Don't Vote for Me (8 page)

By the time Veronica reached the yellow line, the crowd had gone perfectly still. They were probably too afraid to speak, or maybe they just wanted to hear our bones break when she snapped us in half.

“David,” Veronica said as she dipped her head at me.

I was still wearing the mask, so how she knew which one was me, I honestly had no idea. “Hi,” was all I said. My voice echoed in my ears, sounding small and insignificant.

As her entourage fanned out behind her, I couldn't help but notice there was one of them for one of us. Brady had lined up across from Esther, and Hector and Samantha were trying to out-glare Riley and Spencer.

Hector exposed his teeth in a rough approximation of a grin. “Looks like you're having a fiesta.”

Esther's hands clenched into fists. “Well, no one invited
you
.”

“Really?” Hector replied, pulling a flyer from his pocket. “Then how did we end up with this?”

Esther ripped her mask off. “Where in Shepherd's Vale did you get that?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” he asked.

I squinted at the flyer. It was smudged with pencil lead (and what looked like carrot juice).

I set my sights on Riley. “Why'd you give
them
one?” I asked.

Riley held his hands up. “I didn't!” he insisted. But then he ducked his head. “But I did throw some away.”

Esther's face flushed purple. “You were supposed to pass them out!”

“I had extras,” Riley said.

“You weren't supposed to
have
extras,” I replied.

Veronica motioned toward the flyer. “So anyone can take a shot?”

I snuck a peek at Esther (who was sneaking a peek at me). “That was the idea,” I said slowly.

Veronica stuck out her chin. “Then we want to take ours.”

Our eyes met, and somehow, an unspoken agreement passed between us. I knew that she was baiting me, waiting to see if I would blink. Owen and Radcliff had been fond of playing chicken with the beaters that had always accumulated behind Classics by Jesse (though they'd sworn me to secrecy, since Mom would have freaked out if she'd known), but these stakes seemed so much higher.

I swallowed, hard. “All right.” I wouldn't be the first to blink.

Spencer pointed at the back. “But you'll have to wait your turn.”

Jayden had just handed her the gun, so he tried to take it back.

Veronica didn't let it go. “Do you really want to make me wait?”

Now it was my turn to rip my mask off. If she wanted to go toe to toe, we'd do it face to face. “Of course not,” I replied. I hoped I sounded braver than I felt. “We want you to take your turns and go.”

Veronica cocked an eyebrow. It looked like she was smiling, sort of, but it was probably an illusion. “Don't you want to put your mask back on?”

I wasn't sure if it was bravery or just plain, old stupidity, but if I put that mask back on, I knew I wouldn't win a single vote. So instead of doing the right thing, I drew myself up to my full height. “No, Veronica, I don't.”

A shudder rippled through the crowd, but Veronica just shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” was all she said as she raised the paintball gun.

She was far enough away that I couldn't tell where she was aiming, but the one thing I did know was that it was going to hurt. I clenched my teeth and stared her down, and for a second, maybe less, I thought she smiled again.

The smile caught me off guard, and I almost relaxed. Maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe “La Vie en rose” had changed her as much as it had changed me. Maybe we were almost friends. But before I could decide, Veronica drew a bracing breath and calmly squeezed the trigger.

The paintballs hit me in the chest, one right after the other. I lost track of the number as they burst against the tape, exploding against my chest like blood bursting from a wound. I stepped back to catch myself, but I didn't find my balance. I found Spencer's rock instead. It caught my heel and tipped me over, and as I staggered back against Renfro's, the paint—red paint, I noticed—dribbled down into the dirt and collected into gleaming beads.

Esther dropped to her knees beside me, cushioning my fall. She put a hand behind my head, which would have made an awesome death scene if I'd actually been dying.

I guess Spencer didn't get the memo, because he launched himself at Veronica. “Holy Faraday, you killed him!”

Before Spencer could make contact, Hector caught him by the wrist, taking him down in one smooth move. “Don't be an idiot,
muchacho
.”

Spencer fell flat on his face, but he didn't let that stop him. He looked like a dying worm as he writhed and squirmed in place, pinned down by Hector's claw-like grip. He definitely wasn't giving up, but he wasn't gaining any traction, either.

His back glistened with wet paint, and his front must have been a mess, but Samantha didn't seem to mind. After planting herself on his back, she growled, “Stop that, or we'll kill you next.”

Spencer finally stopped, but whether he'd taken her threat seriously or he could no longer move, I honestly couldn't have said.

“Say something,” Esther croaked, brushing the hair out of my eyes.

I looked down at my chest, which was still dripping with red paint, then slowly, very slowly, tugged at a corner of the tape. A bead of paint bled down the front. YOUR PAINT, YOUR VOTE, it said, and now that paint was Veronica's.

I managed a weak smile. “That's gonna look amazing when it dries.”

Esther's gaze darted back and forth between my face and the T-shirt. Finally, she grinned. “Yeah, I guess it will,” she said as she held out her hand. “Way to sacrifice yourself.”

I took hold of her hand, and she towed me to my feet. As I surveyed the scene, the other kids hollered and catcalled—but not the populars. Hector sneered, Samantha spat, and Brady made a face. Veronica, on the other hand, just returned the gun to Jayden, then slowly turned around.

The crowd gave her a wide berth as she strutted off into the sunset (or, in this case, the sunrise). I squinted at her back, grateful that she couldn't watch me watching her, but just before she turned the corner, she snuck a peek over her shoulder.

“Nice shirt,” was all she said.

Esther's experience of a lifetime had turned into a celebration by the time they disappeared, but instead of joining in, I sat down on a crate and tried to puzzle out her words.

The T-shirts were a hit. Making them had been epically awesome—my arms and legs were still covered with paint—but what made the whole thing even better was that they were also cool. Spencer couldn't have been happier. He wanted to hand them out like candy, but Esther and I agreed that that would be against the rules, so Spencer did the next best thing—he signed them out like library books.

Esther tried to argue that that was still against the rules, but Spencer wouldn't listen. On Monday, YOUR PAINT, YOUR VOTE T-shirts descended on the school like locusts. Though there were only twelve of them, they seemed to pop up everywhere: on the bus, in Mr. Ashton's class, on the way to lunch. Spencer probably had the schedule down to the class period.

As soon as he got to the table, Esther pushed her lunch aside. “So?” she asked. “How many straws?”

He couldn't do much more than grin.

Esther punched him in the shoulder. “Are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna sit there giggling?”

He drew an overdue breath. “Thirty-eight!” he finally squeaked.

I looked down at my lunch box to disguise my goofy grin. Thirty-eight was nowhere near enough, but it was a heck of a lot better than five.

Spencer yanked a Milky Way out of his pocket and held it up over his head. “And next week, it will be fifty-eight!” He took a bite of Milky Way, then looked this way and that. “But have you guys heard the rumors?”

“What rumors?” Esther asked.

Spencer licked his lips. “I heard the queen bee fought with her drones.”

A shiver skittered down my spine—somehow, I knew where this was headed—but before I could react, Esther actually squealed.

“About what?” she demanded.

“Well,” Spencer said slowly, obviously enjoying the attention, “word on the street is that Veronica suggested that they integrate at the last student council meeting. She thought more ‘geeks and dorks'”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“should get a chance to hold a spot.”

I shifted uneasily. The only reason they were rumors instead of verified facts was because no one had talked to me.

“And
then
,” Spencer went on, “she dumped Brady in a fit of rage when he wouldn't back her up.”

I shook my head. “She didn't dump him.”

Three pairs of eyes zoomed in on me, and I realized what I'd just said. I would have smacked my forehead if it wouldn't have made me look guiltier.

“Well,” I said, backpedaling, “I meant that she
couldn't
have dumped him. We saw them on Saturday, remember?”

Esther shook her head. “Just because they were together doesn't mean they're still
together
.”

“Oh,” was all I said.

While Spencer and Esther went on speculating about Brady and Veronica's relationship, I went back to my lunch. Why had I opened my big mouth? It never turned out very well.

I was halfway through my sandwich—PB and bananas for the win—when someone tapped me on the shoulder. “David Grainger?” a voice asked.

Hesitantly, I turned around. A perfect-looking girl was standing right behind me.

“Are you David?” she asked again.

Instead of answering, I nodded.

The girl didn't seem surprised. “The principal would like to see you.”

I hugged my lunch box to my chest. “Right now?” I'd never had to go to the principal's before.

The girl half nodded, half frowned. “I'm afraid so,” was all she said.

I could have made a run for it, but something told me that this girl, with her long legs and killer ponytail, would have run me down in a second. Grudgingly, I rose to my feet, but before I could climb over the bench, Spencer grabbed me by the arm.

“David can't come right now,” he said, biting off a chunk of Milky Way. “We're kind of busy at the moment.”

“I'm sorry,” the girl said (though she didn't sound very sorry), “but Ms. Quintero said it couldn't wait.”

I wriggled out of Spencer's grip. “What is this about?” I asked.

“Your campaign,” the girl said, blinking.

Spencer stuck himself between us. “Then you have to take me, too. I'm his campaign manager, you know.”

The girl shrugged. “I don't care. Just as long as David comes.” And with that, she spun around, obviously expecting to be followed.

Even though the girl had made it sound like Ms. Quintero would be waiting for us, she made us sit in a pair of plastic chairs for another hour, give or take. When the MMM finally waved us in, I could barely stand up straight (though that might have had something do with my wildly trembling knees). My pudding cup clunked around my lunch box, a grim reminder that I hadn't finished. I probably could have eaten it, but I'd been too wound up to swallow.

Spencer and I paused on the threshold of Ms. Quintero's office. She was spraying down her desk with a fine mist of disinfecting spray while she talked to Ms. Clementi (who was shamelessly pinching her nose). It made the whole place smell like soapy lemons, but I guess that smell was better than whatever twelve-year-olds smelled like.

They'd been deep in conversation, but as soon as they spotted us, they stopped and waved us in. I tried to act casual, but my toe caught on the strip that divided the industrial-grade carpet from the slightly less worn-out linoleum, pitching me into her office like a badly thrown baseball. At least I managed to land in one of the chairs in front of her desk.

“Have a seat,” Ms. Quintero said. Apparently, she hadn't noticed that I was already sitting. “We'll be with you in a moment.”

“What are we waiting for?” I asked at the same time a familiar voice piped up, “What does this have to do with me?”

I couldn't help but wonder what it had to do with Veronica, too. Now not only did I get to have my very first nervous breakdown, but I got to have it in front of
her
. I guess class presidents weren't forced to wait in plastic chairs.

“Quite a bit, unfortunately,” Ms. Quintero said.

Veronica sank into the seat that was closest to the door.

Spencer sat down in the other one. “What's going on?” he asked.

Ms. Quintero didn't answer until she'd wiped off the disinfecting spray and pulled a paper from her desk. “It has come to my attention that an unauthorized school function was held on Saturday, May seventh. I've also been informed that you surpassed the spending limit set forth in the school constitution and that you handed out T-shirts in violation of the rules.”

No sooner had the word “violation” left her mouth than Spencer leaned across my lap to glare malevolently at her. “Did you tell them?” he demanded.

Veronica's eyes glinted. “Of course I didn't,” she replied, but then she set her sights on me. “Seriously, David, I didn't tell them.”

If I hadn't known better, I might have thought that my opinion mattered.

Ms. Quintero raised a hand. “Mr. Chen, please let me finish.”

“No, you let
me
finish,” he said. “We didn't give those shirts away, we only let kids borrow them. And Esther promised us she didn't spend more than fifty bucks.”

Ms. Quintero sighed. “Does that mean that you're admitting you held an unauthorized school function?”

It wasn't like we could deny it. Though it had been more than two days, we were still covered with the evidence.

Luckily, Spencer didn't try to. “We didn't mean to,” he replied. “That's got to count for something, right?”

Ms. Quintero didn't answer, just turned her attention to me. “Well, Mr. Grainger?” she demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Instead of answering, I swallowed, hard. It felt like I'd just eaten a dozen PB and banana sandwiches and couldn't get my mouth unstuck. And even though the weatherman hadn't said a word about the pollen count, my eyes were suddenly watering. What was happening to me?

Ms. Clementi had been strangely silent, but my sudden-onset hay fever must have made her take pity on me. “It's all right, David,” she said. “If you confess your crimes right now, we'll only duct-tape you to the dodgeball mats for the next twenty-four hours.”

Or maybe it hadn't.

Ms. Quintero gasped. “Cara!”

Ms. Clementi waited, then threw her head back and cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West. “Hyperbole!” she said.

Veronica and I didn't react, but Spencer choked on his own spit.

Ms. Quintero cleared her throat. “I think what she's
trying
to say is that the consequences of your actions will be infinitely less severe if you don't try to drag this out.” She folded her arms across her desk and fixed me with her Care Bear Glare.

I looked back and forth between them, wiping tears out of my ears. Ms. Clementi was still giggling, but Ms. Quintero looked especially grim. She claimed she didn't like to punish us—she only did it for our own good—and for once, I almost believed her.

I snuck a peek at Spencer (who was trying to melt into the floor), then let my gaze slide to Veronica (who was inspecting a hangnail). If she was trying to ignore me, she was doing a first-rate job. But when I looked away, she glanced at me, and when I glanced at her, she looked away. For some reason, that gave me the courage to say what I needed to say.

I drew a shaky breath. “What Spencer said is true. We didn't mean to break the rules. The other kids don't get the T-shirts, they only get to borrow them. And the paint and everything only cost forty-seven eighty-three. Our art director—her name's Esther—said she kept all her receipts, but more than that, she doesn't lie.”

The words were pouring out of me even more quickly than usual, but instead of spiraling out of control, they fit together like a puzzle. For the first time in my life, my mouth was actually working with my brain.

“As for the experience of a lifetime”—I wiped my hands off on my jeans—“we didn't think that it would count as an unauthorized school function. Esther only thought it would be a cool way to make the shirts.”

Ms. Quintero arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying that Ms. Lambert is responsible for these violations?”

“No!” I said, then cleared my throat. “I mean, no, Ms. Quintero. I'm not trying to blame anyone.” I glanced down at my toes to give myself more time to think. “I'm the one running for class president, so I should be the one who accepts responsibility.”

Ms. Quintero sighed, then dragged herself out of her seat. “You'll have to give us a few minutes.”

While she and Ms. Clementi deliberated in the hall, I tried not to hyperventilate. Mom was going to kill me when she found out that I'd been summoned to Ms. Quintero's office (or, worse, she'd just enroll me in those miserable piano lessons).

I was still working on my breathing when Ms. Quintero came back in. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Grainger, and I especially appreciate your willingness to accept responsibility. I'm inclined to believe that your campaign didn't violate the spending limit, and I'm even willing to go along with the revolving distribution of these T-shirts.” She pressed her lips into a line. “Nevertheless, the fact remains that you hosted a school function without obtaining anyone's permission, and I'm afraid the penalty for that is a week's worth of detention.” She dropped her gaze, then added, “And no student serving detention is allowed to run for a class office.”

“WHAT?” Spencer replied.

Ms. Quintero managed to ignore him. “I'm assigning you and your associates one week's worth of detention and officially suspending your campaign.” She smiled sadly at Veronica. “I guess that makes you next year's seventh-grade class president. Congratulations, Ms. Pritchard-Pratt.” She motioned toward the door. “You're welcome to go back to class.”

More tears pricked my eyes, but I managed not to let my hay fever get the better of me. I'd take this news like a man if I had to bite my lip until it bled.

But Spencer wasn't so determined.

“You can't do that!” he replied, gripping both edges of his seat. “You can't just take it away!”

“I'm pretty sure she can,” I mumbled. “And I'm pretty sure she just did.”

Saying it out loud like that made it feel real for the first time, and with the realness came discouragement. I'd been wishy-washy from the start, but I guess a part of me had gotten into it, had finally started to believe.

“But it can't be over,” Spencer peeped, dragging a hand under his nose. Either he'd caught a cold, or Riley was rubbing off on him.

I didn't have a chance to comfort him before Veronica raised her hand. “Excuse me,” she replied, “but don't I have a say in this?”

Ms. Quintero blinked. “I guess you do.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “As far as I'm concerned, David and his paint brigade can serve detention for a year.” She looked at me, then looked away. “But whatever you do, please don't make him quit the race.”