She was tired. Tired of listening to herself talk. Which never happened.
At least she’d lined up videos for the next three weeks. By then, this student council nonsense would be well behind her. She’d be wearing the crown as Madame President and could get back to what really mattered.
Wait, did she get a crown? When she was president, she could make an executive order that she get a crown. A cute little tiara with red and blue gemstones. That glittered. And glowed in the dark. She could light up the path to Friday-night football games and—
Holy smokes, was she punchy.
She sipped on the peanut butter, sweet potato, turmeric smoothie Riley had brought in that morning. Riley considered herself a flavor connoisseur, concocting weird drinks that usually tasted like a compost bin. This one a bit of an exception. Or maybe Angeline’s taste buds were as worn out as she was.
As the last bell rang, Angeline noticed Emmie Hayes cleaning her desk with a sanitizer wipe and talking with Ms. Lute from her seat in the front row.
Wrong demographic, hun.
Angeline leaned over to say the same to Sonya, but the words stuck in her throat. Leo, his left arm in that sling, ducked into the room at the last moment. They hadn’t spoken . . . hadn’t been within three feet of each other . . . hadn’t had a single class together. Until now.
His eyes met hers, and even though she was wearing her sunglasses, they punctured deep—right through her anger at him running against her in the student council election and to the reason why.
The only seat free was the one in front of her. He slid in without another glance, but the loop on his sling got caught. His body jerked back, and he winced.
“Are you all right?” The first words she’d spoken to him in weeks. She rested her hand on the back of his neck. The warmth of his skin met the coldness of hers, and they both stiffened. It was as foreign as it was familiar.
They’d do that, her perpetual chill cooling him and his heat warming her. On beach towels on the sand, sometimes under the sun, sometimes under stars they’d try to identify, the skin on the sides of their legs and arms meeting in an exchange of temperatures and a recognition of how comfortable they were with each other. To just be, not to be someone else or someone others saw or expected to see. That mutual sense of purely existing in the present time and place where the most significant thing to be done was temperature regulation might have been what she missed most about Leo.
Did he? Miss it? Miss her?
She pressed her hand deeper, her claddagh ring pushing into the flesh of his neck, but Leo slanted forward to wrench himself free. Angeline’s hand fell along with any hope that he would forgive her. That this wouldn’t be her senior year.
Sonya whispered, “Breathe, just breathe,” which threatened to actually draw out the tears pricking Angeline’s eyes.
And the truth that she only had herself to blame.
At the front of the room, Ms. Lute clapped. “And so we begin! Welcome, my virgin voters!”
Half the class cracked up. Ms. Lute gave a wry smile. It was exactly the reaction she was hoping for. Angeline sat up straighter and slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head.
“Some of you will be lucky enough to hit that big one-eight before November,” Ms. Lute said. “And I fully expect to be leading an Acedia student parade right to the polling station!”
“We get a day off from school?” Josh Baker woke himself up enough to ask.
“Well, no, but—”
“Then count me out.”
“Okay,” Ms. Lute said.
“What now?” Josh rubbed the tanned skin around his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to, like, I don’t know, tell me I’m wrong?”
“My job is to teach,” Ms. Lute said. “You being wrong has everything to do with you, and very little, if anything, to do with me.”
“Ooh”s and “damn”s echoed, and Ms. Lute held up her hands. “Oh, and Mr. Baker . . .” She tapped the top of her head. “Dress code.”
Josh frowned and flicked his trucker hat off his head. “Bull. Especially since we were outta conditioner this morning.”
Ms. Lute nodded. “Rules though. Which can only be changed by getting in the game—whether it’s in here with your student council election or out there in the voting booth. If you’re not turning eighteen before November, you’ll be able to participate by joining the hundreds of thousands of your peers who have already preregistered to vote, so you’re automatically enrolled when you do come of age.” Ms. Lute grabbed a remote off her desk. “Now, when I set out to teach here at Acedia, one thing drew me in.”
A picture of last year’s student council, which included Emmie, flashed on the screen. A yearbook photo and still most of them hadn’t bothered to show up. Entirely representative of how student council functioned at Acedia. Which was why it was the perfect extracurricular for Angeline.
“Unlike many schools, your student council is elected at the start of the year.” Ms. Lute pressed the remote, and a calendar appeared. “In twenty-five days.”
“Leo!”
“Angeline!”
Cheers rang out for each of them.
No one said, “Emmie.”
Not that Angeline would have expected them to. Emmie had experience, but she’d used her time on StuCo to push blood drives and rolling backpacks and things no one at Acedia cared about. She had no real clique to speak of and the wardrobe of a schoolmarm. Emmie didn’t worry Angeline.
“And to make sure this election provides the teaching moment that’s so important this year of all years, Principal Schwartz has agreed to my proposed amendments.” Ms. Lute clicked to the next slide. “Enter the Acedia Student Council Presidential Primary.”
“What?” Angeline said. “We have to be in two elections?”
She didn’t have time for this.
Ms. Lute leaned against the edge of her desk. “Only if you want to be student council president.”
Is that a dare?
Or a threat?
“We’re a microcosm,” Ms. Lute said, “and our election will be no different. Though the primary system is a relatively new addition, only dating back to the 1970s. There’s nothing about primaries in our Constitution.”
Emmie raised her hand. “The framers didn’t even envision two parties.”
Ms. Lute pointed her remote at Emmie. “Exactly.”
“Exactly,” Angeline mocked under her breath.
Leo glared at her. Angeline sunk into her seat.
“Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton left a legacy beyond a gazillion-dollar musical. It was the election of 1800 that gave us two parties. Aided by the media. The candidates and their supporters funded the newspapers, and they dictated what appeared in print. Personal attacks based on rumors were printed as truth. It wasn’t just common, it was expected. But eventually that changed. And yet . . .” Ms. Lute pressed the remote until she landed on a picture of George Washington. “This guy was entirely opposed. He thought two parties would divide a country they’d fought so hard to bring together.”