The iCandidate by Mikael Carlson Page A

not rewarded with a response.
    I change into my own gym clothes and we pile into the car in complete silence. In fact, we are almost done with our matching forty-five minute workouts on the treadmill before I even attempt communication. When she slows to a walk and removes her iPod ear buds, I seize the opening.
    “ So, which one of my students threw me under the bus?”
    “ Does it matter?” she sharply responds, not even looking at me.
    “I just need to know who to fail,” I respond playfully. Nope, she is having none of that.
    “You made the bet,” Jessica replies coldly.
    “ As if they have a chance of winning.”
    Jessica stops her treadmill, towels off her forehead and turns to me, an icy look in her eyes.
    “Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven't you told me a few dozen times never to underestimate your honors American history class? But whatever,” she says, as she picks up her water bottle, turns and walks away.
    The dreaded ‘whatever.’ It is the word women use to say ‘I’m right, you’re wrong, and the sooner you realize it, the sooner we’ll start talking again.’ It also means this conversation is over for now, forcing me to wait to find out exactly why this is bothering her so much.
    That’s the only thing I reflect on during our drive back to my place. I can understand her being a little miffed about the bet, but she is more than miffed. She’s pissed, yet not angry enough to head south and stay at her place tonight. Yes, my fiancée has well-documented degrees of anger.
    Jessica essentially moved in with me when we got engaged over winter break five short months ago. My condominium is a full hour closer to the school than her residence down near the Long Island Sound, so it made plenty of sense that she stay with me. My place being far too small to make any accommodation for her furniture and, not wanting to take a chance of her things being ruined in storage, she decided to keep her apartment. Despite my pleadings about wanting to save money, she will continue to pay the rent until we do the post-wedding furniture reconciliation.
    Since she maintains this retreat, i f she were upset enough, some geographical distance would be inserted between us instead of simply banishing me to the couch. A skeptic would think that’s the actual reason she keeps it. I’m trying not to be that cynical.
    Once home, we each take showers and then eat in relative silence. After dinner, she retires to the small office originally intended to be a guest bedroom, and I am left with complete control of the television. The eleven o'clock news is on when Jessica walks into the room dressed for bed and sits next to me. She grabs the remote and turns off the power.
    “ Why did you make the bet?”
    “ Why is it bothering you so much? What does it really matter?” Answering a question with a question is a classic in the art of deflection and usually annoys her, but works this time.
    “It matters because you are doing it again,” she replies, a hint of exasperation in her voice.
    “ Doing what?”
    “You really don’t see it, do you? It’s a losing proposition for everyone. If they don't win the bet, they feel they let you down. If they do win, you have to humiliate yourself running in an election you could never hope to win.”
    Jessica has always been critical of the lofty standards I set for the kids in my classes. It has been the source of countless discussions and arguments between us since the moment we met. Once we got engaged, we reached a tenuous détente, but neither of us has changed our minds on the subject.
    “ Three years of teaching and I have never had even half of a class all earn an A on any exam, much less a final. You know they are incredibly hard.” True statements, but also a pretty weak defense.
    Jessica takes a moment to think about her words. “You are counting on them losing this bet. But you are underestimating yourself and your class. Did you put any thought at all into what