Free Election by Tom Perrotta Page B

to pull, and even less interest in figuring it out at that particular moment. It was two-thirty, and I needed to be out of the building by two forty-five. If Tammy wanted to take responsibility for something she hadn't done, that was her prerogative.
    “Come on,” I said. “Let's go tell it to the Vice-Principal.”

TAMMY WARREN
     
    THERE MUST HAVE BEEN eight different Styrofoam cups on Mr. Hendricks's desk, many of them imprintedwith crescent-shaped bite marks. I'm not sure how he knew which one to drink from.
    “Now this is just my opinion, Tammy, but I think you've got some sort of emotional problem. All this hostility seething inside you.”
    “It's true,” I said. “I'm a very angry person.”
    He brought his wrist to his nose and sniffed at his watchband. He seemed troubled by the odor and sniffed again.
    “Maybe you should get some counseling,” he advised. “Find out what's causing you to behave this way.”
    The hard part was over. He had just suspended me for five days—I could have kissed him—and banned me from the election. Now we were killing time until the bell rang.
    “Mr. Hendricks,” I said, “do you think it would make sense for me to transfer to a Catholic school?”

MR. M.
     
    I RANG THE BELL and pounded on the door, but Sherry didn't answer. In a matter of seconds, desire turned to dread in my veins.
    I waited in front of her house for forty-five minutes that felt like four hours, then gave up and drove to the Blue Lantern, an old man's bar about a mile away.
    Between sips of warm beer I fed quarters into the pay phone and listened to her voice on the answering machine. When I tried her office, they told me she'd taken a sick day.
    After a while I gave up on the phone and settled into my misery. A rational person might not have blamed Sherry for putting the brakes on, but I was in no mood to be rational. My ribs ached with wanting her; my eyeballs throbbed at the thought of going home to Diane. The last thing I needed just then was a hard slap on the back from Walt Hendricks.
    “Jim! We've got to stop meeting like this.”
    He pulled up a stool beside me and blew a quick kiss to an elderly lady drinking by herself at the other end of the bar. She caught it with one hand and blew him a return kiss with the other. Walt seemed like a different man in the dim, generous light of the Blue Lantern, a dapper gent with an easy charm, no longer the plaid-coated buffoon of the school day.
    “I make it a point to be in here by five-thirty no matter what,” he explained. “It's the only thing that keeps me sane.”
    He downed a double bourbon in a single swallow, wincing with pleasure. The funereal bartender refilled his glass, then retreated a few steps in the direction of the cash register.
    “So what happened?” I asked.
    He sighed. “I gave her five days. Banned her from the election.”
    “How'd she take it?”
    “Fine. Just like last time.”
    “She's a strange one.”
    He turned to me with a conspiratorial air.
    “I was looking at her, Jim. I think she might have a nice little body underneath those baggy clothes. She's gonna give some pimply kid the surprise of his life.”
    I shut my eyes and saw Sherry standing in the doorway in that blue shirt, smiling like a bride, her legs lit up by a slanty ray of sunshine. She was moist when I touched her, melting between my fingers.
    “Four more years,” said Walt. His voice was tired now, drained of enthusiasm. “Four more years and I won't have to suspend anyone ever again.”
    “You don't like that part of it, do you?”
    He traced the rim of his glass with his fingertip, first one way, then in reverse.
    “I was a shop teacher for twenty years. The kids loved me. I was Mr. H., just like you. Now they hate my guts. I know what they call me. Styrofoam Walt. Coffee Man.” He polished off the rest of his drink and laid a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “Don't believe it when they tell you Administration's the way to go. The classroom,