Joe sat on the faculty stoop before school. Betty McDonald walked by with her friend Bryan. She waved at Joe. He nodded. Kids around the school teased Bryan by calling him Brain. The dumb kids thought that was funny.


    “Hey, Betty,” Joe called out. “Are you going to run for class president again?”


    She stopped and turned, then walked back a few steps. “I think so. I mean, I’ve run three straight years. I may as well lose one more time.”


    “I admire that you never quit. Manfredi kicks your ass every year, but you still fight.”


    Betty shrugged. “Well, he has lots of friends: the whole disco clique, the baseball team, and the track team. Most kids don’t vote, so he wins.”


    “Yeah, he’s got the jock vote, and you have them." Joe nodded toward the bookish huddle twenty feet away. Then he imagined for a moment how cool it would be for Betty to end the reign of Mike Manfredi: golden boy, baseball star, and class president… three years running.


    “If we could get the kids who don’t usually vote to fill out a ballot, how many would you need?”


    “Less than half the class participates," she said. "I lost by almost a hundred votes last year. It was worse the year before."


    “Okay, at least sixty kids from school come to my gigs, mostly seniors. That''s a start, right?”


    Betty chuckled, “Do you want to be my campaign manager?”


    “Is that a thing in high school?”


    Betty shrugged. “It could be.”


    “No. I don’t want a job, but I can whip votes for you, like they do in Congress.”


    “You would do that?”


    “Fuck yeah. You deserve a chance. Manfredi is a cocky shit. Imagine how big it would be to upset him after three years of that dick being class president?”


    Betty flashed a big smile. “It would be awesome.”


    Joe smiled back. “Let me talk to some kids, but let’s keep this quiet for now. When’s the election?”


    “The first Friday in October, the sixth.”


    “Okay, almost three weeks, plenty of time. We’ll talk later.”


    The first bell went off as Betty walked off with a bounce in her step.


    Mike Manfredi wasn’t a bad kid. He was a popular boy with a flashy smile and made-for-television face who annoyed people. He was a smooth talker, good with the ladies, and a bit arrogant for Joe’s taste. Joe also knew that Mike made fun of Betty every year when she announced her challenge for office. He was condescending towards her and her bookish friends.


    Joe wasn’t digging this newfound popularity in school but there wasn’t anything he could do about it, so he decided to use it to his advantage. In the first week, he covertly canvassed the non-jock school factions: the stoners, the rockers, the hippies, and the punks. He had friends or acquaintances in each clique. These groups had overlap, most were invisible students. None played sports or got involved with extracurricular activities. They showed up, went to class, and ran out like the building was on fire when the final bell rang.


    Joe recruited people he knew best in each faction with the same speech. “Betty is a trooper. She never quit trying, even when she knew she had no chance of winning. She’s the ultimate underdog; a quiet girl, a nerd, and most kids don’t know her. She’s not popular outside the ACP classes. She deserves this, and wouldn’t it be great to slap that smug ‘I’m better than you.’ smile off Manfredi’s face?”


    That last line was effective. Mike was an annoying snob. The idea of elevating the lowest among them over him appealed to everyone. Joe closed his pitch with, “Keep this on the down low. We don’t want Manfredi to know until it’s too late.”


    When Joe got to his old crush’s clique, Sandy thought it was hilarious he had gotten involved in class politics. She got her hippy friends on board. Dean Coyle, a talkative stoner with a big brain, kept his crew in line. John Tedesco, the tallest kid in school not playing basketball, handled the rockers. Steven Conte was desperate to redeem himself. He handled the punks with the pink-haired girl who had recently added a white streak. Because she always wore black, Joe nicknamed her Good & Plenty.


    He recruited the Washington twins. They weren’t in his class but they dated seniors on the basketball team. Joe knew the basketball players didn’t vote, but he had their respect after defending the twins from John Russo. With the help of Nicole and Monique, he hoped to pull some of the black kids into the movement.


    As Joe whipped the votes, he couldn’t help but channel a nerd band he loved at the time. If any punk band personified awkward brainy youth, it was DEVO. Joe’s band played two of their songs, but they didn''t cover their biggest hit.


    ‘Whip It’ was an ear-worm for the election run-up. He couldn''t get it out of his head. He walked the corridors singing it under his breath. When he talked to his election operatives about whipping the vote he left them with the parting words, “Whip it, whip it good.”


    In the second week, Bryan Murphy and Lori Stanton, two of Betty’s smart clique pals, threw their hats in the ring for student council. Their candidacies were added to the campaign. Joe was whipping votes for them too.


    They did their best to keep the scheme as quiet as possible, but whipping over a hundred votes generated some buzz. Joe didn’t want Manfredi’s crew to know how big an effort was afoot. There was a rally scheduled for Wednesday, two days before the class election. All office candidates would make a stump speech in the auditorium. Joe intended to turn that event upside down.


    A week before the election, on a Friday night, The Young Punks played The Underground. As usual, there was a big CHS contingent on hand. That’s where Joe made the first overt push. About halfway through the first set, he gathered the crowd’s attention.


    “Listen. A lot of my classmates are here. I’ve talked to some of you about the election next Friday. If I haven’t, listen up. You all know Mike Manfredi.”


    There were scattered boos.


    “I know, he’s kind of an entitled dick. His dad is on city council, ran for mayor once, and probably will again. Mike has been class president three straight years.” He held three fingers out. “Politics is the family business. We’d like to end that run.”


    Claps and cheers came from the back of the room where Conte and Good & Plenty hung with their punk crew.


    “Betty Martin runs every year and loses badly, but she never quits! That’s why I support her. She’s a good kid, smart and hard-working. I think she’s earned a chance to be class president.”


    Joe was happy to hear more applause.


    “I know for sure that no one in this room votes in school elections. But next Friday you’ll do it for Betty… or for me. I really don’t care. Imagine how cool it will be to rock the school by upsetting Manfredi and keeping him from winning four straight years.”


    That drew more applause and cheers, even some college kids were on board.


    “Tell your friends. We’re pushing to get Betty, Brian Murphy and Lori Stanton elected. Next Wednesday there’s a rally after lunch in the auditorium. That’s when Disco Boy is gonna find out we’re coming for him.”


    —- THE PUNKS JUST TOOK OVER —-


    Saturday night was The Young Punks'' debut at Barney’s Irish Pub in Worcester, their first show out of state. Sal was still pissy about driving more than an hour to an Irish pub he’d never heard of. On the ride up, Joe was sick of Sal’s bitching.


    “Look, we handed out these cards for a reason, and we told people if they get us a gig near their school, we’ll come check them out and do a show.”


    “An Irish pub doesn’t sound like a good fit.”


    “Monica gave our card to the daughter of the owner. She runs the bar at night. It’s a younger crowd after the day drinkers go home. That’s what Barney told me. He said the punks started showing up, just a handful, and a month later he had two dozen. They have a weekend house band, and it’s punk rock.”


    “Then what do they need us for?”


    “They don’t Sal. It’s just a fucking gig. If this place sucks we get paid and we don’t come back. It won’t be our first dud.”


    Nate snickered from the back of the van. “That sports bar in Warwick was rubbish.”


    “We still got paid.”


    When the band arrived at 5:45, they were in a residential neighborhood. The bar was once a house, the large backyard paved over. More than three hours before the show they found a dozen men sitting in a dark, run-down pub. Barney came out from behind the bar with his hand extended.


    “Are you Joe?”


    “Yes, and you must be Barney.” Joe shook his hand.


    “It’s nice to meet you,” he smiled. “Trish is excited to have a new band playing. I guess she’s sick of the same old.”


    Barney was a keg of a man, short and stout with a big round head barely covered by what remained of his sandy hair. His neck was as wide as his head. When the guys entered behind Joe, the expression on Sal’s face was unmistakable.


    Barney looked up at him, “Don’t worry. These drunks will be gone before dark when this place gets handed off to my daughter. She’ll be here soon, and the freak show will be right behind her.” He pointed. “The stage is back there. If you need anything, just holler.”


    Trish arrived as the band was setting up. She was a younger, female version of Barney, stout and thick, with kind eyes, except she had a shock of red hair that was all over the place.


    “I’m so glad you made it.” She took Joe’s hand. “Monica will be very excited to see you. She’s been telling everyone about your band. I’m expecting a good crowd.”


    “We’re gonna finish setting up and then step out for a quick bite. Are there any good diners nearby?”


    “About a half mile up the road is the Euclid Grille. It’s very good.”


    “Can you watch our gear?”


    “Sure.”


    The band stepped out for a bite to eat that turned out to be not so quick, because Joe saw a record shop. They spent a half hour in Valentine Vinyl & Tape. They talked with the proprietor, Jimmy Valentine, a middle-aged Englishman with an extensive inventory of punk, especially UK bands. Joe invited him to the show. Sal had to push him out of the store. When they returned to the pub, Joe was mugged by his biggest fan.


    “Oh, my God! I’m so happy to see you,” Monica practically screamed as her arms went around Joe’s neck. She kissed him. The band shared glances. “I told everyone about your show,” she smiled. “Don’t make me look bad.”


    “Barney wasn’t kidding,” Joe said, looking at the crowd that had taken over the bar. “This is a legit punk crew.”


    Monica made wide eyes, “Oh yeah. We have some characters. The thing is, they’re all really cool people. Let me introduce you.”


    Monica dragged Joe around the room introducing him to punks with shaved heads, Mohawks, tattoos, face piercings, and all manner of punk fashion. It was all leather and denim, not a silk shirt in the room. The band had actual punk fans back home, but this was next level. These kids were committed. In the billiards room, Joe met the leader of the house band.


    “Sticks is the drummer and singer,” Monica said.


    “Nice to meet you,” Joe shook his hand. Sticks just nodded. He didn’t seem as friendly as the others.


    “They’re a trio,” Monica said. “That’s Rudy the bass player and Tek, the guitarist.”


    Joe nodded at the punks across the pool table. They returned nods. Sticks was tall and skinny with a tight haircut and lots of tattoos. Joe didn’t like the skinhead vibe he was feeling.


    The band’s first show in Massachusetts started okay but some of the hard punks were not won over so easily. Like all their gigs, Joe enjoyed the delighted expressions on punks'' faces as they played unusual songs but he also could not escape the faces who weren''t getting on his carnival ride. The first singalong took them by surprise. It was not the best crowd performance, except for Monica, who was singing loud and proudly eight feet in front of Joe. Her titties bounced as she danced. During a break between songs, Joe tried to break the ice with the tough crowd.


    “Hey, this is what we do.” He pointed with both arms extended. “We make you part of the show. I need some commitment.” He paused a moment, “Like you have for these fucking costumes.”


    He got a laugh so he pressed on. “It’s impressive. Really. This place is a punk rock freak show.” He gestured to a guy up front with a short mohawk, neck tattoos, and face piercings. “How do you find a job? Can you even get through a metal detector?”


    He got more laughs, so he did crowd work between songs, cracking jokes about the hard punk fashion. He felt the crowd coming his way. Late in the first set, when Joe went into the carnival barker routine for the dance contest, Monica was up front, jumping, big tits bouncing, raising her hand before he asked for volunteers.


    “Okay,” he said. “I feel obligated to pick Monica since she got us this gig. She’s a defending champion from one of our Rhode Island beach gigs this summer. Who would like to challenge her?”


    Joe helped Monica on stage as he scanned the crowd for hands. Several contenders stood out. Joe picked the cute redhead. As Joe helped her onstage, Monica ripped Joe''s mic from his hand and talked trash.


    “You’re going down, bitches!” She pointed at the crowd. “Not one of you can take the crown from me.”


    The crowd laughed and booed. Joe had to wrestle the mic back as she played the heel, taunting the women up front. Joe looked back at his bandmates with wide eyes. Monica was taking this shit seriously.


    “Okay.” Joe took the mic. “Listen, you punks did a real shitty job on the first singalong.” He pointed like he was the boss. “You’re gonna sing to this dance song. Since we’re in Massachusetts. I picked a simple song. I hope you Massholes can handle it.”


    The crowd booed him. Monica grabbed the mic, and they both held it. “I’m from New York, and he’s right, you guys are Masshole pussies.”


    They booed Monica. She loved it.


    Susan, the cute red-headed girl, a casual punk chick; was wondering why she raised her hand and what she had gotten herself into. Monica hammed it up. Joe had to pull the mic away from her. He looked over at the bar, Trish was laughing, delighted. That snapshot made Joe very happy.


    Joe stood between the contestants, using his hands to keep them apart. “Okay ladies, when the music starts, give us your best moves, shake your butt, wiggle those titties, show the punks what you got.” He paused. “No biting, no head butts, and no blows below the belt. Are you ready?”


    The band played Batman, the girls started dancing. Joe looked at the punks. “Can you handle this song?” Then he led them. “Batman!”


    Monica danced like a stripper, flashing her fine round bottom at the crowd, pulling her pants down just a little.


    “Batman!”


    She turned and pushed her ample breasts together making kissy lips at the punks.


    “Batman!”


    Susan was dancing fine, but she was being outclassed. The Masspunks were singing loudly.


    Batman!


    Monica was hot, voluptuous, and naughty. Susan had no chance.


    “Batman! Batman! Batman!:


    The vocal vote was closer than Joe thought it would be. Some cheered for both. When Joe raised Monica’s hand as punk dance queen, he instructed the bartender to give her a drink on the band.


    “No,” she pushed him. “I want your Tweety Bird shirt.”


    Joe thought for a moment, “Okay, hang on.” He stepped away from her and then looked across the room. “I’ll make a deal with you. You can have it… if you can take it off my back.”


    The punks erupted. Monica nodded, “Okay, bitch, it’s on!”


    Monica lunged at him. Joe sidestepped her. She turned and got a hold of his purple Tweety Bird shirt and began tugging hard. Joe twisted away from her. The cotton stretched. She had a good grip on it, trying to pull it over Joe’s head. He held his arms tight against his body, hands under his pits… the nun-ruler defense. She couldn’t get his arms out but she pulled the back of the shirt over his head. Sal and Nate were laughing maniacally. The punks cheered her on. Joe then did a spinning reverse move to put her in a headlock. Monica stomped on his foot, not hard, but Joe pretended it hurt and fell backward, to the stage floor. Monica jumped on top, slapped him, and pulled his shirt over his head again. He slowly let his shirt slip away, and then then let it go. Monica ripped it away from him and held the shirt over her head, victorious. As they stood and faced the crowd, Joe shirtless, he saw the faces of the hard punks had turned to wide smiles. The dance contest and tee-shirt wrestling had won them over.


    Sticks approached Joe during the set break with a very different vibe. “That was fucking crazy, man. Monica is a natural wrestling heel. She trash-talks sports all the time.”


    “Fucking Yankee fans,” Joe said. “With a big mouth. The worst.”


    Sticks laughed. “Don’t they all have big mouths?”


    Joe nodded. “Yeah, we do too, we just never win enough to be that obnoxious.” He gestured to Monica, who was now a celebrity. “I think she just reinvented my dance contest gag. I’m gonna have to buy more tee shirts and make that wrestling bit part of the show.”


    On the ride home, at 2:45 AM, Sal was no longer complaining about how far the drive was. He was sold on Barneys and the Worcester punks. Joe sat quietly in the passenger seat of the van with a satisfied smile. He didn’t have to say a word.


    —-- ELECTION WEEK —---


    The following Monday, Joe spoke with Betty and Bryan before school. She was excited.


    “Two Basketball players and a cheerleader asked me if I think I have a chance.”


    “I hope you told them, ‘Yes, if they vote,” Joe said.


    “I did. I said we need their help. Even the stoners are asking about the election.”The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    “Great.”


    She was feeling confident but she was also nervous. “I’m worried about the attention. If Mike finds out about this he’ll get the word out to all his friends. They’ll turn out for him.”


    “But they already do, don’t they?" Joe said. "How many more kids can he get?”


    “The football team," answered Bryan. "They don’t vote. If he gets them, we’re cooked.”


    “He’s not one of their guys. The football players don’t care about Mike.”


    “They’re all jocks, Joe,” Betty said. “They stick together.”


    “No, they don’t. What about the basketball team? Jocks aren’t a monolith. They have cliques too.”


    Betty paced back and forth. “Do you know any football players?”


    “Look," Joe met Betty''s eyes. "you need to focus and nail that speech. Leave the votes to me. Did you look at the notes I gave you? Pretty good, huh?”


    “Yeah, but that’s not my style. I’m…”


    “Mousy. Is that the word? You’ll have to push that timid shit down and speak up. The scrappy underdog angle will get more kids to vote for you.”


    “I don’t know. Defiance isn’t something I…”


    “Just once!” Joe held a finger up. “Just once you have to stand up and say you’re sick of the same old crap.”


    Betty stared at Joe for a moment. Bryan smiled. He was all in.


    “Okay," she said in her mousy voice. "I’ll do my best.”


    “Look,” he said calmly, taking Betty''s hand. “When I’m on stage I feed off the energy of the crowd. There are going to be a lot of people at the rally cheering you on. I promise you. We will be there. When we boo Manfredi and cheer for you, you’re gonna feel it in your chest. Channel that energy, and speak the fuck up!”


    “I’ve never felt this anxious about a vote.”


    “That’s because you never had a chance. You ran knowing you were gonna lose. There was nothing at stake. After this rally, everyone will know you’re in this fight.”


    “Manfredi will have a full day to get his people…”


    “Calm down, Betty. It’ll be too late. Your speech at the rally will win people over. Everyone loves a long shot.”


    “Especially jocks,” said Bryan.


    Joe pointed at him. “Exactly!”


    It was a challenge keeping the plot secret. With so many on board, they expected it would leak. Late on Monday, Joe heard Manfredi had caught wind of the scheme. Rumor had it, he laughed and said something like, “Right, as if a bunch of stoners and punks are going to show up for a loser nerd.”


    Joe suspected his overconfidence would work to their advantage. By the time he realized he had a serious challenger… it would be too late.


    —- SICK OF YOUR CRAP —-


    Ten feet inside the school auditorium, Vice Principal Reed stopped Joe. They hadn’t spoken since spring, back when he told Joe he knew he had bitch-slapped John Russo and reminded him he had two strikes against him.


    “What the hell is going on, Theroux? There’s never been this many students at this thing, and certainly not this motley crew.” He gestured toward the stoners and punks standing against the back wall. “And why is half the basketball team here?”


    Joe shrugged. “It looks like Betty might have a shot this year.”


    “Really?" Mr. Reed smiled. "Okay. As you were.”


    Joe arrived as the student council candidates were giving their two-minute speeches. It was dreadfully boring. They presented in monotone alphabetical order, twelve candidates for seven seats. Then the class treasurer and vice presidential candidates spoke. Everyone received polite applause and a few cheers. You could tell where their friends sat in the auditorium. The Whipper''s voices gave Bryan and Lori vocal support but saved the best for last.


    Each student ended their speech and then dutifully announced the candidate following them in the program. Joe had told their group to remain polite until the incumbent walked up. The auditorium was three-quarters full, but it didn’t sound so until Mike Manfredi’s name was announced.


    His large contingent of Italian disco queens and dudes screamed. His jock buddies cheered and whistled. The Whippers timed their voices so that when the Manfredi applause died down, a cascade of boos rained down from the back of the room. They weren’t overly obnoxious, but jock heads turned as his people looked back to see who was jeering their man.


    Miss Murray, Joe’s cute guidance counselor, caught his eye in the wings, twenty-five feet away. She mouthed, “What are you doing?”


    Joe shrugged as the booing faded. He loved that Miss Murphy was present. She will appreciate this political stunt.


    Mike stepped up to the lectern as the boos faded. They watched his confidence shrink a little as he was wholly not accustomed to being jeered. As he spoke, he was looking beyond his supporters, at the punks and rockers and basketball team and the nerds. They slipped in chortles and a couple of boos, but not enough to cause faculty to step in. Normally smooth-as-silk Mike stumbled three times - once badly. Laughs punctuated his gaffes. He was rattled. When he finished, Betty’s supporters remained silent as his people applauded, then they booed as he walked off, forgetting to announce Betty McDonald; or was it an intentional slight?


    When Mr. Reed tried to get his attention, Mike walked faster, ignoring him. Mr. Reed stepped up to the mic and announced Betty. The Whippers went wild, clapping, cheering, whistling and hooting. They kept it up until Mr. Reed, annoyed, moved Betty aside and leaned into the mic.


    “Hey, quiet down back there!”


    They got louder, making the vice principal more agitated.


    “Show some respect! Don’t make me clear you out of here.”


    Betty’s speech was fine. She quietly made her points. In closing, she punched the four lines Joe had written. Her voice was timid, but she took a big swing and hit those notes as hard as she could. Her supporters responded loudly for each line in a coordinated chorus.


    “I’m running again, for the fourth straight year, because I’m not a quitter!”


    The chorus sounded out. “Betty won’t quit! Betty won’t quit! Betty won’t quit!”


    “I was mocked last year.” She pointed at the crowd. “You made fun of me. Well, I’m sick of your crap!”


    The chorus laughed while chanting. “Sick of your crap! Sick of your crap! Sick of your crap!”


    “I know I’m a long shot. None of you think I can win. I’m a big underdog.”


    The chorus pumped their fists. “Under-dog! Under-dog! Under-dog!”


    “I’m in it to win it, and if you vote for me on Friday; we can do it!”


    The chorus went wild re-chanting the lines. “Betty won’t quit! Under-dog! Sick of your crap! We can do it."


    Betty walked off to rowdy chants, applause, and cheers. Manfredi supporters stood in shock. Mr Reed smiled, shaking his head, as the Whippers carried on long after she disappeared behind the curtain. The rally rocking scheme worked to perfection. As they filed out of the auditorium Sandy pulled Joe aside.


    “That was incredible. I mean, I didn’t imagine it going so well.”


    “Everyone played their part. Did you see how shaken Manfredi was?”


    “I kind of felt bad for him," she scrunched her cute nose. "almost.”


    “I’d like to be a fly on the wall when he meets his boys later.”


    Word spread around the school that Betty and the nerds had punks, hippies, stoners, basketball players, and even some cheerleaders behind her. Apparently, Mike’s ladies’ man image was dubious. He had burned a few popular girls.


    The notion that Betty might upset three-time class president Mike Manfredi had taken hold of the school. Kyle Bartlett, another nerdy kid who worked on the school newspaper, asked Joe why he was suddenly involved in school politics. Joe played dumb.


    “Involved? I have only one vote and I’m using it for Betty. She never quits and I like that. She deserves a chance to serve our class.”


    At the rally, the Whippers were careful to not show their true numbers. They had fewer than fifty students attend, not half of what Manfredi had. It was enough to make noise and serve notice, but not reveal their cards. Joe sensed Betty had enough support to win, provided his people showed up on Friday.


    The day before the election, the school was abuzz with news of the rally. Kyle ran a headline in the four-page student newspaper, ‘Manfredi Faces Serious Challenge’. Less than one-third of the class of ‘79 was in that auditorium, but every student heard the noise they made. There were whispers that many were going to vote for the first time. By the end of that school day, Joe was feeling very good about Betty’s chances.


    Before school, on the morning of the election, Betty approached him on the faculty stoop.


    “I couldn’t sleep at all last night.”


    Joe snapped his fingers. “Do-doot-do-do-do.”


    Betty was confused. “What?”


    “It’s a song by Bobby Lewis... Tossin’ & Turnin’... no?”


    She had no clue.


    “Never mind.”


    “I’m worried. He’s got his friends…”


    “If you lose," Joe cut her off. "what happens next?”


    Betty paused, thinking, looking at Joe, pondering his question. “Nothing, I guess. I mean… I just lose again.”


    “That’s it. But I guarantee it’ll be close this time. Hasn’t this been fun? You didn’t quit.”


    “But to go this far, and ..."


    "No matter what happens I''ll be right here with you. Nothing will change.”


    Thanks, Joe, you’re a good guy.”


    Joe ended on a positive note. “You’re gonna win this thing. I know Disco Boy is worried. He was running his mouth yesterday. He’s cocky. I don’t think he realizes how organized we are. We’ve whipped it good.”


    Joe was giddy when he arrived at the library to vote. There was a line snaking between bookshelves, out the double doors, and into the corridor. At least half of the kids were invisible students: the disaffected, disconnected, and uninvolved in school activities. Joe felt first-time voters were there for the underdog. When a group of football players standing in a huddle looked Joe’s way and gave him a silent nod, he knew they had this thing in the bag.


    Joe stopped by later in the day. The lines were not as long but there was still a wait. Miss Murray saw Joe peeking inside the library and walked out to see him.


    “I understand you’re behind this turnout… using your clout.”


    “What clout?” Joe smiled, happy to have Miss Murphy’s attention.


    “Don’t be obtuse. Your little band. I’ve heard about it.”


    “Obtuse? I’ll have to look that up later,” he smirked. “Mr. Reed once called me that.”


    “Last year, two hundred and forty kids voted, far less than half the class. It’ll be over four hundred today. I’m impressed.”


    “Betty’s a good kid. It’s all about her. You saw her speech. She rocked it.”


    Miss Murray shook her head. “You’re a clown. I know you orchestrated that rally. It was obvious you led the chants.”


    Joe played it cool, not saying a word, just looking at her moist, glistening lips.


    Miss Murray leaned closer. "I heard that Manfredi kids are voting for Betty."


    Joe smiled, "Are you choosing sides?"


    She smiled back. "Yes. Betty earned this.” The bell rang. “Get to class, Joe. You’re late.”


    Joe stared at her full red head of hair. He liked Miss Murray. She was cool. She had tried to convince him to apply for college. Joe went to her office to talk twice in his junior year, just so he could look into her beautiful green eyes for a while. Joe looked back as he walked away.


    “Betty is the best, and by the way, my band is not so little.”


    “I’ve heard some things. Kids are talking. Good for you. Now get to class.”


    The polls closed after the lunch period. The votes would be counted during the final period. At the end of the day, just before the closing bell, the school secretary would announce the results school-wide during end-of-day announcements.


    Joe wished he was with Betty but she was in honor-level accelerated classes and he was not. Joe fidgeted in Mr Brennan’s social studies class, where he had previously learned about The House whip in civics. Mr. B, a retired US Marine and combat veteran in Vietnam, discussed the school elections for a few minutes before the announcements. He said was impressed and pleased that so many kids had gotten involved. He shot Joe a look, his stern Marine face slightly softer than usual.


    The secretary named the seven students who won council seats, including Brian and Lori. Joe was not at all surprised because they were running in a large field. Joe had gamed the council vote. The ballot instructions said pick up to five council candidates. They had a block of votes behind the Whippers but the block only voted for their two candidates, denying all other candidates those numbers. They were a lock to win.


    Next, the secretary named the treasurer and vice president. When she got to the final race, she paused. Joe and every other interested Central High School Knight was on the edge of his seat.


    “For the senior class president, the final tally was, two hundred seventy-one to one hundred eighty-six, and the winner is… Betty McDonald.”


    It wasn’t even close.


    Joe leaped to his feet. “Yes! She did it.” He pumped his fist and gave high fives to celebrating classmates who were as happy as him. Even Mr. Brennan cracked a smile and clapped, just three times.


    When the final bell rang, Joe rushed into the corridor where students were laughing and yelling. He had never seen anything like it. He couldn’t even remember a past school election. Racing down three flights of stairs, his feet barely touched one in three steps. He bumped into a few friends. Stoner Dean said it was the best day of high school… ever. Joe’s old guitarist, Pete Smith, gave him a high five.


    Joe extended an olive branch. “You should come out and see the band sometime.”


    “I’ve been thinking about it," Pete said. "But I didn’t know if …”


    “Fuck it, come to a show. We’re good.”


    “I heard,” he nodded. “Alright, I''ll try to get out.”


    Joe ran off to find Betty, but she was nowhere in sight. Around every corner, he encountered people who joined the nerd underdog revolution. They patted backs, gave high fives, and laughed about how the invisible students had won an election. Joe sat on the stoop outside the faculty entrance hoping Betty would come by. She didn’t.


    Jackie strolled up on him. It was time to go home. She smiled. “So, you did it.”


    “Pretty cool, huh?"


    “Yeah, it is. Let’s go get Jules and Jeanie. We’re running late. I saw some senior nerds crying.”


    “Watch yourself, that’s your tribe.”


    “I am not a nerd! Why are you such a jerk?”


    “You get straight A’s. You skipped a grade because your brain is so fucking huge. You’re a nerd, deal with it.”


    She punched Joe’s arm pretty hard for an almost fourteen-year-old bookish girl.


    .


    ******


    Joe had to wait until Monday to congratulate the new class president. She was waiting for him at the stoop before school. As he walked up she started sniffing and shaking.


    “You’re not gonna cry, are you? You fucking won!”


    He put his arms out. She walked into them. Joe wrapped his nerd friend in a punk embrace.


    “I know. I can’t believe it.” She sobbed. “I looked for you Friday after school. Where were you?”


    “I was looking for you too. I was right here. We just didn’t connect. I was bummed I didn’t see you.”


    “Me too but I was so happy. Everyone was. It was crazy. My parents are so proud of me.”


    “They should be. Hey," Joe stepped back. "You’re getting snot on my leather. Did you see Manfredi?” Joe definitely had a streak of snot on his shoulder.


    “Sorry,” She wiped her face. “I heard he’s wicked pissed off.”


    “Fuck ‘em. He’ll learn more from this loss than he did from his three wins. He doesn’t know it yet but we did him a favor. Never underestimate an underdog.”


    “I still can’t believe it,” Betty said, gathering herself.


    “Remember the promise you made me. If you win you’ll come to one of my shows.”


    “That’s gonna be hard, my parents are…”


    “Oh no,” Joe wagged his finger. “You’re not welching on that promise.”


    “I can’t go to a bar alone.”


    “You won’t be alone. I’ll have Conte and Good & Plenty hang with you.”


    “But my parents. It’ll be really hard.”


    “Getting you a hundred and fifty more votes than you had last year was hard, but we did it.”


    “Thank you, Joe.” She hugged him again.


    “You’re welcome, President McDonald.”


    — FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH —


    A week after the class elections, the band played their first downtown gig at The Living Room. Joe was eager to debut the new tee shirt wrestling bit. The friends of the band had not yet seen it. After a Rhode Island School of Design girl defeated a Brown student, Joe informed the tall brunette that she had won a special prize.


    “What did I win?”


    “If you can remove this shirt from my back, you can keep it.”


    She stared at him, “Really?” Then she turned to the audience. They cheered her on.


    Joe put his guitar on a stand and backed away. He was hopeful she’d play along. There was no guarantee a dance-off winner would go for his sweaty Star Wars shirt. Joe stood with feet planted firmly while she pondered.


    “Well, Darlene,” he said in a taunting tone. “Are you going for it?”


    “Take the shirt!” Someone shouted.


    “Kick his ass!”


    “Take his shirt!”


    Darlene rushed Joe. He sidestepped her like a bullfighter but she got a passing grip on his sleeve and the match was on. He didn’t struggle as hard as he did with Monica. There was no falling to the floor or headlocks. But Darlene did grab a handful of Joe’s hair, pulling hard, while yanking and twisting his shirt. After a thirty-second struggle, he let it go. Darlene held it above her head, triumphantly. She was so proud it made Joe laugh. Joe saw red-bearded Randy Hien at the bar with a huge smile, clapping and cheering with his patrons.


    During set break, a young man walked up and started chatting with Joe about his sideshow. He had a nervous, excited tone. “I saw you at the Met Cafe a couple of months ago after my students told me about your band. You''re really good on stage. You’re a natural.”


    “Thanks. Your students?” Joe thought he didn’t look old enough to be a teacher.


    “I’m Issac,” he offered his hand. “I stayed behind at RISD to take a job there. Grad school is next, someday.”


    Sal and Johnny watched the conversation from afar, passing a joint with a few downtown regulars. Issac rambled on, a fast talker, with many compliments for the band but especially Joe. When it was time to get back to work Sal pulled Joe aside.


    “You know that’s Gay Issac, right?”


    “I didn’t know that was his name, but yeah, I know he’s gay. It’s pretty obvious.”


    Sal gestured to a girl they were smoking with, “She says Gay Issac has a crush on you.” He smirked. “Did he hit on ya?”


    “I don’t think so. He was just friendly.”


    “Well, if he does.” Sal punched his hand.


    “Fuck off, Sal. If he hits on me I’ll just tell him I’m not into that. And why do you call him Gay Issac?”


    “I dunno. That’s what his friends call him.”


    Joe had played dozens of gigs. It had not become routine, not at all, but he was well practiced and confident in his bits and his ability to entertain. Each night offered opportunities for improvisation. The Living Room debut was fantastic. The Brown and RISD kids loved the singalongs… but it was just another great show, like so many others. Joe’s confidence level was a ten on a scale of ten.


    —-- HONESTY —--


    Two days after the Living Room show, Joe was browsing vinyl at Victory Records on the East Side. He noticed two girls eyeballing him from the adjacent aisle. He kept flipping through albums and then felt a presence.


    “Excuse me," a blonde girl said. "Are you a young punk?”


    Joe looked at her, then down at his leather, and back at her.


    “Let’s see; leather, torn jeans, messy hair. Yup, I’m a punk.” He smiled. “Nice detective work.”


    She rolled her eyes: “No, I mean the band, The Young Punks. You play at the Met Cafe.”


    “I don’t know." He shrugged. “Maybe that talented, handsome young man is my doppelganger.”


    The brunette cutely scrunched her nose. “I think he’s kidding. You’re Joe, the lead singer. We’ve seen you twice.”


    “Yeah. I’m just messing with ya, like we do on stage.” He smiled again.


    “I knew it was you.” The blonde lightly poked him. “We love you guys. Your band is so much fun.”


    “That’s the word on the street.”


    “What do you do besides the band?” the brunette asked.


    “What do you mean?”


    “Do you go to school around here?”.


    “Yeah. Central High School.”


    The blonde made a face. “Bullshit.”


    “Nope, I’m seventeen.”


    “He’s screwing with us, again,” said the brunette.


    “I can show my school ID… I don’t even have a real driver’s license.”


    They looked at each other, bemused.


    “I can’t believe it," said the brunette. "You don’t seem …”


    “The other guys in the band are in their twenties. I’m the baby.”


    Joe told them the story of how he started the band at sixteen, and how Sal, Johnny, and Nate were replacements for the high school players he had lost along the way.


    “I can’t believe you’re a high school kid.”


    “The next time you come to see us, stand up front and I’ll pick you for the dance contest. You versus you.” He pointed at them with authority.


    “I’ll kick her ass,” the blonde laughed.


    “Bullshit.” the brunette replied.


    “Well, there’s only one way to settle this and we have a new twist in the dance-off.”


    “What’s that?’ the blonde asked.


    “We’ve upgraded the prize. That’s all I can say.”


    “Cool.”


    “We just played The Living Room Friday night. You can catch us there too.”


    “You’re kidding?” They looked at each other. “How did we miss that?”


    Joe shrugged.


    “We’ll definitely see you there,” The blonde smiled. “It was nice meeting you?”


    “Yeah,” the brunette said, “I still can’t believe you’re seventeen.”


    “Not for long,” Joe said as he went back to browsing.


    “See ya.” They walked off. “Bye, Joe.”


    Joe took Dr. Nichols’ advice. He was upfront and honest about his age. It’s not like he was going to pick up a college girl in the afternoon at a record shop and get laid. Besides, there were two of them. How would that even work? He figured there was no reason to lie by omission. He actually felt good about it as he rode The Ten Bus back home. He smiled, looking at his new Richard Hell, Blank Generation LP, smiling about the last words he heard the girls say as they left.


    “He’s really cute.”


    “I know! I’d like to be his babysitter.”


    They giggled.