How Not to Run for President (2 page)

The reporter and cameraman pushed in even closer, zooming in on the two of us, framing the shot. I bit my lip and looked around the town square, stalling for time.

Behind the governor was the blond girl I'd seen getting off the bus with her. I figured she was her daughter, because she was wearing a name tag that said
EMMA BRANDON
. She was dressed in a sleeveless dress like her mother, only she had a pink sweater draped over her shoulders. Like she would need one when it was eighty-five degrees. In the shade.

“Well, uh. How about the, um, new healthy plan—health plan? If we were healthy, we wouldn't need a plan, would we? So why don't they call it a sick plan?” I asked. “Anyway,” I said, coughing, while they all stared at me.

I started thinking about my asthma, which can flare up when I get nervous or when there are dozens of idling cars, buses, and news vans nearby spewing exhaust in my face. Like right then.

I must have been taking too long to think about it, because the reporter cleared his throat. He glanced at the candidate and then back at me. “What's your name?” he asked.

“Aidan,” I croaked. “Aidan Schroeckenbauer.”

The reporter nodded. “I'll get you to spell that for me later. Okay, Aidan, this is your big chance. If you had one question to ask a future president, what would it be?” he asked.

I looked behind him, up at the crowded bleachers, at everyone in town, sitting and waiting and hoping for some good news. I spotted my parents: my dad, who'd normally be sleeping now because he works third shift and doesn't get home until eight in the morning. My mom, who'd been laid off a few months back and was getting really tired of not working. I thought of how they argued, day after day, whenever they saw political ads on TV.

My dad was rooting for Senator Flynn for president because he promised he'd keep jobs in the United States. My mom said that was unrealistic and that we needed a balanced approach like the one Governor Brandon proposed. She also said that Dad, Senator Flynn, and former vice president Mathias did not know what they were talking about and were complete, out-of-touch idiots. (She tends to get easily upset these days.)

Governor Brandon leaned a little more closely to me. “Don't be nervous. You can ask me anything—I'm all ears. Other candidates talk and talk. Their mouths are open, but their ears are closed. Me, I listen.”

“Okay. Then, uh, what will you do to keep manufacturing strong and save jobs?” I finally asked. “Because FreezeStar is the biggest employer here, and my mom already got laid off in the last big round of cutbacks, and my dad's salary has been frozen for two years, which is kind of funny because, you know, the company is
named
FreezeStar.”

The governor just looked at me. She did not laugh. “Not a lot of people are buying new appliances right now, I guess,” she said, looking concerned. “This recession has hit us all hard.”

“Right. If the company doesn't make it, we have no Little League sponsor. Also, the funding for band and music class has been cut, so FreezeStar has been donating money to support that. And if the company folds, my mom says we'll lose our health insurance, and then I won't get my asthma meds, and I'll completely fall apart. Basically, what I'm saying is that one company can really make a big difference, and, like, our whole town will shut down if FreezeStar closes—”

As I was rambling, I saw a large metal campaign sign blowing in the hot summer wind, swirling from side to side. Two corners came loose—then suddenly it broke off the podium above us. It was plummeting right down at Governor Brandon's head! I had to save her!

I handed my clarinet to the reporter, leaped toward the governor, and shoved her out of the way.

“Uh—sorry! I'm so sorr—” I started to say to Governor Brandon, who was lying on the town square beside me. Fortunately, we'd smashed onto the grass, not the historic brick.

“It's all right—I'm fine,” she said. “Nice save!”

I started to get up, but two guys in dark blue suits immediately flattened me to the ground.

I couldn't breathe. One of them had his knee on my chest. The other one held a gun, pointed at my neck. “Don't shoot!” I yelled.

“Why shouldn't I?” the taller one asked in a deep, intimidating voice. “Give me one good reason. You attacked—”

“I didn't mean to! I was trying to protect her from—” I said in a desperate, pleading tone. Couldn't they see I was just a kid? Did they really think that I was making an assassination attempt?

“Explain yourself!” the shorter guy yelled in my face.

I stammered, “The—that sign—it was falling—”

“Who made it fall? Who made it fall?” he kept demanding, shaking my shoulders.

“N-no one! Nothing!” I said. “I mean, maybe the wind?” I actually had no idea, but I had to say something.

The tall one peered into my eyes, and I felt like a criminal being interrogated under a big, bright lightbulb. “What are your intentions?” he demanded.

“That big sign was falling, and I didn't want it to hurt her, or anybody else!” I tried to get up, and they flattened me to the ground again. This was getting old.

They suddenly lifted me in the air as if I were a doll, one carrying my arms, one carrying my feet. They hauled me over to a police car and stood me up against it. Then, just like on a TV crime show, they frisked me. They checked under my arms. They emptied my pockets. They examined everything and then dropped it to the ground in a heap: coins; my house key; my bike-lock keys; a folded-up, half-eaten box of Lime Brains; my inhaler.

“Kid. You need a purse or something,” the tall one said when he was done checking me for weapons.

“I'm a
boy
!” I said. Of all the indignities.

“Oh, right. right. Sorry. Couldn't tell with that uniform.” He peered at the shiny white spats on my feet, covering my sneakers. “Nice spats. You're a boy. For real?”

“Yes,” I said through the dirt and grit in my teeth. That was it. I was never wearing that uniform again. Also, maybe Mom was right. Maybe I did need a haircut.

“Well. I don't see anything that makes me suspicious, so I can guess we can let you go.” The shorter one brushed off his hands. “But watch your step from now on. And do us a favor: don't try to do our jobs.”

“I wasn't—I mean, sure, right. Sorry,” I said. I didn't tell them that I wouldn't have had to do what I did if they had been
doing
their jobs and paying better attention to the governor.

“Here, I think this is yours.” The reporter handed me my clarinet.

“Thanks,” I said, nodding. I was glad I hadn't been holding it when they frisked me. They probably would have broken it in half to make sure it wasn't a weapon.

I leaned over to pick up the rest of my stuff from the ground and jammed everything back into my pockets, then put my ridiculous band hat back on my head. Maybe I could blend in with the rest of the marching band. I rubbed my wrists, which were sore from being held behind my back. If I never got frisked again in my entire life, that would be too soon.

“I knew we should have screened these kids,” the shorter Secret Service agent was saying.

“These kids? How about this entire town?” the tall agent replied, brushing off his suit sleeves.

“What's wrong with our town?” I asked. “Why does everyone keep bashing Fairstone?”

“Sorry, no offense. We just—these events really strain our resources,” he said. “She wants to go everywhere, talk to everybody, twenty-four/seven. She has to go to every coffee shop, barbershop, bowling alley, grocery store. It's difficult to keep up.” He turned away from me and started talking into a headset mouthpiece.

While Governor Brandon visited with the Fairstone firefighters who were hanging her sign back up, her daughter just stood there, smirking at me.

“Kind of short to be in a marching band, aren't you?” she said. “That hat is taller than you.”

I glared at her. She was taller than me, but so what? So were a lot of girls in my class. That didn't give her the right to insult me about it.

She glared right back, like a mirror image of instant hatred. “Fine,” she said. “Notice you didn't try to save
my
life.”

“I don't even know who you are,” I said, which wasn't true. But I didn't want her to think any more of herself than she apparently already did.

“Obviously, I'm Emma Brandon,” she said, pointing to her name tag. “Or can't you read?”

“I can read just fine, thanks,” I said. “I don't know about you.”

She stuck out her tongue at me. really? I thought. Was that the best she could do? How old was she, anyway? She dressed like she was a grown-up, but she acted like she was five.

“Well, Emma, are you making friends?” Governor Brandon asked as she turned back to us. She straightened her skirt and patted her hair into place.

Not exactly
, I thought.
Making enemies
,
maybe
.

Emma just shrugged, knocking her sweater off her shoulders and onto the dusty sidewalk. “rats!” she complained, picking it up. “I hate this thing.”

“Emma, dear. Don't say ‘rats,' and don't say ‘hate.' Language matters, remember?” her mother asked.

“Rats,” Emma muttered. “I wish it didn't.”

“Well, it does.” The governor looked like she was blushing as she turned to me. “Thanks to you, I don't have a concussion. Emma, are you all right?” she added.

“Mom. I was standing here the whole time,” Emma whined, rolling her eyes. “I'm fine.”

She's all right, except for being snooty and stuck-up
, I wanted to say.

“Okay, Governor, time to keep moving. We need to get up to the grandstand now!” A well-dressed woman in a business suit gently tried to pull her away.

Instead of leaving, the governor smiled at me. “You sure
you're
okay?” she asked.

I nodded. Except for being completely embarrassed, I was fine. She was being so nice to me. I didn't know what to say. “My mom is a huge fan of yours,” I blurted out.

“Oh, thank you. Please tell her thank you for me. I'd like to meet her. Is she here?” she asked.

“She's somewhere up there, but I don't see her right now,” I said.

“Maybe later, then. So, as you were saying, it's very important to keep manufacturing jobs here in the U.S.” She continued talking to me, but more to all the reporters and other people who were suddenly gathered around, about unions, manufacturing, cars, factories, and how towns like Fairstone were the jewels of the Midwest. Of the United States, actually.

A guy with square black glasses and spiked hair tapped her gently on the elbow. “Governor, we really need to get moving and start your speech—”

“I know, just give me a second here, Stu. What was your name again?” Governor Brandon asked me.

“Aidan.” I skipped my last name this time around.

“Aidan. Nice name. I have a nephew named Aidan. He's crazy about LEGOs, but he's a lot younger than you.” She smiled. “You know what, Aidan? I don't even know if everyone here knows this, but
I
used to play the clarinet.”

Behind her, I saw her daughter roll her eyes again, as if she'd heard this story a hundred times.

“Really?” I squeaked.

“Yes, really,” she said, nodding. “I played all through high school and was even in marching band, like you. What do you think? Maybe you could play a little something for me?”

My mind went blank. What could I possibly play in a situation like this? Was there a song about knocking down a presidential candidate?

“Well, actually, our whole marching band is about to play….” I looked around, feeling helpless. Where had everyone gone? Why was I the only one left standing there?

Then I realized they had all lined up outside the hardware store the way we were supposed to, getting ready to play. They'd deserted me. Even Simon was gone.

I stalled for time, adjusting the clarinet reed in my mouth. I considered taking off, running for the hills, as they say. But then I thought, no, I was good at playing clarinet. Why had I been taking lessons for the last few years if not for a moment like this? This was easy.

“Everyone, make room!” Governor Brandon said. “Back up. Give him some air. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Aidan!”

I had a vague sense of video cameras being aimed in my direction, and the sun reflected off one metal microphone, nearly blinding me for a second. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and launched into “America the Beautiful.”

Unfortunately, I was so nervous that the top notes came out bleating, like wounded sheep.

I hoped my clarinet teacher, Mort, wasn't listening. This would break his heart.

When I finished, there was scattered, awkward applause from the governor and her helpers, like when someone at the Super Bowl screws up the national anthem by forgetting the lyrics. Except worse.

The governor gave me a sympathetic pat on the back, then jogged off toward the grandstand to make her speech. Following her was that annoying Emma, smiling as if I'd just made her day. The clump of reporters went jogging after her, and I was left alone. For a second.

Then I noticed T.J. standing a few feet away. “Way to go, Shrieking!” he said, gloating. “Way to make our town look bad.”

“What? I didn't make the town look bad,” I said.

“Maybe not, but you made yourself look terrible.” He guffawed. “You tried to kill the president,

Shrieking.”

“I didn't—and she's not—”

“You were almost arrested. Ha!” He laughed. “That would have been so cool, seeing you dragged off to jail. My dad would have locked you up.”

I simmered. He didn't know anything. The mayor doesn't do the locking up. The warden does, or, in our small town, probably the sheriff. T.J. didn't even understand the legal system. If anyone would be headed to jail in the future, I was guessing it would be him.

“At least I can play an instrument,” I said. “At least I can read music—”

“You know what?” he said. “Your playing? Your tackling her? It's going to be all over YouTube.”

I tried to pretend this wouldn't bother me. “So what?” I asked.

“So, I'm going to enjoy it. Every single minute of it,” he said, grinning.

This was about to go on record as one of the worst days of my life.

I heard the marching band start playing by the hardware store, and I hustled over to take my position. Maybe no one would notice me from now on—if I were lucky.