Election by Tom Perrotta Page B

before her first cup of coffee.
    The sky was a little brighter and my head a little clearer by the time I turned onto the tree-lined street I'd once expected to be home forever, but which suddenly felt like history, a place where I used to live. I was startled by the sight of Sherry's Corolla still parked the wrong way in front of our neighbor's house, one wheel perched drunkenly on the edge of the curb. (My erroneous guess was that she'd spent the night at her sister's in Green Brook, where she'd frequently sought refuge during the dissolution of her marriage.)
    My red gym bag was resting on the front stoop, oneof those sights you know you'll remember for the rest of your life, like fire coming out of an upstairs window of a house down the block, or your mother sobbing in an airport. Inside it were my shaving kit, a towel, a change of clothes, and a note in Diane's handwriting: “Jim—Please don't come inside.”

TRACY FUCK
     
    MY MOTHER GOT UP at five in the morning and helped me ice the two hundred cupcakes we'd baked the night before. I planned on handing them out at the main entrance, along with a smile and a gentle reminder of who to vote for. (There were nine hundred plus students at Win wood, but two hundred strained the limits of our kitchen and our patience. I just hoped that none of the people who missed out would hold it against me.)
    I was queasy from the chocolate air and not enough sleep, but my mother seemed happy and well rested, like there was nothing in the world she'd rather be doing before sunrise than icing cupcakes to advance my career. She hummed as she frosted, pausing for occasional sips of coffee.
    Besides me, my mother didn't have much of a life. She hadn't dated anyone in years and didn't even seem to be looking anymore. She rarely bought new clothesfor herself and we didn't travel except to visit colleges and museums. Her only real hobby was writing fan letters to successful women, asking if they had any advice for her “college-bound daughter.” We'd received lots of nice responses from people like Pat Schroeder, Anna Quindlen, and Connie Chung, telling me to study hard and dream big dreams, etc. She kept the letters in a file folder, and I sometimes caught her flipping through them with a faraway look in her eyes.
    “Mom,” I said, “I think I'm going to lose today.”
    She spread the icing with a smooth swirling motion, finishing with an elegant flourish. She poked a toothpick into the summit of the cupcake, then set it carefully inside the cardboard box.
    “No you won't, honey. This time tomorrow you'll be President.”
    She was always serenely confident of my success, and it never failed to cheer me up.
    “You think so?”
    She dipped a finger into the icing bowl, then stuck it in her mouth.
    “I know so. Tracy Flick's a winner.”
    When we were done—the cupcakes filled six boxes—I hurried to shower and get dressed. For luck, I wore my boldest red dress, the one that makes people stare.
    It's funny to me that I have a reputation as a sexpot,because I hardly ever feel sexy. My hair is dull and my face is so bland that I stare into the mirror sometimes and feel like bursting into tears. But I have a good body, and in that dress I start to feel like the person everyone seems to think I am, a daring girl with no apologies for anything.
    My mother was standing by the refrigerator in jeans and a cardigan, still licking chocolate off her fingers. She'd gotten her boss's permission to start work an hour later than usual.
    “Wowee,” she said. “You look scrumptious.
    ” I spun in a circle, happy to be admired.
    “Come on,” she said. “Cupcakes are in the car.”
    As a precaution, we got to school at seven fifteen, a good half hour before the early birds would start showing up. (I wasn't about to let either of the Warrens beat me to a prime spot by the side entrance.) We'd set up the card table and unpacked two of the boxes when Mr. M.'s car pulled into the teachers’ lot over