think the essence is right. My dad would be alive today — working, thriving, happy — if the emergency system was set up to deal with emergencies.”

“How do you know he'd be thriving and happy?”

“It's who he was. Why would that have changed?”

“Maybe we all have our end date. Maybe if we live past that, by some weird accident of fate, then our lives after that aren't so great.” Jonathan wasn't sure where he was going with this thought line.

“Maybe the accident of fate is what took his life to begin with.”

“So the hospital administrators should be thrown in jail as a result?” Jonathan pointed down Baldwin Street, where they were turning.

“Someone should be accountable.”

Jonathan steered Jessica around an old fish crate that was particularly smelly. “Sometimes crappy things happen, and it's no one's fault. The aneurysm already took your dad's life. Don't let it ruin yours, too.”

“I know.” Jessica's pale blue eyes were beautiful when she allowed her sadness to come to the surface. “I have to get past it. But he was such a loving person. I'm afraid that if I let go of the anger, I'll be letting go of him.”

“You won't lose what matters.”

“That's what my mom said.” In front of one of the shops Jessica stopped to examine a display of cheap sunglasses. “About a week before she died.”

Jonathan didn't know what to say. “You want to smoke a joint with me?”

“No,” Jessica tried on a pair, vamped briefly for Jon, then replaced the sunglasses on the vendor's table. “Pot makes me paranoid. But smoke if you want. I have no moral objection.”

“I wouldn't think so.” Jonathan thought the shades had suited her, made her look like a softer, sexier Janis Joplin.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Wow. Touchy. It means that you seem like a live-and-let-live kind of person.”

“Oh.”

Jonathan opened the door to a small café, and held it open for Jessica. “In here. If you want to grab a seat, I'll get the drinks.”

Jonathan stood in line, watched as Jessica chose a table in the corner, pulled out her netbook, and booted it up.

“I forgot to ask what kind of milk you like,” he said a few minutes later, as he set her latte in front of her. “I went with two percent.”

“My favorite percent.” Jessica looked up from her computer. “Kensington Hideaway. This place has character. How'd you find it?”

“My mom owns it. We live upstairs.” Jonathan took out his own laptop and began setting up.

Jessica leaned back in her armchair. “I would love that life.”

“You would?”

Jon didn't know why anyone would trade a perfect life in Rosedale for the stress of not knowing where next month's rent was coming from. But he wasn't going to spill his mother's business woes. And he liked that Jessica at least thought that she wanted his life.

“When I was little,” she said, “my favorite game was pretending I was a struggling businessman.”

“You played a man?”

Jessica grinned. “Weird, right?”

“Yup. So how do you play struggling businessman? Is it like playing house, but with commerce?”

“I knew you understood me better than most people.”

Wow. Did she just say that? Jonathan tried not to show her his heart leaping well past the ceiling.

“It was more like playing store. But there were always stakes. Like, I'd have a lemonade stand outside the house, and I'd pretend I needed a certain number of sales or my family would go hungry.”

“That's cute.”

Jessica laughed. “Yeah. Cute. Sometimes I'd be out there for, like, ten hours. I always met my quota though. It was so exhilarating, when I'd finally make it.”

“Yeah, I bet. You must hate losing so consistently at
Who's Got the Power?
”

“No, it's refreshing. Too bad it won't last.”

Poor girl had no idea.

“So you're counting on the home turf advantage?”

Jonathan smirked. “I'm counting on the greater skill advantage. Which disadvantaged country would you like me to be today?”

“I think Liberia.”

“Fine.” He slurped his hot chocolate. “I can use their lawlessness to screw you up. We'll still be in lots of time to hear Manuel Ruiz speak. The States again for you?”

“Yup. Although I admit I'm kind of fine to miss the speech tonight. Manuel Ruiz is too smug for my taste.”

“He's not my favorite guy either.” Jonathan particularly hated the non-smoking bill Ruiz had successfully passed. It had cut his mother's revenue by half, when the law had first come in. “But Dr. Rosenblum wants us to hear him, and I have a lot of respect for her.”

Jessica groaned. “I know. I'd feel like a fraud for pretending to have been there.”

Jonathan took a forkful of the communal banana cake he'd brought with the drinks. “You want the computers side by side, so you can make sure I'm not cheating?”

“Across from each other is fine. If there was a way to cheat, I would have figured it out by now.”

“You got it.” Jonathan logged into the game. “Prepare to go down, Killer.”