How Not to Run for President (5 page)

I looked at him. I didn't need that kind of help.

“Listen, let me tell you. We managed to spin that whole thing. Actually, other people did it for us,” Stu said. “Now all anyone can remember is that you saved the governor from a potentially life-threatening head injury and that you care about the election. So they even have a name for you.”

“Who does?” Mom asked.

“This should be good,” Christopher said quietly.

“The press! Haven't you heard? They're calling you the ‘clarinet hero.'” Stu grinned. “Pretty cool, right?”

I smiled. I kind of liked the sound of that. I didn't think I'd ever been called a hero before.

“Ridiculous.” retired General McGarvin rolled his eyes. “Everyone overuses the word
hero
nowadays. Used to
mean
something.”

“Oh.” I looked down at my shoes.

Stu coughed. “What the general is trying to say is that this was Governor Brandon's YouTube moment, the one that pushes her over the top. You were there, kid. You made it happen.”

The general cleared his throat. “In fact, we're here because we'd very much like you to come on the campaign trail with us. With Governor Brandon.”

What? “Will I get a horse?” I joked. “You said trail, so …” Nobody laughed. I was starting to think they weren't the joking kind.

The general narrowed his eyes at me. “You don't know much about politics, do you?”

“Not really.” I shrugged. I've taken social studies like any other kid, but that's about it. “I did a project on John Glenn once,” I added. “Famous, uh, astronaut, senator, Ohioan.”

“We
know
who he is,” said the general.

“Perfect. You're so perfect.” Stu looked at me and smiled.

“Oh. He's a dream come true for this campaign,” said Kristen. “No question. We may need to cut his hair, but …”

“Oh no, I say keep the hair,” said Stu. “Authentic kidness.”

“If that's what you think, then we'll definitely have it cut,” said the general. “ASAP.”

Why was everyone suddenly talking about me as if I weren't in the room? I coughed loudly, in case they'd forgotten I was still there. “You know, maybe you want my brother, Christopher, to go instead of me,” I said. “He's older, and he's very, uh, photogenic.”

Christopher smiled his school-picture smile, the one that makes tons of girls want to go out with him. Personally, I think it's a little cheesy.

The general studied Christopher for about a half second. He seemed to be scanning him for known viruses. “No. I don't think so. No, thanks.”

Christopher frowned. He wasn't used to getting rejected, and I felt sorry for him all of a sudden. I could give him about a dozen pointers on rejection. He's been sheltered all his life, because he's good at everything and doesn't know what to do when he isn't. “But he's older,” I argued, “which means he can vote soon.”

The general laughed. “This isn't about who can vote! It's about the future of our country. It's about appealing to a broad base. You do that.” He ran his hand over his bald head, as if he still had hair there. “Don't know why, but you do that.”

I raised my eyebrow. “That's the deal? really?”

“Really.” He nodded.

“Really?” I asked again.

“Kid, I don't have time for this,” said the general. “We're leaving town in an hour, as soon as the governor finishes the pancake breakfast at a firehouse a couple of towns over. Pack a suitcase and get ready.”

I gulped.
Me? On the road with them? Seriously?

In a weird way, I liked all this attention. I felt like a superstar. But in another way, I did not want any attention paid to me at all. I wasn't comfortable with the spotlight. So far it hadn't been very flattering.

“He's too young to travel around like that, isn't he?” said my dad.

“No, he's not,” said Mom.

See? They can fight about anything. If Mom says the sky is blue, Dad says it's red.

“Well, I say he is,” my dad insisted. “We don't even know you people, and you want him to go away with you? Why should we let you?” He tended to be a bit overprotective of us.

“Because it's for Governor Brandon's campaign,” my mom said. “I'd do anything for her.”

“You don't know
her
,” my dad pointed out. “You know her image. That's not necessarily the same thing.”

“With Governor Brandon, it is,” the general argued.

“He'll have a chaperone,” Kristen said. “Me.” She smiled. “I'll make sure you dress appropriately, act appropriately … and don't do anything to raise questions about the candidate. Mr. and Mrs. Shrabeckenstauer—”

“Shroeckenbauer,” my dad said. “It's not that difficult, is it?”

“My apologies, Mr. Schrookenbear,” said Kristen. “Aidan will be in good, good hands with us. I'll watch him like a hawk. I won't let him out of my sight.”

“Well, to take care of any worries, what if you let me come with Aidan?” Mom asked. “I'm a huge, huge fan of the governor's, and I'm not working right now, so I'm able to travel. I could volunteer, pitching in doing whatever needs to be done for—”

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” the general interrupted. “That's impossible. We haven't had time to properly vet you.”

“Vet me?” Mom asked.

“We'd have to do a thorough investigation before we added an adult to the campaign. Aidan's a kid, so he has no history,” said the general.

Since when did I not have a history? I'd written my autobiography in fifth grade for school. Maybe it was only two pages, but I did have a history.

Besides, this was my mostly mild-mannered, PTA-joining, brownie-baking, Christmas-pageant-planning mom. What could she have ever done that would get her into trouble?

“If you're worried about being lonely, Emma will be on the bus with you, remember?” Kristen smiled. “You two can be friends. She is a lot of fun.”

I remembered the gum-cracking, glove-stealing girl from yesterday. Fun?
Really?

“We also have lots of perks,” Kristen explained. “The bus is totally high-tech, with Internet, satellite TV, video games, catered meals, a fridge full of soda and snacks—”

“Who cares about the perks?” my mother cried. “This is about an election to save our country. This is your chance to make a difference, Aidan.”

Stu snapped his fingers. “Exactly. You gave the campaign a much-needed bump. Your job is to get Governor Brandon the small-town vote, the youth vote, their parents' votes.”

“Why can't Emma help you with all that?” I asked. “She's a kid.” Even if she was aggravating in almost every way.

Stu shifted in the chair and adjusted his tie. “This is different. People have read about you. They know you. You're a valuable commodity to the campaign. You're an outsider; she's an insider.”

Funny, but I thought it probably had more to do with the fact that she was completely annoying. “I just … I don't know,” I said. I walked to the wide sliding door in the dining room and looked out at the deck and our backyard.

Summer was for hanging out, for doing nothing except playing baseball, riding my bike, swimming at the reservoir. Why would I want to be shipped off with this group? It sounded like joining the army—especially with General What's-His-Name in charge. I was way too young for that.

Dad came over to stand beside me. When he spoke, he kept his voice low. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I kind of want to go. But then … I don't know,” I said.

“I'm the same,” said Dad. “It's an amazing opportunity. I'm proud of the way you spoke up. But, you know, they're talking about stealing you for a couple days.”

“Dad, they're not stealing me,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. But when you're a dad, you'll understand.” He fiddled with the vertical blinds on the door, trying to get them all to face the same direction. “Like it or not, you're a celebrity now. You can't just disappear. You may as well try to get some issues out there, if someone's willing to listen to you.”

I thought about what the governor had said to me the day before, how the other candidates talked too much and never really listened. “But who's going to listen to me?”

“I don't know, but I guess some people are, Mr. Clarinet Hero. Look, this is a chance of a lifetime. You might be able to change some things, or at least put us on the map. You'd be helping the town.”

Only if I don't mess up
, I thought.

“Think of how much it would mean to your mom,” he said.

The fact he wanted to make my mom happy—I couldn't resist that. His eyes had dark circles under them, and I realized that no matter how tough things had been lately, he'd hardly ever complained. What if I could do something to help everyday workers like him? The company, or the town?

“We'll miss you,” he continued. “But I bet it'll only be a week. Knowing this crew and the way candidates change their minds, maybe only a couple of days. You won't miss summer—don't worry.”

“But you don't even want to vote for her,” I said.

“Not yet,” he agreed. “Maybe she'll say something to make me change my mind. Maybe you'll help her sort out the issues. Maybe you'll be the one who convinces me to vote for her.”

“So … you think it'll be okay?” I asked. “For real?”

“Definitely.” He nodded. “It's a gut feeling I'm getting, just so you know. I usually rely on those. I think these are good people. I think you'll be safe with them.”

“Okay, then. I'll do it,” I said. We both turned around, ready to go tell the group our decision.

Before I could say a word, the general said, “Listen, kid. We're getting nowhere here, and we're out of time. What's something you really, really want?” The general sighed, as if he was running out of steam.

I could tell him I was already planning to say yes, or I could hold out for something good. I had to think for a minute. I had a long list, but there was one thing I'd been dying to do for years. “I've always wanted to go to a Yankees game. At Yankee Stadium,” I said.

“Done. We'll get tickets for your whole family, we'll fly you to New York—”

“And my friend Simon,” I put in. “He needs to come, too.”

“And your friend Simon,” the general said. “Fine. Done and done. But hurry and pack. We've got to strike while the iron is hot. Everyone, meet us outside FreezeStar in an hour.”

“What—what do I bring?” I asked, but they were already gone, out the door, off to their waiting taxi.

Mom, Dad, Christopher, Sassafras, and I stood in the doorway, watching them go.

Before he got into the cab, Stu turned back toward us. “Oh, and Aidan?” he yelled. “There's just one thing Governor Brandon wants you to promise you'll bring with you.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“Your clarinet!” he called. Then he slipped into the taxi and closed the door, and the car flew backward out of the driveway.

What had I gotten myself into?

“Now, you'll call us, right? So we know you're okay?” my mom asked me as we got out of the car at the giant gray FreezeStar plant. Either we were a little early to meet the bus or the bus was late, as it had been the day before. Either way, it was fine with me. I wasn't sure I was ready to leave yet.

Whenever I stand anywhere near the FreezeStar plant, I feel like a tiny bug. It's so huge that it takes up at least fifteen acres. There was a large, random group of people gathered outside the huge main parking lot to see me off.

Word had gotten around quickly, and I blamed it on Christopher. He and his friends were always texting, arranging last-minute parties, and he'd been at it for the last hour, while I was packing.

“How am I supposed to call you? I don't have a phone,” I said.

“You'll borrow one from that Stu guy. Did you see him? He has about twelve going at a time,” my dad said.

“I still can't believe they want you and not me,” said Christopher, shaking his head.

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

Instead of answering, he disappeared into the crowd to find his friends. I couldn't believe he'd take off at a time like this. No, not because I was leaving. It was that he was missing the chance to be photographed repeatedly. Knowing him, he'd be back as soon as the reporters arrived with the Fresh Idea Party bus.

“Well, then, call us as soon as you get a chance,” my mom said. “Check in at least three or four times a day.”

“Do we want him spending his time seeing the world or calling us?” asked my dad.

“I'm not going to see the world,” I said. “The rest of Ohio. Pennsylvania maybe.”

“Oh, I don't know about that. I bet they keep you all the way to the Beltway,” said my mom. She kept brushing tiny specks of lint off my red Ohio State T-shirt and smoothing my hair back. It felt like Christmas family-portrait time.

“The Belt-what?” I said.

“Washington, D.C.,” she explained.

“I don't know about this.” My dad frowned. “I still think this candidate is all photo ops, zero substance.”

“Dad,” I groaned. “You said that yesterday.”

“No, she's not,” my mom said. “She has lots of substance. She has more nuts and bolts in her campaign platform than either of the other two guys. She makes good, honest common sense.”

“Maybe so, but she's not ready,” my dad scoffed.

“And I think
you
aren't ready for a woman president,” said my mom.

“What?” Dad looked at her as if she were crazy. “That's not it at all.”

“Then what
is
it?” Mom asked.

“
She's
not ready,” said Dad.

“What are you talking about? She has just as much experience as the other guys, if not more!” said my mom. “She's been Minnesota's governor for four years. She's run a household, she's a lawyer, she's served in the state senate, on the PTA—”

“The PTA?” My dad started laughing. “Since when does that qualify you to be president of the most powerful country in the world?”

“Have you ever
been
to a PTA meeting?” my mom shot back. “You know, it's just like FreezeStar,” Mom said. “Guys always support other guys. The guy managers make more than the women managers. The pay scale isn't even. The—”

“Sh!” my dad said. “You can't stand here outside FreezeStar and criticize the company. What are you, crazy?”

My mom poked him in the chest. “If anyone's crazy around here, it's—”

Before she could finish her sentence, I walked off to see if I could find Simon to say good-bye and ran smack into Mort, my clarinet teacher. I'd called to tell him I wouldn't be able to make my next few lessons. His assisted living place wasn't far from the FreezeStar plant, so he'd walked over. Even at eighty-nine, he was pretty spry.

Mort was always complaining how the FreezeStar trucks rolled all night and beeped when they were backing up. “The other oldies in here can't hear worth a lick, so it doesn't bother them,” he'd always say. “But me, I can't sleep. Ears are too trained.”

Most people probably haven't heard of Mortimer Wrute, because most people don't keep track of clarinet players in history, but until he retired, he played with famous orchestras in London, Berlin, and New York. Then he played with the Cleveland Philharmonic Orchestra for the last twenty years of his career. He was a real master.

That's my plan—or one of my plans, anyway. Play the clarinet, see the world. I know the odds are against me. How many brilliant clarinetists does the world need, anyway? But maybe one day I'll be as good as Mort and become one of them.

“Aidan, tell me again why you're going on this tour,” Mort said now. He was sipping a coffee he'd picked up from the McDonald's across the street. He went to McDonald's every day for a free coffee, which he called the only benefit of being eighty-nine years old. “Why are you heading out of Fairstone with a bunch of unknowns?”

“Because they asked me,” I said.

“And would you jump off a short pier into a dry lake if they asked you?” Mort said. “I mean, really. You can say no.”

“But … I don't want to say no. I never get to go anywhere,” I said. “Look at you. You've traveled all over the world. I haven't been anywhere except Cleveland and Columbus.” Besides, I kind of liked the attention. But I didn't want to admit that to anyone.

“Yes, but you're only eleven,” said Mort.

“Twelve,” I said.

“Right, twelve.” He looked at me for a second. He held a hand over my head, then compared it against his height. “You're short for twelve.”

Why did everyone have to point that out? “I was a preemie, remember?” I took up wind instruments when I was six because my doctor, who's Mort's son, thought it would help me improve my lung function. I was born a couple of months premature, and because of that, or because of some other unknown, unfair reason, I have asthma.

Back then, I could hardly hold the clarinet right, because it was nearly as big as I was. At least that's how it felt. So Mort actually had me start with the recorder and then move up after a couple of years, when my hands were big enough. I've been taking clarinet lessons from him ever since, and I'm getting kind of good. He thinks I have “the gift,” anyway.

Since my asthma is under control, I can play Little League and basically do anything I wanted. Sometimes when I have a cold or run too much in cold weather, I can have an asthma attack, which was why I have to carry my inhaler with me all the time.

“Ah, I was only kidding you,” said Mort. “Don't take everything so seriously.” He sipped his coffee.

There was something I had to ask him, and I was dreading it. “Were you, uh, there yesterday?” I asked. “When the marching band played? Or actually, before they played, when I, sort of, uh, played?”

“I was. And, quite frankly, there are some things it's better not to talk about,” Mort said.

My heart sank. I hated disappointing Mort. He worked so hard to get me into performing shape. And there I'd been, mangling an historic, patriotic anthem.

“It's like I always tell you, Aidan. Make every performance better than the last.” He coughed. “Which shouldn't be too hard. On the plus side, people are talking about restoring the music program cuts. So maybe your performance wasn't pointless after all.”

I didn't know whether to be glad or humiliated that my clarinet performance was inspiring my school to bring back music education.

Mort pointed to the clarinet case in my hands. “Glad to see you're planning to keep practicing on the trip.”

“Yeah, for sure,” I said. “Actually, to tell you the truth, it was Governor Brandon's idea.”

“What—why? After yesterday?” Mort looked perplexed. “It wasn't your best day, kid. That's all I'm saying. I know you're a lot better than that. But does she?”

“She told me she used to play clarinet. Maybe she wants to play duets or something,” I said.

Mort groaned. “Too gimmicky. Doesn't she know that? Clinton tried it with the saxophone back in ninety-two.”

I'd had to memorize the presidents, in order, for a history test last year. William Jefferson Clinton. Number forty-two. “President Clinton won,” I said, after a moment.

Mort frowned. “Yes, but that's not the point.”

“What is the point?” I asked.

“She's not going to win by playing the clarinet on a late-night talk show!” Mort cried. “If that were true, any Tom, Dick, or Harry would be president.”

I didn't recognize the names. “Who?”

“It's an expression,” Mort explained. “I'm saying that she needs to back up her philosophy with concrete proposals.” He shook his head. “And would it kill her to announce her pick for vice president? If she doesn't get her act together, she's not going to have a chance.”

“I thought she had a third of the votes in the latest polls,” I said.

“Those numbers are fudged,” Mort said. “They move them around like cards in a three-card monte game, keep people confused until they pick the wrong candidate. Before you know it, the game's over and you've lost.”

Wow. I had no idea he was so bitter about politics and politicians. If that were true, why wasn't he
for
Governor Brandon and her fresh ideas? I didn't know what to say. “Well, I probably won't be gone long. And she promised to get me and my family tickets to a game at Yankee Stadium, so … I'm going to go.”

“Make the best of it, then,” Mort said. “Use the platform.”

“What platform?” Why did everyone keep talking about a platform? Did this involve diving?

“You know, you're up there on the national stage now. Use the opportunity, the fact that people are listening to you,” said Mort. “Talk about how music funding for schools is being cut. How there's nothing left. How this country will never again produce a generation of musically literate citizens.”

I stood there, wondering how I was going to remember all that and say it as well as he did.

“And,” said Mort, “practice every chance you get. And don't let her make you play anything juvenile and embarrassing just to suit her.”

“I won't,” I said.

“‘Happy Birthday.' ‘Itsy-Bitsy Spider.' Forget about it,” said Mort. “Flat out refuse. You have standards.”

I nodded. “Sure. Definitely.”

“And don't forget what pitch means next time!” he called over the sound of the approaching Fresh Idea Party bus as it pulled in and came to a stop.

First the team of Secret Service agents got off and scanned the area, communicating over their ear wires. Shortly after that, the governor got off the bus to shake hands and talk to people heading in and out of the parking lot. I couldn't help noticing that Emma didn't even get off the bus. She was probably too snobby to do parking-lot events.

“Hello again, everyone,” Stu said, coming up to us. “We'll be leaving in a couple minutes. You ready, Aidan?”

I nodded. “I'm ready. I guess.”

Mom and Dad each gave me a giant bear hug. Mom also gave me about a hundred different pieces of advice to pass on to Governor Brandon. Dad just told me to have fun and order room service and bill it to the campaign. “Maybe then she'll understand how taxes and fees add up,” he said.

“What's that, Mr. Schroeckenbauer?” asked Governor Brandon, suddenly standing at his elbow.

“Oh, uh.” Dad got all flustered. “Nothing.”

“Believe me, no one wants to raise taxes in this financial climate,” the governor said. “I hear you.”

Mom just stood there, looking starstruck to be in the governor's presence. She didn't speak.

“I'm so glad to finally meet you both.” The governor held out her hand. “Bettina Brandon. Thanks for lending us your son for a few days. We'll take good care of him—I promise.” She leaned closer to Mom. “And, as one mom to another, you know I'll watch him like a hawk.”

Mom laughed. “Make sure he keeps his hotel room neat. And if he says he's brushed his teeth, check his toothbrush. And—”

“Mom. I think that's enough,” I said under my breath, but suddenly it was like the two of them were best friends. Mom couldn't stop talking.

Then Kristen was giving my parents all the contact information they'd need, plus a link to “follow the bus” online.

Finally, Simon pushed his way through the crowd to us. He was panting and out of breath. “Sorry I'm late. I had to ride my bike to the store to get you something first.”

“You didn't have to get me anything,” I said.

“Sure, I did. You won't survive without these. Here.” He gave me a giant box of Lime Brains candy.

“Thanks,” I said. “I will need these. I think I'm going to be bored out of my skull,” I whispered to him.