You weren't even half way through all of the interviews, but you couldn't deny, you were starting to love them. They incited this giddiness that you'd last gotten in 7th grade when a guy had helped pull the gum out of your hair that him and his friends had tossed in there. What a time to be alive.
You sigh as you lay on a couch in the library during your off period. You couldn't believe you had a whole school year to attend here. The work swamped you, and you knew you should be doing it right now, but you just needed a break.
"Working or hardly working?" Abraham jeers as he struts towards you. "I just learned that new phrase today. I think it accurately describes America's working class and the constant class battle of 'act your wage' and 'work harder not smarter'."
You raise an eyebrow at him. "You've been reading, huh?"
"Of course! I'd never let you down, y/n."
"A little too late for that."
"Oh whatever. And what are you doing right now? For once I wanted solitude in the library, but here you are stealing my fresh air."
You glower at him. "You're invisible to everyone but me."
"Says you. Don't pretend to know my struggles."
You shake your head, rubbing your temples. He plops down next to you. "Something wrong? Did the interview turn out bad? I was too distracted by all the little set pieces." He frowns. "I still wish I could touch one of them."
"No, it wasn't bad... it was great in fact. But that's the thing, everyone's interview has been great, albeit mostly unfinished. And they're all splendid people so far. I think all of them would make a great President."
He stares at you for a moment before grinning. "Oh, I get it."
"What?"
"You didn't expect to like any of them, did you? You were hoping you could root for one of them, and that would be it?"
You press your lips together. He was kind of accurate. You never really expected to like anyone at this pretentious school. And then you were reminded that you were conducting their interviews, which could very well affect the results. Despite only meeting three of them---four if you included JFK---they all made formidable candidates. And... formidable interests.
You sigh. "I guess. They're all... decent so far."
"Mhm, 'decent'. Regardless, how about you take a more of a professional approach? Put a distance between you and them. Even be rude, like you are to me, if you have to. Your job's to be impartial, right?"
"I guess so." You didn't really wanna take advice from Abraham Lincoln, but you were very desperate.
"Who've you got up next?"
You glance at your list, which is sitting on your backpack, even though you've memorized the list by now. "Hillary Clinton."
He gives a short, devious chuckle, rubbing his hands together. "This one should be easy."
"Why do you say that?"
"Aht aht, no hints from me. Just go talk to her. She's right there."
You follow his gaze towards a library table where a girl with short, dark-blonde hair with her forehead scrunched sits at a table, glancing between a book and writing on a paper. You stare at her for a moment, and Abraham claps his hands in your face. "Nope, we're not doing that. Remember, be tough and firm! Tough and firm!"
"Tough and firm," you reiterate under your breath.
You stand with your things and march over to her. You drop your things on the space beside her, and she flinches slightly at the sound. You want to apologize immediately at her surprised expression, but you have to remember, tough and firm.
She tosses a tentative glance your way, shuffling her things to the side. "Excuse me."
At the sound of her light voice, you're incited to get down on your knees and beg for her forgiveness.
Tough and firm.
"I need to speak with you, Miss Clinton," you affirm.
"Oh, okay. Are you wanting to have a tutor session? My website has all--"
"No, I'm here to interview you. For Yearbook since you're running for President."
Her eyes light up. "Oh, right, of course. Just hit me with your best shot, I guess." She gives a small laugh, and your resolve wavers for a second, but you quickly recover.
Your hands shake slightly as your get your things ready, and it's probably because your trying to flex as many muscles at the same time in order to assert your dominance. Isn't that like an Alpha Male technique or something?
Regardless, Hillary appears alarmed. "Are you okay?"
You release all your tension and let out a breath, leaning against the table. "I'm... fine." You can see Abraham out of the corner of your eye with his thumbs up. Maybe you weren't failing at this that much.
"Oh, maybe we should start then. And what's your name? I think I might have seen you around before."
"I'm y/n, but that's not important. Riddle me this! What made you decide to run for president? Hm? Hmmm?"
"Oh, well I've interacted with a lot of the students, many of them struggling in their classes, and I think I'd make an excellent voice to represent them. In my opinion, it's those who--"
"Great, next question. Enlighten me! How familiar are you with your peers?"
"I think pretty well. I'm well known as a tutor, and I'm on the debate team, so I say that they know me very well. And of course I know them as well. When I tutor them, I also try--"
"Adequate. Now solve this mystery! What are important issues you'd like to address?"
"I'd like to address the education inequality. Many of those I work with come from difficult backgrounds and..." She pauses, her expression slightly flustered.
"What?" you question.
"I just... I was worried you were going to cut me off."
You resist the urge to collapse to the ground in sobs. Instead, you sigh. "You know what? I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous. I was just trying a new approach, and I attempted it on you, and I'm very much regretting it."
She gives a small smile. "It's a learning opportunity."
"Most definitely." Out of the corner of your eye, you see Abraham Lincoln frowning and shaking his head. "But, instead, I'll let you write your answers, okay? I think that'll be easier."
She nods and takes your pencil and paper, writing her answers to the questions. You notice she has a nice, light handwriting, and it's like each stroke stabs into your chest, reminding you how stupid you were to ever think Abraham Lincoln would ever offer proactive advice.
She finishes and hands it back to you. "Well, thanks. I hope this helps."
"It does, a lot." You look over her books. "You're a tutor, you say?"
"Yes, I am. I'm booked around after school and before school, so I have to get most of my work done during off periods."
"How much do you make?"
A blush creeps across her face. "I don't earn anything. I do it all for free."
You gape. "Seriously? How come?"
"Most of the students that come to me don't really have the money to spare on that, so I just try to help them anyway I can."
"That's amazing."
Her blush deepens, and she avoids your gaze. "Er, thanks. I try, I guess."
"I'd feel guilty about asking you for help though. It's hard to stop myself from procrastinating."
"No, I'd totally make time for you!" She clears her throat, her eyes widening. "But not in a weird way, just to help you of course, because that's what your asking of me, nothing else, just like everyone else does. Normal, everything's normal."
"Yeah, it sure is. But I mean, if you're ever free, I wouldn't mind a session."
"Neither would I. Just... uh, just book an appointment on my website hclinton.tutors.com. Or you know, you could just ask me directly." She sighs, putting her face in her hands. "Sorry, I'm being weird, aren't I?"
"No, not at all. You're fine, perfectly fine."
"Oh. That's good." The bell rings, and she starts gathering her things. "I guess, I'll see you later? If you choose to let me tutor you of course."
"I'll make time."
"I mean, wouldn't it be the other way around, because-- I'm going to stop talking now."
You give a small laugh. "I'll see you."
She gives you a smile as you head out of the library.