Rebel at Spruce High

That’s when I hear the voices. “It’s horse shit! Horse shit, Paul!”

“It’s fine, honey,” comes a soft voice I assume is Paul, soothing the woman. “We knew there would be bumps. We knew it would not be a fair fight. But look at it this way: We’re making Raymond fight. How many years has he gone unopposed? Nadine, honey, it’s just an article written by some paid-off intern.”

“Well, I sure ain’t gonna stoop to his level and write no dang article about how he spends more of his time frequenting porno shops on the outskirts of Fairview than he does managing his own town. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.”

“You hear it all, huh?” teases Paul. I hear the smack of lips.

After a sigh, Nadine goes on. “Maybe it’s a lost cause. Maybe I really do make a better councilperson. But is it so much to want to make our town shine brighter than it already does? Our mayor sits around eatin’ cinnamon rolls all day while our beautiful parks get overrun by weeds, while buildings crumble at their foundations, while Fairview gloats every time they build a megaplex-somethin’-er-other. How much more can you take, Paul? I sure can’t!”

“He knows you throw a big Halloween bash every year. And he was countin’ on you reading this article today and breaking your spirit. But your spirit can’t be broken. And why can’t it be?”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘cause I’m a Strong, yadda-yadda. Why you gotta make everything so corny?” she teases him. A breath of laughter is shared. “Oh, I’d better clean up my face now. The costume contest is supposed to be goin’ on soon, isn’t it? What time is it?”

The door across the hall opens, and out walk the two people whose conversation I just heard every word of. Mr. Paul Strong is an older, less muscular version of his son Tanner, with a full head of grayish-brown hair and glasses, and he appears to be in normal clothes. Mrs. Strong is a petite woman in every aspect of the word—except for her boobs, which nearly spill out of the tight corset she’s wearing as part of her costume. Between her whacky hair and lavish eye makeup, I’d suspect she’s some kind of sexualized medieval bar wench. Upon seeing me, Mrs. Strong gives a look of shock, which quickly turns into suspicion. “There’s a bathroom downstairs, too,” she says before even a greeting. “Just under the stairs, a half-bath.”

I get the sense suddenly that I’m not welcome here. “Sorry. I, uh …” I try to stuff my hands into my pockets, then realize I don’t have any. “I didn’t mean to overhear anything. Toby sent me up here to use the …” I’m uncharacteristically on edge. “I’m Vann,” I finally blurt out. “Toby’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, I know who you are.” She purses her lips as she drags her eyes down me, taking me in. “Interesting costume.”

“It’s all Toby. His idea. We’re a couple of characters from this video game he’s way into. Listen, I …” I take a step toward her. She lifts her eyes to me. “I heard some of what you said. It was muffled through the door, but I heard it. And I know you know who my …” I struggle to get this out. “Who my parents are. Maybe you don’t like me because of them. But I just want to say I don’t approve of who my parents are working for. I don’t think we should have a say in the politics of this town, whether or not my mom grew up here. We’ve been gone my whole life, and …” I feel like I’m making a jumble out of all of this. “Well, whatever. I’m sorry. And if I could somehow help you, or make my parents give up their work …”

The bathroom door opens behind me. A meek goblin comes out, smiles sheepishly at us, quickly greets the Strongs, then takes off down the hall.

Mrs. Strong nods at the bathroom. “Your turn.”

I guess it was a mistake to bother opening my mouth. “Thanks,” I mutter, turning away to head into the bathroom.

“And thank you,” she adds.

I stop and glance at her over a shoulder.

Mrs. Strong doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind. “I appreciate you saying that. From what I heard of you and your relationship with dear, sweet Toby, you’re fiercely loyal and … sometimes to a fault. To say that about your own parents must not be easy.” She smirks. “And your performance in the Spruce High play was quite stellar. Made me miss seeing my son Jimmy dance on that stage.”

From what I understand about this town, a compliment from Mrs. Strong is like being complimented by a royal queen. Despite my misgivings, I can’t take that lightly. “Thanks, Mrs. Strong.”