THE STUDENT COUNCIL

CBS producers of 60 Minutes captured an unprecedented spectacle on their first morning of filming. The Zumba Goddess herself, teacher Trisha Berman, and four senior cheerleaders led the entire school population in an eye-opening dance/exercise session. Nearly six hundred students crowded the former Greenstone Groceries store, along with the entire faculty, all the student teachers, support staff, and Principal Norman Johnson himself. Television viewers would assume the adults were regular participants – concrete evidence that not everything on TV should be believed.

Throughout the day, cameramen and reporters wandered freely, filming and questioning at random. Entering Amy’s classroom at eleven, they asked for Google Runsfeld.

When the teacher pointed him out, Google nudged Amy. “That had to be William in action. Watch this!”

The TV crew surrounded him and a lady reporter said, “We understand that you’re the student most responsible for this school concept. Is it true that it came to you in a dream?”

Google shook his head. “Our school is every student’s dream. It’s opened the door to learning like never before. Take this boy next to me.” He nodded toward Fred. “Mention the name of a state, any state. He’ll tell you the year of statehood right off the top of his head.”

The reporter played along and looked at Fred. “Well, I’m from Utah.”

“Eighteen ninety-six,” Fred chirped. “Population just under three million. You’ve got five National Parks there. Zion came first in nineteen nineteen. Next was Utah National Park in twenty-four. Of course, that was re-named Bryce Canyon four years later. Canyon Lands came in sixty-four. The last two, Arches and Capitol Reef, were designated in seventy-one.”

The reporter’s mouth hung open the way Fred’s used to. “Are you from Utah by any chance?”

“Titusville, Pennsylvania. Thirteen miles from here.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the Cow Pie Show continued. The reporter finally asked a relevant question. “Do you attribute all this knowledge to the use of school computers?”

Google interrupted. “Our regular school day is six and a half hours. Classrooms are open and supervised for almost twelve. Fred’s been here about eleven hours a day since we opened.” He glanced at his friend. “That about right?”

Fred nodded. “I take an hour off for dinner.”

“He’s studying both Spanish and German right now,” Google added. “We offer about ten different languages.”

“There’s actually eleven,” Fred said, and proceeded to list them alphabetically.

At noon, Amy walked outside to stretch. The security guard brushed past her with a whisper. “Nine tonight. Your Zumba room.”

He didn’t pause for confirmation. Didn’t even look back as he walked off. Sorvino thought he owned her, Amy decided. His wishes were now commands.

The regular student council meeting was scheduled for 3:15 p.m. Two hundred chairs faced the small stage, where a podium and microphone awaited King William. Chairs for the other council members were aligned beside the stage, ten on each side. The seats quickly filled when the school day ended. Two CBS cameras were trained on the podium.

William climbed three stairs to begin the meeting, and drew a standing ovation. The students loved their school and had him to thank for it. He welcomed 60 Minutes and the audience. When he explained that Barner, Runsfeld and another council member had been excused for football practice, the students cheered again.

After the secretary read minutes of the last meeting, at which weekly revenue of $156,000 had been reported, the treasurer presented her new report. Since the previous Wednesday, the student council banked another $131,000.

Old business began with a report from the junior class members. They were in charge of Friday’s homecoming activities. Each of the four in attendance took a spin at the microphone, discussing the halftime parade at the Bradford game and the dance afterwards. A popular band from Slippery Rock would be performing.

Miss Berman took center stage to present guidelines for her scholarship foundation. All students in good academic standing would be entitled to take one college class each semester, with credits counting toward high school graduation. Her operating procedures and fund investment proposal passed unanimously.

Under new business, William brought up a plan to add a second bathroom to each class space. The proposal earned the loudest applause of the day. He promised to bring a detailed cost estimate to the next meeting for a vote.

His final subject was the business club, which had grown to include forty students. All members were putting in close to three hours a day filling merchandise orders. “In recognition of the time and energy that Mister Ramsey and Miss Berman are spending on the development and organization of Samaritan sales, I’m requesting approval of one-time bonuses to each in the amount of ten thousand dollars, payable on the last school day before Thanksgiving. For the business club students who have donated their time and continue to do that throughout the year, I’m recommending two thousand-dollar college scholarships for each of them.”

Many heads bobbed approval and a few hands shot up. William lifted his own. “I’m appointing a special committee to work out the details. They’ll have an open meeting here after school tomorrow. Anyone can comment at that time.”

Amy sat in the audience, watching, listening, admiring. William had come up with the last idea on his own. Of course all the workers should be compensated! The Oil City High School Business Club had no equal in the country. She had stood and observed them at work one morning, operating like a QVC or HSN shipping center. Nothing but impressive.

Reflecting on William’s overall performance, Amy remembered another old expression. Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime. William would always eat well. He’d become an expert angler.

Amy arrived at the mall at five to nine that evening. Unlocking the door to the exercise room, she rolled her bike inside for safe-keeping. Safe-keeping. Who was going to watch over her? Her bag and sole protection, the Buck knife, were back home in her bedroom. She was here for reconnaissance, to find out exactly what Sorvino had in mind. In the partial illumination of the night light, she sat on the floor to wait.

Ten minutes passed, but she made no move to leave. She wanted resolution as much as Sorvino did. The door finally opened. The security guard stepped quickly inside.

“You weren’t followed,” he said. “Can I assume you’ve stayed quiet? You’re going to do what I say?”

“What choice is there?” she sniffled. “I have to protect my family.”

“Follow me to the back,” he ordered. “Quickly.” He headed straight for the locker rooms.

Amy forced herself to rise. What fate awaited her back there? She had known what to expect from Big Ed Barner when she entered his car. Sorvino was more of a mystery, and more dangerous because of it.

He entered the door labeled Gentlemen and turned on the light. Inside, he said, “Please remove your sweatshirt, Miss Westin.”

Amy sucked in a breath. Her worst case scenario was playing out immediately. The planned response to a sexual threat was to end all cooperation, tell him to kiss off. She wouldn’t allow herself to be used like that, no matter what.

The less impulsive side of her brain intervened. “Please,” he’d said. And “Miss Westin.” Did a deviant use language like that? His facial expression reflected business, not lust or pleasure.

Relying on instinct, she pulled the navy blue Samaritan hoodie over her head and dropped it to the floor. She stood before him in her bra, covering her breasts with both hands.

Sorvino’s right hand went into a jacket pocket. Was he going to produce a condom? Maybe a knife or a gun?

He showed her a small black box with a long wire attached. “I’m going to show you how to wear and operate this recorder. You’re going to get Paul Barner to talk about his All-American pies and the marijuana. That’s all you have to do.”

She knew not to argue or ask questions. Submissive and frightened was the right way to play it. He had to trust her. “I can do that. It should be easy.”

He seemed satisfied. “The idea is to do it when the two of you are alone. There’s no background noise that way.”

“How about after the game on Friday?” she asked anxiously. “We’ll be partying then. He’ll be stoned like usual.”

“Why not tomorrow? Sooner is better.”

“He’ll talk more freely when he’s a little wasted.”

Sorvino reached into his pocket again. “This is my cell number.” He handed her a small slip of paper. “Call me as soon as you have him nailed down. Now, let me demonstrate how this works.”

He produced a small roll of white tape and explained its use. The box was to be fastened to the small of her back, with the on and off switch on top. The volume was preset, nothing to worry about. He touched his own chest in the spot where the tiny microphone should be.

Sorvino watched closely as she installed the listening device on herself. After she slipped the sweatshirt back on, he asked her to slide the power switch and talk to him. “What should I say?” she asked.

“Nothing more than that,” he replied. “Testing. One, two, three.” He took a few steps backward. “Testing. Testing. Okay, switch it off and remove it. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow at school. Take your walk at lunch.”

Amy started sniffling again. “That’s it? This will all be over?”

“It will be if you do the job right. I want a whole discussion, what’s called full disclosure. His marijuana use. The whole story of Leo Sykes and the pies. His entire role in the scam.”

Amy pushed some tears from her eyes. “It was all for a good cause. You understand that, don’t you?”

Sorvino shook his head. “You’re a smart girl. Just do your job. Wait five or ten minutes before you leave.” He pushed the door open and left her.

At the Torchlight Bar and Grill, Gary Cole sat alone in a corner booth. Fifteen minutes ago, when he arrived, the joint had been practically empty. Now he scowled at a celebratory group of twenty, laughing it up and clinking glasses. He wasn’t opposed to happy people in general; hell, he used to be one himself. It was who they were. The damn school board and administrators! Get-togethers at The Torch after board meetings had been his original idea, nobody else’s. They shouldn’t be continuing the tradition without him. They shouldn’t be enjoying so much success without him either.

Gwen Benson. She had seen him when she came through the door. The hag looked the other way! Only a month ago, she agreed with every word out of his mouth. Now she was telling him to suck eggs.

Denny Damn Noble. Father of the slick-talking student council president, William Damn Noble. The lady board members were actually laughing at his stupid damn jokes. It should have been his car dealership that burned down instead of the old high school.

A man appeared out of nowhere and slid into Gary’s booth. Louis Sorvino said, “You need a hankie, Cole? Looks like you’re about to cry.”

Gary took a gulp of Jack Daniels. “Give me news that makes me happy.”

“No can do. The Barner kid’s a choir boy. I talked to the dealer, the Wiener Wagon guy. He did all the giving on his own. He grew a big crop this year and had lots to spare. Claims he was just being a good Samaritan.”

Cole drained his glass. “You realize you’re not getting a dime from me then, right? The twenty thousand was only if you got one of them arrested, either Barner or the Noble kid.”

“Ten-four. I’ve actually enjoyed my little stay here.” Sorvino slid back out of the booth. “Take care.”