Dead Politician Society

Chapter 11: Clare

Clare woke to heavy rain. She heaved her window shut and mopped the warped hardwood floor with a towel from her dirty laundry pile. No one could say her apartment didn’t look like a student’s.

Her motorcycle would have to stay home. Streetcar tracks made downtown precarious in the rain—Clare had lost traction enough times to know it was dumb to even try. She grabbed her ugly black umbrella and braced herself for the windy walk to the bus shelter.

She liked the Junction. Despite the yuppie invasion, the neighborhood was still hodgepodge—you could feel its working class roots. On the sidewalk, she watched mothers struggle to manage strollers, umbrellas, and wandering toddlers. Baby gear was so high-tech these days. Superbuggies with BMX tires and souped-up suspension and, of course, coffee-cup holders for the mommy on the go. Clare could still picture the plain stroller she was pushed around in as a kid, with the broken wheel her father kept fixing but never got quite right.

She aimed her umbrella into the wind. It was fierce, like walking through waves, and she enjoyed the struggle. She’d been up into the early morning hours with a pot of coffee and her search engine working its guts out. She might not be a political savant just yet, but she felt much better primed to take on the day as a credible poli sci major.

When the bus came, all the seats were taken. Clare stood sandwiched between two men. The first was a guy her age in a suit that looked cheap and not the right fit—maybe off to a telemarketing job interview? The second was a chubby older man in a leather jacket like Clare’s—he’d probably also left his motorbike at home. She stretched her arm to grip a pole to prevent herself from launching into other passengers. She didn’t mind the crowd—the rain outside made it feel almost companionable. But the young guy’s cologne was beginning to make her nose itch, so she was glad when the bus stopped at Dundas West subway station, where the crowd dispersed and she made her way down to the trains.

When she changed directions at St. George station, Clare saw Jessica. At least she was pretty sure it was Jessica—same long, blonde hair and ratty leather book bag. Her nose was stuck into a giant textbook as she rode the escalator up to the southbound platform.

Clare caught up with her on the platform. “What are you reading?”

Jessica glanced at Clare with a surprised smile. “Chemistry.”

“You seem like you like it.”

“I do.” Jessica’s shoulders relaxed, which made Clare notice they’d been tensed. “It’s so organic and logical.”

“How can something be both organic and logical?”

“Therein lies the beauty. So how do you like being a Commie so far?”

“So-so.” Clare frowned. “Why does Dr. Easton hate the left wing so much?”

“Secretly? I think he’s a closet socialist.”

The subway arrived. It was jammed. A bunch of people got off, but even more wanted to get on. Clare and Jessica found standing room together in a door alcove.

Clare reached to grab the vertical rail as the train lurched forward. “Have you taken one of Dr. Easton’s classes before?”

“His intro class two years ago.”

“He’s kind of cute,” Clare said.

“You think?” Jessica rode the train’s movement without holding anything for support. “He’ll date his students, so if you mean that, you should go for him.”

“What?! No. I meant cute from afar. I don’t want to screw up my education by getting slutty with it.” Or did she? It was Clare’s job to get close to the suspects, after all.