Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (51)

* * *



I was so deep in thought, I drove right past him. He was just part of the scenery, a tall man sitting on the curb in front of the new condos, looking dejected, getting rained on. I was halfway down the block before something clicked in my brain—Holy shit, I know that guy!—and I hung a quick U-turn and drove back to where he was sitting.

I asked if he was okay, and he gave me this blank look, like he wasn’t really sure, and then I asked if he was Vito Falcone, and he seemed surprised for a second, like he hadn’t expected to be recognized, even though he was the most famous person who’d ever lived in our town.

“That’s right,” he said, and he sounded almost relieved. “I’m Vito Falcone.”





- 27 - Tracy Flick




I didn’t want to go to the Welcome Dinner. I didn’t want to meet the star quarterback, or share a meal with my colleagues on the Selection Committee. I just wanted to be left alone.

You think it’ll make you feel better, telling your secret to someone, getting that poison out of your system, but it didn’t work like that for me. It just unlocked a lot of bad memories, and questions I didn’t know how to answer.

I had this image in my head, Mr. Dexter and me in the darkroom after school. I had my hand in his pants and he was giving me instructions: Faster now, but loosen up a little. It didn’t seem real—I thought maybe I was making it up—except that I remembered all these yearbook photos drying on the line, the happy faces of kids who weren’t my friends—they were making wire sculptures in art class, giving each other piggyback rides, playing racquetball in gym class, normal things like that.

There you go, he told me. That’s more like it.

Who was the girl who did that? I didn’t recognize her. And how had my mother let it happen? That was the part I kept tripping over. I couldn’t help thinking that she was at fault somehow—that she should have known—because the two of us were so close, we were best friends, we were like one person. But maybe it wasn’t really like that? Maybe we just said those things to make ourselves feel better?

Where were you? I wondered. Why didn’t you stop me?

But I didn’t want to be mad at my mother—she’d had such a hard life—so I blamed Marissa instead, even though I knew on some level that she didn’t deserve it. All she’d done was reach out and try to be my friend, and it had worked, probably a lot better than either of us had expected. I lowered my guard and told her who I was, and I’d lost control of myself in the process. I resented her for that, for allowing me to be so vulnerable.

We hadn’t talked since that night in the sauna. She’d called me a few times—more than a few, actually—asking if I was okay, giving me the name of a therapist she knew. She also left a series of small gifts on my front stoop—flowers, a bag of loose tea, a bath bomb—always accompanied by a brief note on that handmade paper, saying she was thinking of me, inviting me to go for a walk or meet her for coffee, whatever I wanted. She also delivered the humidifier, which I’d forgotten about in the chaos of my departure, despite her many reminders. The ironic thing was, I didn’t need it anymore, because the nosebleeds had stopped, as abruptly and mysteriously as they’d started.

That was the only good news in my life. On every other front, it felt like I was unraveling, failing as a mother, as an administrator, as a functional human being. Daniel and Margaret knew I was depressed, and they were picking up the slack with Sophia, who’d been staying with them for the past couple of weeks. I felt guilty about that, but it was a lifesaver to come home to an empty house and just be able to collapse, not have to worry about meals or homework or trying to be a good parent.

I didn’t have anything to spare. I woke up tired in the morning, and the feeling never lifted. It was all I could do to drag my body to the places it was required to go, because I was stubborn and didn’t want to admit defeat.

So of course I went to the Welcome Dinner. I didn’t have a choice. I got dressed, trudged out to my car, and drove to the Terminal, the railroad-themed restaurant they’d built in the old Green Meadow train station. And then I summoned everything I had and walked into that banquet room, standing tall and smiling brightly, because I was a leader and needed to act like one.





Kyle Dorfman


Tracy was a few minutes late to the dinner. Marissa had been worried about her—she wouldn’t tell me why—and had asked me to check on her well-being. But Tracy seemed fine to me, standing in the doorway with her usual ramrod posture and that chipper smile on her face. I waved her over and introduced her to Vito.

“Vito, this is Dr. Flick, our Assistant Principal. Tracy, this is Vito Falcone, our guest of honor.”

Vito stood up—he was wearing a silver blazer and an open-collared shirt—and offered his big hand to Tracy. He was bulkier than he’d been in high school, but less imposing somehow—gray at the temples, a little anxious around the eyes.

“Hello, Doctor.”

“One of our two guests of honor,” Tracy corrected me. She nodded at Front Desk Diane, who was sitting in the middle of the long table, next to Charisse Turner, across from Jack Weede and Ricky Pizzoli.

“Of course,” I said. “Props to Diane as well.”

Tracy had to crane her neck to meet Vito’s gaze.