Weaver, page 10
“. . . and when you’ve led the same school for two decades,” sounds from the podium, “you learn that character isn’t formed by punishment or praise.”
After those words, Sharp pauses for effect, sweeping his gaze over the audience. Then, with solemn conviction, he adds:
“It’s formed when you see students as human beings.”
Eddie raises one eyebrow. He could throw up.
After the lecture, there is coffee and cookies in the lobby—but Eddie couldn’t care less about that. He stays put in the lecture hall while everyone else files out. Only when Sharp finishes packing up and starts leaving the stage does Eddie grab his bag off the floor and get up.
At first, Sharp doesn’t notice him, and even though he stops when Eddie steps into his path, blocking it, he doesn’t seem to recognize him.
“Hey, Jerry.”
Sharp’s face cycles through a series of expressions before finally settling on recognition—and he turns pale as a sheet.
“E-Eddie?” he stutters. “God, you look . . . I mean, it’s been a long time.”
“Sure has. Still feels like yesterday, though.”
Awkward silence. The principal attempts a smile.
“Interesting lecture,” Eddie says, nodding toward the stage. “A bit long, maybe.”
“What, um . . . what are you doing here, Eddie?”
“You and I have something we need to talk about.”
“Uh-huh . . . well, as you can see, this really isn’t the best time for me. Maybe you could call the school office tomorrow and—”
“Now,” Eddie says, pulling something from his inner pocket. “We’re gonna talk, right now. And you’ve got time. Trust me.”
Sharp’s eyes land on the object in Eddie’s hand—the ring of keys that opened the archive cabinet—and his throat clicks. Next, his gaze drops to Eddie’s bag.
“Yup,” Eddie says. “Full of exciting reading material. Copies, of course.”
Another dry gulp. Then Sharp nods.
“Follow me.”
They end up in a meeting room on the library’s second floor. It’s empty except for an oval table, four chairs, and a corkboard covered with flyers from past events.
Eddie shuts the door and pulls the curtain. Then he drops his bag on the table and pulls out a folder.
“You really ought to change the access code on the staff entrance,” he says with a crooked smile. “It’s basically an open invite to unwanted guests.”
“That’s breaking and entering, Eddie,” Sharp says. His voice is still deep and commanding, but it no longer carries the confidence he had on stage. He is obviously shaken. “That’s a criminal offense.”
“Wouldn’t that be refreshing?” Eddie says. “Getting punished for something I actually did.”
“It was out of my hands, Eddie. You know that. There were—”
“But today isn’t about my punishment,” Eddie cuts in, voice calm and cold. “It’s about yours.”
He lays the folder on the table and opens it, revealing the title on the top sheet.
INTERNAL MEMO, 2009:
REINSTATEMENT OF E. WEAVER.
“As you’ve probably already guessed, I stopped by the school, since I was in the neighborhood. Swung by your office to say hello, but you had already gone home.”
“I don’t know what this is supposed to be, but I don’t find it the least bit funny,” Sharp says, but Eddie flat out ignores him, continuing his monologue as if he was alone in the room.
“And I’m sorry, but I found the key to your archive cabinet, the one in the storage room . . . and I couldn’t help myself. I looked in it.”
He lifts the folder, holding it solemnly in front of him like it was a Bible, and begins to read aloud.
“Eddie Weaver reinstated after charges are dropped. Nonetheless, discreet dismissal recommended due to high risk of reputational damage. Contact with Brenner established. There is even a handwritten note from you, expressing doubt about my guilt—but recommending my removal anyway, to avoid unrest in the community.”
Sharp raises his hands and shakes his head.
“That’s not . . . it was for the good of the school.”
“Of course it was,” Eddie says, flipping to the next page. “So much in here was for the good of the school. Way more than I had expected to find, really. Like this email thread. It turns out your good buddy, the mayor, got his campaign donor’s company to install the gym floors. And there was no bidding process. Can you believe that?”
“Eddie, I—”
“Or how about this?” Eddie interrupts, turning to another tab. “You hired your own son-in-law without posting the position. You withheld reports of overbilling from Brenner’s people. All kinds of funny side deals and quiet trades. A lot of it’s over my head, but I’m sure a lawyer could walk me through it.”
“Stop it!” Sharp snaps, his voice on the verge of cracking. “What is it you want? Money?”
Eddie scoffs and shakes his head.
“I want the truth—and I want everyone to hear it. From your mouth.”
“From my mouth?”
“Your retirement speech on Friday,” Eddie says, extending the folder toward him. “I’m afraid it’s going to need a bit of rewriting. But don’t worry, I already have some suggestions for the wording.”
Whether Sharp realizes those are the same words he once said to Eddie back when he forced him to quit, Eddie isn’t sure. But it doesn’t matter. It still feels good to say them.
“It’s the perfect time and place,” Eddie continues. “On stage, in front of the whole crowd—teachers, students, parents, the press. I want you to decline the glory and tell them the truth. That you only held your post all these years because you bowed to power. That every time it mattered, you chose the institution over the people. For the sake of appearances.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“And I want you to mention the mayor. By name. Tell them how Brenner pressured you. How the two of you operated behind the scenes. How you danced like a puppet while he pulled the strings.”
Sharp stares at Eddie, wide-eyed, mouth slightly open.
“You . . . you don’t understand,” he whispers. “If I do that, it’ll cost me everything. My pension . . . my reputation . . . everything.”
“I’m afraid the decision has already been made,” Eddie says—and this time there is no doubt Sharp recognizes his own words from the past. “The only question is how big a splash you want it to make—and that’s up to you. You can do it yourself, try to make it look dignified . . . or you can leave it to me. Either way, it’s coming out.”
Sharp squints. A vein pulses in his temple like a twitching worm.
But he takes the folder.
THE RETIREMENT SPEECH
GLEAMSDALE, 2017
With fingers trembling from anticipation, Eddie flips open his laptop and clicks over to the Gleamsdale High website. The first thing that pops up is the livestream screen—a royal blue square with the school’s logo at the top: a shield bearing an owl and a beech tree. Below this, a countdown timer, shaped like an hourglass, ticks away, and behind this, white text reads:
FAREWELL CEREMONY FOR
PRINCIPAL JERRY SHARP
FRIDAY, JUNE 16
LIVESTREAM HOSTED BY
GLEAMSDALE HIGH’S AV CLUB
Soft instrumental music plays in the background—classical and solemn, with strings and piano meant to create a sense of respect and dignity. That atmosphere is slightly undercut, however, by the live chat box in the bottom right corner, where a few users have already started typing things like:
Can’t wait to hear Jerry’s speech!
About time he retired!
A true pillar of the school.
Think he’s gonna cry? I give it 5 minutes.
This over soon? I got a game to get back to.
Everything is staged to project a dignified, controlled send-off. The perfect backdrop for the exact opposite.
Eddie checks the hourglass—still enough time—then heads to the fridge for a cold beer. Maybe champagne would have been more fitting, but at least he has something to toast with when his old boss rides off into retirement.
Just as he settles onto the edge of the couch and twists off the cap, the livestream starts. A stationary camera, fixed at a slightly crooked angle, captures the school auditorium as guests trickle in and take their seats.
In the front row, Eddie spots Mayor Brenner’s unmistakable profile—upright posture, rigid jaw, arms crossed tightly.
Right in front of the stage. That will be interesting.
From the mayor’s shoulder, Eddie’s gaze drifts up to the back wall, where a large banner stretches across the stage:
THANK YOU FOR 25 YEARS
— AND CONGRATULATIONS
ON YOUR RETIREMENT, JERRY!
The next forty minutes are filler. Dead time that Eddie has to endure to get to the real show. Like the pregame banter before a title fight.
First up is a female teacher who steps on stage and warmly recounts how Sharp helped her through her first year. After that, a retired vice principal compares Jerry Sharp to an oak tree, after which he rambles a bit about Shakespearean constancy and draws polite laughter with a story about the blizzard of ’06.
Eddie listens to all of it, but only half-heartedly. He is more focused on the phone sitting on the coffee table in front of him, making sure the message window with Sharp’s number stays open. He checks it three, maybe four times during the opening speeches.
Now, however, something happens on the screen that actually holds his attention.
It’s Mayor Brenner. He gets up from his front-row seat and walks up to the podium, taking the microphone.
“There are many people who hope to make a difference,” he begins, as he glances toward Sharp, seated stage left. “Unfortunately, not everyone succeeds. But Jerry Sharp has made a difference. Through his perseverance and his principles, he has left a lasting mark on the future of this town.”
Ire builds in Eddie’s chest like steam in a kettle. He wants to hurl the beer bottle at the wall. Instead, he rests a hand on the phone.
When Sharp’s turn comes, the audience erupts into applause. He accepts flowers and a framed plaque, which he sets aside before stepping to the podium.
“Good evening, everyone. And thank you for being here. It means more than I can say.”
He pulls a notepad from his jacket’s inner pocket, glances at it, then places it gently on the lectern.
“When you’ve spent nearly half your life in one institution, it gets difficult to separate the job from the person. I started as a teacher, became vice principal, and nineteen years ago, I was handed the keys to the office at the end of the hallway—and the responsibility for something far bigger than myself.”
He pauses to lick his lips.
“It’s been the honor of my life to serve this school. And no, it hasn’t always been easy. Tough decisions had to be made—often during storms—and not everyone agreed with me, which is, of course, healthy. A school should never be a place without debate.”
Another pause—this one heavier. Eddie leans forward on the couch.
“When you make that many decisions, mistakes are inevitable. Some choices were good. Some less so. And some were . . . motivated by a desire to protect the institution, the staff, and the students. And yes, in hindsight, there were times I let loyalty and convenience drown out what was true and right.”
Silence. A few confused glances pass among the audience as Sharp continues, his voice more subdued now.
“There are some decisions I wish I could go back and change. People I should have stood up for. Voices I should have heard. And if anyone feels let down, then . . . I’m sorry.”
He nods, weighing the words as he utters them.
“I’m not saying this to ask for sympathy. Only to offer a clearer picture. No leader is flawless. And I’ve never claimed to be, either. I only hope that the final tally shows my intentions were good and that I did my best.”
“You slippery bastard,” Eddie mutters through clenched teeth. “If you think you’re getting off that easy, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Some of the choices I made were in collaboration with people many of you know and respect. I don’t need to drag them into the spotlight today. That’s not why I’m here. But it’s important to understand that our school system is shaped by . . . invisible forces. Expectations. Political interests. That’s not an excuse—just an explanation.”
He takes a deep breath and clasps his hands together. Eddie balls his fists and reaches for his phone.
“I step down today. Not with my head held high but not with it bowed either. Because I know I had the courage to own up to my mistakes. Thank you for the journey. Thank you for the sense of community. And thank you for listening.”
As the crowd breaks into a strange, uneven round of applause, Sharp picks up his notes and begins to walk offstage. However, he only manages a few steps before Eddie’s message comes through, making the phone in his pocket buzz.
Sharp comes to a sudden stop, hesitates for a moment, then pulls out the phone. With it in hand—and his face growing paler with each word he reads on the screen—he stands frozen in the middle of the stage as the applause slowly dies out.
I’m afraid you failed the oral exam. Your outline was decent, but the panel felt it lacked specific examples. Better fix that before we start flooding the press with documentation. Good luck!
ENCORE
GLEAMSDALE, 2017
Jerry Sharp is still standing in the middle of the stage. So motionless, it looks like the video on Eddie’s laptop has frozen. But it hasn’t, because in the audience, people are shifting in their seats, exchanging confused glances while a low murmur spreads like ripples on a pond.
Eddie leans back on the couch, laces his fingers behind his head, and waits.
Then it happens. Jerry Sharp turns around—slowly, stiffly, like a robot whose joints badly need oil—and walks back to the podium.
Standing there, he scans the crowd, his one eye twitching. Then he clears his throat and leans in toward the microphone.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “There, um . . . there’s more I need to say.”
The room falls silent. A student in the third row lifts a phone and starts filming as Sharp moistens his lips.
“Earlier, I said I wouldn’t pull anyone else into the light,” he says, glancing at the phone in his hand. “But I know I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if the full truth didn’t come out. Because, um . . . eight years ago, I made a decision that cost an innocent man his job, his reputation, and—far as I can tell—most of his life. I did it under pressure. And that pressure came from the highest levels of city leadership.”
His gaze drops briefly. Then, after a strained swallow, he says the golden words:
“From Mayor Harold Brenner.”
A gasp ripples through the crowd, and heads turn toward the mayor’s seat in the front row.
“There was no real evidence in the case against Eddie Weaver, who was accused of misconduct with a student. Only suspicion and fear. I even noted in my own report that I believed he was innocent—and still, I signed off on a recommendation to have him removed. I said it was for the good of the school. But in truth, it was for my own sake.”
Unexpectedly, Eddie feels the tears welling up. Not because it’ll make the slightest difference in his life—or the fact that he doesn’t really have one left—but because it just feels good to see Sharp squirming up there. And it feels good to know the mayor’s life is about to be turned completely upside down.
“This wasn’t the first time I obeyed Brenner’s orders,” Sharp continues. “The gym construction, overbilling by firms tied to his campaign donors—I looked the other way. Because it was easier. Because it secured budget approvals, support, funding. And because I was afraid of what would happen if I said no.”
Now it gets too much for Brenner. He jumps to his feet and throws his arms out to the sides.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Jerry?”
“I’m sorry, Harold,” Sharp replies. “But I can’t retire in good conscience without laying the cards on the table.”
"OH, YOU’LL REGRET THIS!” Brenner roars. “I’LL MAKE DAMN SURE YOU DO!”
With that, he stomps toward the steps leading up to the stage. He only makes it halfway, though, before a couple of men grab him, trying to calm him down. Behind them, chaos breaks out in the audience.
And back home in his dimly lit living room, Eddie sits on the couch, laughing.
THE INTERROGATION, PART 9
GLEAMSDALE POLICE DEPARTMENT, 2018
“So, Jerry Sharp gave you an ultimatum back in 2009—resign voluntarily, or we’ll make the choice for you,” the officer summarizes. “And in 2017, you gave him one in return.”
“Step forward yourself, or I’ll do it for you,” Eddie replies, nodding.
The officer lets the words hang for a moment as he skims his notes.
“It’s all very . . . theatrical.”
“Some might call it poetic justice,” Eddie says.
“Others might call it a pathological obsession,” the officer replies. “There is still one thing that keeps nagging at me, though.”
“And that is?”
“You’re a philosophy teacher, right? So, you should understand what vengefulness does to a person. That it eats you alive.”
“It does,” Eddie says, looking up. “But it can also serve as fuel.”
“For what?”
“For staying alive.”
The room falls silent. A heavy silence. The kind that comes with comprehension.
