How Not to Run for President (13 page)

The look on her face was totally priceless. “Ewwwwwww!” she yelled.

If only I'd had a smartphone. That video would have been on YouTube instantly.

She jumped to her feet, gasping in horror. “Mom!

Hellllp!” Emma yelled at the top of her lungs. “Help meeeee!”

“Way to not draw attention to yourself,” I said as the governor, her handlers, campaign workers, and a cluster of reporters and fans came running down the highway toward us.

Emma glowered in my direction. “You did this to me!”

I smiled, enjoying how uncomfortable she looked. “Well, I told you I'd get you back, didn't I? And if there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I never go back on my word.”

“I hate you!” she screamed. “Mom!”

“I can't believe you made me take a shower at a rest area.” Emma walked out of the ladies' lounge at a truck stop outside Goshen, Indiana, with a towel wrapped around her head.

“It's not a rest area. It's a truck stop,” her mother corrected her.

Emma tossed her wet towel at her mother. “Whatever.”

Governor Brandon caught the towel. “We have a very tight schedule today, so we don't have much choice. Is
that
what you're going to wear?” She stared at the torn jeans, faded Twins T-shirt, and old, well-worn Converse sneakers Emma was wearing. “Do you even have socks on?”

“Scandal, I know.” Emma rolled her eyes.

The governor stepped back. “I didn't even know Kristen packed those ripped jeans.”

“She didn't,” said Emma. “I did. By the way, I threw out that flower dress,” she said. “It was too disgusting. I didn't like that dress, anyway. Who even plays baseball in a dress? This isn't the nineteen seventies.”

“Forties,” her mother said.

“Whatever.”

“Stop saying
whatever
all the time,” her mother said. “And go pick out some new clothes to wear. We have appearances scheduled for the rest of the day.”

“Fine. But first I'm going to get some gum.” Emma started wandering through the candy aisles.

“Don't get bubble gum, and if you do, don't crack it! Where
is
Kristen, anyway?” Governor Brandon asked me, looking around.

“She was making some phone calls outside and told me to wait here,” I said. “Stu and the general are over there.” I pointed to the large-screen TV above the small food court. “Where else would they be? They might miss a poll result or something.”

The governor put her hand to her mouth. “I just had a horrible thought. Don't tell me someone got a picture of Emma like that.”

“Like what?” I asked. “In jeans?”

“No.
You
know. In pig poop,” she said in a low tone, wrinkling her nose.

Something about hearing someone who might be president one day say the word
poop
just made me laugh. I couldn't stop laughing, actually.

“Oh, well,” said the governor with a shrug. “You can't control the news, only your reaction to it. right, Aidan?” She walked beside me, closer to the food court. “I'm really glad we stopped here. While Emma was inside cleaning up, I visited with some truck drivers. It gave me a good chance to meet some hardworking men and women and listen to what they think isn't working in America. There's so much we need to do. And I feel like I'm formulating a plan that might get to the heart of the problem—”

“Governor, look at this. Absolutely insane,” Stu said.

I looked at the TV. There was a photo of a golden retriever on a large screen behind a panel of guests sitting in a cable news studio at a semicircular desk. A large sign on the wall said
THE REX MORGAN SHOW—YOUR TRUSTED SOURCE.

“So, what you're saying is that this dog has been misrepresented,” said the show's host. I recognized him from a story about crazed killer bees hitting the Midwest, earlier in the summer.

For the record, we hadn't seen any killer bees in Fairmont. Ever.

“Yes, definitely,” a woman agreed. Her name, printed on the screen, was Muffy Van Der Hooven, assistant vice president of the All-American Canine Club. “We can see in the face, the eyes, the way the fur descends from the belly. That is most definitely not a mutt.”

Stu looked over at me. “You said your dog was a mutt.”

I nodded. “She is.”

“Nope. She's a purebred Labrador retriever,” Stu said.

“She's a mutt. She's like four different breeds of dog,” I said. “We got her from the pound when I was little.”

“Wrong. Your parents got her from a puppy farm.” Stu took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Now PETA hates us and the ASPCA hates us. We probably already have people lined up to protest at our next appearance.”

“We didn't buy her from a puppy farm! We adopted her from the pound,” I said. “If the people there said she was a mutt, then that's what she is.” All this talk about Sassafras made me miss her.

Back on TV, after a commercial break, the conversation was continuing. “Interesting, interesting. It makes a person wonder: What else has he said that isn't exactly true?” Rex asked. “A while back, Governor Brandon said she's relying on this boy to be her moral barometer for this campaign, her truth speaker—”

“You said that?” I asked.

The governor shook her head. “I never said that.”

“If he would lie about a dog, what does that say about
her
?” Rex asked.

“Nothing. It says that
you're
a moron,” the general said, glaring at the TV. “They should call this the
Rex Moron Show
.”

On screen, Muffy cleared her throat. “That's not all. This dog is obviously overfed. I'd say we're talking about a case of animal neglect.”

“How can you neglect someone by overfeeding them?” I wondered out loud. This person was making me feel very, very bad.

“Were this poor dog to somehow make it to my kennels, the first thing I would do is put her on a diet of love and good food,” Muffy continued. “Then I'd seek to establish her lineage. Who knows? In a matter of months she might be showing at competitions, not languishing in small-town Ohio.”

She said
Ohio
with her nose turned up, her mouth pursed, as if she were saying “So Bor-ing.”

“She's not a horse. She's just our dog,” I said. “A family dog. We love her. Who cares if she's a mutt or not?” I asked.

“Don't worry about this crackpot,” said Stu, nodding at the screen. “He's got conspiracy theories for everything, even dog breeds. He'll attack us anywhere he can find a hole in our story.”

“But it's not—I didn't have a hole,” I said. “It's not like I was lying.”

“Someone was,” the general grumbled.

“They're the ones who are lying!” I said. “How can they get away with that? They're just making up stuff out of thin air!”

“They're good. That's how.” The general asked—more like ordered—the clerk behind the counter to change channels.

“Sassafras. Now the name, Sassafras,” someone on another news station was asking. “What kind of significance does
that
have?”

He turned to someone named “James Hotchkins, dog name interpreter.” “Well, the root of the sassafras tree was used at one time to make root beer and other drinks, but was found to cause cancer and liver damage. So it's a strange choice for a name. I'm not sure what we can infer, but perhaps Ivy would have been a better name. Ivy never killed anyone.”

“No. That's right,” agreed the host. “One would think that a small-town Ohio kid would name his dog something like Snickers or rover.”

“This is ridiculous!” I yelled. “Who cares what she's named? Anyway, it was my mom who named her.”

“I've got an uneasy feeling,” Stu said to the governor, behind me. “This might be the start of something very bad.”

“I bet it's just a blip,” said the governor, sounding confident. “They couldn't find anything bad about Aidan, so they decided to attack a defenseless animal.”

“What was that?” asked Emma, walking over from the candy section. At the same time, Kristen was walking toward her, carrying a suitcase. “Who attacked an animal? Did the pigs die? Oh, please don't tell me any of the pigs died!”

“We haven't had a hog update,” Kristen said. “Now, come on, let's get you dressed in something more appropriate.”

“But what about the animals? What were you saying?” Emma asked, before Kristen could pull her away.

“It's not about the pigs. Wilbur didn't die,” I told her. “Yet.”

“Yet? What's that supposed to mean?” asked Emma.

“Well, where do you
think
they were going after the state fair?” I said. “To a pig farm to happily live out the rest of their lives?”

“Y-yes.” Emma's eyes started to water, as if she was going to cry. “They're … they're not?” she asked.

“Come on, Emma. It's okay. Let's go fix your outfit.” Kristen took her arm and gently pulled her away in the direction of the women's restroom.

“Listen, Aidan. I have to tell you something.” The general rolled up his sleeves. “We've got a problem. Something's going on here. They are trying to drag you down.”

“I'm just a kid,” I said. “Why would it matter if they drag me down? I'm not running for president.”

The general looked at me. “You are so naive. It's not cute anymore.”

“What?” I asked a little nervously. I really didn't get it.

“The competition always tries to bring down the people close to a candidate,” the general explained. “Once that happens, a candidacy is dead in the water.”

They clicked to another channel. I recognized the reporter; he was one of the guys from a Cleveland station that always covered news in our area. I'd seen him at Christopher's football games. “We tried to find some friends of this so-called clarinet hero but were unable to locate any,” he was saying. “Why? Apparently, he's not an easy person to be friends with.”

My eyes widened as I saw the outside shots of my school, my house—and the FreezeStar Little League field. The camera zoomed in on my team, and on one teammate in particular.

“He's a disaster,” said T.J. “A walking, talking disaster. He's the reason we lose our games. He can't hit.”

They had interviewed T.J., of all people.

“They're going to take the word of T.J.?” I asked.

“Who's T.J.?” asked Stu.

“That jerk! remember that really obnoxious kid who—” I stopped, listening to the interview.

“By the way, we're
glad
he's on the road,” T.J. said. “Makes winning a whole lot easier. Now we have a shortstop who can actually hit,” he went on.

“I can hit,” I mumbled. Then I said it a little louder. “I can hit, you know.”

“Who is this guy?” asked the general. “Kind of want to punch him in the gut.”

“That's usually what he's doing to other kids,” I said. “He's the stupidest, meanest—”

“Don't say
stupid
,” the governor told me.

“Fine. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, then,” I corrected myself. “But he is the biggest.”

“They'll take anyone they can get on camera, bad-mouthing you. They're not interested in T.J.'s report card. Just yours,” said the governor.

“But that's not fair,” I said. “Plus, none of it is true.”

The governor looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, okay, so I'm not the best hitter on the team. But I'm
improving
,” I said. “Every year.”

“I can't believe they're doing this to a kid. I mean, that's low. really low,” said Stu.

“That's because he was getting incredible results for us,” said the general.

“Sassafras is a she,” I said.

“Not the dog, Aidan. You,” said the general. “They have to tear you down to get at us.”

On each channel we turned to, the reporters had gone around and interviewed everyone I'd ever known. My teachers, my dentist (who blamed my seven cavities on Lime Brains), Mrs. Saint Mane, the lady who lives down the block and always used to get mad at me for cutting across her lawn on my way to Simon's house.

Then I heard, “That's nothing compared to what we discovered when we spoke to his clarinet teacher. This self-proclaimed clarinet hero—”

“I never said I was a clarinet hero!” I cried. “That's what
they
said!”

“Take it easy, kid. It's going to be fine,” said the general.

Here they were, in Mort's apartment, filming Mort. He'd say good things, I told myself. No matter how they tried to put words in his mouth, he'd tell them what I was really like. The reporter was listing all of Mort's qualifications and how many students he'd had over the years while Mort sipped his free McDonald's coffee.

“You've taught Aidan Schroeckenbauer. How does it make you feel when you hear people calling him the clarinet hero?”

“That's ridiculous. He didn't even like the clarinet at first,” Mort said.

“Given the rocky start you had, would you say he then became a good student of music?” the reporter asked.

Mort shook his head. “No. He couldn't carry a tune in a paper bag. Also, he cheated on the duets.”

“Did you really?” asked Stu.

“No!”
Mort, how could you?
I wanted to yell at the TV. That wasn't true. So why was he saying that?

T.J. insulting me was one thing, but Mort was another. Did he really think those things about me? Then why did he keep insisting I was his favorite pupil and telling me I had real talent? Was that all a lie just to keep my parents paying for lessons?