Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (10)

“Bridget,” I said. “Is it cold in here?”

At first she didn’t understand, and then she did.

“Oh my God.” Her face had turned an insulted shade of pink. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“Sorry.” I gave her a sympathetic smile so she’d know it was nothing personal. “I’m just the messenger.”





Jack Weede


I never slept with a student, but there was one time when I cut it pretty close. This happened way back in 1979, my last year at Hillsdale. I was twenty-nine years old, and for the first and only time in my life, I felt like a rock star. I’d always been tall and scrawny, but I’d started lifting weights and had finally grown into my adult body. I’d also cut my hair—I’d been sporting a shaggy, blow-dried look that hadn’t been doing me any favors—and I remember being startled by all the compliments I got from my female students.

Nice haircut, Mr. Weede!

Looking good, Mr. Weede!

Take me to the prom, Mr. Weede!

All this was right out in the open—harmless, good-natured flirting that made me blush and stammer, which I guess was the whole point, and did wonders for my self-esteem. Feeling sexually attractive is a powerful drug, especially if you’re not used to it.

My flirtation with Mindy DeSantos was different: it was furtive and private, and it felt illicit from the start. Technically speaking, she wasn’t one of my students—I’d never taught her in a class, never given her a grade. I was Faculty Advisor for The Sapling, the school literary magazine, and Mindy was the Editor, which meant that we spent a lot of time together after school. When no one else was around, she called me by my first name, though not because I gave her permission. She just started doing it one day, and I didn’t tell her to stop.

If anything, she was my teacher. Mindy was an accomplished singer-songwriter with a lovely voice; she won the schoolwide talent show two years running, and appeared regularly at local open mics. I was a novice guitar player at the time—not much better now, sad to say—and she took it upon herself to help me out. After our editorial meetings, when everyone else had gone home, she took her acoustic guitar out of its case and showed me the chords to Neil Young and Bob Dylan tunes, along with the strumming patterns.

“Down, down, up-down-up,” she’d say, encircling my wrist with her fingers, moving my hand to the beat. “There you go. Just like that.”

Mindy wasn’t especially pretty, wasn’t one of the girls Lou and I speculated about on Friday nights. She had a sweet round face; her dark hair was frizzy and a little wild. But it wasn’t really about her looks; there was just this current running between us, a really strong connection. Her absence always felt abrupt and unfair when we parted at the end of the day, like somebody had unplugged the radio in the middle of a good song.

And then one afternoon that spring—we’d just put The Sapling to bed—she matter-of-factly informed me that her parents were going away for a long weekend to celebrate their anniversary. We were standing in the hallway, not far from the main exit.

“If you’re not busy, maybe you could come hang out with me.”

I was so startled, I laughed out loud.

“Hang out with you?”

“Yeah.” Her face was completely serious. “Bring your guitar. We could jam a little.”

“Mindy.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I can’t come to your house.”

“It’s okay.” She put her hand on my arm. “I won’t tell anyone.”

I jerked my arm away, more forcefully than I meant to.

“Please don’t touch me.” The hallway was empty, but I felt exposed and vulnerable. “Not in here.”

She hung her head for a moment. There were tears in her eyes when she looked up.

“You’re such an asshole,” she said. Then she turned and walked away, the guitar case banging against her leg.

Mindy was cold to me for the rest of the semester. She started calling me Mr. Weede again, in an overly formal voice, and ignored me at the Sapling publication party. She didn’t even say goodbye on the last day of school. I was sad that I’d missed my chance with her, but I knew I’d dodged a bullet.

I did run into her at graduation, in the happy chaos after the ceremony. I was wandering through the crowd on the football field, searching for students to congratulate, when I heard a familiar voice.

“Mr. Weede! Over here!”

She smiled when I spotted her, as if all was forgiven, and beckoned me to meet her parents. They were a mismatched pair—the father big and swarthy, the mother wan and petite—but somehow Mindy looked like both of them.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” her mother said. “You did such a terrific job with the magazine.”

“Your daughter did all the work,” I said. “I just take the credit.”

“She talks about you all the time,” her father told me. “Mr. Weede this, Mr. Weede that. You made a big impression.”

“She’s a great kid,” I said. “I’m really gonna miss her.”

Mindy was blushing, her mortarboard slightly askew.

“I’m gonna miss you too.” Her voice broke a little. “Thanks for everything.”

We stared at each other. It was still right there, that current humming between us. I’ve only felt that electricity with one other person in my entire life.