Hope Was Here: Chapters 14–21

This reporter saunters up and asks me how I, an average all-American teenager, feel about the campaign.

I try to look distinctive, tell him how G.T. wants to bring the town together by telling the truth and not playing favorites.

I stood off by the coffee urn feeling a primal pull to the woman who gave me life and no connection to her whatsoever.

I called in her order to Braverman and Addie. As I said, “Mango mayo on the side,” I almost keeled over in grief.

I watched Deena sashay down the welcome stairways; I felt sad and free at the same time.

“Most people feel the pie is the standout dish in my repertoire,” she snarled.

“I’ve got three pies and hash browns that aren’t done yet and two roast chickens with wild-rice stuffing that still need heavy butter basting.”

It was 1:00 A.M. when Addie swung in from her off-the- premises dinner with G.T.

He got the chops from the refrigerator, put them through G.T.’s old tenderizer, sprinkled them with seasoned salt and pepper, turned up the grill.

I slogged through my first week and managed to find all my classes.

I’ve always been a person who meanders around to find truth.

We were having the best time working together, too, except when he’d make a mistake on an order and I’d have to be an advocate for my customer.

Cranston Broom from the dairy said he was appalled, disgusted, and very, very innocent.

And that lie played three times an hour on radio and TV until people were saturated with falsehood.

G.T. kept his grueling schedule, talking to people until he was ready to drop.

“You going to listen to a poll?" Al B. Hall shouted from his pulpit. “Or your soul?"

You don’t understand the power of loss when it first hits you like a baseball coming fast from an out-of-control pitcher. You reel back stinging from the blow.

“We made an inroad in people’s consciences.”

I wasn’t accepting Miss Congeniality for anything.

The few reporters left in town had done what they called “postmortems” and moved out because we weren’t important anymore.

You were responsible for the highest voter turnout this town or any town has ever seen.

It was the third week in December, and Wisconsin was a vast, frozen tundra.

We stood firm, 297 frozen teenagers dressed like Eskimos it was so mind-numbingly cold, and held a candlelight vigil outside Town Hall singing “We Shall Overcome.”

“I have served this town faithfully as mayor, but it appears now that I cannot finish my third term because of the dissension of certain factions. I am resigning. I pray that Mulhoney will continue on in the great tradition I have set.”

“There. That’s what’s going to happen to us. It’s called grafting. Taking something from one place and fixing it to another until they grow together. We didn’t start from the same tree, but we’re going to grow together like we did. You watch it in the next month or so and you’ll see.”

I’d lived all my life having to contend with only one full-time adult, and now I had two stubborn ones trying to steer my life and they were getting used to each other in the process.

Last week I looked up the word father in my dictionary. Here’s the definition: A man who has begotten a child.

Appointed Mrs. Pettibone to head up a committee to plan a geriatric wellness center that would improve the quality of people’s lives.

“Politics,” he kept telling us, “isn’t about power, control, or manipulation. It’s about serving up your very best.”

I wish like anything he was still here, but it’s like getting an extraordinary meal after you’ve been eating junk food for a long time. The taste just sweeps through your sensibilities, bringing all-out contentment, and the sheer goodness of it makes up for every bad meal you’ve ever had.