12 Rose Street Read Online Free PDF

evening he looked terrified. He started his speech, lost his train of thought, then froze and stared at the audience. After what seemed like an eternity, Slater Doyle went to the microphone, said the mayor was under the weather, and ushered Ridgeway smartly off the stage. Milo O’Brien, a recent addition to our campaign team, tapped Zack’s shoulder. “Looks like the classroom monitor is going to puke. It’s your turn, big man.” Zack moved swiftly, wheeling up the ramp in his all-terrain chair, adjusting the microphone, and starting in.
    Zack’s speech was electric. He pivoted in his chair, displaying it like someone in an infomercial, all the while talking about the features that had allowed him to move over the rough terrain of the construction site during the building of Racette-Hunter. Zack explained that he was now able to get around the centre in his everyday wheelchair, but there was a time when he needed extra help navigating. He ended by saying that at some point in their lives, everybody needs help getting where they want to go, and Racette-Hunter was there to offer that help. “My wheelchair,” he said, “is made by a company called Renegade. Their motto is ‘Blaze your own trail.’ That’s what Racette-Hunter will allow you to do.”
    “Nice job,” muttered Milo. “That wheelchair shtick was fucking inspired.” Then he went back to tweeting.
    I’d met Milo when Ginny Monaghan, a woman I admired, ran in my federal riding. Ginny lost the election, but I’d been impressed with Milo. Beating Ridgeway wasgoing to be tough, and Milo was exactly what we needed – a political strategist who loved the game, had no politics of his own, and believed that all that mattered was winning. Our campaign was fuelled by the desire to change the system. Milo would tell anyone who asked that he didn’t give a shit about changing the system, but he did give a shit about winning, and the odds here appealed to him. With his constant texting and tweeting, his machine-gun rat-a-tat-tat phone conversations, and his continuous intake of Crispy Crunch bars, he drove Zack crazy, but the moment Milo came on the scene my spirits soared, and until the last ballot was counted, I was prepared to treat him like spun glass.
    Brock Poitras came to the microphone next.
    He spoke not as a candidate but as the director of the Racette-Hunter Centre. His speech was short and personal. Brock said that some might believe that growing up in North Central as the gay Aboriginal son of a single mother meant he had not just three but four strikes against him. Yet today, he had an exciting and fulfilled life. His message was simple: realizing your potential isn’t always easy, but it is possible.
    Margot’s expression as she watched Brock speak was thoughtful. “Jo, what are Zack and Brock’s chances of winning?”
    “It’s early times,” I said.
    “Meaning their chances aren’t good.”
    “In a clean campaign, they’d have a decent chance.”
    “But this isn’t going to be a clean campaign.”
    I wrapped my arms around myself. The temperature was dropping. “They’ve already hit us with that ugly rumour about you demanding stud service from potential employees. Now there’s a possible attempt to abduct a child. I’ve spent most of my adult life in politics, but I don’t understand what’s going on here. All I know is that an ordinary civic election feels like it’s becoming a very high-stakes game.You don’t get a bottom feeder like Slater Doyle to run your campaign unless you’re prepared to break kneecaps.”
    Margot was cool. “Graham Meighen has had his way in this town for a long time. A new broom sweeps clean and that’s the last thing Meighen and his cronies at Lancaster Development want. He’ll be slick about it, but he’ll do whatever he has to do.”
    “I didn’t realize you knew Graham Meighen that well.”
    “I don’t, but I’ve seen him in action. Meighen was the first of Leland’s colleagues to