How Not to Run for President (6 page)

“Yeah, but at least you're getting out of town,” said Simon.

“Good point.” I decided to wait and tell him about the trip to Yankee Stadium later, when I got home and it was more of a sure thing. “I wish you could come,” I said.

“Yeah. That'd be cool. Make sure you get all the perks. Order room service, charge up video games, junk like that.”

“Aidan, it's time to go!” Stu called from the bus steps.

“Well, see you,” Simon said. “Have fun being famous!”

Just before I walked away, T.J. made his way around the reporters and pushed up right beside Simon.

“You really should thank me, Shrieking,” he said. “Without that video I took, nobody would even know your name.”

“You're not the only one who made a video,” Simon said. “What, you think you're the reason he was picked? Be serious.”

“Yeah, well, I'm glad he's leaving,” T.J. said. “Because with him gone, we can actually win a baseball game!” T.J. laughed loudly.

All the reporters standing around the bus started laughing. Maybe getting out of town for a while wasn't such a bad idea, I thought. “I'll really miss you, T.J.,” I said. “Not.” I picked up my clarinet case, a backpack with my baseball glove and a baseball inside, and my duffel bag full of clothes and other assorted junk, and climbed onto the bus.

I passed by the general, who was jotting down notes about a mile a minute on a legal pad. He glanced up at me. “More kids on the campaign trail. As if one wasn't enough? Now I've seen everything.”

“I thought this was your idea,” I said.

“Nope. This came from the Haircut,” he said, going back to his notes.

“The Haircut?” I checked out his bald head. He clearly wasn't referring to himself. Then I remembered that was his nickname for Stu. I wondered if he had a nickname for me. Maybe, Needs a Haircut?

He looked up again and focused on me. “You know the old saying? If you're the president and you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”

“Yeah—uh, sure,” I lied.

“A dog,” he repeated. “Not a kid from Ohio.”

Great, just great. The general hated me.

I smiled at him, hoping he wouldn't kill me, and looked down the aisle for an empty seat. Suddenly, I spotted one with my name on it—seriously, there was a sign that said
AIDAN
s. taped to the headrest. It was right behind Kristen, the governess, who was knitting.

“Don't let the general get to you,” Kristen said. “Deep down he's a nice guy.”

“How far down do you have to go?” I asked.

She laughed. “Oh, I was a little worried about you, but I think you'll do just fine.” She waved her knitting needles in the air, and I saw that she was knitting a sweater with an American flag pattern. “By the way, I have a fifth-degree black belt in karate. I'm an expert at self-defense. And, I could pierce someone's heart with one of these needles from thirty feet away,” she said.

“Uh, okay,” I said, noticing how strong her arm muscles looked.

Kristen smiled. “Just kidding about that last part. All I'm trying to say is that you're safe with me, okay, Aidan? No worries.”

“Right. Sure,” I said. “No worries.” As long as I stayed on her good side, that is.

She smiled. “Have a seat, why don't you? We're about to hit the road.”

Across the aisle, Emma was sitting with her feet up, acting like I didn't exist. She had a small computer on her lap and didn't look away from it.

“Emma. Is that how we greet someone?” Kristen asked.

Emma smiled like it was killing her. “It's a pleasure,” she said in a monotone. She cracked her gum.

“Emma! Please don't do that,” said Kristen. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Emma rolled her eyes at me and shifted slightly in her seat, snapping her laptop closed. “Where did you get that bag? Don't you have a real suitcase?”

I glanced at my blue duffel as I wedged it into the rack above my seat, along with my backpack. On the side, it said,
FREEZESTAR: KEEPING IT COLD FOR 75 YEARS
. “What's wrong with it?”

“Nothing. It's just not a real suitcase—that's all,” she said.

I sat down and placed my clarinet case on the aisle seat beside me. Oh, boy. She was going to be such a fun travel companion. “It's called a duffel bag. You wouldn't know because you're not an athlete.”

She raised an eyebrow and cracked her gum again. “I saw you play yesterday. You're not much of an athlete, either.”

I glared at her. I'd thought she was sort of cool when she'd played baseball with us, and she had even stood up to T.J. But that might have been the only good thing about her.

The bus was pulling onto the turnpike, approaching the tollbooth.

When I was younger I thought it was actually called a trollbooth, where a troll waited to attack when you tried to collect a ticket. My brother made sure I never forgot that. “Here it is, pipsqueak, the trollbooth!” he always yelled, and I'd cower down in my car seat.

I was trying not to be a wimp, but I couldn't help feeling a little scared. Not because of the trolls but because I didn't really know where I was going. I didn't know the people I was going there with, either. I felt excited but also kind of sick to my stomach.

This trip wasn't going to last long, I told myself, remembering what Dad had said. Plus, I was doing this for Mom. If I could make a difference, I would. But … how?

“So. Is that a clarinet, or what?” Emma pushed at my clarinet case with her foot.

We'd been on the turnpike for half an hour already. She'd scooted over from her window seat across the aisle, while her mom was up front in the couch area, having a strategy meeting with Stu, the general, and assorted other campaign workers. I'd never seen so many BlackBerries, Droids, and iPhones all being used at once. It was like a cellphone orchestra. From what I could tell, everyone was scouting the next stop, checking the polls, making plans for future appearances.

“Yes. It's a clarinet,” I said. Didn't she know that? Hadn't she been there when I embarrassed myself with “America the Beautiful”?

“You know, I didn't get a chance to tell you yet, but I'm a musician as well,” Emma said. “I'm a flutician.”

“What's a flutician?” I asked.

“Obviously, a flute player. First chair,” she said.

“Uh, you sound like someone who gives people their shots and stuff. A flu-tician,” I said.

“And you sound like someone who is not educated about music,” Emma said. “At all.”

If she wanted to get into a music feud with me, she would lose. “Well, it's called a flautist,” I corrected her.

“I know. I know that,” she said. “I was testing you, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I repeated. “Yeah, right. I'm sure.” There wasn't much to like about her, but then, who else was I going to talk to? I couldn't sit there and talk politics for hours. I couldn't even talk politics for five minutes.

“So, do you always travel with your mom?” I asked. “I mean, where do you live when you don't live on the bus?”

She didn't say anything for a second. She just stared at me, as if I were the dumbest ape on the planet. “Don't you know?”

“No,” I said. “If I knew, why would I ask?”

She rolled her eyes. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm not serious,” I said. “I'm Aidan.”

“Ha-ha. So funny,” she said. “I can't believe you don't know.”

I shrugged. “Well, I don't. Do you know where I'm from?”

“Obviously. We just stopped there. Freestone,” she said.

“Ha! Wrong,” I said. “Fairstone.”

“Same difference,” she said.

“It is not!” I said.

“Excuse me, but you're a nobody. My mom's the governor of Minnesota, so obviously, I live in Minnesota.” She pronounced “sota” like “soda.”

“So, you live in Minneapolis?” I asked.

She sighed, as if that was the dumbest thing she'd heard all day. “Saint Paul,” she said. “That's the capital. Which is where the governor lives.
Obviously
. In the governor's mansion.”

“Whatever,” I said. Was she going to use the word
obviously
in every sentence? “So what's Saint Paul famous for?” I asked.

“Lots of things.” She sniffed. “Tons of things.”

I waited for her to give an example. “It's so famous you can't think of anything?” I asked.

“I can, too!” she said. “The Mississippi river.”

“That's more of a claim to fame for Mississippi, isn't it? Or else it'd be called the Saint Paul river,” I said.

She frowned at me. “It starts in Minnesota. Everybody knows that. It comes from Lake Itasca.”

“Oh. Well, we have Lake Erie,” I said.

“We have Lake Superior,” she replied. “It's the biggest of the Great Lakes.”

“I know that,” I said. Humph. Did she have to have the greatest of the Great Lakes? “Okay, so you have lots of water. Anything else? Besides freezing-cold weather?”

“There's tons more. Winter Carnival, awesome skiing and snowmobiling, the state fair every August, which I have to get back home in time for, plus the Twins, the Vikings, the Wild—we're known as the state of hockey, did you know that? And what about Paul Bunyan? Heard of him?”

“He wasn't a real person,” I said.

“Okay, you want real? Joe Mauer. How about that? Is he real enough for you?” she asked.

“So he won the batting title a few times,” I said. “I'll give you that.”

“I'm so jealous. My dad and brother, William, are going to the game tonight. They get to be home,” she complained. “My dad works for 3M, and he can't leave because he's in the middle of developing a new kind of recycled Scotch tape, and my brother's on this really intense soccer team all summer.” She sighed. “Why didn't I think of that?”

“Recycled tape?” I said.

She frowned at me. “Soccer club.”

“You play soccer, too?” I asked.

“Well, no. But I'd learn,” she said.

“What made your mom want to run for president?” I asked.

“She likes helping people,” said Emma. “She got really frustrated during the last couple of elections. She felt like no matter what was changing for women and families, too much was staying the same. She was doing really well as governor, so she decided to throw her hat into the ring.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“Which … ?” She looked confused.

“Hat.”

“It's an expression, dummy.”

“Never mind,” I said. “So what else can you tell me about Minnesota or your mom's campaign? I mean, someone might ask me.”

“Well, tons. For instance, this year we're what's called a ‘swing state' when it comes to voting, so that's going to work great for my mom,” she said.

“You play swing music? You ride swings a lot?” I asked. She didn't say anything, so I kept talking. “What's the difference between swing and battleground? They kept calling Ohio a battleground on the news. And what are normal states called?”

“Normal states are red or blue,” she said.

“That makes no sense. Oh, wait. I get it. red, white, and blue.”

“No. There are no white ones.” She rolled her eyes. “They either go Democratic, which is blue, or republican, which is red. But some change back and forth.”

“Making them purple,” I say.

She shook her head. “Minnesota's usually been blue when it comes to presidents, but lately it's not so predictable. But battleground. That's fought in the trenches.”

“We don't have trenches,” I said. “And if we did, do you really think your mom would crawl into one?”

“It's a metaphor. Obviously.”

“Oh.” I was quiet for a minute. “So how come your mom is running as an Independent?” I finally asked. “Couldn't she pick a color?”

“No, because she's always been someone who didn't vote along party lines,” Emma said. “Sometimes she was on the republican side and sometimes the Democratic. She wanted to create a third side.”

“Making a square? I mean, um, triangle?” I asked.

Emma gazed at me for a second. “I think I know what my mom should start focusing on.” She cracked her gum.

“What's that?”

“Improving schools,” she said. “Especially the ones in Ohio.”

“Ha-ha,” I said. “Very funny.” Should I bother telling her that I had been middle-school student of the month back in February? “You know what my clarinet teacher always says?”

“You sound horrible?” she asked.

“No. He says flute players are a dime a dozen,” I told her.

She narrowed her eyes at me, visibly stung. I smiled at her. So there. She wasn't the only one who could dish it out.

“Well, well, I see you two are getting along swimmingly.” Stu suddenly appeared beside me. I jumped. He moved quickly and quietly, like a stealth mouse or something. Up close, his hair was so spiky, it looked like it could cut you if you tried to touch it. “That's excellent, excellent.” Stu gently moved my clarinet to the floor and dropped into the aisle seat beside me. “All right. I have a few questions for you, Aidan.”

“And so do I.” The general appeared, looking down at me.

I felt myself slink down in my seat a little. The general didn't have to do much to intimidate me. Just looking at me would do it.

“First off, how in the world do you actually say Schroeckenbauer?” asked the general, mangling it.

“It's actually pronounced Shrek-en, not Shrocken.” I thought about how T.J. called me “Shrieking.” Should I mention that? Probably not.

“Okay, okay. Good. Sorry about that,” said Stu. “Now, your parents both work for FreezeStar, which is great, real gold material for us. Your older brother is a sports star, and you have a dog. All true?”

“Mostly,” I said. “My mom is on leave from FreezeStar, though.”

“Right, right. So that's one unemployed parent. No problem. Typical American story.” Stu made some notes. “And what kind of dog was that, again?”

“Uh, a mutt,” I said. “Her name's Sassafras.”

“A mutt, a mutt. Perfect.” Stu nodded, then looked up at me. “Any problems with the dog? Has she ever been picked up for biting anyone?” he asked.

“What? No!” I said, wondering why my dog mattered so much.

“Your brother—he hasn't been to juvie or anything. right?” the general asked.

“Juvie?” I asked.

“Jail for kids,” Stu explained.

I could see Emma leaning closer. She probably thought that anyone who wasn't rich like her went to jail. “No, of course not. He's annoying, and he's kind of vain. He's always texting. That's the worst I can say,” I told them.

“Fine, fine. Typical American teen,” said Stu. “Our team has already done more extensive background checks on you, but I wanted to get your take on things, too. Plus, the more we get to know you, the more fun this will be, right?”

“Right.” I coughed, feeling kind of nervous. “So, uh, what do you guys want me to do here?” I asked. “Or wherever it is that we're going?”

Stu shrugged. “No biggie. Just be yourself.”

The general raised one eyebrow. “Oh, that can't possibly be enough,”

Emma laughed. But as insulting as the general's comment was, I couldn't help agreeing with him. “right. Like, shouldn't I do something? Or why am I here?”

“Mm-hm,” the general said. “Exactly.”

“No worries.” Stu patted my back. “There will be a place for you in the Brandon campaign. We'll have to wait a bit and see just what it is.”

A sudden, scary thought occurred to me. I was twelve, and Emma, the governor's snooty daughter, was twelve.…

I leaned over to the general and asked, “Am I only here just to be friends with her? That's not it, is it? Because we're
not
going to be friends.”

“Kid, I have no idea why you're here. If it were up to me, you'd be back home in Ohio, playing baseball. Or trying to, anyway.” He chuckled.

“You're the one who came to my house,” I reminded him. “You're the one who insisted.” Had he already forgotten that?

“Right. Well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “The poll numbers were up, way up. You're an asset to the campaign. You represent middle America. That's a good thing.”

“And our numbers are still looking great. We're still getting tons of hits on our site, linked from your YouTube video,” Stu said. “You've gone viral.”

“I'm just worried that this is all too temporary,” said the general. “We could backslide any second, and did you hear where Flynn is headed today? The Naval Academy. That's a tough image to compete with. Uniforms, flags, naval officers.” He shook his head. “We may take a dive after that.”

“What about the vice president?” asked Kristen.

“Mathias is visiting a wind farm in Iowa. For whatever that's worth.” The general didn't sound impressed. “We've already lost the rabid environmentalists, but we're holding on to the moderates.”

“Well, what do
we
have today?” asked Kristen.

Stu quickly checked his BlackBerry. “We're headed to Elyria to a big event sponsored by Ohio Grandmothers for Peace. After that, more appearances in and around Cleveland. And we have a kid with a clarinet that he may or may not know how to play.”

“I can play!” I insisted. “You got me on a bad day—that's all.”

Neither one of them said anything for a second. Then Stu said, “This is working for us. We're scrappy; that's our image. We're for the little guys. The small businesses, small towns. Middle America.”

“People trying to get by, make a decent living, contribute to a greater good through balanced taxes,” said the general. “Everyday people. Fairness in work and hiring. Personal freedom.”

“Battleground states,” I added.

Stu reached over and ruffled my hair. “Bingo! You're getting it, kid. You're really getting it!”

Fine, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to get it. And I definitely didn't want him messing up my hair. It wasn't spiky and he wasn't going to make it that way.

A few minutes later, we pulled up into the convention center parking lot. Secret Service agents got off the bus first to make sure the area was secure.