THE STUDENT COUNCIL

At eight o’clock on Tuesday night, Amy was one of fifteen students in her classroom. All sat in front of their computers. Some dallied with games or Facebook pages. Others browsed the internet. Many continued work on their Screen Saviour lessons. Most seemed comfortably busy.

Hosting an army of student teachers was the key to having school doors open twelve hours a day. Ten of the thirty Education majors assigned to the high school worked from one p.m. to eight p.m. Four of the regular Oil City faculty kept the same hours to provide supervision.

“Time to shut down,” a student teacher announced. She stood by the door, holding it open, nodding farewell to the departing teens. Fred Waltz walked past her, holding hands with a new girlfriend. Once outside, they skipped toward the sparkling black pickup truck in the parking lot.

Remaining in her chair, Amy considered her lesson for the day: Being rich was the only way to go. She didn’t care about material trappings particularly. Fancy clothes and cars held no special allure. Costly jewelry didn’t matter either; she would have loved her JWG pendant if it had been cut from cardboard. It was the power of money that made a difference. Some doors opened only for the rich.

She held evidence of that in her bag. Paul had delivered it right after football practice, saying, “Here’s the info you wanted. A courier dropped it off at the house. As always, you were right. Sorvino’s a dirtbag. Good thing we shitcanned him.” He’d handed her an envelope from the Law Office of Lester Kraft and sprinted off, shouting, “Gotta run. My dinner’s on the table.”

Two pages were folded inside. The top one was a bill for $2,160, loose change for Big Ed. The second was a letter. Headed “Response to Your Inquiry,” it provided a brief lowdown on Sorvino and two fellow detectives. With a history of allegations of misconduct, most involving illicit payments from drug traffickers, the three had been weeded out of the Pittsburgh Police Bureau. In the cases of Sorvino and one other, complaints included extortion of sexual favors and cash payments from prostitutes as well. The three detectives had been allowed to tender resignations as an alternative to facing full criminal investigation by the Bureau.

Her instinct had been right. Like many answers, however, it triggered more questions. How could such a man get hired to work in a school? Had the district failed to do a background check?

She had called on William to make that inquiry; he seemed to have pull with the entire administration. Within an hour, he put a copy of Sorvino’s background report on her desk. Clean as fresh snow! Were his misdeeds omitted because they were only allegations? Apparently.

The remaining question was how to use the inside information. If Principal Johnson read the letter from Paul’s attorney, Sorvino would be ushered off school property in a second. As satisfying as that might be, how would it help Paul? The former detective still had knowledge that could be used to hurt her friend.

The brief report conveyed another message as well. Sorvino was even more dangerous than she imagined.

Google twitched in the seat beside her. He had questioned her all day. Why does Sorvino want to talk to you? What’s going on? What are you holding back? She assumed he’d pass out if he read the letter in her bag. Google was far more impressionable than Paul, who was focused on homecoming and hadn’t mentioned the report again.

“There’s Sorvino,” her friend whispered. “He’s looking in the window!”

“Go then,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Google shut down his computer. “I’ll be outside if you want me.”

As he headed toward the front exit, Amy took spray cleaner and tissue from her top drawer. She cleaned her keyboard and screen while watching Sorvino from the corner of an eye. He spoke with the departing teacher and started toward the back of the room.

Pretending to ignore the former detective, she took Google’s outlet camera from her bag and cleaned that too. She was buffing it with Kleenex when Sorvino said, “Thank you, Amy Westin. Thanks to your father too. You know, for all the entertainment.”

She dropped the fake outlet to the carpet. Sorvino immediately bent and picked it up. Examining it, he asked, “What’s with the spycam?”

Amy was reeling from Sorvino’s first words, struggling to stay in control. “It’s not for spying. I use it to film my Zumba workouts.”

“I’ve seen you dancing ... you and that teacher. You should put that on YouTube. It would probably go virus.” He set the outlet on her counter.

She said, “You mean viral.”

He shrugged and sat in Google’s chair. “Like I told you back when we met, my first day in Oil City, I came here to kick back and enjoy the country life. Turns out the country can be pretty entertaining.”

Amy clasped her hands on her lap to keep them from shaking. “The new school has gotten lots of attention.”

Sorvino stared down at her hands and chuckled. “Yeah, that too. Anyway, an hour after I got here, the superintendent took me for a tour. I kept hearing the same two words, over and over. Westin Construction. Westin Construction. Clearing the ruins of the old school. Repairing the gym. Leasing this mall. And then the kicker, building a new thirty million-dollar school. No, wait. The real kicker was the thirty-nine thousand dollar a month lease for this place. Way too much, I’ve been told. I’m a cop, Amy. A damn good one. I’ve learned two lessons on the job: follow the money; and never believe in coincidence.”

Amy tasted vomit rising in her throat. Her head seemed to be floating. She squeezed her hands together, trying to maintain composure.

The detective’s eyes danced at her discomfort. “So it turns out that Westin Construction was in serious financial trouble, going broke serious. One little fire changed all that in a second. A man facing ruin enlisted his little daughter to do his dirty work. I’ll say this, Amy Westin, you’ve been one loyal little trooper. Most kids won’t even clean up after themselves, let alone their parents.”

He thought her father was guilty? Outrageous! “If you’re suggesting I had anything to do with that fire, you couldn’t be more mistaken. The police captured the Ragsdale brothers.”

Sorvino grinned. “Remember, you’re not talking to some farmer, Amy. Noah Ragsdale was your friend. You sat next to each other in class.”

“Not true,” she exclaimed. “Seats were assigned. I don’t even know Ragsdale. Never spoke to him in my life. Not his brother either.”

Her protest made him pause. “Do you want me to go downstate and talk to the boy myself? I didn’t think that’d be necessary.”

She replayed all interaction with Noah in her head. She had been encouraging, but careful. If he kept her instructions and photoshop of the burning school, they’d never been mentioned in the news. Besides, she had printed them in the old school library. There was no way to trace them to her, was there? Still, if Sorvino led Noah in her direction, he might admit that he mentioned his intent to her. “I had nothing to do with it,” she repeated.

He tortured her with a laugh. “I’m a big city cop for twenty-four years, little girl. I know that you’re lying, so let’s move on.”

Amy decided not to say another word. She might learn something useful by listening.

“Let’s talk marijuana. Whose idea was it to raise money for the school that way?”

Amy responded by staring at her blank computer screen, anywhere but at him.

“Strangest coincidence,” he continued. “Who was the boy sitting in front of you in that same class with the Ragsdale kid? Fred Waltz, the kid with the brand new truck and the imaginary mother that bought it for him.” He waited for a reply again. “I looked at all those wooden cases, all that weed stored in jars. A name was written in ink on every case ... wee small on the side. George Waltz. Fred’s recently departed father. Small world, isn’t it?”

Amy bit her lip. This was officially the worst day of her life.

Sorvino was relentless. “You think Oil City’s been making lots of headlines with this new school? They’re nothing compared to the ones that you and your family will make. Is that what you want?”

She knew exactly what she wanted: to bury Louis Sorvino. “No,” she whispered. “That’s the last thing I want.”

He nodded. “Good. You’re a smart young lady. I admire you. Hell, I admire your old man. Very enterprising. If you agree to help me with a few things, I’ll leave you with your nasty little secrets. Say a word about our conversation to anyone, and I’ll take my information straight to Gary Cole. He brought me here because he hates you kids, your whole student council thing. Hell with him, right?”

“Yes,” she whispered again. “Hell with him.”

The sound of a key in the door turned their heads. Trisha Berman was entering, home from her trip to Erie.

“Cheer up,” Sorvino said as he stood. “You control your own destiny.”

Trisha was dressed for Zumba. “What’s going on?” she asked the guard. “You have no business hanging around in here.”

He’s nothing but business, Amy thought, and answered for him. “We were just talking. He had questions about computer viruses.”

“That’s right,” Sorvino muttered, nodding to the teacher’s Spandexed breasts as he passed her. “Just learning from the kids.”

As Trisha watched him leave, Amy opened her top drawer. She swept Google’s spycam into it with a brush of her sweatshirt sleeve. She then hurried to her teacher and greeted her with a hug. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

Miss Berman squeezed her in return. “You must be! I can feel your heart racing.” She stepped back and studied Amy’s face. “Is everything okay?”

“It will be when that man’s gone for good. I hate the way he looks at me.”

“I feel the same way. Let’s go burn off some energy. The windows in the exercise room are all tinted now.”

“They did it this morning. Major improvement.”

Google was standing outside. Amy told him, “Thanks for waiting, but I’m exercising with Miss Berman.”

“Is everything okay?”

“You mean other than being stalked by a psycho security guard?”

“He’ll be gone soon enough,” Trisha pointed out. “He won’t be missed by anyone.”

As the ladies walked off, Google called out. “Amy, can we talk a second?”

“Go ahead,” Trisha said. “I’ll go set up new music.”

Google waited for the teacher to distance herself. “Just a question, Amy. What’s with you and Berman?”

“What’s with us? Explain.”

He kicked at a pebble on the asphalt. “Hugging each other. Doing things together. It looks kind of weird.”

Amy eyed him for a moment. “We’re friends. She’s not that much older than we are. We have a lot in common.”

“But she’s our teacher.”

“That’s something she does, Googs, not who she is. We’re all teachers and we’re all students, don’t you think? See you in the morning.”

“You didn’t tell me about Sorvino. What did he want?”

“He’s a dirty old man,” she replied. “I think I set him straight.”

Google nodded. “I’ll bet you did.”

With the weight of a crashing world on her shoulders, Amy began her Zumba like a zombie. Louis Sorvino was sucking the life out of her, trying to make her his slave. An expression haunted her: Live free or die. It wasn’t just a slogan; it was an official state motto. Massachusetts or New Hampshire? She couldn’t recall which.

In the mirror, Amy saw Trisha waving her arms, urging her to pick up the pace. The teacher reminded her of a restless young child, pleading with a grandmother. Faster, Grandma! Move faster! You can do it! Amy could now only dream of days of youthful innocence. They were suddenly so far behind her. Why couldn’t Sorvino just leave her alone? What was so wrong with Live and let live?

Pitbull came next on the playlist. It was the name of the rapper, not the music, that resonated. Amy had been playing the part of a St. Bernard, trying to rescue others. With her own welfare at risk, she needed to become a different breed. Pit bulls were relatively small, like her, but feared nothing. When cornered, they bared their teeth and came out fighting. Feeling energized, Amy picked up her pace. She drafted a new credo as she danced: Let others live free or die. Sorvino shouldn’t have fucked with her freedom. What did Google say last night? If you mess with Amy Westin, she’ll cut off your balls and hand them to you? So be it. Louis Sorvino, say goodbye to your balls. Say goodbye, period. You never should have come to Oil City.

After a silent ride car ride, Trisha pulled up in front of the stately white house. “Ames, you were somewhere else tonight. Is something bothering you?”

Amy reached for the door handle. “Music is like a Lost and Found, don’t you think? Sometimes you get lost in it. Other times you find yourself. Thanks for sharing your night.” She got out of the car without looking back. It was no time for distraction.

She went to the garage instead of the back door. She flipped on the light, walked around the lawn mower, past the garden tools, and stopped near the hunting and fishing equipment. Her father’s antler-handled Buck knife hung on the wall in a leather sheath, suspended by a nail through the belt loop. She pulled out the blade and studied the six inches of stainless steel. Suddenly she remembered. Live free or die was New Hampshire’s motto. The Massachusetts slogan went: By the sword we seek peace, but peace only under liberty.

An hour ago, the very idea of doing physical harm to anyone, ever, seemed inconceivable. The expression wouldn’t hurt a fly applied to her more than most. How many times had she spent several minutes capturing a fly on a window, just so she could release it outside to enjoy its brief life? Now she was contemplating an execution. The security guard left her no recourse. Unlike Google, who merely saw her naked, Sorvino had seen right through her. But that’s not what signed his death warrant. His mistake was in keeping his insight to himself, or at least allowing her to come to that conclusion. She saw him as a lone wolf. His secrets would likely die with him.

Rolling the knife in her hands, Amy considered her loathing of the man. His cleverness didn’t offend her; she respected that. His desire to fleece Big Ed wasn’t commendable, but she had dipped a bucket into that well herself. The detective’s transgressions as a supposed public servant were troubling, but not justification for capital punishment. Even the threat to her family and friends may have been tolerable if she had time to develop a creative solution. But she didn’t. Now she hated Sorvino mostly for the unique power he wielded - his ability to turn her into the last thing she wanted to be. A killer.

She fingered the sharp edge of the blade. Would a single thrust kill a person? She had no idea. The job might require multiple stabs. The internet would provide an answer. If there were thousands of articles on how to please a woman with bedroom toys, there had to be at least one on how to kill a man with a knife.