Dead Politician Society

Chapter 2: Matthew

Matthew Easton leapt aside to avoid the tattooed adolescent cycling full speed down the footpath. He cupped a protective hand around his full, steaming coffee. Once the kamikaze student was three buildings away, he brought the drink to his lips for a long quaff of hot, dark elixir.

On another day, he might have snarled at the kid, thrown him a sarcastic comment about being more considerate. But today was Matthew’s favorite of the year: the first day of school. Students rushed around campus, energizing the footpaths and green space with their flurry of self-centered activity. The Gothic buildings were regal in the late summer’s light. Matthew himself felt natty and hip in designer blue jeans and his retro tweed jacket. It would take more than a socialist on a bicycle to knock him off his perfect cloud.

Since he’d been a child in Scarborough, he’d always loved the first day of school. All the kids in their new JC Penney clothes—or Roots if the grandparents had spoiled them—looking around to see whose face had broken out in pimples, which girls had started wearing bras. Before the fresh pencils were sharpened, all the cliques had some give in them—in case there was a new kid, or some loser had become cool over the summer. Each year, Matthew felt like the coming year could be the great one. He could be voted school president, win an essay contest that had Oxford knocking on his door, or—later, when he was older—Mariana Livingstone might finally recognize his je ne sais quoi and fuck his brains out behind the bleachers.

It had taken thirty-eight years, but now Matthew felt like his great year had come, at last and to stay. He arrived at his office building, the concrete and glass block that was home to several other departments in addition to political science. He climbed the wide stone staircase to Sidney Smith Hall.

On the steps, a group of teenage girls held a campus map. They were arguing and pointing. Turning the map around and looking again.

“Can I help you?” Matthew asked them.

One girl—would she be the leader in a week?—said, “We’re looking for the Robarts Library.”

“Other side of Harbord.” Matthew flipped the map around and pointed. Then he pointed in real life—north across the next intersection.

“Told you!” a different girl said as they scurried off.

First-year students. They were at their adorable best in September. They still dressed well and they hadn’t yet padded their curves with the Freshman 15. And they loved one-on-one time with their professors. They made up for all the Mariana Livingstones who never had given him the time of day, behind the bleachers or anywhere else.

He turned to go inside, but only made it one step before an eager voice accompanied light footsteps running up the staircase behind him.

“Dr. Easton!”

Matthew turned to see a student from his intro class a few years back. She was a stunning girl—tall, fair-complexioned—and full of original ideas.

“Jessica. How was your summer?”

She scowled. “I spent it with my sick grandmother in her gloomy old mansion.”

“How altruistic.”

“How depressing.” Jessica shifted the faded leather bag on her shoulder. The Freshman 15 had never hit her, but the young intellectual fashion trend—to dress like clothes didn’t matter—sure had. Still, she was the kind of girl who emanated light, who would command the room even in a burlap sack. “I was supposed to go tree-planting out west, which I was totally stoked about. My dad did that in one of his summer breaks and he loved it. My grandma thought I was nuts to go—that I was chasing ghosts or something. Anyway, her health conveniently cleared up right at the end of the summer.”