How Not to Run for President (4 page)

“It's okay—I won't break it,” she joked as she strolled out to the mound. “I played a little softball in college.”

“
Mom
. She was All-American,” Emma said loudly. “Why do you tell them the boring stuff and skip the cool parts?”

“That was a long time ago,” said the governor. “But I think I can still get the ball across the plate.”

Colin frowned at her, then jogged past me, toward the dugout.

“You want to hit?” I asked him.

He glared at me. “What do you think?” Colin tossed his glove on the ground and sat down on the bench to watch.

I knew what he was thinking: why did they think they could just show up and take over our practice? At least, that's what I was thinking.

I grabbed a bat and stood at the plate. I took a couple of practice swings while Governor Brandon warmed up her arm, lightly tossing the ball back and forth with Uncle robert and the kids in the infield, including Emma. Our dugout had been temporarily taken over by campaign workers like the general. I glanced over at the photographers and reporters standing by the third-base line. There were even a couple of video cameras filming the governor. Over on first base, Emma was punching my glove and bouncing on her toes.

Uncle robert tossed the ball back to the governor one final time, then crouched behind me. “Okay, Aidan. Hit one for the hometown. Make me proud.”

I set my stance and waited for the governor to wind up.

Governor Brandon's first pitch blew past me like a freight train.

Uncle robert cursed as the ball hit his glove.

“Aidan! Look alive!” my dad called from the dugout.

“My grandmother could have hit that ball!” Emma shouted from first base.

Governor Brandon threw a few more pitches before I had a chance to even get my bat on the ball. When I did, I knocked it foul, over my shoulder.

I started thinking that maybe she should quit politics and go into professional softball.

“Rotate!” Uncle robert called, and T.J. jogged straight for home plate.

“I'll go,” he said. “So we can show them that someone in this town can actually hit a baseball.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” I said. I was more than happy to trade places with him.

T.J. handed off his glove to me like a football, slamming it into my ribs.

When we quit practicing about fifteen minutes later and I walked over to the water jug, T.J. was showing Emma the video he'd taken earlier in the day with his smartphone. In it, I was tackling the governor, then getting hauled away by the Secret Service and frisked. T.J. had zoomed in and captured the grass in my hair and the dirt in my teeth. He, Emma, and the rest of the team were laughing hysterically as they watched it. Even Simon, that temporary traitor.

“This is classic!” Emma took an iPhone out of her pocket. “I totally have to add that to my favorites.”

“Totally,” I muttered.

T.J. started telling Emma how many views it already had on YouTube.

“Don't you have anything better to do?” I asked him.

“Not really. This is pretty sweet.” He hit play again, and he and Emma laughed as they watched the Secret Service agents pulling endless stuff out of my pockets and mistaking me for a girl.

Fortunately, Governor Brandon came over just then. “What are you guys laughing at?” she asked. “Not my pitching, I hope?”

“Oh, no, Mom. It's nothing,” Emma said, shoving her phone into her pocket. She must have had practice at covering for herself.

“If you say so.” Governor Brandon turned to T.J. “And who are you? I'm afraid Emma took your spot at first base.”

“I'm T.J.,” he said. “T.J. Lewis?”

Short for That Jerk
, I wanted to say.

“My dad's the mayor?” T.J. added.

“Right, right! Fantastic! Hey, how about a picture?” The governor posed with him while reporters snapped a couple of photos. That Jerk was getting good press while I was being made to look like an absolute fool. When was he going to end up on the losing side of things, for once?

The general came over to say something to the governor. She looked at her watch. “Well, it's been a pleasure, everyone, but we have to get going. Thanks again, Aidan,” she said to me.

“For what?” I asked.

“Everything. Saving me from that plunging sign, a concussion, or worse! And you really got to the heart of what this election is all about. Keeping jobs close to home and keeping small towns strong.” She nodded. “From now on, I'll always think of Fairstone when I talk about those issues.”

Ha! So there
, I wanted to say to both T.J. and Emma.

“Oh. I almost forgot.” Emma held out my glove. “Thanks for letting me use this, but you really need a new one. This thing is falling apart.”

I glared at her. She couldn't even say thank you without insulting me. “No problem,” I said coldly.

I watched the entire group tromp across the field, up the embankment, and back to their Fresh Idea Party bus. If that was the last time I ever saw them, I was definitely okay with that.

When I came down for breakfast Wednesday morning, my brother, Christopher, was having a fit. “Mom, seriously. Seriously. How do you expect me to keep up and not be totally embarrassed—”

“If you find a job this summer, we can talk about getting cable again.” My mother tapped a few commands into her cell phone and smiled at me as I sat down at the kitchen table. “Oh, good, you're finally up!”

“You know, Mom. You don't
need
a cell phone,” Christopher argued. “If you got rid of yours, then we'd have enough money for cable—”

“Zip it, Christopher,” my mom said. “I do need a phone. I have to keep up on Facebook.” She looked over at me and smiled again. I noticed she had dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept well. She tended to get insomnia a lot these days.

“Humph.” My big brother was watching ESPN's
Baseball Tonight
on the tiny TV that's mounted under the kitchen counter while he ate a big bowl of chocolate frosted flakes. “I can't believe they're doing this to us. Can you believe it?” he asked me, slouching like nobody's business. “Not only do we give up this”—he pointed to the TV—“but Internet, too? I mean, way to kill any fun around here, Mom.”

I think it was about the fifth time he'd watched the same
Baseball Tonight
program. He was making a point, not that it was having any effect on our parents. It was our last day of expanded basic cable, and we were all in mourning. Just another one of the sacrifices Mom and Dad kept talking about, because of the so-called new economy.

Of course, I know other people have it much worse. Even Simon, who ended up moving when his parents couldn't make the payments on their house. Now they live in this apartment complex across town and it takes us twenty minutes to ride our bikes to see each other. Plus, he has to share a room with his brother Henry. Who's two.

Anyway, for me one thing that really stinks about your parents getting laid off is giving up things like cable. Especially when you're a baseball and football fanatic like Christopher, or just a regular baseball fan, like me.

“You have your phone,” Mom said calmly to Christopher. “Just be thankful for that for the moment.”

“I could use a phone,” I said.

“Yes, you have a point,” she agreed. “We'll talk to your dad about that.”

“Seriously?” I squeaked.

“Wait a second. Why is
he
getting something?” Christopher complained. “You keep saying how we have no money.”

Good question. There was something strange about Mom's supremely good mood. She was dressed nicely, too, as if she might have a job interview. “Mom? Are you going back to work or something?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said cheerfully.

“You should. Then we wouldn't have to give up cable,” said Christopher.

“Don't you think I would go back to work if I could?” my mom asked. “Honestly, Christopher. You don't grasp what's going on here. You need some of Governor Brandon's common sense.”

While I was wondering what that meant, Mom turned up the volume on the TV. The anchor was saying, “Folks, there are rare moments when the sports world connects with the political scene. Last night was one of those nights.” The video clips showed the two other presidential candidates throwing out first pitches: Flynn at a minor-league game somewhere in the South, and former vice president Mathias at a Yankees–red Sox matchup.

I couldn't help noticing that they didn't pitch nearly as well as Governor Brandon. Flynn's pitch went wild and nearly beaned a bystander, while Mathias didn't throw the ball hard enough to even reach the catcher at home plate.

The anchor continued, “On a separate note, let's check in with Governor Brandon, who threw out the first pitch at a Little League game in Ohio last night—”

“What first pitch? It wasn't even a game,” I said. “It was practice!”

“Nice arm,” Christopher commented as he watched the clip. “She's got heat on that thing.”

“Tell me about it,” I grumbled. “I couldn't hit a one.”

“Not much else went right for the Fairstone Freezers,” the reporter said.

“Freezers?” Christopher exclaimed. “Can't they even get the name right?”

“These kids may not be headed to nationals, but they've got as much guts as any other team out there.” Then they showed me playing shortstop, grabbing a ball, and rocketing it to Emma at first. “The shortstop's name is Aidan Shriekingbaum. Throwing to first, where the governor's daughter also showed some serious skills.”

“Schroeckenbauer,” Mom said. “It's not that hard to say!”

“You may be hearing more about him in the future,” said the reporter. “This is the same kid who saved the governor from falling scenery earlier in the day.” While he spoke, the replay of my heroic deed played on a large screen behind him. They had it in replay mode, so it repeated over and over, then backward. “He's fast on his feet, America.”

Christopher looked at me with newfound respect. At least I think it was respect. I didn't get that look much, so I wasn't sure I'd recognize it if I did. “You're just an average kid,” he said, sounding jealous. “Why do
you
get featured?”

I shrugged. “I must have done something right.”

“Your fielding is good, but only because of what
I've
taught you,” said Christopher.

“Right,” I said. “It has nothing to do with the fact that I've studied the game on my own or practiced or anything.”

“Exactly,” Christopher agreed, pushing his chair back from the table. He refilled his bowl of cereal while Mom changed the channel to a local morning show.

“Check this out,” she said. “You're all over TV.” She switched from channel to channel. “I've been dying for you to get up so I could show you! You know the phrase ‘overnight celebrity'? That's you, Aidan.”

On every station, the news of the hour started with a clip of me: Me pushing Governor Brandon to safety. Me talking about saving jobs. Me playing “America the Beautiful” on the clarinet and squeaking on the high notes. Everyone kept calling Ohio a “battleground state,” whatever that meant. Did people really fight during presidential elections? The last time it had happened, I'd been only eight, and I hadn't noticed. I thought they just went into voting booths and pressed buttons.

Each reporter had a different, corny way of putting it.

“What started as a minor scuffle and a mistaken identity has turned this young boy—”

“I wish they'd quit calling me a
young
boy,” I said. “I hate that. I'm not young.”

“Nice band uniform,” Christopher said, laughing. “They
carried
you? I totally missed that. Oh, that's awesome.”

Stupid girly spats on my feet. Stupid band hat that looked like a sheep on my head.

“What one young Ohio boy did today could change the course of the election,” said a reporter on another channel.

“Or not,” Christopher said, laughing. “Could your hair look any worse? Helmet hair, dude.”

I slumped down in my seat, wishing I could be invisible. Maybe it was a good thing we were losing cable. Maybe
everyone
should give up cable.

In the past twelve hours, according to my mom, my face had been on CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, NBC, ABC, and CBS. It was on Web sites, social media, everywhere. My mom had been up since five watching TV. She said she couldn't sleep well, so she'd decided to get up and enjoy our last day of cable.

Mom wasn't quite herself these days. One day, a few months ago, she'd gotten laid off, just like that. No advance warning. She and my dad argued a lot about money now, but never directly in front of us. It was awkward, to say the least.

Lately, she'd been shuffling around in her robe, doing crosswords and watching too much TV during the day, so then she couldn't sleep at night. She kept downloading recipes she'd never cook and redecorating ideas she would never try. She had printed pages of this stuff, scattered on the coffee table. Then she and my dad would argue about where she should keep it all. He'd put it in a notebook, and she'd take it out and say he had put the pages in the wrong order.

Just then, Dad's pickup pulled up in the driveway as he got home from the overnight shift. He goes to work at midnight and gets home after eight.

A minute later, he ducked through the front door, while our dog, Sassafras, barked and growled. When I looked outside, I saw that our lawn and driveway were full of reporters, shouting questions.

“That was insane,” said my dad. “Do you know how many people are out there? We're in the spotlight, for sure.”

“It's all because of doofus here,” said Christopher. “He's like the MVP of YouTube.” “Hey, one of them said I was good on defense!” I spoke up. “They tried to interview me at work, but the security guards wouldn't let them in,” said Dad.

“Why not? What are you hiding?” I asked. “Nothing!” Dad said. “It just cuts into our work to have visitors.

” “They're worried about spies picking up on trade secrets,” said my mother.

“Yeah, right!” Christopher laughed.

Neither my mom nor my dad joined in.

“Seriously?” I asked. “Spies at FreezeStar?”

Dad nodded. “Not that there are any now, but corporate espionage is something we all need to be prepared for,” he said. He sounded like he was reading from an employee handbook. “In the new economy, there may be threats we haven't anticipated.”

If I heard anything about the “new economy” one more time, I was going to hit someone. Every time we heard it, we got one more thing crossed off our Christmas or birthday lists.

All of a sudden, Sassafras started barking again like crazy.

“Someone's at the door,” Mom said.

Christopher and I ran over to the living-room window and looked outside, parting the curtains. A taxi had parked behind Dad's pickup, and three people emerged. They all looked familiar from the day before.

One was the tall, bald, African American general who had insisted Emma wear a Cleveland Indians baseball cap. He was wearing khakis and a crisp, white button-down shirt. The other man was much younger, with square black glasses and spiky hair. He had his tie flipped over his shoulder and was texting into a phone as he walked, plus he was having a conversation into an orange headset. The third person was a woman with short, dark hair who'd been hovering beside Emma the day before. She was wearing a business suit and walked briskly up to our front door.

“Great, more reporters,” Mom said as she prepared to open the door.

“Actually, I think they're—” I started to say.

“Get rid of them,” Dad said.

“Get rid of them?” Mom asked. “Why would I do that?” She opened the door and smiled. “Hello. May I help you?”

The general smiled politely. “Good morning, ma'am. Is Aidan home, ma'am? We'd like to talk with him, if we could.”

“That depends. Who are you?” asked Mom.

“We're with Governor Brandon's campaign,” said the younger man, stepping up. “My name is Stu Brautigham. I'm the assistant campaign manager. Can we talk?”

“Full-time assistant campaign manager,” the general said, “and part-time haircut.”

“And this is General Roy McGarvin, US Army, retired. Everyone calls him the general,” said Stu. “We run the campaign together. And this is Kristen Lindgren, part of the governor's personal detail.”

The woman held out her hand to Mom. “I'm also a very loyal campaign worker, and a governess for Emma,” Kristen said. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Wow, this is amazing,” Mom said. “Anyone who works for the governor is a friend of mine. I absolutely adore Governor Brandon. She's got my vote. Come on in!” She shook their hands and stepped back to let them into the house.

Kristen, Stu, and the general walked into the house. Kristen waved at me. “Hello, Aidan.”

“Hi,” I said, still wondering what they were doing at our house.

“What's a governess?” Christopher asked. “Is that like an actress?”

“Not exactly. It's like being a governor, only I'm in charge of one person instead of a state.” Kristen smiled. Christopher still looked confused, and I felt the same way. “I keep track of the governor's daughter,” she explained quickly. “Make sure she stays out of trouble.”

“It's not an easy job,” General McGarvin said with a frown.

“Listen, Aidan,” Stu said. “We're here because if we've heard one thing in the last twenty-four hours, it's this: everyone is really impressed by you. People admire what you said, and what you did.”

I laughed. “What did I do, exactly?” Besides embarrass myself on national television?

“Yeah, really. Which part? When he couldn't hit a pitch, or when he butchered ‘America the Beautiful'?” Christopher asked.