THE STUDENT COUNCIL

At seven on Monday morning, Trisha Berman woke up in her old bedroom in Erie. Thus far, her first return home had been triumphant beyond description. Friends hosted a party in her honor on Saturday night. Her father closed the restaurant on Sunday evening to entertain the relatives, thirty-six in all. A few came all the way from the West Coast to attend. Most wanted to toast the family celebrity for her much publicized success in Oil City. Her parents were even more taken by personal news: their daughter was ending her relationship with the married man.

Trisha had emptied her checking account to buy four dozen Samaritan sweatshirts to distribute as gifts. Despite getting them at cost, the total was more than her monthly rent. She decided to start a savings plan next month.

At ten a.m., she would be addressing a student assembly at her old high school. At noon, she was a guest speaker at a Rotary Club luncheon. The afternoon was booked with newspaper and radio interviews. With more events on the calendar for tomorrow, she wouldn’t be teaching again until Wednesday.

Powering up her laptop, she read the first of what would surely be a dozen messages from Amy throughout the day. It was a long one. T, you’ve been talking to the Keystone Energy Coalition – dozens of member companies doing billions in business. Suggestion: OC could use a collegiate academy like you attended - a regional school that could serve rural students from all over PA. Once the new high school opens, the mall will be empty. KEC should buy it and donate it to the state for that purpose. KEC gets props and plus PR, the state gets another progressive school, and OC gets a big lift to the economy. $10 mil for the mall, $10 mil for improvements (inc. a gym) and $10 mil for a dormitory. They should buy it now so the dorm can be ready in time. MY, love, Ames. PS. Of course you have to get the state to fund the operation of the school too!

“Miss you too,” Trisha chuckled. The girl had ginormous balls! Westin Construction was already building the new school and leasing the temporary one at an inflated rate, and that still wasn’t enough. Now she wanted to cash out the mall and add another twenty million in contracts for her father’s company! The incredible thing was that it all made sense. Oil City would be all over the idea of a Keystone Energy Statewide Collegiate Academy. Due to the council’s notoriety, everyone would listen instead of laugh. She herself would earn nothing but praise for suggesting it! Even more amazing, Amy’s own father was oblivious to her role in everything. Ames was just his sweet baby girl.

His sweet baby. The child who was intent on giving him a key to Fort Knox for Christmas. Trisha shook her head in wonder. She planned on giving her own father a plastic tackle box.

Ames. Grant called his daughter Ames. Amy had asked her to use that name as well. Did it have some special significance?

Trisha typed a response. Sounds like a win-win, Ames. I’ll get to work on it soon. Big day for me. U have one too. MY, love, T.

In front of her house, Amy awaited William and Google for the early walk to the mall. As they approached, she smiled at their formal attire: navy blue blazers and gray slacks. They reminded her of the Latter-day Saints that used to knock on doors in the neighborhood. Used to. Like about everything else, most missionary work had moved to the internet.

Google walked taller than usual, probably because of his Friday night debut in Oil City football gear. Although his uniform stayed spotless against a dangerous opponent, the Lancers of General McLane, he got to travel with the team. The Samaritans squeaked out a 25-22 win in the road game, but their undefeated record was at risk until the final play. When Big Seven Three batted away a final pass attempt by the Lancer quarterback, the visiting fans released a collective sigh of relief. Too nervous to sit, the Westin trio had been on their feet the entire final quarter.

Before the game began, Google drew laughter as the Samaritans ran onto the field. He looked more like a mascot than a player, especially jogging right behind the Barn Door. At his physical, he had balanced the scale at a hundred and twenty-four, a pound less than Amy’s trimmed-down weight.

Emily had commented, “Sam looks shorter than a noon shadow out there.”

“Shorter than a noon whisker,” Grant added.

“It’s not the size of the man in the fight that matters,” Amy had pointed out. “You know the rest of the expression.” She knew Google’s chance wouldn’t come until next week, when the Samaritans hosted Bradford. The Owls were winless on the season.

Amy greeted her friends when they drew near. “Hey, William. Morning, Big Eight Nine!”

The council president elbowed Google. “I would have recommended a single digit number on your jersey ... would have made you look bigger.” William had caught the game in Edinboro on his way to Cleveland.

“Googs, you looked awesome,” Amy said. “Like a total stud.”

“I hope you at least got laid after the game,” William added. “I’d hate to think you put on all that equipment for nothing.”

Amy sighed. William had been a virgin until a week ago. Now, thanks to her sister, he was already talking smack.

As they headed toward the Barner estate, Google gave his daily report. “Over eighteen hundred Samaritan clothing orders over the weekend. We’re crushing it. Janet Kaminsky texted that the bakery got over a hundred pie orders too.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” William said. “Sixty Minutes is doing a feature on us. A crew will be here all day Wednesday. Sales will get even better.”

“When did you hear that?” Amy asked.

“Benson told my father yesterday. Oh, and more news. The security guard’s getting his two-week notice today. I took care of that for you, Amy.”

She knew that was bull. It had been Trisha who talked to Benson, not William. Her faith in the president was wavering some, and not just because of his questionable taste in women. He was turning into a damn politician, taking credit for everything under the sun. “It’s time for Googs to get more exposure, don’t you think? He’ll be council president next year. Make sure he gets featured on Sixty Minutes, okay?”

Google coughed. “I don’t think I could ever get elected. I’m not all that popular.”

Amy pointed to the giant walking down his sidewalk to join them. “There’s your campaign chairman, Googs. The May election’s as good as over.”

“I’ll be co-chairman,” William added. “The job is yours, President Runsfeld.”

Paul waved a greeting and focused on William. “I wanna hear about Cleveland!”

Amy watched her sister’s newest toy laugh and say, “I’m not one to screw and tell. Let’s just say I barely got out of bed for two days.”

“I want the slow motion replay,” Paul grinned.

The youngest Westin took a few steps in reverse. Google drifted back with her. “Amy, thanks for getting me to go out for football. Whether I ever play or not doesn’t even matter. My parents say I’m frazy, but inside they’re really proud.”

She put an arm around his tiny waist. “We’re all proud. And you will play! Just remember to focus. It’s you and the ball. Same as in my yard.”

Upon reaching the school, Amy pulled Paul aside before entering. “Suggestion,” she whispered. “I’m worried about all the missed extra points. The coach can’t allow his son to keep trying to kick them. We should be running for two-point conversions behind you.”

Paul grimaced. “The whole team knows that, Amy, but what are we gonna say? It’s his kid! That’s kind of sacred. And we love Coach.”

“Everybody’s kids are special. It’s really more a math thing. If you hadn’t deflected that last pass, we would have lost Friday’s game; their receiver was wide open. If we had made two-point conversions after each of our four touchdowns, we would have scored thirty-two. Another touchdown for them wouldn’t have mattered.”

Paul nodded. “My father said the same thing. The two of you think alike.”

Amy fought off a grimace of her own. “Then let your father talk to the coach. Everybody listens to Big Ed.”

“He’s wanted to do that already. I asked him not to. I’ll tell him it’s okay now.”

“And thank your dad for the great new sign! Samaritan Field! Love it.”

High on a hill overlooking Oil City, realtor Gwen Benson led a couple through one of her listings. Her website described the split-level home as featuring two thousand square feet, three bedrooms/three baths, a double garage, and a large downstairs family room. The Petersons managed an internet business out of their home and were considering a move from Buffalo, New York. The reason? Their twin fourteen-year-old daughters wanted to attend the famous new high school! William Noble was their YouTube idol and they were true believers.

Guiding the prospective buyers downstairs, the realtor/school board president said, “This area is your special feature. You’ll have room for your desks and it has a bathroom. Lots of privacy too. An ideal home workspace.”

“How far are we from the school?” Mrs. Peterson asked.

“Less than two miles. It’s a healthy walk or a very short drive.” Gwen was interrupted by the sound of her phone. She frowned at the calling number. “I’ll have to take this. Please go ahead and look around.”

She took the call upstairs. “Gary, what is it? I’m trying to sell a house.”

Gary Cole sat in his law office, fuming over news he received. “You fired the security guard? Do you know how lucky we were to get a professional like that?”

“The board decided we didn’t need security. It was nothing personal.”

“Gwen, that’s crap and you know it. The student council made you do it! Those kids are out of control.”

“You’re wrong this time. It was the teachers that complained. Your Mister Sorvino was behaving inappropriately. He was bothering people instead of just keeping an eye on things.”

“He’s investigating, Gwen! The pies and the marijuana!”

“Forget it, Gary. That funny business came and went. No harm, no foul. Heck, half my board probably smokes a little pot. Sally and Mary for sure. I never should have listened to you.”

“Sorvino’s a professional! He can’t be treated like that.”

“You know what, Gary? Suck eggs! You’re bitter because you had to resign. Everything’s been great since you left.”

At lunchtime, Amy walked around the mall parking lot, stretching her legs. Trisha’s presentation at her old high school had gone well. Now the famous teacher was at the Erie Rotary Club to give another inspirational talk.

Amy decided to call Wendy Sykes. “Wendy! I wanted to thank you again for taking care of the Waltz boy. I heard he likes the truck.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to call, Joan. I almost called you.”

“Never! This is a one-way street.”

“We have a problem. There’s a cop from Pittsburgh that’s working at the high school. He knows about everything! He’s threatened to have Leo arrested.”

Amy’s heart fluttered. She took a deep breath, tried to calm herself. “What do you mean by everything?”

“He knows about the Waltz stash, even where we kept it!”

More deep breaths. “You said he threatened Leo. What does that mean?”

“He claimed he only wanted information, that he’d leave us alone if Leo told him what he wanted.”

“What did Sorvino want to know?”

“You know his name?”

Amy realized her mistake. “Word gets around when someone new comes to town.”

“He wanted to know about the Barner boy. You know, the football star.”

Amy’s fingers tightened around the phone. “What about him?”

“Your pie donations, Joan! That’s what caused this whole mess. It drew too much attention. The cop wanted proof that Paul Barner knew about the weed that went with his All-American pies.”

“What did Leo say?”

“Only that Paul cashed in receipts for a couple ounces himself. So yeah, the kid knew. Leo’s not stupid, though. He asked the cop to leave Paul alone until after the football season.”

“And ... what did Sorvino say?”

“He said if Leo kept quiet, Paul Barner would never even get in trouble. Nobody would.”

Amy puzzled over the news. What was the point of Sorvino’s investigation? It made no sense. “Did he ask Leo about anyone else?”

“No. That was it. We moved all the weed to another place. Leo’s decided to take some time off from selling. He has a chance to get rid of all the Waltz stuff at once ... for a premium wholesale price. We’re wondering if you’ll accept two hundred for your share.”

“Two hundred?”

“Two hundred thousand for all the remaining jars.”

“And the plants?”

“I haven’t done anything with them yet.”

Amy knew it was time to hop off the train. “Can I assume you’re getting four hundred for the jars?”

“That’s what Leo says.”

“I’ll take three hundred out of the four. You keep all the plants. That’s my deal. It’s close enough to fifty-fifty.”

“Leo won’t like that.”

“And why not? I came into your lives three weeks ago. You’re going to bank a hundred thousand and have at least five hundred ounces to sell. Joan of Arc is the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“Thank you, Joan. Three hundred it is. You explained it all better than Leo.”

“When do I get the money?”

“In a couple days. Leo just needs to drive down to State College.”

“I’ll call Thursday with directions for my share. Wendy, you shouldn’t talk to anyone about this ... not ever.”

Amy dropped the phone back into her bag. Sorvino said Paul wouldn’t get in trouble. Could she put any faith in that? Why had Paul been singled out? Why not the entire student council? What was the security guard up to? The former detective had been hired at Gary Cole’s request. How did that relate?

Her mind settled on Big Ed Barner. With his son bound for Penn State on scholarship and a surefire professional career, how much money would Ed part with to preserve his son’s reputation? Was this all about blackmail? Is that why Paul wouldn’t get in trouble? His father would pay plenty to make sure he didn’t?

That possibility brought the character of Louis Sorvino into serious question. Why had he left his job with the Pittsburgh police at a relatively early age? Why would he take such a menial job in Oil City? She would have Google dig deeper for answers.

The marijuana giveaway had backfired big time. Worse yet, it had been totally unnecessary. With all the news stories and television coverage about Oil City’s student council and school, donations were flowing in from everywhere. Among the rich, apparently, Samaritan Apple Pie was a fashionable dessert choice. Affluent hosts in New York City, West Palm Beach, Seattle, and San Diego were telling their guests, “This is one of those delicious pies from Oil City, Pennsylvania! We’re showing our support for those wonderful, creative kids by eating it!”

Louis Sorvino was the one who should be eating it, Amy concluded. Gary Cole too. And the sooner the better.