Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (29)

“Morning, Mr. Weede.”

Oh God, I thought.

When you’re the Principal, all the kids know you, but you can’t possibly know all of them. And even if you did know them back in the day, you might not recognize them now. Fifteen or twenty years is a better disguise than a floppy hat.

“Help me out,” I said. “I’m bad with names.”

“Glenn Keeler. Class of ’97.”

“Oh wow,” I said, though the name meant nothing to me. “Glenn Keeler. How about that? It’s been quite a while.”

“Sure has,” he said. “I hear you’re getting ready to retire.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna miss it.”

“Good to be the king, right?”

“Sometimes. When the crown’s not too heavy.”

He nodded, a little vaguely, and rubbed his stomach in a leisurely circular motion, as if he’d just had a very good meal. I held up my wallet.

“Do you, uh… need to see my license and registration?”

“Nah.” He waved me off, a little sheepishly. “Just wanted to say hi. It’s not every day you get to pull over your old Principal, right?”

“I guess not.” I chuckled, not very convincingly. “If you don’t mind, though, I really have to get going. I’m a running a little late this morning.”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “No worries. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” I started the engine, trying not to think about the pressure building inside of me, threatening to burst. “It was nice to—”

“Just one quick question,” he said. “Are you really gonna put Vito Falcone in the Hall of Fame?”

“We haven’t decided yet. There’s a meeting next week.”

“But it’s gotta be Vito, right?” He gave me a searching look. “I mean, who else could it be?”

It was none of his business, but I really didn’t have time for a big discussion.

“Just between us,” I said. “I think Vito’s got a very good chance.”

“And he’s coming to the ceremony?”

“I hope so.” I shifted into gear and let up on the brake. “Wouldn’t be much of an event if he didn’t.”

“That’s what I figured,” Glenn said, and then he muttered something else, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I was too busy inching the RV away from the curb, a delicate maneuver that took all the skill and concentration I could muster in the best of times, and this was not the best of times.





- 16 - Tracy Flick




The holidays were hard for me. I went through the motions for my daughter’s sake—we trimmed the tree, we watched Charlie Brown and the Grinch, we went caroling with the neighbors—but we both knew that her real Christmas was with Daniel and Margaret and their extended family (two of their three adult children were married, and there were a couple of grandkids, which technically meant that she was “Aunt Sophia,” though no one ever called her that). We’d tried alternating years for a while, but it was sad for her when she got stuck with me and had to miss out on all the fun at her father’s house, three generations under one roof, not to mention Boomer. At her request, we switched to our current system, in which she joined me on Christmas Eve—that was when we opened our presents—and then I dropped her off at Daniel’s, so she could be where the action was in the morning.

I didn’t blame her. I was always a little mopey in December, missing my mom, who’d loved the holidays, and always made them feel special, even though it was just the two of us. I wished I could do the same thing for my own child—engulf her with love, make her believe she was enough for me, that we were enough for each other—but I didn’t have it in me, and there was no use pretending. All I could do was hunker down and wait for January, which always felt like a fresh start, a chance to do better.



* * *



I wasn’t in the mood for Kyle’s Christmas party, but he reminded me that the entire School Board would be there, and that it would be a great opportunity for me to do some networking. So I put on the green velvet dress I’d inherited from my mother—we were exactly the same size—and drove over to his house.

I especially dislike arriving at parties, those awkward early moments when you have to wander through the crowd, searching for a familiar face. But I was spared that ordeal at the Dorfmans’. I barely had time to unbutton my coat before Kyle materialized with a big smile on his face.

“Dr. Flick!” He was wearing jeans and a thin, expensive-looking sweater that highlighted his improbable torso. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

He said this with the appropriate level of irony. The ground floor was spectacular, a vast open space featuring a variety of living and dining areas—some sunken, some elevated—with an airy kitchen at one end, and an enormous stone fireplace at the other. The south-facing wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. The morning light must have been breathtaking.

“Come on,” he said. “They’re all waiting for you.”

He led me through the party. Andrea Palladino, Charisse Turner, and Kitty Valvanos—the three women members of the School Board, a majority unto themselves—were gathered near the fireplace, drinking fancy cocktails and laughing like old friends.