Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (38)

He considered this for a moment, trying to decide whether he was offended.

“If you’re the Principal, you can rest assured that I’ll have your back. But here’s the thing, Tracy. I want our schools to work for all of our students, not just the high achievers.”

“I do too. That’s exactly what—”

“You say that, but all you ever talk about is the top kids. AP this and Ivy League that. It’s the same with your buddy Kyle and his Hall of Fame.”

“My what? He’s not my—”

“It’s just a covert form of elitism.” His face was placid but he sounded upset. “Another way of saying that some people matter more than others—the star athletes and the computer geniuses and the rich guys. You know what, though? The high achievers are going to be fine regardless. It’s the other kids who need our help. The ones who are struggling, who maybe don’t have all the advantages. We have to serve all our students equally, including the losers and slackers and the kids with special needs. I want a Principal who shares that agenda. Otherwise we’re at cross-purposes, you and me, and that’s not going to help anyone.”

I shook my head, trying to ignore the clammy sweat pooling in the small of my back.

“We’re not at cross-purposes,” I assured him. “Not even with the Hall of Fame. I voted for Front Desk Diane. She doesn’t even have a bachelor’s degree.” I should have stopped there, but I couldn’t help myself. “And if you think I give a crap about Vito Falcone, you’re sorely mistaken.”

For the first time since I’d arrived, he cracked a smile. “Not a big football fan, are you, Tracy?”

“Not really,” I said. “It’s a stupid game.”

I wanted the words back as soon as they were out of my mouth.

“Good to know,” he said. “I appreciate your honesty.”

The rest of the interview was uneventful. Buzz and I parted on cordial terms, and I went back to work and did my best to put it out of my mind. Usually I’m pretty good at that—moving forward, focusing on the task at hand—because you have to be, if you’re going to accomplish anything in this world. The past is always looking over your shoulder, whispering things you don’t want to hear. You just have to ignore it until it goes away.





- 20 - Jack Weede




The Messenger article came out in early February: Football Hero, Office Worker Tapped for Kudos. It was poorly written —no surprises there—and riddled with factual errors. Vito was said to be a first-round NFL draft pick (he was actually chosen in the second), and his knee injury was misstated as a broken leg. At least the quote attributed to me was accurate: “Diane Blankenship has served the GMHS community for nearly three decades with exceptional loyalty and exemplary competence. She is universally beloved by our staff and students, and my personal gratitude towards her is immense. She is deeply deserving of this wonderful honor.”

The article instantly transformed the GMHS Hall of Fame from a rumor to a reality. It included the date for the Induction Ceremony—mid-March, right around the corner—and information about ticket sales. The whole school was buzzing about it, students and faculty stopping by the main office to congratulate Diane and jokingly ask for her autograph. People were genuinely excited about her selection. It made sense. She was an underdog—a woman, a local resident, an ordinary person—the perfect foil to Vito Falcone. If Front Desk Diane could make it into the Hall of Fame, maybe there was hope for all of us.

She was glowing that afternoon when she knocked on my office door, standing up straight and tall, like a neglected plant that had finally gotten some water and sunshine.

“I just wanted to thank you for what you said in the paper. It was very kind of you.”

“It was nothing,” I told her. “The least I could do.”

She smiled, a little sadly, and we shared one of those complicated looks you can only exchange with someone who knows all your secrets, someone you used to love.

“If I’d known how much fun it was to be famous,” she said, “I would’ve done it a long time ago.”



* * *



I drove home that night feeling pretty good about myself.

It was gratifying, being able to do something nice for Diane before I retired. She deserved it, and it made my burden of guilt just a little bit lighter. I didn’t plan it out or think it through; I just saw an opportunity and grabbed it, and it had all worked out for the best.

Or so I thought, right up to the moment when I stepped into my house. Normally I would have been greeted by the sound of the radio, the earnest voices on NPR, and the inviting smell of dinner on the stove. But that evening there was only a chilly, ominous silence.

Alice was waiting for me in the kitchen, her face puffy, her eyes raw from crying. There was a mostly empty bottle of wine on the table, resting on the front page of the Messenger, next to the photos of Vito and Diane.

“I guess she was really good in bed, huh?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your mistress,” she said. “Does she have some special talent or something?”

I wanted to play dumb, but there wasn’t any point. I already knew what they felt like, those old mobsters on the TV news, dragged out of bed and handcuffed in their bathrobes, arrested for crimes they could barely even remember, the idiots who thought they’d gotten away with it.