“I’ve never been here before.”
“Around town, I mean.” They had to shout to be heard over the music’s crescendo. “You look familiar.”
She said, “Do I?”
“I’m Derek,” he said, as though he were offering her something, as though everybody didn’t know his name already. As though Brooke hadn’t seen his face on election signs all over town just a few months ago. He’d been a city councilor in the municipal election before that, the youngest person ever to be elected to office in Lanark, and she knew the whole Fire Boy Hero story. She also knew, like everybody else downtown did, about his reputation with the ladies. He “liked to have a good time with them” was perhaps the genteel way of putting it.
It was a reputation Brooke was pretty sure was not unfounded, especially with the way he’d sidled up beside her…but now Derek was pointing across the room at the guy in the DJ booth, Brent, almost as much of a local hero as he was. Derek said, “Listen, you know my buddy, Brent? He owns this place.” Brooke nodded. He said, “He’d get in a lot of trouble, see? If cops found out there were high school kids here.”
Brooke waited a moment. “What are you trying to say?”
“Just watching out for my friend,” said Derek.
“Okay,” said Brooke, drawing out the word with a sigh. Derek Murdoch wasn’t just a dork, he was an asshole. Who did he think he was, the liquor control board? The youngest person ever to be appointed to that too, no doubt.
“What is your name?” he asked, just before she walked away from him.
She said, “I’m Brooke.”
“Hi, Brooke,” he said, extending his hand now, like this was an election and he was installing a lawn sign. If she’d had a baby, he would have kissed it. Derek Murdoch was a cheesy guy, but his schtick was less off-putting than it should have been. He was watching out for his friend, his business. She’d been expecting sleaze, but he’d turned out to be more upstanding, even if it was annoying, and maybe the rumors about him were wrong, was what she was thinking as she accepted his handshake. As he leaned in close and confided, “You’re right, you know. You don’t have to dance with everyone else.” And then walked off into the night.
The whole encounter had been dazzling—or maybe that was just the lights and the booze, or that he was this famous guy who’d picked her out of a crowd. Whatever it was, after the fact, she had a difficult time believing that any of it had really happened.
Which was the reason she hoped she would see him again, and she did, nearly half a year later. By this time she had been away at school in the city for an entire semester, but was home for Christmas, out with a few high school friends who were turning into strangers, and once again she felt apart from things, standing at a remove.
Then there he was, alone. She recognized his profile, and approached him without even deciding she would. And was this that thing called charisma, such an inexplicable draw? She’d only ever read about it in books before.
Once she’d come up beside him at the bar, he turned her way. “You’re Brooke,” he said. And so the draw was explicable after all; he’d remembered her name. This guy. Who was waiting now with an expectant look—like he knew she’d be impressed. And she was. But did remembering her name mean that she was special or that he was, with such a remarkable skill for recognition? Either way, she liked it, but she didn’t want to show how much.
“We’ve met before,” he reminded her.
“I know,” she said, “but I’m not in high school anymore, so you don’t need to worry.”
“I’m not worried,” he said. “But listen, I know you. I do. It’s driving me crazy. I’ve seen you before, I’m sure of it, but I just can’t figure out from where.”
“You mean, apart from the time you threatened to have me thrown out of this place?”
“It wasn’t like that. And you’re just so familiar.”
She said, “Well, you’re kind of familiar too.” Playing like this was a two-way street, catching him off guard in the process. And surely he would call her bluff? But then, what kind of a person would he be if he did? Only the kind of person who is aware of just how important he is—but Derek Murdoch didn’t want to give that impression. He tried to wear his power like a shrug. “Where do I know you from?” she asked him. Like a joke.
He said, “Well, I work in politics.” He didn’t get it.
“Politics?”
“Party stuff, elections, making laws. You know.”
“I know about politics,” Brooke said. The music was quieter up at the bar than where they’d spoken the last time, beside the dance floor. She didn’t have to shout for him to hear her, and suddenly she felt a desire for him to know they had a connection after all. “I study politics,” she told him. “At school in the city.”
“Oh yeah?”
She said, “And I’m kidding, of course. About not knowing who you are. I would have voted for you. If I’d been old enough then.” She sensed an ease come over him with this statement, a return to familiar ground.
He said, “You mean that?” And from his expression, she could tell it was important that she did. That he needed her to, that he even desired her approval. And because she really did mean it, she told him so, and then he bought her a shot. “I mean, since you’re not in high school anymore.” Now he was the one teasing.
He gave her his card. “For when you’re back in the city,” he said. “And even when you’re not, I mean. We’re always looking for people who are into politics. Lots of ways to work together. Email me.” She tucked his card into her tiny purse and returned to her friends feeling a little buoyant, light-headed, or maybe she’d just had too many drinks. Her euphoria abated somewhat moments later when she saw Derek on the dance floor kissing a blonde girl, his hands all over her body.
Tuesday Afternoon
What if she just skipped today? Brooke considered as she dealt with the newspapers in the library. What if she just left the newspaper rods empty? “It’s not like there isn’t plenty of other stuff to read in the library,” she would explain to anyone who complained, and the only people who came in to read the papers were old people anyway. Everybody else read their news online now—although she could put a stop to that too if she switched off the power bar at the computer bank and disabled the Wi-Fi for the people who read the news on their phones. “The whole system’s gone down,” she’d say if they asked, feigning sheepishness. “Too bad, too, because I’ve got absolutely no idea who’s being accused of sexual misconduct today. But what are you going to do?”