The iCandidate (31 page)

BLAKE

State parks in Connecticut close at sunset, or so the sign tells me as I pull into the drive and head up the small hill to the parking area.
At this time of November, the days are pretty short and people seem to abide by the rules. All except one person in particular. Despite all the open spots, I park right next to her aging Toyota Camry.

I walk out of the parking area and past some picnic tables before picking up a wide trail that leads to an old iron bridge over the river.
The night is crisp, as one would expect during late fall in New England, but a nearly full moon casts enough illumination so I don’t need a flashlight to show me the way. After a minute or two of walking, I see the bridge and the lone person standing in the middle of it. She must hear me coming, but she doesn’t turn, instead continuing to look up the river toward the little town she calls home.

I make my way over to her, the moonlight reflecting off her snow-white coat like a beacon warning sailors of the rocks.
Perhaps I should heed that warning. I almost want to, but that defeats the whole purpose of the drive up here. She looks peaceful, almost content. Like an angel, with her red hair falling on her shoulders and her green eyes visible even in the moonlight. My God, she is beautiful.

“Hello, Chelsea
,” I almost whisper, not wanting to pierce the serenity of the moment.

She turns to me, and with a little smile, slaps me as hard as she can.
The cracking sound of her right hand against my flesh echoes off the hills around us as my vision explodes in stars. For a petite girl, she packs a wallop, and the chill in the air only makes my stinging cheek hurt that much more. She turns back to her view, saying nothing.

“Glad we got that out of the way,” I say sincerely. “I deserved it.”

“You deserve to be stabbed in your black heart and tossed over this railing,” Chelsea replies coldly.

“Guess I should be thankful you aren’t wielding a knife.”

She turns to me and coolly produces a long k-bar knife from the deep pocket of her coat. Did Bennit give that to her? She holds it near my face so I can see the dark blade with a gold eagle, globe and anchor etched into it. Even in moonlight, the emblem of the United States Marine Corps is unmistakable. Message received.

I memorized the whole opposition report on her.
The reports on Bennit, his fiancée, and his staff were incredibly thorough. I know exactly whose knife this is and have no doubt he taught her to use it. Fathers are protective that way.

“Dad got it when he left the Corps,” she says
, returning it to her pocket. “Thought it may come in handy tonight.”

“Let’s hope not,” I almost wish instead of just say.

“What do you want, Blake?” she asks after a moment.

“To say I’m sorry.”

“To say ‘I’m sorry’,” she scoffs. “Sorry for what?” she asks turning toward me, the pain evident in her eyes. “Sorry for dragging us all through the mud? Sorry for lying about me sleeping with my teacher? For causing a rift between me and my father? For making me a laughing stock in front of my peers and trying to ruin my life? Sorry for actually ruining Michael Bennit’s? Which part, Blake, huh? Which part are you sorry for?”

Actions have consequences.
Sometimes we do things without fully appreciating all the outcomes. I tried to help win a campaign. That was all. I wanted to be a player in the political arena, and Beaumont and Roger promised to make me one. But it was all lies. I was their patsy, the most expendable asset they had to do their dirty work. By the time I realized my role and the hurt and damage I was causing, it was too late. But I never meant to hurt her, her family, or her friends. Or even Michael Bennit. I want to say all this to her. I need to tell her how I feel.

“I tried to fix it
,” is all that manages to come out of my mouth. Fail.

“
Well, la-di-da for you.”

“Doesn’t that count for anything?”

She sighs deeply and turns back to her view of the river. She wipes the tears starting down her cheek with her sleeve. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” I ask quietly.

“It doesn’t matter that you tried to fix it
,” she mumbles, still trying to stifle her emotion. “It was a nice gesture, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because you did it in the first place,” she exclaims, whirring around to face me once more. The emotion and hurt she was feeling mere seconds ago has transformed into something else – anger. “Who does that? What kind of person is willing to destroy others without giving it a second thought? Do you have any conscience at all? Or is your moral compass so broken you just didn’t care?”

Words can hurt as surely as
the knife she’s carrying. She didn’t actually need to stab my black heart with her dad’s k-bar. Her words just did it for her.

I
was blinded by ambition with no values or code other than my own success. I even embraced those concepts. But coming out of her mouth, it sounds all so much different. Maybe because when we first met she had this optimism that only comes with youth and innocence. Or maybe it’s because I now realize that under the shell of maturity, toughness, and confidence I saw at the debate lays a fragile teenage girl, full of insecurity about the world and her place in it.

For the first time in my life, I can honestly say I hate myself.
Chelsea has put a human face on the toll of all the shady and slimy things I’ve done for Winston Beaumont. I hate that I didn’t have courage to stand up to Roger and refuse to make up the story in the first place. I hate that I took the wrong path when the right one was so easily recognizable.

“Did you see those picnic tables near the parking lot on your way to the bridge?” she asks.

“Yes,” I manage to croak out like a frog
, still lost in my own thoughts.

“That was where it all started. It seems so long ago.” She pauses for what seems like an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds. “It was also where we met
when you went after Vince, Peyton, and Brian. And it was where I went to be alone after …” Her voice trails off, but her message was clear.

Chelsea looks at me, waiting, but there’s nothing I can say. No words can undo the past
. No simple apology can ease the hurt. There is only the future yet to be written. Actions speak louder than words, and I know it’s time to take action. This time I know the right path, and I don’t care if it take me through the depths of Hell itself, I’m going to take it.

“
I agreed to meet you, Blake. You said what you had to say. Now I think you should leave.” Chelsea turns away from me again.

“I’m so sorry,” I manage to mumble again before turning to walk away.
She never bothers to watch me go.

I walk back to my car,
determined to finish this chapter in my life once and for all. Seeing Chelsea was brutal, but I have a feeling the next visit I need to make might be worse. That will be the only thought on my mind as I drive back to my place in D.C. I have to pick something up before heading back north to New York City.

KYLIE

I am no stranger to staying in on
weeknights. In my world, there’s nothing wrong with opening a bottle of merlot and curling up on the couch to watch reruns of old sitcoms on television. Tonight is no different, except I eschewed the sitcoms in lieu of a romantic movie. That and I’m nestled in the arms of the most amazing man I have ever met.

Fate brought us together. It was a perfect storm of events that led to this wonderful moment on a dreary, rain-soaked
, mid-November night. My getting fired, Beaumont being involved, his bet with the students, breaking up with his fiancée, and all the ups and downs of the campaign have led us to this.

A dinner out in the city never materialized. We
shunned it for a night in, content to laugh at ourselves trying to cook and not to burn down my building in the process. We haven’t left my East Village apartment since we arrived, and with all the groceries we bought before driving down from Millfield two days ago, we shouldn’t have to leave for five more. As much as I would love a night out on the town with Michael, I’m unemployed and have to bear in mind the unpleasant thought that there are bills to pay. His suspension is bound to become a permanent termination, so he will be rowing in the same part of the creek I am shortly. Savings accounts only last so long.

The
knock at the door startles both of us. “Expecting company?” Michael asks.

“No. It must be a neighbor,” I say, reluctantly
leaving his warm embrace and getting off the couch. It is the only explanation since visitors need to be buzzed in.

Actually, an image flashes through my mind where Jessica picks the lock to the
building and is waiting outside my door with a shotgun. Not realistic, I know, but still. She is out there, our relationship is new, and I am insecure about both.

I
am trying to convince myself that Jessica would never want him back, but if she did, it scares me to death that he might consider it. The break-up with the woman he was about to marry was only two weeks ago, and it somehow feels wrong that we are this involved so quickly. I know there was a lot of tension between them for months, so maybe it’s not as extreme as it seems. Regardless, a small part of me is nervous that I’m only a rebound fling.

I open the door and almost gasp at the sight in front of me. He looks disheveled
, and is soaked from the rain, but the sad, tired eyes have this spark of determination in them. Now what is he up to?

“What do you want?” I ask sharply.

“I’ve come to give you something,” Blake says, sounding emotionally defeated, but still somehow resilient.

“You don’t have anything I want,” I snap, annoyed
this sorry excuse for a human being interrupted my perfect evening.

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Let him in, Kylie. Let’s at least hear what he has to say,” Michael says from behind me. Ugh. I forgot how infuriating men can be, even this one.

Blake’s eyes grow to the size of saucers, shocked to see the
former iCandidate himself standing in my apartment. I can only imagine what must be going through his head right now.

“Michael? I mean, are you guys—
”

“Kindred spirits
finding comfort and companionship while on emotional sabbatical following the rigors of prostituting ourselves to the media and money-driven American political process? Yes.” Okay, infuriating or not, God, I am falling for this man. Is there a more eloquent way to say we’re dating?

“Oh, okay,” is all
Blake can manage as he crosses the threshold into my small Manhattan apartment. We adjourn to the living room, and he declines the drink I offer him. Probably a good thing since I would have most likely poured it on him.

“I’ll get straight to the point. You were writing an article last spring about Winston Beaumont being wrapped up in some shady dealings with the Lexington Group. I know
, because I’m the one who got you fired.”

“You’re a little tornado of destruction,
aren’t you?” I am seriously considering throwing him out the window without opening it. It’s raining out, which would ruin my couch. Then there’s the expense of replacing the glass. So my unemployment will save him, but oh, imagine the satisfaction of seeing this prick go splat on the street outside. Or better yet, the sight of him impaled on the wrought iron fence below the first floor window.

“
She’s plotting about ten ways to kill you right now, Blake, so you should probably get to the point pretty quick.” Damn! How does Michael know that?

“
I need her help,” he says to Michael. “I want Kylie to finish that article.”

“You have some nerve,” I say, getting
even angrier. He got me fired over it in the first place. “I can’t even if I wanted to. Everyone knows I covered Michael’s campaign. And now we’re together so nobody would take it seriously.”

“I know, you need a source.”

“A source? You mean a source like you?” I give a quick sarcastic laugh and shake my head. “News flash, Beaumont fired you, so nobody would ever believe you either. An ex-staffer spilling his guts won’t get it done.”

“What will get it done?” he asks
, without any sarcasm.

“Hard evidence
even the most ardent skeptic would find compelling. Documents, emails, voicemails, recordings. I need incontrovertible proof.”

I didn’t notice it when he walked in, but
Blake takes the fat accordion file that was tucked under his arm and drops it on the coffee table. In that instant, I knew our world was about to change again.

“You mean this kind of proof?”

CHESLEA

It’s hard to believe the disappointment of Election Day
was exactly a month ago. Our final press conference did little to ease the shock of the whole thing. Since then, the phone calls and interviews that accompany the fallout from any media frenzy slowly dissipated until they died out all together. What I was left with was an uneasy silence in my life, and an inability to fill the void that the absence of the campaign left.

Maybe this is the new normal for me.
Things are relatively quiet now, outside of the occasional snarky comment in the hall about sleeping with my teacher. Blake admitted to the lie while trying to undo the damage he chose to inflict. It has been shown on the news a thousand times, but apparently not everyone got the memo, figuratively speaking.

I
f this campaign taught me anything, it’s you can’t stuff the genie back in the bottle once it’s released. While most of my peers accept what was said were lies, the sideways glances I get from them prove an element of doubt still exists and always will. Thank God I graduate in six months.

My former campaign colleagues seem to share the uneasiness of the situation, although for different reasons.
I never truly liked being in the limelight, but Vince and Peyton relished it. Now they walk around like former child actors whose shows were cancelled.

Xavier and Vanessa at least had sports to fall back on.
Xavier is leading the varsity basketball team in scoring, as usual, but is not attacking the game with the zeal he showed last year. His heart is just not in it like it once was. Vanessa feels the same way, or at least that’s what she told us. For them, a new world with fresh opportunities was opened up and then suddenly jerked away. For three months, they weren’t just jocks like everyone had defined them. Now they are.

This whole ordeal may have hit Emilee the hardest.
The campaign really brought her out of her shell and gave her a confidence she never knew she had. We have become closer since early November, and she’s now a better friend than Stephanie or Cassandra ever was. I still talk to my old BFFs, but the former campaign staff shares a bond no one else in school can really understand. I think I know how soldiers who serve together in combat feel.

We are all sitting in the cafeteria, staring at our
untouched lunches. All except Brian and Amanda, whose first half schedules landed them a different lunch period. Since September, the rest of us have all sat together, using our meager twenty-five minute break to plan strategies, develop action items, and outline tasks for the election. I thought when it was over we would end up going our separate ways. Each of us has other friends in the room we could eat with, but through either habit or necessity, we still all opt to sit with each other under the large flat television mounted over our heads.

“
It's still a little weird looking out this window and not seeing reporters creeping around,” Emilee says, staring blankly outside.

“
I actually miss having the police escort us into school,” Vince adds with a chuckle. “Why do you think that is?”

That forces me to smile, because
I heard it was entertaining watching him fight though the mass of media until the Millfield Police finally stepped in. “You were a paparazzi favorite, Vince. You miss the attention.”

“
But I like my privacy,” he offers, almost shamefully.

“Life in a fishbowl.” Xavier mumbles, not looking up. “Just like the fish, you got used to it. Now that you’re back in the wild, you miss the people staring in at you.”

“I’m still having a hard time hanging out with my friends,” Vanessa confesses. We all look at her, but are at a loss for anything to say. It’s silent agreement. We all know what she means.

“It's just different,” she continues after a moment.
“They are different. It's like after all this happened, they changed.”

“She’s right.
Who would have thought I could ever relate better to my parents than my friends?” Peyton asks.

“Maybe you changed,” Emilee says.

“I think we all changed,” I conclude. And that explains it. It is why, more than a month after we had no business sitting together, we still do. We’re participants in teenage alcoholics’ anonymous meeting where notoriety and value was our booze. We’re a support group for each other, and this isn’t lunch in a high school cafeteria so much as a group therapy session.

Nobody can relate to what we have been through, and that includes Mister Bennit.
He may have shared many of the ups and downs that came with the experience, but the view is different for us than him. I’m sure it is different for Miss Slater, too.

When I see her in the hallway between classes
, her face is devoid of both emotion and interest. Friends of mine that have her for class say she hasn’t been herself since she called off the engagement. Rumors are circulating around school claim she is dating again, but they are only rumors. She doesn’t talk to any of Mister Bennit’s former campaign staff anymore, so none of us really knows how she’s doing.

“
Do you think they are ever going to reinstate Mister Bennit?”

“
I wouldn't hold your breath, Peyton,” Emilee says. “They know he did nothing wrong but they’re still dragging this out.”

“
He’s not coming back,” I whisper remorsefully. Nobody challenges me because deep down I think they know the truth as well. Mister Bennit took on the principal, the school board, and a lot of parents who thought he was out of line having students run his campaign. He won the chance to run in the race, but lost everything else in the process.

As far as
the Millfield Public School District is concerned, he’s a maverick. A loose cannon that broke its tether and must be kicked off the deck before it sinks the ship. How well he teaches, and what he means to his students, are secondary in their minds. Welcome to twenty-first century America. What a shame.

It’s absurd that they
haven’t at least bothered to apologize after the truth about the accusation against us came out. I guess the school board has their reasons, but I don’t understand them. All I know is I miss him in class. Ms. Ramsey is a good teacher, and she keeps class interesting, but it’s not the same. The building just seems emptier with him not in it.

“You are awfully
quiet for once, Vince,” Xavier asks, barely looking up from his tray.

“I’m s
till tired from being the voice of the campaign. A human being should not be forced to exist on four hours of sleep a night.”

We all smile because we know exactly how he feels
. Between the campaign, school, and tons of homework, I was buried. Sacrificing sleep was the only way to keep up. ‘You have bags under your eyes I could put groceries in’ my dad kept saying. I guess it took its toll on me.

To everyone’s surprise, m
y grades never really suffered during the campaign. I somehow always found a way to get it all done. The only one of us who struggled was Vince, although he found a way to stay above Mister Bennit’s B grade threshold. Peyton’s grades dipped a little too, but nothing that wouldn’t have been attributed to a case of senioritis if she wasn’t involved in the campaign.

The only real positive from all my new-found free time is the attention
I can devote to the ‘Leaning Tower of College Literature’ in our kitchen. Before the campaign, I really wanted to go to Marist up in Poughkeepsie. As good a value as you can find in colleges these days, it was still out of Dad’s price range.

Thanks to my role in
Bennitmania, paying for school isn’t a concern anymore. More than a dozen schools offered me full scholarships, including a few from the Ivy League. As appealing as Harvard and Princeton are, I am seriously considering Yale since it is much closer to Millfield. I love Marist, but you just can’t turn down a free Ivy League education.

“I’m bored,” Emilee says, tossing her fork back onto her tray. “Is this what the rest of the year is going to be like?

“You mean feeling like we should be doing something more than sitting here waiting for the bell to ring?” I ask.

“Better get used to it Em,” Vince warns. “This is our new reality.”

Vince is right. This is our new reality.
And as much as it is hard to swallow, we might as well get used to it. That is easier said than done though, because part of me is still clinging to hope that the rest of the year doesn’t feel like this.

“Yeah,
unless a small miracle happens to change it.”