Rebel at Spruce High

I also soon learn during dinner that he’s the mayor of Spruce. As in: Mayor Raymond Porter.

A little heads-up from my parents might have been nice.

Also, the restaurant we’re in is actually in the outskirts of a neighboring town called Fairview, and is owned by Nadine Strong, which Mayor Raymond is quick to point out. “I find it a bit funny,” he says, smacking his lips as he cracks into his lobster, “that we’re enjoying a nice meal in the restaurant of a woman who is actually thinking of running against me.” He chortles privately at that.

I’ve barely touched my plate. And I don’t like the way he says the word “woman”. And I’m usually not so quick to judge someone within five minutes of knowing them, but I don’t like this guy.

And I’m deeply regretting not going to Biggie’s and hanging out with Toby. I’d take one of their Tackler Burgers over this fancy and uncomfortable lobster dinner with the mayor any day.

“You’ve run unopposed for … how many terms now?” asks my dad, keeping the conversation light.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter how many years I run. I’ll run as many as I like. Spruce has no term limits. The people are happy. What’s this fuss with Nadine gettin’ her pantaloons in a knot? Probably not seemly of me, to talk ‘bout her in her own restaurant like this. She and I go way back, too. No bad blood there, but that woman’s been born with a spotlight over her head, and shoot, if she don’t have half the town talkin’ ‘bout her, she might as well be dead. Pass the bread.” My dad obliges with enthusiasm. Raymond rips a dinner roll in half and slathers it with butter. “Gets me to thinkin’, what was it we were talkin’ ‘bout the other night, Joe?” He guffaws when it comes to him. “Ah yes, taxes. About that …”

I’ve checked my phone five times since sitting at the table and haven’t said a word. I don’t know why I’m expecting Toby to just randomly message me while he’s working, or call me to say he’s off early, or literally anything to give me an excuse to get out of here. It wouldn’t matter; I’m stuck here, a not-a-walkable-distance outside of Spruce, at the whim of this stupid dinner.

My mom also hasn’t said a word since greeting Raymond and his wife, I’ve noticed. The pair of us sit next to each other, silent and eating. As the time crawls by, the table grows loud with my father and the mayor’s chatter. It’s obvious my dad just wanted to present some kind of united family front to impress the mayor. I should have taken the hint when he asked me to change my shirt before leaving the house.

“Of course, yes!” my dad exclaims to something I’ve missed. I look up just in time to find him dabbing his mouth with a napkin and gesturing at Mom. “My wife Amelia would be so delighted to assist in whatever way she can, should it really come to that. She’s had years and years of experience in marketing, campaigning for various brands, even had a stint up in New York when—well, you go ahead and tell him, darling.”

Like the switch on a robot being flicked on, my mother comes out of a well of darkness and puts on a smile. “Yes, that’s accurate, though I do think he inflates my worth just a tad,” she says lightly, inspiring an amused guffaw from the mayor and an eye-squinting smile from the icy wife. She launches into her usual spiel about all the things she’s accomplished since leaving Spruce, who she’s worked for, which celebrities she’s come into contact with—and so on and so on. I could recite half of her spiel for her. “It’s inspiring to me, the notion of helping out my hometown mayor. You know, coming back here, I feel such a lovely rush of—”

“What a ridiculous circus,” Raymond grumbles, cutting her off—much to her visible surprise. “Haven’t had to lift a finger in years, and here the Strongs go, makin’ me work to keep my office. This all the butter we get?” He flags down a server. “More butter!”

Not a please nor a thanks. I doubt either word has come out of that man’s lips in years. How can Spruce be such a pleasant place with such an entitled, lazy man sitting on its figurative throne?

I study my mom’s face, watching as she slowly gnaws on her tongue. She clearly didn’t appreciate being cut off, but has more sense than to challenge the mayor. She simply turns back into the switched-off robot, minding the rest of her dinner. I feel a sudden urge to rub her back or reassure her in some way, until I realize she would probably not like the gesture in front of everyone—and also I remember she’s still mad at me and giving me the silent treatment.