Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (52)

“Thanks so much for joining us,” she said. “You’re such a role model to our students.”

“Tell that to my kids.” Vito smiled sadly. “They’re not too impressed with their dad these days.”

“That’s the way it goes,” I told him. “No man’s a hero in his own house.”

There was an empty seat next to Buzz, and Tracy figured it was hers. She started to pull out the chair, but I stopped her.

“That one’s reserved,” I said. “You’re over here.”

I took her gently by the arm and escorted her to the far end of the table, where Nate and Lily were sitting, along with Lily’s plus one.

“I didn’t realize there was a seating chart,” Tracy muttered.

“There’s not,” I said. “It’s just, Vito has a friend coming, so…”

She shrugged, like it was all the same to her. Then she smiled gamely and sat down with the kids.





Jack Weede


Diane looked up from her menu.

“Alice didn’t feel like coming?”

“She’s away for the week. Visiting her brother in Vermont.”

“Oh.” She reached for the wine bottle. “Good for her.”

She filled her own glass, then offered some to me.

“Not too much,” I said. “Some of us have to work in the morning.”

Diane didn’t have to worry about that. She was taking the day off to prepare for the Induction Ceremony, getting a deluxe spa treatment with her sister—massage, mani-pedi, blowout, facial—the whole nine yards.

“You could always call in sick,” she suggested. “I won’t tell the boss.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “Maybe I’ll join you at the spa.”

She nodded, as if she was open to that possibility.

“I’m sure you could use a pedicure. No offense, Jack, but your toes were never your best feature.”

I glanced around to see if anyone was eavesdropping, but our neighbors were busy with their own conversations. We were an island unto ourselves.

“I bet yours are still cute, though.” I lowered my voice. “Prettiest ones I ever saw.”

We’d had a whole foot thing for a while. She’d come to school in open-toed shoes every Friday, her toenails painted whatever color I’d requested. I got down on my knees and sucked on them a few times—I enjoyed the earthy, slightly funky taste—but it just made her giggle.

“You should put that in your speech,” she said.

“I did,” I told her. “It’s the whole second paragraph.”





Lily Chu


It was actually kind of fun at the restaurant. Clem and I were holding hands and eating off each other’s plates, and it wasn’t as big a deal as I thought it would be. Nate was surprised at first, but he was cool about it, and the adults pretended not to notice.

It was such a relief, after all the playacting at my house. We were being super cautious around my parents, making it very clear that we were just friends-from-camp, sleeping in separate rooms, keeping some space between us when we sat on the couch. Even so, I could tell my mother was worried—my father was clueless, as usual—probably just from the way Clem kept looking at me, like I was the best movie ever, and they didn’t want to miss a second of it.





Kyle Dorfman


Vito had been fine when I picked him up at the airport, and he was still in a good mood when I’d left him in the guest house. Something must have happened after that, though, because he seemed moody and distracted in the restaurant, almost to the point of being rude.

“Who’s better?” Ricky asked him. “Brady or Manning? In your personal opinion.”

Vito grimaced, like the question caused him pain.

“I’m talking about Peyton,” Ricky said, in case there’d been some confusion. “Not Eli. I mean, that goes without saying, but—”

“Brady.” Vito spoke the name through gritted teeth, then reached up and tugged on his earlobe, really hard, almost like he was trying to yank it off his head. “Oh, fuck.”

“You okay?” I asked.

“Just a headache,” he muttered. “I get them sometimes.”

“You need a Tylenol?”

“I already took some. They don’t always work.”

“Is it a migraine?” Charisse asked.

“Nope.” Vito winced again. “I just played a little too much football.”

He pressed his fingers to his temples, like a psychic communing with the dead. I was about to ask him if he wanted to go back to the guest house and lie down, but I didn’t get a chance, because right then, Larry Holleran burst into the room with his arms spread wide, like he wanted to embrace the world.

“Hot damn,” he said. “You are a bunch of good-looking people!”





Tracy Flick


I’d had a bad feeling the minute I walked into that room. Kyle was nervous and wouldn’t meet my eyes. Buzz looked even more smug than he had at our interview. I didn’t understand why Charisse Turner and Ricky Pizzoli were even there—they had nothing to do with the Hall of Fame—and I couldn’t ask anyone, because I’d been exiled to the Siberian end of the table, as far from the action as I could get.