Dead Politician Society

Chapter 8: Clare

Clare poked her head out from under the old Honda Civic. The familiar aroma of grease and oil filled the garage. If Clare was designing her utopia, it would look a lot like Roberta’s Motor Fixin’ Shed.

She said to Roberta, “The students are weird. Not like how I pictured university at all.”

Roberta was at her workbench, bent over the carburetor she’d removed from the same car. Without looking up, she said, “How did you picture university?”

“Beer halls and keg parties, I guess. Like the cool kids in high school on steroids with their newfound freedom.”

“Oh,” said Roberta. “You mean like in the movies.”

“Yeah. I guess. But I landed in a class with a bunch of poli sci geeks. They draft bills in their summer vacations.”

Clare shouldn’t be talking about her assignment. She’d lose her job in a heartbeat if Cloutier or Morton found out. But Roberta was…well, she was Roberta. Not blood technically, but the only person in the world Clare considered true family. And she needed to mull this out loud.

“I miss it back home,” Clare said. “We just accepted that politicians were crooks, that voting was a waste of time.”

Roberta’s eyebrows shot up, though her eyes remained focused on her task. “Sorry. Did you just say you landed your dream job and suddenly you’re homesick for the town you never liked when you were there?”

“I liked Orillia.” Clare stood over Roberta’s tool box and looked for the wrench end she wanted. “I miss the trees and the lake. The guys with their pickups. I definitely miss never having rush hour. The only thing I didn’t like was living with my parents.”

“No one likes living with their parents.”

Clare hated when Roberta did this. Made it sound like her situation was so normal.

“You don’t know them,” Clare said. “Not like I do.”

“I’m sure that’s true. But you don’t have to move back in to make a visit.”

Clare had intended to take a trip home for months now. But even the thought depressed her. She fixed the new end onto her wrench and slid back under the car.

“Good one, kid. Conversation gets tough so you slip under a vehicle.”

Clare undid some bolts on the starter motor. She spoke louder from under the car. “They’re not normal. They don’t live in reality.”

“None of us do. We spin the world to make it bearable. Why should your parents be any different?” Roberta clucked her tongue three times—whether at Clare or at the carburetor was unclear, since Clare couldn’t see her. “So have you never voted?”

“Nope. Have you?”

“Every election since I turned eighteen. Don’t you want your voice heard?”

“You mean drowned out by millions of other voices? No one’s ever won an election by one vote.”

“What if everyone thought that way?” Roberta’s voice was irritatingly reasonable.

Clare emerged from under the car with the starter motor in both hands and the wrench resting on her chest.

Roberta nodded at her. “So is it scary going to school with a bunch of axe murderers?”

Clare laughed grudgingly. “It’s not like the Scream movies. There’s only been one murder, and it was a politician, not a student.” She sat at the double-wide workbench opposite her unofficial life coach. “You know you can’t repeat anything I’m saying, right? I’m breaking code big time by talking to you.”