The iCandidate (6 page)

KYLIE

She almost never comes into the Big Apple, at least not by herself. There are occasions when her boss has some manner of business here, and that is about the only time I see her. It’s a preferable arrangement for both of us, because we can’t stand each other. She has her world, I have mine, and when they collide, two 747s slamming head-on at 30,000 feet is a good metaphor to describe the result.

S
he is someone who has gotten used to the trappings of power and the D.C. after-hours political scene, so my first thought was to torture her at one of the many tourist traps the city has to offer. I was thinking maybe something around Times Square, where typical bills of fare are offered up to tourists at obscenely marked-up prices. She would consider any such place beneath her.

I decided
on a different approach. With all the Saturday matinees in the Theater District, it will be too crowded in the restaurants to initiate this confrontation, especially in early June. Plus, I want her to feel somewhat relaxed while still letting her know that she is in my city now. New York is my turf, so I settled on a nice quiet bistro in the Village where I can say my peace. It is charming enough for her to be slightly at ease, while hip and artsy enough to remind her she is swimming in my fishbowl, and not with the rest of the sharks in the Beltway aquarium.

Now fashionably late,
I watch as she saunters up and glides into the seat across from me. “Long time, no see, Kylie,” she says as she places her oversized purse on the floor next to her chair. “How’s unemployment treating you?”

Apparently the gloves are coming off early.
“Hi, Madison. It’s great, thanks for asking. How’s life working for the snake charmer?” I respond in a feint of innocence as she smiles smugly.

“Same old, same old.
Just doing the people’s work and representing the best interests of the district, like we always do.”

The
waiter comes over and asks us for our drink order
. “I’ll have the Chardonnay,” I say. “And she’ll have a glass of grape Kool-Aid.” The Jonestown metaphor is lost on the waiter, but not on Madison.

“And can you slip some hemlock into her
drink since she is committing career suicide anyway?”

The waiter stammers, stuttering
something about not having Kool-Aid and asking what hemlock is. I let him off the hook just to make him go away.

“Just bring two Chardonnays.”
And with that, he bolts from our table, no doubt relieved to get away from the crazy women seated here.

“Well, this is almost like old times, right sis?
The two of us trading barbs across the table.”

“Almost
,” I reply. “Except back then, our battles were small and harmless. Not the scorched earth campaigns they are now.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Oh, Madison, the innocence routine may enchant other members of the press, but it stopped working on me in grammar school. So do us both a favor and drop it, will you?” She smarts a little at the comment, but says nothing. A supreme accomplishment for a woman who talks for a living, I might add. “Despite our differences, I never thought you’d be complicit in getting me fired from a job.”

“I did
n’t get you fired from anything, and I resent that accusation.”

“No,
you didn’t, but your boss did. And frankly I don’t give a damn what you resent.”

The waiter arrives with our wine and asks us for our order.
Neither one of us is hungry by this point, so he is promptly dismissed. Once he flees out of earshot, Madison leans forward, a flash of anger in her eyes.

“He did no such thing, and the mere
insinuation that he did is insulting. Congressman Beaumont is an honest and capable servant of the people who would never jeopardize his position to force the firing of a second rate journalist making unsubstantiated claims.” Second-rate journalist. That was meant to hurt.

“Well, this second-
rate journalist has it on good authority, from reliable sources, that Winston Beaumont was instrumental in passing legislation favorable to the Lexington Group.”

“There’s nothing illegal about that
, Kylie.”

“No, but when he personally benefits from it to the tune of over $300,000 in financial compensation not made directly to his campaign, it’s called a kickback.
And that, my dear little sister, is very illegal.”

I just
played the best card in my hand. There were only a couple of news outlets that covered the allegation, and none of them put a monetary value on it. I did, because that was the number the two sources gave me. One more person to corroborate and I could have run the story, even in the left-leaning paper I served.

“You’ve been watching too much Fox N
ews and reading too many right-wing blogs. You got fired because of all the time you spent railing against modern politics. Everybody knows that.”

“Everybody knows only what they have been told.
It’s even what I was told by my editor. But you know what? It just didn’t sit right with me. So I dug, and eventually uncovered the truth,” I say as I lean forward. She looks at me, the anger in her face replaced with another familiar emotion: fear.

“
Madison, you’re either lying, or completely brainwashed if you think for a second that Winston Beaumont didn’t get me fired because I have the story in all its gory detail. Fox and a couple of others made a few reports, but so what, right? Winston Beaumont’s not scared of Fox News. But having it plastered on the front page of
The New York Times
? That’s another thing altogether.”

I know my sister.
I can read her expressions and mannerisms. Even though we’ve never really been close, I spent enough time growing up with her to be able to decipher her non-verbal tells. And although she’s doing her best to hide it, she just can’t. Not with me.

“What happened to you
, Kylie? You’ve become so jaded. You think the whole world is out to get you. It’s too bad.”

Madison retrieves her purse and stands, the chair screeching against the tile floor as she rises.
Her exit won’t be as graceful as her entrance. No longer is she on top of the world, taking a pity lunch with her loser big sister. I have her, and now it’s time to go for her throat.

“I told you what I was working on.” Madison stops a few steps from the table, but she doesn’t look back at me.
“I didn’t give you many specifics that night we talked on the phone. You remember, the one where we talked like we did from time-to-time growing up. You were in emotional distress, so you reached out to me and I listened like a big sister should. And you know what? I felt closer to you at that moment than any other point in our lives.

“
So I decided to trust you by telling you what I was working on. I may have even mentioned Beaumont’s name to protect you, since being a key advisor to a crooked politician is not exactly a career enhancing move. I opened up to you, and as thanks, you turned around and used that information against me.”

“Good catching up with you
, sis,” Madison says as she walks away from the table and heads out the door. Her quick exit prompts the waiter to bring the bill over, lest I get any ideas about not paying it. I drop a thirty bucks on the table and grab my things.

It
was a short conversation, but we both got what we wanted today. I confirmed Bill’s theory about what transpired to get me fired. Maddy didn’t actually need to make an admission. Her actions told the tale in a way only a sibling could decipher. But she learned something from me too. She knows that I figured it out, am pissed, and will eventually be coming for her and the man she works for.

CHELSEA

As I pull into the driveway, the LED sign in the front of the school reads ‘Final Exam Week! Good Luck!’ That’s exactly what we will all need. I am early to school today, so I park my car without the added humiliation of having the Range Rover and Z4 next to me.

I
chat with Stephanie and Cassandra at my locker for a few minutes and then head off to Mister Bennit’s classroom. Much to my surprise, I am not the first to arrive. Several others, including Emilee, and Peyton of all people, are here getting some last minute review in.

J
oining them, I notice the desks once arranged in the all-too-familiar horseshoe are now neatly lined up in rows and columns. The stage is gone, and the room is in test configuration. I swear the change is more for psychological reasons than cheating prevention ones.

As
time ticks by, my anxiety increases. The last students file into the classroom, still a whole five minutes before the bell. Most of us are already seated, reviewing their notes and asking questions amongst themselves. The public address system crackles to life from the speakers set in the ceiling tiles at the front of the room.

“
Students should be at their second period class at this time for their final examination,” the voice says without preamble. “Please disregard all bells. Students will be dismissed from their exam by announcement.”

Mister
Bennit walks from his desk in the corner to the front of the room with a stack of papers in his hand. “The great journey you all began one-hundred and seventy-six days ago reaches its end today. Hope you all studied hard. Clear your desks.”

We
oblige, but I can tell many of my peers are pretty anxious by the way they fumble their books and notes. Amanda breaks the eerie silence. “There's more than our grade at stake today. Or did you forget?”

“As
if any of you would let that happen, Amanda.”

“
Good, because I have spent every free moment for a month studying for this thing,” Vince says. Doubtful, but I suppose miracles do happen.

Mister
Bennit begins handing out packets consisting of numerous sheets of paper stapled in the corner. If tradition holds, here come the rapid-fire instructions.

“
All right, you have two hours to complete this exam. There are fifty multiple choice questions, fifteen short answer and, of course, the dreaded essay of doom. As always, the only authorized positions for your eyes are the paper in front of you and the clock.

“
Maintain bottom to top lip contact at all times. In the unlikely event you finish early, turn your papers over and remain silent. Cheaters will face summary judgment and execution by firing squad. Questions?”

That
took around nine seconds to get out. He’s slipping.

“
Did you have to make this so easy?” Vince asks playfully. As usual, he earns a chuckle from the otherwise tense class.

“
We'll see if you are so confident once you actually flip your test over, Vince,” Mister Bennit replies with a smile. “Okay guys, get to it.”

For
the next hour and forty-five minutes, I pore over the test. To my pleasant surprise, it is not as hard as I expected it to be. The questions were certainly not easy, but if the whole class took the time to prepare, this exam was not impossible.

I
finish about fifteen minutes early, so I review the multiple choice questions and ensure I marked the answer sheet correctly. Then I check the short answer to make certain I answered the whole question. I have fallen into that trap on more than one occasion. No point in checking the essay. There is no time to review, let alone rewrite it.

“
Three, two, one, time’s up. Writing utensils down, please. Exammageddon is over and it’s time to face the humanity. Bring your essay, answer sheet and exam up to the front.”

Mister
Bennit begins collecting the exams and bubble sheets and places them in separate piles on his desk. I look around and don’t see the panic I have in the past. Most of us confidently turn the exam in. I think he notices too.

“
Will you let us know how we did?” I ask, innocently.

“
So eager to fail,” he states with a wink. “I’ll e-mail the class when they are graded for those who are curious.”

He
can keep dreaming. There are a lot of things in life I am not sure of, like why girls my age find UGG boots fashionable. But I can say with certainty that I nailed this test. Maybe not a perfect score, but I will promise I didn’t miss it by much. I know I did my part.

From
the looks of it, I am not the only one brimming with confidence. There are a lot of smiles in the room, and some very upbeat conversations get interrupted only when the public address system crackles to life. “The B Period final exam testing period has concluded. Students may now be dismissed for their next exam.”

We
all begin to file out of the classroom. We have twenty minutes to get to our last exam of the day, but most of it will be spent socializing in the hallway. I look back to see Mister B. flipping quickly through the answer sheets. While I doubt he has the exact order memorized yet, I bet he knows it pretty well. That would be the only reason I can see to justify the look of concern on his face.