Dead Politician Society

Chapter 4: Clare

“Is someone alive in there, Simpson?”

It took a second for her fake name to catch. When it did, Clare snapped her neck up to see the professor’s eyes glaring at her. It was like she was back in high school, caught daydreaming by a teacher who had failed to keep her attention.

But for the first time in her life, this wasn’t school, this wasn’t bike theft—this wasn’t practice for something that might matter one day later. There was a murderer, maybe in this classroom, and it was up to Clare to find out who that was. Her first job: to make friends.

Her lone wolf routine wouldn’t fly. They might buy it, might believe she was a real student, might even think she was cool, in a James Dean kind of way. But she needed more than that. She needed party invites, she needed secrets whispered in her ear.

But what if no one liked her?

Undercover, she reminded herself. Pretend you’re someone people would like.

She’d seen the popular kids in her high school. How could she miss them? They spoke the loudest, dressed the flashiest, and—Clare admitted—always seemed like they were having the most fun. So she tried to impersonate Shauna Bartlett, who was friends with, like, everyone in Orillia.

“Pardon me?” Clare batted her eyelashes, which solicited stifled giggles from the students. She smiled and looked around. This was a good start.

“Oh god, not a comedienne.” Dr. Easton tugged at his short, sandy hair. “We were talking about the questionnaires you’ve been filling out. Or did you want more time to complete yours in light of having just returned to Earth?”

He was younger than Clare would have guessed a professor would be. In his thirties, maybe. Forty, tops. He had a mildly pompous accent, like he thought he was a great British stage actor. A stupid tweed jacket—maybe thrift shop?—hung on the back of his chair. But he was cute, in a prep school prefect kind of way.

“I finished the survey,” Clare said in a more serious tone. Maybe Shauna had been the wrong role model—she went to beauty school, not college. These kids were probably more like the student council crowd, the yearbook committee, those perky, peppy people whose parents were doctors and lawyers in town. In any case, Clare couldn’t afford to alienate anyone yet—including her professor. “Sorry. I only zoned out once I was done answering the questions.”

“Delightful. Now if everyone’s ready, I’d like you to pass the completed questionnaire to the student on your left.”

The classroom was arranged in a two-tiered rectangle, eight students in the front row and thirteen in the back. Clare guessed that the layout was designed to mimic parliament. When she’d finished decoding her right-hand neighbor’s questionnaire, Clare got her own results back from Jessica, the blonde on her left.

“B, huh?” Clare said. “I wonder if this secretly predetermines our grade for the course.”

“Don’t feel too bad.” Jessica’s eyes danced with laughter. “I got a C.”

Clare returned the grin. “Who’s feeling bad? I’m thrilled with a B.”

“Does everyone have their results?” Dr. Easton waited while papers were shuffled and general nods of assent came from the room. “How many As?”

Five hands went up.

“You lot are the Rednecks. Loosely modeled on the principles of the Conservative Party of Canada, but feel free to take any direction you choose. How many Bs?”

Ten hands, including Clare’s.

Dr. Easton clenched his hands. He looked personally offended by these results. “It always starts out this way. Probably because you’ve never paid taxes or lived in the real world. We’ll take this same questionnaire at the end of this course, and half of you will have converted to something more sensible. You Bs are the Commies.