Dead Politician Society

Chapter 23: Clare

Clare flipped off a man in a red BMW convertible. She was late for class, and she’d clearly indicated she wanted the spot from the departing station wagon, but Mr. Sports Car slid in there before she got the chance. She pressed her horn but he pretended to be oblivious.

“Go back to Forest Hill!” she shouted, though her helmet and the engine noise would unfortunately block him from hearing. “Downtown, it’s equal rights across the socioeconomic spectrum.”

God, even her rants were starting to sound like a poli sci student’s.

In her perfect world, she’d stop her bike, flash her badge, take down the man’s license number and scare him into thinking it was a crime to be an asshole. But she was undercover. And anyway, a jerk like that was probably a lawyer.

So she honked one more time, flipped him off one more time, and drove on. Finally, she found a spot. Three blocks from class.

She clipped her helmet to the bike and checked the time on her phone. Class started now, but if she power walked, she’d be there in five minutes. Not atrociously late.

As she hurried along Harbord Street, memories of the night before filled her like a perfect dream.

Minutes after his phone call, Kevin had arrived at her front door, taller and more muscled than Clare remembered him. He had a cute glint in his eye, like he was ready for anything.

Which turned out to be true. She’d barely offered him a beer before they were naked on her ugly sofa. After exhausting each other in Clare’s living room and then in the shower, Kevin insisted they go for a walk.

And by walk, he meant six hour urban hike. Or maybe it just ended up that way.

They headed south, toward Bloor and High Park, and kept walking through Parkdale down to Queen, along to Bathurst and back up again through Kensington Market, and eventually ended up on the Danforth, near where Kevin had grown up. He showed her his high school, Danforth Tech, his dad’s electrical shop, Findlay and Son, which his parents still lived above—though they didn’t knock on the door, since it was around four in the morning by that point. After lingering over breakfast at an all-night greasy spoon, they took the blue line bus back to the Junction, where Kevin had dropped Clare off at her door about an hour before her alarm was set for school.

Clare eyed Starbucks as she walked past now. Her alertness was virtually fried, and she could murder a giant black coffee. But she pictured the look on Dr. Easton’s face if she strolled in late with a fresh beverage in hand, so she kept walking.

At least her homework was done. Between six and eight that morning, she’d drafted a bill that would criminalize tobacco. Fine, it was unoriginal—and completely hypocritical given that she smoked a carton a week. But she did think the world would be better without cigarettes.

When she got to class, sweaty from walking so quickly in the late summer heat, she placed her assignment in the pile with the others.

She was tiptoeing over to her seat when Dr. Easton said, “Ah. Simpson. I hope you enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and stroll before deciding to join us for class.”

“Sorry I’m late. Crazy morning.” She was tempted to gush, to make excuses, but she didn’t want to annoy him by taking even more class time.

“Are you late?” He glanced at his watch. “Oh! So you are. Well, that must be why we started without you.”

She slunk into her chair in the back row of the Commie section.

“Did you hear?” Brian whispered as Clare was pulling out her notepad. “Cops are in the next room. They’re interviewing the entire class.”