THE STUDENT COUNCIL

On Homecoming Friday, Amy made her first concession to newfound wealth. With three twenty dollar bills from her bag of $300,000, she hired three freshmen to rush to the football field right after school. Their job was to stand in line at the gate until it opened at 5:30, then occupy three prime spots in the home bleachers until the Westins arrived. Reserved seats weren’t an option at Oiler/Samaritan Field. The local practice was known as “first rights to first fannies,” and half the city would be in attendance. When heavy rain began at five o’clock, the three freshmen started earning their cash the hard way.

Amy’s money was stashed in her bedroom, in a place her parents would never come across it. For the last four years, she had done every load of laundry in the Westin house. The plastic bag of mostly twenties – eight pounds of cash – was at the bottom of her dirty clothes hamper, buried beneath a set of sheets and a couple towels.

The money transfer from Wendy Sykes had gone smoothly on Thursday night. Standing in the Taco Bell parking lot at the north end of the river bridge, Amy had directed Wendy by cell phone. She had her cross the bridge first, noting the cars that followed. On Wendy’s return trip over the river, none of the same vehicles trailed her. The next instruction was to turn into the restaurant and drop the cash into the bed of a silver pickup parked in back. Its driver and two passengers occupied a table inside, and had just begun their meal. As soon as Wendy drove away, Amy retrieved the delivery and stuffed it into her canvas tote. She hopped on her bike and was home seven minutes later.

Fifteen minutes before kickoff, Amy led her parents to ideal seats, halfway up the home bleachers at mid-field. Despite the excellent location, vision was restricted. Rain continued to fall and the stands were a sea of open umbrellas. Watching the game was a constant battle to see around, over, or beneath all the colorful mushrooms.

Oil City struggled to put up points on the soggy field, but took a 22-0 lead by the end of the second quarter. Google’s clean white uniform had been drenched by precipitation only. Hopefully his jersey would soak up some perspiration in the second half.

The halftime parade began in dull fashion. Seven convertibles drove past the bleachers, all with tops up, obscuring the honored passengers. The field announcer called out the names of the city mayor, the principal and school superintendent, Gwen Benson, and student council president, William Noble. The last four cars carried the royal court, a girl and boy from each of the freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior classes.

A final vehicle drew most of the attention and thunderous applause. Fred Waltz sat behind the wheel of his crepe paper and balloon-decorated Tacoma pickup, transporting the king and queen. Fred had earned the honor by virtue of owning the shiniest truck and rubbing bellies with the queen, his new girlfriend. Mary Ellen Kleinschmidt both smiled and cried as she stood in the bed and waved. The tears were for her raincoat; no one could see the new dress beneath it. The king wasn’t concerned with his appearance. Even with his jersey number obscured by mud, everyone recognized Paul Barner.

The rain lessened to a drizzle by the start of the second half. Oil City scored again and the victory seemed secure. As time wound down in the third quarter, Amy grew impatient. When would Google get his shot at glory?

The Samaritans intercepted a pass and returned it to the Owls’ two-yard line. The crowd clapped and whistled when the team’s tiny new mascot, wearing number 89, ran onto the field with the offense. Google was simple to spot; he wore the only white uniform.

“So cute,” Amy’s mother said, peeking beneath the orange umbrella in front of her. “I hope he doesn’t get hurt.”

The cute one lined up as a wide receiver to the left. Everyone expected Oil City to run the ball into the end zone behind the Barn Door, especially the Bradford defense. When Simpkins faked the handoff, the entire crowd was misled - everyone but Amy. Google ran his diagonal pattern and stood alone. The quarterback tossed a perfect spiral. Every eye jumped to the open-armed target.

The pigskin passed between Google’s hands untouched, smacked squarely off his face mask, and bounced away. The huge crowd released a collective moan.

Grant Westin leaned to his daughter and cleared his throat. “That was unfortunate.”

Emily spoke in her other ear. “Obviously, the ball’s very slippery in this weather. Or maybe he was blinded by the stadium lights.”

Amy whispered back. “It’s still only second down.”

Big Seven Three escorted Google back to another huddle. The Samaritans lined up in the same formation. They ran the identical play. The pass wasn’t as accurate and the defense was more alert. Google barely managed to wrap his arms around the ball before a vicious hit sent him flying and knocked the ball free.

The closest official motioned that the pass was incomplete. A second black and white-striped referee raised his arms, signaling a touchdown. All the officials huddled to determine how Samuel Runsfeld’s biography would one day read.

“He held on long enough,” Amy hollered. “Both feet were on the ground! Touchdown!”

Her father shook his head. “Wishful thinking, Ames. The defense got there in time.”

“He’s still lying there,” Emily pointed out. “Hope he’s not hurt.”

The Oil City coach ran to the end zone to check on the downed player. The team gathered around him.

The officials broke their meeting with raised arms. “Touchdown, Samaritans,” boomed out of loudspeakers. “Simpkins to Runsfeld!”

The home team lifted a revived Google to their shoulders. He removed his cumbersome helmet for the last time, and held it high as they carried him to the sideline. The Bradford Owls didn’t protest the dubious call. For them, it was just another long and difficult Friday night.

“I’m crying,” Amy’s mother confessed.

“That was a very friendly decision,” Grant conceded.

Amy only smiled. It didn’t hurt that Google’s Uncle Jerry, owner of a local deli, was one of the officials. He had signaled the touchdown and won the ensuing debate. Call it fate.

An hour after the game, Trisha Berman and Mr. Ramsey were still counting cash at the souvenir stand. Most residents already had their own Samaritan T-shirts, sweatshirts, hats, seat cushions, blankets, and jackets, but focus had shifted to early Christmas shopping. Relatives and friends everywhere would appreciate a slice of the blue and gold Samaritan pie in some form.

Trisha took a call on her cell. “We should talk,” Grant said. “I’m at my office.”

She answered, “Half an hour.” That was it.

Other responses had flashed through her mind. “Not necessary” was one of them. She had seen the Westins walk by the booth, even waved to Amy when she winked and flipped a thumbs-up. Grant had his arm around his wife, clearly contented with the beautiful Emily. Trisha had felt only joy to see it.

She accepted a final meeting for only one reason: Amy. She had to make it clear that the two had become the closest of friends. That relationship wasn’t going to end under any circumstances. Trisha had learned more from Grant’s daughter in a month than in a lifetime before her. She no longer had to experience life as a bystander, watching the world operate from the sidelines. She could help shape it, improve it. She could author rules, not simply follow the dictations of others.

With the night’s tally complete, Trisha stretched before the mile and a half run to Westin Construction. Four students walked Mr. Ramsey to his car. The cash deposit was too large to transport without a measure of protection.

As Trisha dashed through and around puddles, she reflected on the Runsfeld boy’s touchdown catch. Amy had predicted it! Was there anything that amazing young lady couldn’t do?

Upon reaching the trailer, she saw light behind the mini-blinds of Grant’s rear office. Inside the entry door, she kicked off her muddy shoes and announced her arrival.

Amy sat a table in the den, in the middle of a backgammon game with her mother. With both their heads elsewhere, the contest was plodding along.

Emily sipped her wine and rolled the dice. “I don’t know why you’re not at the dance, Amy. I used to love those. All your friends will be there.”

“Not my thing,” she replied. The football game had been her final distraction, a last escape from tomorrow’s grim reality. Louis Sorvino had to be dealt with, once and for all.

Desperate for alternatives, she had even considered taking the Sorvino problem directly to Big Ed. With his son and a chunk of his fortune at risk, he might have the will and resources to put Sorvino to rest. She had read on the internet that killers could be hired for as little as five or ten thousand. Unfortunately, such people didn’t advertise online. If they did, she’d have offered a whole hamper load of cash to anyone with solid references.

“Your turn,” her mother prodded. “What are you thinking about?”

Amy shook her head, then her dice cup. If only her mother knew. Just planning an execution for tomorrow, Mother Dear. There’s a man that’s messin’ with the Westins, so I need to, you know, take him out. “You know, Mom, if my life ended right now, I’d go out a happy person. Seeing you and Dad the way you are is the best thing ever. I’m so proud of you both.”

She tossed the dice and produced a Louis Sorvino – snake eyes. Amy took it as the final word. The die had been cast. “Mother, I know you’re sitting there missing Dad. Take a bottle of wine and surprise him at the office. He shouldn’t be working on Friday night anyway. I need to get to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

“Big day? What big day?”

“Cutting the grass. It’s lawn day.”

Amy’s suggestion sounded great to Emily. Rekindled love was a second lease on life. It should be savored every day, in every way. When was the last time she and Grant fooled around on his office couch?