Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (14)

Tracy Flick


I’d heard his name before, but that was the first time I ever saw his face. That square jaw. Those vapid blue eyes. That bottomless self-confidence. Like he’d never experienced a moment of doubt or loneliness or failure in his entire life. My reaction was immediate and visceral.

Ugh, I thought. I know that guy.

From as far back as I could remember, no matter where I went or what I did, there was always a Vito Falcone. The Golden Boy. The Handsome Jock. The Big Man on Campus. Let’s laugh at his stupid jokes and tell him how great he is. Let’s pay him more than he’s worth. Let’s give him a promotion. Let’s elect him President. Let’s put his face on a bronze plaque.

I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I honestly didn’t care who got inducted into the Hall of Fame. All I wanted was for things to run smoothly, to put on an event that would make people proud of their community and their high school, and reinforce my own image as a competent and trustworthy leader.

I guess I just felt like Kyle had pulled a bait and switch on me. This was nothing like the inspiring vision he’d pitched at Kenny O.’s, the Hall of Fame that would honor musicians and astronauts and public servants and stay-at-home moms. This was just the opposite, the same old crap as always. I was trying to think of a diplomatic way to say so, when Jack raised a different objection.





Jack Weede


Yes, the money was Kyle’s, but the high school didn’t belong to him, and neither did the Hall of Fame, as much as he would have liked to think otherwise. These were public institutions; they belonged to the community, and the community had a right to be involved. You couldn’t just have one backroom meeting and pick the first person who popped into your head. That wasn’t democracy.

“The only fair thing,” I said, “is to solicit nominations from the public. Let the people tell us who we should honor.”

“Then why are we even here?” Kyle said. “What’s our role?”

“We’re the jury. We’ll go through the nominations, draw up a short list, and make the final decision.”

“That’s a lot of unnecessary work,” Kyle muttered. “Especially since we all know it’s gonna be Vito.”

“Probably,” I agreed. “But if that’s where we do land, and I agree that there’s a very good chance we will, at least people won’t feel like we shoved him down their throats. They’ll feel like their voices were heard and respected, and the result was legitimate. And if that means the five of us have to put in a little extra work, then so be it.”





Tracy Flick


It was a productive first meeting. Thanks to Jack, we came out of it with a clear process and a concrete timetable: nominations in November, short list and final vote in December, event prep in January and February, Induction Ceremony in March. It would be tight, but it looked doable.

At my suggestion, we voted to increase the number of inductees to two. At least that way we’d get a chance to honor one individual who wasn’t a star quarterback, the most obvious and depressing choice in the world.





PART TWO: Be the Flame





- 8 -


Diane Blankenship liked to do her grocery shopping between nine thirty and ten at night, after she was done at the gym, and right before the supermarket closed. It was a little awkward sometimes, wandering through the store in her sweaty workout clothes, but the Pathmark was usually pretty empty at this time of night, and she rarely ran into anyone she knew. All she wanted was a little time to herself, a chance to decompress after another day behind the front desk at GMHS, answering the phones and greeting visitors, doing her best to make everyone feel at home.

That was the big problem with her job, which she otherwise enjoyed, and which she’d been doing for her entire adult life: It was just so visible, like she was the public face of the school, its goodwill ambassador to the world. People recognized her wherever she went—restaurants, waiting rooms, red lights even, when she was just sitting in her car, minding her own business—almost like she was some kind of weird celebrity. Hey, Diane! they’d call out. Front Desk Diane! And she would smile and wave and make the effort of small talk because it felt rude not to, and because she had a reputation to uphold.

But it was so much more relaxing to be left alone, to push her cart at her own slow pace up and down the bright aisles, savoring the endorphin afterglow from her elliptical session. Her mind was pleasantly empty, nothing to think about but the piped-in music, song after song she’d completely forgotten about—right now it was “Lyin’ Eyes” by the Eagles—though it turned out she always knew the words by heart, and sometimes got a little weepy as they flashed through her mind, not because they meant anything special, but just because they reminded her of the past, the way your life slipped by, day after day, moment after moment, until all the good stuff was behind you.

On the other side of town a boy is waiting…

Diane had always had a good memory; everyone said so. You’re just like your father, her mother used to say. He never forgets a thing. But her mother was dead now, and her father barely knew his own name. Half the time he didn’t recognize Diane when she visited him after work—though he was always happy to sit and chat for a while—and the other half he mistook her for her mother, and Diane always played along, because it made him so happy.