sharp intake of breath, followed by a dial tone and the merciless voice of the phone company.
If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again … If you'd like to make a call…
I stood in a kind of trance in the upright coffin of the booth listening to that inane recording over and over. I might have passed the rest of the afternoon in there if Walt hadn't shoved open the Plexiglas door and grabbed me by the shoulder.
“Jesus, Jim. Here you are. I've been looking all over.”
When we got back to my room, Larry had the votes sorted into three neat piles of approximately equal height. He seemed relieved to see us.
“Well?” said Walt. “What's the verdict?”
Larry looked shocked, as if Walt had just inquired as to the size of his penis.
“I—I'm not supposed to tell you. We're each supposed to make an independent count.”
Walt shook his head slowly, with a combination of disgust and admiration.
“DiBono,” he said, “you're a real piece of work.”
Larry's ears turned an unfortunate shade of red, but he showed more backbone than I expected.
“Those are the rules as they were explained to me, Mr. Hendricks. If they've changed in any way …”
“DiBono, we're not choosing the fucking Pope here. The fate of the world doesn't exactly hang in the balance. So I'd appreciate it if you spared me the bullcrap, okay?”
Larry hung his head.
“It was a squeaker,” he said. “I've got Tracy by a vote.”
TRACY FLICK
THE SUSPENSE WAS killing me. How was I supposed to concentrate on Trig when my political future was hanging in the balance?
I clutched my stomach and moaned. A lot of kids stared at me, but Mr. Sperigno just kept scribbling on the blackboard. My second moan was unignorable. Mr. S. turned around, eyeing me with a certain amount of skepticism.
“Someone call a priest,” he said. “I think there's a demon in our midst.”
He didn't really believe that I was suffering from “acute gastritis,” but he wrote me a pass to the nurse's office anyway. Mr. S. is good that way. Some of the other teachers will quiz you about your symptoms right in front of the class, as if they're trained medical professionals.
By coincidence, Mr. M.'s room happened to be right on my way to the nurse's office. How could I not stop by the door and take a peek?
It's always disappointing to see stuff like that in real life. You imagine a big scoreboard, your name in lights, crowds of reporters milling around. But what you get is Mr. M. sitting at his desk, playing solitaire with the ballots, while Larry and Mr. Hendricks stand a few feet apart by the window, sharing a lovely view of the parking lot. So much for democracy in action.
I had to wait a long time before Larry finally turned around. I waved and his face lit up in a dopey smile. Larry had a crush on me—a big, hopeless crush. He asked me out on a regular basis—I always said no—and wrote me the kind of letters you'd die to get from Mr. Right, but are totally embarrassing coming from anybody else, especially a sweet dorky guy like Larry. Despite the fact that I'd broken his heart a hundred times over, we'd somehow managed to remain onpretty good terms. He was one of the few people at Winwood I knew I could count on.
I crossed my fingers by my ears and mouthed the word, “Well?”
Larry glanced from side to side. M. was counting the votes. Hendricks was still memorizing the view. Larry flashed me a double thumbs-up.
“Really?” I mouthed.
He nodded, eyes wide with confirmation.
You know that moment when they announce the winner of a beauty pageant? When Miss Texas or whoever suddenly realizes she's Miss America and all she can do is scream and weep and hug the losers? I had mine in the hallway, with no one to hug but myself.
MR. M
LARRY HAD SORTED the votes into three categories—Paul, Tracy, and Disregard.
If you want to get technical, Disregard actually won the election with 230 votes. About half of these were write-in votes
If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again … If you'd like to make a call…
I stood in a kind of trance in the upright coffin of the booth listening to that inane recording over and over. I might have passed the rest of the afternoon in there if Walt hadn't shoved open the Plexiglas door and grabbed me by the shoulder.
“Jesus, Jim. Here you are. I've been looking all over.”
When we got back to my room, Larry had the votes sorted into three neat piles of approximately equal height. He seemed relieved to see us.
“Well?” said Walt. “What's the verdict?”
Larry looked shocked, as if Walt had just inquired as to the size of his penis.
“I—I'm not supposed to tell you. We're each supposed to make an independent count.”
Walt shook his head slowly, with a combination of disgust and admiration.
“DiBono,” he said, “you're a real piece of work.”
Larry's ears turned an unfortunate shade of red, but he showed more backbone than I expected.
“Those are the rules as they were explained to me, Mr. Hendricks. If they've changed in any way …”
“DiBono, we're not choosing the fucking Pope here. The fate of the world doesn't exactly hang in the balance. So I'd appreciate it if you spared me the bullcrap, okay?”
Larry hung his head.
“It was a squeaker,” he said. “I've got Tracy by a vote.”
TRACY FLICK
THE SUSPENSE WAS killing me. How was I supposed to concentrate on Trig when my political future was hanging in the balance?
I clutched my stomach and moaned. A lot of kids stared at me, but Mr. Sperigno just kept scribbling on the blackboard. My second moan was unignorable. Mr. S. turned around, eyeing me with a certain amount of skepticism.
“Someone call a priest,” he said. “I think there's a demon in our midst.”
He didn't really believe that I was suffering from “acute gastritis,” but he wrote me a pass to the nurse's office anyway. Mr. S. is good that way. Some of the other teachers will quiz you about your symptoms right in front of the class, as if they're trained medical professionals.
By coincidence, Mr. M.'s room happened to be right on my way to the nurse's office. How could I not stop by the door and take a peek?
It's always disappointing to see stuff like that in real life. You imagine a big scoreboard, your name in lights, crowds of reporters milling around. But what you get is Mr. M. sitting at his desk, playing solitaire with the ballots, while Larry and Mr. Hendricks stand a few feet apart by the window, sharing a lovely view of the parking lot. So much for democracy in action.
I had to wait a long time before Larry finally turned around. I waved and his face lit up in a dopey smile. Larry had a crush on me—a big, hopeless crush. He asked me out on a regular basis—I always said no—and wrote me the kind of letters you'd die to get from Mr. Right, but are totally embarrassing coming from anybody else, especially a sweet dorky guy like Larry. Despite the fact that I'd broken his heart a hundred times over, we'd somehow managed to remain onpretty good terms. He was one of the few people at Winwood I knew I could count on.
I crossed my fingers by my ears and mouthed the word, “Well?”
Larry glanced from side to side. M. was counting the votes. Hendricks was still memorizing the view. Larry flashed me a double thumbs-up.
“Really?” I mouthed.
He nodded, eyes wide with confirmation.
You know that moment when they announce the winner of a beauty pageant? When Miss Texas or whoever suddenly realizes she's Miss America and all she can do is scream and weep and hug the losers? I had mine in the hallway, with no one to hug but myself.
MR. M
LARRY HAD SORTED the votes into three categories—Paul, Tracy, and Disregard.
If you want to get technical, Disregard actually won the election with 230 votes. About half of these were write-in votes
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