Free Election by Tom Perrotta Page A

Mr. M. signaled for a time-out. “You're getting a little ahead of yourself.”
    I knew an advantage when I saw one. I made my voice as indignant as possible.
    “Well, I'm not about to sit here and be accused of something I didn't do.”
    He shook his head, studying me with a deep, unspoken disgust. I should have realized then that he was prepared to hurt me if he thought he could get away with it.
    “Get the hell out of here,” he said. “You're giving me a headache.”

MR. M.
     
    NONE OF IT was real to me, not Walt's ravings or Paul's vanished posters, not Tracy's laughable threats of legal action. The only thing that was real to me was Sherry Dexter and the line we'd crossed that morning in her living room.
    I'd stopped by her house on the way to school, supposedly to drop off this John Grisham novel she'd been bugging me about. I expected her to be dressed for work, but she answered the door in a blue oxford shirt of Jack's and nothing else, an outfit I thought women only wore in TV commercials. Her smile was shy and inviting.
    I handed her the book. She glanced at the cover, then laughed and tossed it over her shoulder. In a single fluid motion she stepped into my arms and kicked the doorshut with her bare foot. Her body was warm through the soft cotton, sweeter than I'd dreamed. I felt no guilt, only a joy so pure it hurt.
    “This is wrong,” she said, reaching for my belt buckle.
    “Awful,” I agreed, peering over her shoulder to check my watch. “Things are going to get complicated.”
    We made love right there on the floor, surrounded by the colorful clutter of Darren's toys. It wasn't slow or tender, the way I'd anticipated, but reckless, hungry, almost violent in its urgency.
This is it
, I realized.
She's what I've been missing.
Even while it was happening, I knew I'd never get enough. When it was over, we lay side by side on the pale gray carpet, stunned by our bodies and what they'd done.
    “Come back after school,” she whispered.
    “You'll be at work.”
    “I'll take the afternoon off. Darren's with the sitter till five-thirty.”
    That's what I was thinking about around two-twenty in the afternoon, when Tammy Warren knocked on my door.

TAMMY WARMEN
     
    MR. M. APOLOGIZED as soon as I sat down.
    “Tammy, I want you to know that this isn't myidea. Mr. Hendricks asked me to conduct an investigation into the disappearance of Paul's posters. As far as I'm concerned, this is pure formality. You're under no suspicion whatsoever.”
    I was surprised by his kindness. He'd never been nice to me before.
    “Thanks,” I said. “Ask away.”
    He stared at the wall clock for ten or fifteen seconds, as if fascinated by the concept of time. He seemed jittery, and I wondered if something was wrong in his personal life. Maybe he was a cocaine addict living in a house with no furniture. Maybe he exposed himself to Cub Scouts.
    “All right,” he said. “Just for the record. Did you tear down your brother's campaign posters?”
    It had been a blue Monday for me. When I got to school that morning, Jason Caputo was waiting by my locker with a bouquet of peach-colored tulips. Seeing him there, looking so lovestruck and pathetic, made me realize how badly I wanted to get out of Winwood. All at once I was sick of everything. I wanted to do something wild—bite the head off a tulip, tell Jason I had a mad crush on his sister. That crazy, desperate feeling had stuck with me the whole day.
    “I did it,” I told him. “I tore down the posters.”

MR. M.
     
    I KNEW SHE WAS lying, but I didn't know why. What could Tammy possibly gain by covering for Tracy?
    “Come on,” I said. “Stop kidding around.”
    “I'm not kidding around.”
    “This is serious, Tammy. You know you'll get suspended.”
    She nodded gravely.
    “This will be the second time in a month. Mr. Hendricks may bar you from the election.”
    “I deserve it,” she said. “My conduct's been reprehensible.”
    I had no idea what she was trying