The iCandidate (12 page)

MICHAEL

“
Okay, let's cut to the chase. I need to know whether you guys are in or out, and I need to know today.” I sit on a desk, copying the students in the room. I’m not sure why teenagers prefer sitting atop their desks rather than at them, but I remember doing the same thing so many years ago.

The whole gang showed up
: Xavier, Brian, Amanda, Chelsea, Peyton, Emilee, Vince, and Vanessa. They are all pretty surprised by the force of the request, especially considering the high they got reading about us in the newspaper. But this is important, and no time to mince words.

“
You have all already given up a lot for this. You gave up a whole summer getting signatures and preparing for an unconventional political campaign you had no idea how to run. You did far more than I should have expected from you.”

“
Mister B—” Chelsea starts to talk, but I hold up my hand to stop her. It’s not a power thing so much as a need to finish this thought.

“Please let me finish, Chelsea
. You think you screwed up somehow during the announcement. So what? We all screw up in life, but you learn from it and drive on. God knows, I’ve had to. Here’s the problem, though,” I tell them before pausing.

“You guys quit. Things didn’t go your way and you decided
pushing forward was too hard, so you gave up.” Most of them break eye contact with me and stare at the ground. I know they agree because none in this usually argumentative group protest. I let that sink in for a moment since they are feeling pangs of guilty over the decision, before taking a deep breath and continuing.

“This campaign is going to get harder.
We’re on the grid, to use Brian’s parlance. Beaumont will fight like a badger to keep his seat, and now he knows who we are. The element of surprise is lost. So the next question is a simple one. Can you handle adversity, or are you all going to quit again when things get tough?”

I get up from the desk I’
m sitting on. I hate to lecture them like this, but it needs to be done. If I decide to go any further down this path, I can’t afford to have them bail on me again. No point in storming Fort Beaumont alone.

“
I’m not going to make your decisions for you regarding the campaign, and I better not hear you put any pressure on each other. This is an individual choice, and you won’t hurt my feelings if you decide it’s not for you. This is your senior year of high school, so I understand if you don’t want to make the commitment this is certain to be. If you’re in, I
need
you in until the end.” I do need them, because there is no way I can do this without their help.

“Talk a
s a group or reflect on it yourselves. However you make your decision, I need you to tell Chelsea tonight since she’s the campaign manager. Chels, send me a text with the results and we’ll take it from there.”

I grab
the assault pack from the floor beside my desk. As it’s only the first day of the school year, there isn’t too much in it. That will change fast once the assignments I issue start getting returned and need grading.

“Good luck guys, and either way, I’ll
catch you tomorrow.” I leave the room and walk down the hall, hearing nothing coming from the classroom. No conversation, arguing, or speechmaking as they think about what the right decision is for themselves. And that is exactly what I need them to do.

* * *

With the school day over and afternoon workout completed, I showered, relaxed and got ready for the last of my first day of school rituals. After finally meeting the requirements of becoming a teacher in the State of Connecticut, and subsequently landing a teaching position at Millfield, I went out to celebrate surviving the first day of my new job. I continued the custom the following two years, this time with a beautiful blonde English teacher who also worked in the building. Now as my future wife, this quiet outing to our favorite restaurant is a favorite tradition.

Jessica and I clicked from the moment we met.
Like all couples, we’ve had disagreements that ranged from minor spats to the Rumble in the Jungle, but always managed to rectify things quickly. Things are different now, maybe because this is the first real rough patch we have faced during our romance. Lately, there has been an icy chill to the air when we are together, and it has nothing to do with the approaching New England autumn.

Half way through dinner,
I hear the distinctive chime of a text notification from the inside pocket of my jacket. I reach in for it, pausing.

“
You wanna put some money on this?” I say, straining to be playful.

“
Nope. Just read the message,” Jessica responds from across the small table, her voice a mix of curiosity and annoyance.

I glance down and read
the note aloud, barely containing my smile. "We’re in. Energy and persistence conquer all things - Ben Franklin."

I
put the phone away and am rewarded by Jessica’s face contorted in disapproval. “How is it your kids remember lines you quoted five months ago and mine can't remember what I said five minutes ago?” she asks rhetorically before turning her attention back to her linguini.

The campaign is back on, and wh
ile I feel like celebrating, it’s abundantly clear my fiancée had hoped for a different outcome. After a moment of awkward silence stretched into an eternity, I decide to broach the subject. Like a thunderstorm on the Great Plains, you can see this fight coming from miles away. Joy.

“You're awful quiet
,” I say, stating the obvious.

“
I saw Chelsea in the cafeteria with her friends. They came down on her pretty hard for ditching them this summer. She was pretty upset.”

I
place my fork in the bowl of pasta and fold my hands. No point in stopping her until she makes her point.

“
Now I’m sure Vanessa will stop playing field hockey this fall and Emilee will quit the yearbook. Xavier is not practicing as much as he needs to for basketball. Brian’s more socially disconnected now than ever.” She pauses to read my reaction, which is basically nothing. “The list goes on if you're interested.”

“
I’m sure this has been hard on their social lives.”

“It's more than that and you know it!” she
shouts, exasperated. “You're doing it again, Michael!”

“
Doing what? Trying to make a difference?

“No, y
ou've been doing that all your life. It’s why you went into Special Forces and why you chose teaching when you got discharged. This is more than that, so just admit it.”

“A
dmit what, Jess? I have no idea where you’re going with this, so just get to the point,” I say, becoming more agitated.

“
It's not about making a difference with you anymore. You have an ax to grind because of your last deployment.”

“Leave
Afghanistan out of this,” I say before stabbing at a piece of my penne.

“
Why should I? It has everything to do with this! You have this obsession to fix the world because of what happened there, and that’s fine. But now you’ve dragged a bunch of eighteen year-old kids into your crusade, and I’m willing to bet they have no idea why,” she says, leaning forward. I say nothing, which is all the response she needs. “You have no idea what you are doing, or how it's affecting them,” she concludes.

I have had enough. She may be right and may be wrong, but I am not thinking about this logically anymore.
She made this debate personal by bringing up Afghanistan. Howell may push my buttons, but Jessica pressed the big red one I keep locked in a glass box.

“
That's your default mindset, Jess. Let's protect them from everything so nobody gets hurt. And you wonder why this generation struggles adapting to the real world.”

“
Don't start! Michael, you are the most brilliant, dedicated teacher I have ever seen. The interest you take in your students is inspiring. You run your classroom like military school—”

Our waiter approaches with dessert menus, clearly having no idea what he is walking into.
Without missing a beat, Jessica eyes his approach. “Not now, please come back in a few minutes.” He stops mid-stride, spins on his heels, and heads to another table. Smart man, because I wish I could do the same right about now.

“
Somehow you get away with it. In fact, the kids love you for it. But now you are taking things too far by including them in this ridiculous campaign. They are giving up too much—”

“
Isn't that the point?” I interrupt.

“
Look, you have the best of intentions, but have you considered how far is too far?”

“
I'll know when I get there.”

“
Will you? Because if you’re wrong, someone could end up permanently hurt by the time you pull back on the reins. Campaigns are dirty, nasty things today. Are you ready for the consequences?”

I reach my
hands across the table and take Jessica's. Out of all our fights as a couple, this may be the most contentious. Usually, we talk things over and find common ground, but there is none here. She wants me to abandon this campaign and I’m too stubborn to do it. Holding her hands, I realize there is no warmth in her touch. There’s a rift between us, and I can’t help but think it’s growing.

“I won't let that happen
,” I say, somewhat unconvincingly.

“
Scary thing is, when the time comes, you may not have a say.”

* * *

That was the last thing she had to say on the matter. It was late for a school night, so we paid the bill and headed home in silence. No doubt that we both had a lot on our minds.

I’
m not marrying Jessica because we are a perfect fit and never disagree. She is entitled to her opinions, and while I value them, part of me also feels she should be supporting me more than she is. Her feelings are clear on this, which causes me to wonder something I have never had cause to think about. When the going gets tough, will she be there for me, or is this just a fair weather relationship?

I lay in bed with the television on, flipping through a few channels before settling
on the local news. I refer to these broadcasts as the ‘murder and arson report’ since that seems to be all they show us these days. Tonight, however, the third story was something I never expected.

“
There are hundreds of campaigns this mid-term election year, but one in particular is getting national attention. Bill Kalagher is live from Millfield with more,” the anchor says as the scene shifts over to his field reporter.

Jessica, hearing the name of our town, emerges from the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging from her mouth.
I sit up against the headboard when I realize the report is coming live from the parking lot of the Perkfect Buzz. The shop is closed, so I wonder just how long the reporter has been in town.

“
As first reported in this morning’s
Hartford Courant
, what is unique about this is not independent candidate Michael Bennit running for this district's congressional seat. It is his staff, made up entirely of high school students, bringing his message to the voters exclusively over social media. We caught up with campaign manager Chelsea Stanton earlier today.”

This may be the first time I have ever felt elation and impending doom simultaneously.
I could not be more proud of Chelsea and how she handled herself. The television media picked up the
Courant
article and ran with it, and just as I thought, the press is taking more interest in the students running the campaign than me as the candidate. I also know this is only the beginning, because as the interest in the students grows, so will the amount of media covering it.

“
I guess we’re going to find out if you know how far is too far after all,” she says sarcastically as she returns to the bathroom. Yeah, I guess we will.

KYLIE

“
He calls himself the iCandidate is using the Internet, Twitter and Facebook to take the political world by storm,” I hear the first report say as I walk behind the cameraman. As the numerous media trucks set up shop outside the Perkfect Buzz to be ready in time for the evening local broadcasts, I made sure I introduced myself to each reporter. In most cases, I even shared some information with them.

“It’s a
new-age campaign relying on social media to spread its message and reach the voters. There are no annoying political commercials or robocalls. Not even any fundraisers or rallies,” an enthusiastic female reporter named Susan tells the camera. She is getting swept up in this, and not because she is reporting on it. I found out she started following Michael Bennit on Twitter because she likes him.

“
The Bennit campaign started as a social media fad, but is quickly going viral. What was dismissed as a gimmick now has mainstream attention,” opines a reporter from Channel 3, “and voters of the Sixth District are taking notice, as is the rest of the state.”

Yes, they are,
creating another set of problems. It’s been a week and a half since my first article about Michael Bennit ran in
The Hartford Courant
, and so far, the plan is working flawlessly. Two more articles were released since the first, each picked up by all the local, and now an increasing number of national newspapers. Frankly, I’m surprised only because I had to call in a lot of favors just to get the first article published locally. Each subsequent one gave the public a new piece of the puzzle on this campaign, and they want more of it. The local news reporting live from here shows that I have gotten people interested. I will know I made it big when CNN and FOX show up.

Beaumont
must be getting a little scared, but before I push this any further, I need to understand what the campaign’s plan is. The couple of Skype sessions I shared with Michael have been enlightening, but I need to meet the man for real to see if he is a serious candidate. Unfortunately for him, the voters will need to be shown too if he expects to win. I am not sure he does.

* * *

An hour later, I watch the activity outside the now bustling coffee shop from my car as both Chelsea and Vince head in. They are remarkably poised under the circumstances. I drift back to reading the emails on my phone when a sharp rap at the window causes me to jump out of my seat. Before I could say a word, the passenger door swings open and the iCandidate himself slides into the seat next to me.

“Stalking is illegal in all fifty states
, Miss Roberts,” he says with a smile.

“I’m not stalking, I’m chasing a story
,” I manage to stutter, sounding like a complete idiot. Michael Bennit is even better looking in person. I’m actually a little breathless. “And I prefer you call me Kylie,” I say, with a smile he probably gets from every teenage girl with a crush that swoons over him. Recognizing the look or not, he smiles in return.

“
What brings you up this way? You know you can call anytime.”

“I wanted to meet you in person
.”

“
Kinda poking holes in this whole iCandidate thing aren’t you?” he asks with a laugh.

“Maybe, but you
climbed into my car, remember?” I pose playfully. Did I just bat my eyelashes at him? What the hell is wrong with me? I’m flirting with him.

“
Touché,” he says. “What did you want to talk about?”

As I start to regain my senses, I realize we are in a parked car
at the back of the coffee shop lot with nobody around. Cameramen and reporters are making their way to their trucks from the entrance, having shot their b-roll and filled up on caffeine. That leads me to my next thought.

“Don’t you want to go talk to the press before they leave?”

“Nope. That’s why I’m here with you. I’m hiding from them.”

“
You’re strange, you know that? You must be the first candidate in history to ever shy away from the cameras when they show up.” And I mean that. I have never, and I do mean never, met a candidate or sitting politician who purposely avoids the press. In case there was any doubt in my mind the man in front of me is a different kind of candidate, it is now put to rest.

“You don’t
need me to confirm that for you. Just ask my kids.”

“Okay.
” The direct approach always works best for me. Some journalists try to play gotcha with people. I like to hit them hard and see what the response is. “You’re the candidate and they’re the staff, right? Why are you putting them front and center in the campaign?”

“I didn’t realize I was,” he says,
continuing to look out my windshield at the dispersing reporters. A classic example of deflecting the question.

“You are
, you know you are, and I’m wondering why.”

“Are w
e off the record?” he asks.

“Do we need to be?”
is my quick response.

“That
depends. Are you asking because you’re curious or because you just want to write another story?” Apparently he likes the direct approach too. Not a trait you see in most candidates, or politicians for that matter.

“I’m already in bed with you.”

He flashes me one of those looks that a guy gives to a woman when she says something unintentionally sexual. Normally, I shrug it off, but I find myself blushing.

“Figuratively, not literally.
I want to know exactly where you see this going. Letting teenagers run with this is a bold move.”

“But it’s working.”

“It is for now. What happens when parents start getting involved and begin pressuring the district to put an end to this.”

“That won’t happen.”

He’s in denial. Beaumont got me fired from my job because he was afraid of what I might print. Not too many politicians in the country wield the clout, or the guts, to do that. Of course, Michael doesn’t know anything about my past, and I’m not sure I am ready to tell him.

“You’re running against Winston Beaumont.
If this thing becomes a threat, trust me, it will happen.”

“You sound like you speak from experience,” he says, making me wonder
if he does know. Time to shift gears.

“
I did some research on you. Turns out you were a Noncommissioned Officer in the Army, attended Airborne School, Special Forces, HALO school, whatever that is, and did multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. You’re highly decorated, including a Purple Heart, a pair of Bronze Stars for valor, and a Distinguished Service Cross you earned during your last tour.

“They give those away
these days,” he says dryly.

“
They give away the second highest award for valor in the military? I don’t think so.”

He finally looks over me with his piercing blue eyes and I melt. He’s not
angry, although I am pretty sure I would never want to see him actually mad. His expression is more one of, impatience, maybe?

I lean in
, closing the space between us to something almost uncomfortable. That tactic usually causes people to back away defensively. He doesn’t flinch. And he smells really good. “You are a war hero and qualified to run for Congress based on that alone.”

“
John Kerry won three Purple Hearts in Vietnam and still fell short in the race for the presidency. McCain spent years as a POW in Hanoi and lost to Obama. Combat service does not qualify you for anything, and certainly doesn’t guarantee victory these days.”

“Presidential contests are different than legislative races. There are over
one hundred veterans in Congress right now, and more than fifteen of them were deployed to the Middle East.”

“That’s not why they were elected. Nobody cares about
where you serve.” Man, is this guy ever stubborn. For someone who has no particular platform, he sure is secure in his opinions. Speaking of which … .

“Is that why you don’t talk about issues?
Because you think nobody cares about them either?” His smirk signals I struck a chord, but he still doesn’t move away. Fearless and sexy. “You are going to need to address them sooner or later. You know that, right?”

“Let me ask you a question
, Kylie. Why are
you
doing this?” That causes me to move away. Crap.

“What do you mean?” I ask
, trying to stall for time.

“You know
exactly what I mean. I appreciate the near-militant interest in this campaign, I really do. Your articles are the only reason we have any awareness whatsoever, but that doesn’t explain why you wrote them in the first place.”

“Now tell me
, why should I answer your question if you didn’t answer mine?” Michael Bennit is an honorable guy and I am really not sure how he would respond to my motives. Maybe he would understand them. Maybe he wouldn’t. But I have no interest in finding out right this moment so I dodge the question. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

“Trust is earned, not issued,” Michael
pronounces without pause. “So why don’t we get to work earning each other’s first before we share secrets. Figuratively, not literally,” he says, winking at me. The last of the reporters huddled around the entrance to the coffee shop have moved off. He nods toward the shop and opens the door. “C’mon, let’s go meet the gang.”