Free Child of My Right Hand by Eric Goodman Page B

scent, or was it the aura, of well-bred Midwestern girls had worked its way into the upholstery, the cream-colored walls and drapes, even the slightly frayed Oriental rug around which they arranged their wingback chairs. They were waiting on the final member, a senior named Mandy, whom everyone assured Jack would arrive soon; she was doing laundry.
    Jack sat at the head of the oval, sipping Diet Coke while sucking a mouthful of sweet and sour Smarties. His speaker’s kit contained: information sheets detailing how grossly underpaid Tipton teachers were and how moderate the tax increase would be; voter registration cards; a map of polling places; and a bagful of miniature Smarties rolls, each of which had a yellow label which proclaimed, Be Smart for Tipton Schools.
    The girls were dorm officers and RA’s, who’d agreed to live on a freshman hall dispensing hot chocolate and sisterly advice in exchange for room and board. Yvonne, a first-year African American grad student from Jack’s department, introduced him, then Jack passed around Voter Registration cards, the information sheets, the bag of Smarties. These were nice girls, concerned about social issues and their own weight; the bag of Smarties came back undiminished. Then Mandy entered, blond hair tugged back in a tight ponytail, wearing a gray Tipton T-shirt and running shorts. Clearly, laundry night.
    â€œSorry.” She took the last available chair.
    TUTS strategy was straightforward: get the students to vote. Last spring, after the college kids left town, a levy lost by fifteen hundred votes. No More Taxes (the opposition) spread the word that last spring’s levy was trying to revive plans for a new high school, which wasn’t true. TUTS was now proclaiming, the statement being at least partially true, that it was in the students’ self-interest to bring better schools to Tipton.
    â€œWithout good public schools, ” Jack began, “the university has difficulty hiring and retaining the best young faculty. As some of you may know, the Director of the Art Museum has just taken a job in Tennessee. In his resignation letter, he wrote, and I quote, ‘The poor quality of the public schools was the deciding factor. I had to do what was best for my family.’”
    He looked around. Such well-scrubbed, well-meaning faces. Only one or maybe two appeared bored. “For eight years, my wife and I commuted because we didn’t want our kids in Tipton schools. Our colleagues, when they recruited us, warned us. Now I don’t have to tell you, if someone’s commuting an hour each way, they have less time for students.”
    The girls murmured. No doubt some professor had turned down their request for a late-afternoon meeting.
    â€œYou can help by registering to vote in Tipton. If you’re already registered back home, you can re-register and save yourself the bother of getting an absentee ballot. It’s perfectly legal. You live here.” Jack looked at them one by one. Several girls nodded. “Even if you’re apathetic about the national election—after all, it’s an off year—in Tipton, your vote matters. You know how important a good high school education is. Without it, you wouldn’t be here.”
    Mandy raised her hand. “But we don’t pay taxes. Is it really fair for us to vote for a tax increase?”
    Jack glanced from girl to girl ending on Yvonne, the only black face.
    â€œYou spend money in Tipton. And if you live off-campus next year and the levy passes, your rent will probably be five dollars a month higher to pay your landlord’s higher taxes. But that’s less than a movie, or a pitcher at Joe Mac’s.”
    The girls grinned. Joe Mac’s was a popular student bar. “So even though it may cost you or your parents a little extra, it’s the right thing to do. The tax rate is so low, the school district can’t retain staff. In the past three