Stick stuck out his tongue at Teddy Boudreaux, who looked like someone farted in his face. Still, the vote would be close—Boudreaux had the freshmen, Malone the sophomores.

The mirthless Father Argerlich looked like he was ready to lie down in traffic on the Dallas North Tollway. “Those for Mr. Boudreaux . . .”

Trying not to make a show of it, Boudreaux raised his own hand, which brought hisses from the other sophomores. His delegation of freshman minions voted with him. Argerlich started his count while Tsimboukis grabbed two froshes by their necks and death-pinched them into lowering their hands. This miraculously went unseen by Argerlich.

“Seven for Mr. Boudreaux. Those for Mr. Malone?”

The sophomores, minus Teddy Boudreaux, raised their hands. But it was not enough. Tsimboukis turned back to the freshmen he was bullying. Some illegal, disturbing Greco-Roman hold on their genitals was threatened, and their hands went up.

“Five, six, seven for Mr. Malone.”

“Dan, raise your hand!” Stick yelled.

Stunned by this turn of events, Dan slowly raised his hand.

“Eight votes for Mr. Malone. Fine.” Teddy Boudreaux tried to complain about freshman voter suppression, but Stick talked over him.

“That’s it, eight to seven for Malone. Right, Father?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is the wisdom of this conclave that Mr. Malone is the editor in chief. Since it’s such a close vote, I think it’s only fair that Ted Boudreaux be appointed managing editor.”

Dan nodded to Father Argerlich and then looked over at Boudreaux, whose face was scalded, mortified. Stick, Rick, and Tsimboukis were all grinning like jack-o’-lanterns and plotting their next move. They went on to nominate the rest of the masthead, and the sophomores ran the ticket like Tammany bosses. Boudreaux stomped out before they could brainstorm article ideas for the next issue. At the end of the period, Argerlich dropped the censored issue of The Roundup on Dan’s desk.

“Congratulations, Mr. Malone—I think the term ‘poisoned chalice’ might be appropriate at this moment.”

“Sorry?”

“Just a joke, Mr. Editor—it’s up to you now.”