Survival Of The Fittest

Friday afternoon in the Memorial Library. You could smell the history. You could feel and sense the presence and spirit of all the Terriers of yesteryear. They spoke to the chubby ginger boy gingerly going about his business. Their message was loud and clear and it echoed and evoked its way from the beyond even though a century may have a separated him from the ghosts. When he spoke, he spoke the same as the spooks…

“It’s always so wicked hot in here, damn.”




In the corner of the library, in a study space reserved for the senior class sat the chubbier half of senior leadership. Broad shoulders freed themselves from the confines and warmth of his gray jacket and large, strong forearms exposed themselves as Dicky rolled up his sleeves. To his side sat his duffel bag and his basketball, trusted and bright and black and new with the Boston Celtics’ shamrock in a shiny holographic green. In front of him was a traditional composition notebook and between his fingers, dancing and twisting, a meticulously sharpened Mirado Black Warrior pencil.

It sounded a little lame, but Richard secretly loved the smell and feel of new school supplies. He would never admit that, least he wouldn’t be the first to do so. Didn’t seem like a cool or interesting look to talk about how much he enjoyed the feel of a new pencil.

His hand found his phone and his finger found a contact conspicuously labeled ‘Madam President’…

here.

Chloé finished the last of her coffee and dropped it in the bin by the library’s entrance. Before stepping foot into their makeshift Oval Office, she took a second to just stand there, breathe, and smile.

(Chloé Delacroix continued from The Last First Day Back)

Richard was sat in the senior corner by the time she arrived, his supplies all laid out ready. That preparedness boded well for their professional relationship. Chloé greeted him warmly, slid into the seat opposite him and retrieved her own stationery from her bag. She’d bought a brand new notepad planner in anticipation for the role and now she got to adorn that first crisp, white page with the day’s date. A day that would live on in whatever the good version of infamy was.

“First things first: congratulations! On making basketball captain, too.”

Chloé had her suspicions from the beginning that Dick would win the VP election- she’d been much more confident of it than of her own victory, in fact. He had the winning combination of charisma, good ideas, and not cursing at the principal in front of the entire school. She hadn’t technically voted for him herself, but what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. She was excited to be getting to work, and she had looked forward to working with whoever won.

“Was there ever any doubt?”

Prolly coulda had her position too, if he so wished—but there was no use in speculating or even bringing that up. Dicky had chosen to run for Veep for a variety of reasons. He didn’t want the pressure or the responsibility that came with being the HDIC (Head-Dick-In-Charge)—except that was a lie, wasn’t it? Dick loved the pressure and he loved being in control with his fate in his own hands. The real reason was that Richard had wanted to focus on basketball. It was his senior year and probably his last time playing true organized ball. After this year it’d be rec leagues and YMCAs against former high school stars and division 3 also rans. He had to give it all to ball. Except that was a lie too, wasn’t it? Dick had gone door to door for Vice President Kirby in order to make him President Kirby. Ball was life, but politics was what ruled the living. You had to have room for both. You couldn’t just shut up and dribble. What was it then?

“Thanks though,” he grinned and chuckled, “Congrats to you too.”

But he would’ve preferred it if it was Daryl who had been elected was the thing. It shoulda been Daryl who had been elected was the truth of it. But neither he nor his best friend had campaigned with the idea that they would be governing together…they had just assumed it. It was textbook arrogance. They should’ve done more. Richard should’ve done more for him. This was supposed to be their year together. To show 'em how it's done when it's done by the folks who saw stuff for what was what. No pretense. No arrogance. Just a shared vision for a good year and a good time. It shoulda been Daryl, Dick was still a little salty it wasn't.

“I wanted to, like, I guess, y’know,” he waved the pencil around, “Have a meeting with you, exchange words, form a gameplan, get on the same page…provide a united front? So we come correct when we’re with the rest of the student government.”

Chloé Delacroix. Prim and proper and put together. Straight A student and cheerleader. Dick respected the former much more than the latter. Richard saw a bit of himself in her, if he could be honest. He wore a friggin’ suit to school. He couldn't throw stones at prim or proper. She was a straight A student and in Dick’s opinion, she didn’t mind if everybody knew it. Richard was very much the same. It took a certain level of ego to decide to be President…even of the Student Council. You didn't manage that without a small percentage of megalomania.

Big Dick would know, he coulda been Class Prez too—if he really wanted. No use bringing it up though or speculating, remember? Maybe a few more seconds, but that was it. Nothing more. Actually he had already forgotten.

Chloé fixed Dick with a slightly tight smile. Was there ever any doubt? His brand of confidence qualified as arrogance in her book, but she brushed it off. You come to expect an inflated ego from someone whose nickname drew allusions to the size of their... the point was, she was pretty used to it. As far as she could tell, men in general got away with being a bit more cocky- pun not intended- in politics, even on the student level, but that was neither here nor there right now. She accepted her own congratulations more gratefully. With that out of the way, they could get to work.

“I was thinking the same thing, about having a gameplan. I guess in particular I wanted to get an idea of your priorities this year”- persuasive as its rhetoric had been, Richard’s speech was a little light on policy- “so we can form that united front together. Maybe a basic idea of any finances we might need as well, so the treasurer or whoever doesn’t catch us off guard. We can sort out the details of fundraising later.”

Okay, this felt good, getting into presidential mode. Felt natural. Maybe she hadn’t been as confident as Richard, maybe she was almost proud of that, but maybe there was never any doubt that she was made for this too.

“My main priority…,” Big Dick paused to think of how honest he should be, “Is probably getting into Columbia on early admission.”

He decided to be partly. Richard’s speech had been heavy on rhetoric and self-importance but the reality of his thinking was more rooted in practicality. Student government was a largely symbolic organization. A resume thickener and personal essay stuffer. This wasn’t anime. They had no power. It had a singular organizational purpose—making its participants look good and providing free labor for the school. Big Dick had decided to reconcile both by acting like he was a bit above the whole procedure. The flyers and funny pins he and his father had slaved over and his self-aggrandizing, faux-humble speech non-withstanding.

“I dunno, I was telling the truth in my speech,” another half-truth in and of itself, “I’m going to get my job done. Plain and simple...," but what did that entail? What did that really mean..., "I wanna do…whatever it is that you wanna do. We’re partners, I am at your service Miss Class President.”

He twirled his pencil again and imagined himself a Harlem Globetrotter doing tricks with his ball on his fingertips.

“I guess the main priority is Homecoming and Prom and trying to throw our best versions of both,” Dicky spoke to the ceiling, “The administration is going to have final say on most things—date, theme and venue," just rapid fire opinion masquerading as well known fact, "But if we can provide a good plan and a convincing fundraising attack, I think we can push our own agenda forward a bit.”

Richard’s response elicited a grin and an eye-roll. It went without saying, and would therefore go unsaid, that Chloé had been influenced by her own post-secondary ambitions in campaigning for student presidency; a padded resume was the only real reward Student Government provided its members for their service, after all. That must have been an unspoken but acknowledged fact among all the candidates and probably most of the voters too, that everyone up there was up there in their own self-interest as much as in the name of selflessness or school spirit. Or… communism, in Natasha’s case? In so far as she could be honest with herself, Chloé considered her self-interest secondary to a genuine desire to get involved in the running of the school, no matter how superficial an impact she could have. Hopefully that had crossed Richard’s mind too, even if Columbia came first.

The Vice President went on (Chloé could get used to be addressed as “Miss Class President”), bringing up some good points about the upcoming Homecoming and, further in the future, Prom. She nodded in agreement.

“That’s something we would definitely be able to get the student body involved in too! I know almost everyone is interested in the school dances. People start talk about planning their outfits and dates and stuff months in advance.”

"Yeah...," Dick mused, "About that," he chuckled, "Way I see it," he meandered over to his point, "The rest of the student body has been involved plenty enough."

Richard began drawing on a blank page in his open composition notebook. His intention was to appear lackadaisical but Dicky's hands moved meticulously. This wasn't just doodling. Big Dick was working on something, towards some angle as his wrist moved in and illustrated circles.

"I mean," the grin, the above-it-all shrug, "They elected us after all, right? They didn't do it because of my good looks."

Another circle and then another and then another and then he began shading. His vision and mission became clear in his mind. His brain moved on instinct and in a straight line. Bullseye.

"Why'd they pick you...?"

The 5'3" concernedly chubby captain of the perennial loser basketball team let the question hang there for a second longer than he intended.

"Like if you had to pick a reason," he course corrected, "Why'd they vote for you? What do folks expect from you," he remained on target, "From us?"

“Why they voted for me? Um-”

Like Richard had said, in an unexpected moment of self-deprecation, he wasn’t here because of looks. Chloé would have been flattered if she was, but hoped nonetheless she wasn’t. Not because of popularity either, or anything so superficial, ideally. She hoped she was here because her peers wanted what she’d promised them.

“Most people aren’t going to go out of their way to make the school a better place. But when given a really easy opportunity to do that, even in like, a small way? I think yeah, that’s why they voted for me.”

Did that make Richard right, mean that Chloé and him should just do whatever they wanted now? That their classmates had handed over their say in matters to the two of them, stated by signing that slip of paper that “Chloé knows best”?

“I said in my speech I’d keep listening, listening to what they wanted through the year. Isn’t that why the voted for me? I don’t really know.”

That last admission was true, would remain true, she didn’t and wouldn’t know why they voted for her. Couldn’t go around asking people “Did you vote for me? Why?” like an insecure egomaniac. She did know that was why she voted for herself (after briefly questioning the ethics of doing so). She believed in democracy, direct democracy, like they had in Switzerland, sometimes. Besides, there were people out there who knew more about planning dances than she did. Surely they should be consulted? Meritocracy, that was another -cracy she believed in.

Chloé shrugged. “I said I’d keep listening.”

“That’s fair,” Dick conceded, “So I’d ask you, in this instance—listen to me.”

Richard felt that Chloé was partly right. They did elect her half because of her democratic vision and courteous spirit. The thesis of Miss Prez’s whole song and dance centered around an expansion of the school’s social media or something or the other. Dick didn’t remember the specific details. Real visionary stuff, running a school TikTok. But Big Dick had no doubt that the head of student government was a genuine article when it came to what she was saying. She wanted to make a difference. She thought she was the best option to do so. The same applied to Dicky.

Richard could’ve had her job after all. If he had really, really wanted.

“They elected us to be leaders. That means we gotta lead.”

He let this statement sit for a second. This time it was completely intentional. Big Dick dotted the bullseye he was drawing on his paper. Finally finding the point he was searching for and trying to make. Took long enough.

"Having a vision doesn't make you deaf," Dicky said with a degree of sentiment and a bit too much eye contact, "It's easier for us to chart a path if we know what we're working towards and where we're going."

Dick swallowed and gulped and looked at the ceiling and scribbled loopty-loop on his paper. He was getting a bit too lost in the moment. It was corny. He was talking about the Homecoming theme for christsake! Not the Geneva Convention.

"It's easier to get others on board as well."

Chloé sighed and rubbed her temples. She could already tell Richard wasn’t about to change her mind, but extended him the courtesy of listening. It would be hypocritical not to. In fairness, he made some good points- they had voted for him as well as her, and he hadn’t been touting democracy as his USP. Chloé wondered who had gotten more votes. Probably Richard, since he only had two opponents to split the votes with, whereas she had five. What about if they’d ran against each other? That question would probably hang over the two of them whenever they met this kind of friction.

“I’m worried about… optics, I guess? I don’t want to be seen as someone who immediately abandons her word.”

The vulnerability that came across there provoked some brief introspection. He hadn’t changed her mind, as she’d known he wouldn’t, but some form of compromise was seeming inevitable. Inspiration struck, and she clasped her hands and stared him down.

“If we can present a strong agenda for the dance- like you said- then we can poll our classmates on it. We come across decisive, but still accountable. If they like it and we get their support, we have more weight to our words when we present our ideas to the administration, we’re more likely to win them over. If they don’t like it- well, we didn’t try hard enough. How’s that?”

Optics? She was worried about optics?! Didn’t you need eyes on you to have optics…? Who was even looking at them?! This was student government--it wasn't covered on C-SPAN! Did she care about the optics of them looking like they didn’t have any idea what they were doing? The optics of a Tiger King homecoming?! The only optics she should be caring about were the optics in front of her! The two big ol’ blues stuck on Richard’s fat freckled mug! Dick blinked hard and stared harder...

But Dicky wasn’t cool enough or smart enough to win against the exasperated look on her face.

And although he wanted to combat and conflate, he felt himself more likely to concede. There was a voice in the back of his mind that thought that Chloé actually looked kinda cute when she looked frustrated. If Dick was being honest, it wasn’t unlike his mother the doctor. That was a lot to unpack. Big Dick would keep it under wraps. What Richard meant was that he had a special place in his heart for women of high aptitude with a bit of attitude.

What it meant was that when it came to their staring contest? Richard blinked first and he blinked hard. Every bit the chubby, overconfident and compensating youth he was. His dress shirt felt tight and the room stuffy and his body sweaty. Was it always so wicked hot in here???

“Sounds good,” he was very aware now of wherever his eyes happened to stray, he put his attention back to his notebook trying desperately not to get caught up in whatever La Croix was planning, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He didn’t know what else to say, but he knew that he had to say something. Losing the staring contest was one thing, losing the battle of banter was another entirely.

“Any ideas?”

Chloé sat back, satisfied for now. Neither of them had fully relented- that was the nature of compromise- but in the end, it had been Richard who had agreed to her proposal. A brief triumph- of course, he wasn’t finished, and his next question was one she didn’t have a good answer to.

“None at the moment. I’ll need to create some spreadsheets-” maybe a bit too enthusiastic there- “familiarise myself with the sort of prices we’re dealing with here. I’ve never planned anything bigger than a house party, so I’m not exactly sure what to expect.”

But planning a party wasn’t all spreadsheets, was it?

“That’s the money side of things, anyway. I… don’t have any ideas for a theme or anything either if that’s what you meant.” That sort of creativity was probably outside of Chloé’s area of expertise, if she was being honest. Another reason she’d wanted to bring in output from outside the student council- she could think of some creative sorts who lived for costumes and music and decorations and whatever. Maybe Richard would surprise her with some good ideas of his own, though.

“What about you?”

No shit she didn’t have an idea. That’s why she wanted to poll folks on TikTok.

Chloe didn’t wanna actually be President—she wanted to outsource it to the student body at large. There was an idealism and ambition there that didn’t gel with reality. The pragmatic thing was to have a plan and execute. Don’t try to reinvent the wheel. Pick something that has worked before and make it work again. We believe what we see. If you had no vision, how could you know where to go?

They elected them to be leaders. That meant that they had to lead.

What did leading mean? What did a leader look like?

“Well, that’s who I am,” Big Dick grinned, “The man with a plan.”

And what plan was that?

“The quickest path to any point is a straight line,” the confidence extended from his smile to his eyes, he felt his voice and posture adjusting, “We’re the class of ’22. History doesn't repeat itself but it rhymes. These are tumultuous times but the blueprint has already been designed," heavy rhetoric, big rah-rah, team spirit, team captain on a perennial losing team stuff, "We go forward…by going back.”

Dick clapped his hands together. He had to convey to Chloé that what he was saying was not for the benefit of the ‘he’ but instead the ‘we’. Look into her eyes, the windows to the soul, and shine light through the blinds. Get the President on board and in-line and watch everybody else follow single-file. Keep it simple. Keep it clean. Do your job and don't fuck up the school dance. Easy-peasy.

“Two words: Roaring twenties.”

She’d put the ball in his court, and that idiom must have set the basketball captain up for success. The Roaring Twenties. Begrudgingly, Chloé had to admit it was the perfect theme for their first school dance of the new decade. Sure to be an easy sell to even the most conservative staff members, and the prohibition era setting hung a neat lampshade on it being the only teetotal party most highschoolers would bother to attend that year.

“Okay. Okay! Let’s do it.”

Chloé nodded, and made a note of his idea in her notebook. With a specific theme in mind, other ideas came easier to her, and she jotted down some cursory ideas for music, venue and catering. Maybe some classmates could be convinced into putting together a jazz band? Or maybe they could even get some help from the Peabody Essex museum, or some other local collection. Pitch a “helping educate the local public school on American History” angle or something- unlikely to work perhaps, but the possibility excited her. The troubling thought briefly followed that, with her brainstorming ways to make Richard’s idea work, the two of them might be sitting on the wrong sides of the table; but she remembered their earlier compromise, and reminded herself to focus on cooperation, not trying to flaunt her presidency over him. After all, if they had to end up dancing the Charleston together on the homecoming court, it would help to be on more equal footing.

“Awesome. Anything else?”

((Chloé Delacroix continued in and we can be anything, even apart))

"Nothin' really," Big Dick said with a grin as he gathered his things, " 'cept to vote for me for Homecoming King."

Fin.
((Big Dick Buster Continued In: It's Christmas, and we're on Mars))