How Not to Run for President (9 page)

“Well, we've been wondering,” the governor said. “Don't you think maybe it's time for you to speak again?”

“Speak? You mean, in public?” Emma asked. “Him?”

“We'd like to set up some interviews. Tell me what you think. Also, I want you to play,” said the governor.

“Play?” I repeated.

She tapped the black case on the table. “Clarinet, what else? Emma, if you want, we can work in the flute. Make this a trio,” said her mother.

“Oh, no, not on your life,” Emma said under her breath.

“What's that?” her mother asked.

“I was just—it's just that, um, your duet will be better without me.” Emma smiled. Why did I get the feeling she was up to something?

“Where exactly would this performance be?” I asked. “At a campaign rally, like today?”

The governor and Stu exchanged awkward glances, as if there was something they didn't want me to know. “Sort of,” Stu said.

I didn't like the sound of that. “What does ‘sort of' mean?” I asked.

“It would actually be on TV,” Stu explained. “Bettina's rolling out her education platform tomorrow, which includes restoring funding for music and other arts. We've gotten her a spot on
Wake Up, America!
She'll be talking about the importance of music education, about how schools are being forced to cut programs and how wrong that is for our future.”

That was pretty much what Mort had said. If her issues were Mort's issues, playing clarinet with her would be okay, right?

“She wants to back up her passion for music with some physical evidence. Namely, you,” Stu said.

“Oh,” I said.

“Go figure,” said the general.

I knew that's why they'd asked me to come along. They were only asking me to do what I'd agreed to. So why was I nervous?

“We'll practice together, right now,” Governor Brandon said. “If things go well, we can play a duet. If not, there could be a brief, patriotic solo. What do you say, Aidan?”

I looked at Emma. I didn't want to play in front of her. She would mock me; I just knew it. “Uh, is there anywhere we could play that's kind of, you know, more soundproof?” I asked. “Someplace where we wouldn't disturb anyone?”

“Yeah.” Emma cracked her gum. “That's what I was thinking.”

“These walls are ironclad. I'm not allowed to stay anywhere that isn't practically a concrete bunker,” said the governor with a laugh. “No worries.”

“Actually, it's more of a, um, focus thing,” I said. As in, focus on not being humiliated by Emma. This wasn't good. If I couldn't handle her as an audience, how was I going to deal with however many millions would be watching
Wake Up, America!
?

Kristen turned off the iron and pushed the ironing board out of the way. “Fine, we'll give you privacy. Come on, Emma—let's hit the pool.”

“Yes!” Emma jumped up. I'd never seen her move so fast. She'd changed into her swimsuit, and was out the door with Kristen and a Secret Service agent in about two minutes.

Great. She got to go swimming, while I was stuck inside rehearsing with someone who hadn't played the clarinet in forty thousand years. So we could both embarrass ourselves on live TV. That was why Emma had muttered, “Not on your life!”

“I'm headed to the conference room to work on the next speech,” Stu announced. “I need to streamline some talking points. You coming?” he asked the general.

“I'm staying put. I've got to get to the root of this kid's appeal,” he said as if it made absolutely no sense to him.

After seeing those videos, I kind of had to agree. Although I had sounded cool at the mike. Maybe was a natural-born public speaker. Everyone has a gift. Maybe mine wasn't clarinet or playing shortstop, the way I'd thought. Maybe it was—

No. That was too boring. I wasn't going through life like these people.

I went into my room and came back with my clarinet. The general took one look at me and pulled a pair of noise-canceling headphones out of his briefcase. He plugged them into the TV and settled back on the recliner to watch.

“So, what do you have for music?” I asked the governor.

“I was counting on you, actually. I'm not sure what Dan put in here. At least he remembered the new reeds I asked for.” She sifted through the sheet music in the box. “How about these?”

We practiced for about an hour: Benny Goodman, a Cole Porter piece, some Sousa marches, “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “America the Beautiful,” which I played much, much better this time around. I decided not to show her the Mozart music I'd brought along. I didn't think she was up to that, and I didn't want to embarrass her.

The governor wasn't bad. She wasn't good, either, but she wasn't bad. If we practiced some more, we might actually do well at this.

For a few minutes I even forgot where I was. When I'm getting all the notes right, when everything is quiet and I can concentrate, I can go totally inside the music. Sometimes I don't want to come back out.

“That's real playing,” Mort had said to me once when I described the feeling to him. “That's what it's all about.”

When we had finished playing, the governor looked at me and nodded. “Nice. You have an ear.”

“Two of them, actually,” I joked.

She smiled. “Musicality, I mean.” She told me about her family, how she grew up singing at church. She came from a big family, like Simon's, and all her siblings would get together and sing as a group. “Sometimes I loved it; sometimes I hated it, and it was the last thing I wanted to do. But the thing about music is that it's kind of like public speaking. Learn the skill, and you can go many places with it.”

“That's what Mort always says about the clarinet! Learn it and you can learn any wind instrument afterward,” I said. “He's my music teacher,” explained.

“You know, I've heard that, too. Clarinet's the most versatile instrument in the world, isn't it? I read that somewhere.” She nodded. “You know what, Aidan? It's been so long since I could actually just sit and talk with one person. No microphones.”

I sighed. “I know what you mean.”

She smiled at me. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I said as I started to take apart my clarinet, removing the bell first.

“Don't be nervous about tomorrow. I've been on the show a hundred times,” the governor said. “Nicest people in the world.”

“I'm not that nervous,” I said.

Then I started thinking about it. Everyone I knew watched that show. My parents watched it. Christopher. My grandparents. Simon and his family. Mort. T.J. The entire population of Fairstone. The entire country.

I reassembled my clarinet. “But if it's all the same to you, Governor, I think we'd better keep practicing,” I said.

That night I couldn't sleep. One, I was extremely nervous about this plan to be on
Wake Up, America!

And speaking of waking up, our wake-up call was scheduled for five a.m., so we could get to the station at six and go on live at seven-something. What point was there in falling asleep if I had to get up that early?

Two, these days everything I did ended up on TV, anyway, or at least on YouTube. So why did we need to go to
them
?

Three, if I played on TV, I wanted to be really, really, really good. I didn't want to be like the small-town freak show that should have stayed home. I wanted to show everyone that my slip-up on “America the Beautiful” was due to the fact I'd been tackled by Secret Service agents, then frisked and suspected of terrorism. I was better than I'd been that day. Much better. I didn't want Mort cringing when he heard me.

Four, I'd promised to get revenge on Emma. How was I going to do that, exactly?

Whenever I've had trouble in baseball, or learning long division, or the upper register of the clarinet, I've always dealt with it by practicing over and over.

When I was little, I used to say, “If you don't get a success, try, try again.” Then Christopher made fun of me, so I switched it to “If at first you don't secede, try, try again.”

That also got some laughs, because I got the wording wrong, but that's the thing with me. I don't give up easily.

I pulled on a sweatshirt over my T-shirt, grabbed my clarinet case from beside the bed, picked up a key, and crept out of the room.

I had to find a place that was quiet enough. Maybe a broom closet would work. I could ask at the front desk. Maybe I could use the ballroom, or the exercise room, if no one else was using it at midnight. This hotel was so fancy, it probably had rehearsal space for its guests.

When the elevator doors opened onto the spacious lobby, I was shocked to see Emma lounging on a sofa by the fireplace.

There was a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table beside her, next to a can of soda and a plate of sliced apples with caramel dip.

“What are you doing down here? You're not allowed to leave the room!” I looked around frantically for Kristen, or a Secret Service agent or two, but didn't see anyone. Were they hiding behind the plants?

“Well, don't tell anyone,” she said. “But sometimes I grab a key—”

I was stunned by her boldness. “You get around the Secret Service? I thought that was impossible!”

“Oh, please. I've been around this kind of security forever. They're only human. They have to sleep sometimes, too.”

“Yeah, but don't they work in shifts?” I asked.

She shrugged. “All I know is, no one was around. I took advantage.” She ate a handful of popcorn. “Why, how did
you
manage to get out?” She made it sound like we'd escaped a maximum-security prison.

I shrugged. “I grabbed a key card that was sitting on top of the TV. It wasn't complicated.” I sat down in an armchair. She was watching a baseball game with the sound down low. Not just any game, either: it was the Minnesota Twins against the Cleveland Indians. And the score was tied, in the eleventh inning.

“Well, no, because nobody cares about your safety,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

She laughed. “I just meant—”

“I know you don't care, but some people do. Like my parents. They're just not here right now,” I said.

“I know, I know. I only meant that no one's watching you twenty-four/seven, the way they're watching me,” she said. “I can't even go to the bathroom without it being a major security alert.”

“Why? What could happen?” I asked. “Do I want to know?”

Her face turned pink. “Nothing.”

“What do they think is going to happen to you?” I asked.

“They think I'm going to escape out the window or something. Or get kidnapped, I guess. Since I'm famous. They refuse to let me out of their sight.”

“I'd never heard of you before yesterday,” I said.

“Well, you probably don't even get cable where you live.”

“Well … er … actually, no. Not anymore.” I shrugged.

“What do you mean, not anymore?” she asked.

“We had to give up a few things since my mom's been out of work,” I said.

“Oh, sorry. That must be hard.” She actually looked nice and sort of honest for a second. “Anyway, have a seat if you want. Chuck over there made me some microwave popcorn, and we tracked down some apples from the breakfast stash.” She waved at the clerk working behind the desk. “It's okay, Chuck—he's a friend,” she said.

I was? Since when was I a friend?

“So what were you planning? A serenade?”

“Huh?” I asked, distracted by the baseball game.

“Your clarinet.” She pointed to the instrument case I was still cradling in my arms.

“I thought I could practice. I couldn't sleep,” I said. “But now that I know this is on, forget it. I'll watch this instead.”

“The way they hog the TVs up there, you'd never know there was anything
but
news on.” She rolled her eyes. “Bo-ring.”

“I know, right?” I agreed.

“I can't believe the Twins are losing,” Emma said. “The Indians are only the worst team in the AL right now.”

“What? They are not!” I said. “The Tigers are way worse.”

“Maybe. Not as bad as the Orioles,” said Emma.

“Yeah, but they're not in the central division,” I said.

“Duh. I know that,” Emma said.

“You'll have to cheer for the Nationals soon,” I said.

“I hate National League teams. Who wants to see pitchers trying to hit? And have you seen the Nationals' caps? I mean, come on,” she said.

“Don't let the reporters hear you say that.”

“What?”

“That you hate the National League,” I said. “That could be really bad for your mom.”

“Do you really want to know the truth? Why I'm down here? I couldn't sleep, either,” Emma said, rubbing the side of her face. “I keep thinking about stuff like that. Moving to Washington, if she wins.”

“Cool, huh? I'd be psyched if I were you,” I said. “Just the buildings—every time I see them on TV, they're so majestic. Or whatever.”

She didn't look all that excited about it, which was strange. If I got to move into the White House, I'd have my own room—my own wing—and it would be gigantic. I'd probably have a butler, a maid, and anything in the world I wanted: the latest video games, a decent computer or two, my own
phone
, even.

Of course, I'd hardly ever be home because I'd travel all the time. I'd fly to faraway places, like California and, I don't know, Greece, Egypt, and Spain. I'd see any major-league game I wanted. Forget the cheap seats; I'd have a luxury box. I'd meet the players. I'd throw out first pitches. I'd—

“I hate new stuff,” Emma finally said, interrupting my daydream. “I hate being the new kid in school, I don't want to try out for new teams—that is, if they'll even let me try out for new teams, because I might be out of their sight for two seconds chasing down a foul ball—”

“How far foul is it going to be?” I asked. “Virginia?”

She started laughing. “You're funny when you're not being a dork.”

We were having fun, until I remembered how she'd thrown me under the bus, or actually, under the drums onstage. “Yeah, thanks. For nothing,” I said.

Emma sipped a soda. “So why couldn't
you
sleep?” she asked.

“Haven't you heard? I have to be on TV in the morning. Not just TV—
Wake Up, America!
” Just saying it gave me butterflies. “I have to help your mom convince people to vote for her.”

“Yeah. I heard.” She passed me the bowl of popcorn. “Is
that
why you brought your clarinet down here?”

“I was going to rehearse, but … never mind.” The game was going into the twelfth inning, and there was popcorn to eat.

What felt like a few minutes later, someone was shaking my arm. really strongly. “Aidan! Wake up, wake up!” a voice was saying.

I struggled to open my eyes, but I was so tired.

“What are you even
doing
down here? We looked everywhere for you. Oh, you kids are going to be the death of me!” Kristen cried.

“Kids? Plural?
I
didn't do anything,” said Emma, who was beside Kristen.

Kristen began shaking my shoulders. “Aidan, get up. Why are you here and not in your room? You're not allowed to sneak out and sleep in the lobby!”

“Who won?” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked up to see the entire campaign staff standing over me. Emma was dressed for the day, and behind her stood her mother, all ready for our
Wake Up, America!
interview.

Meanwhile, I was wearing my ratty old sweatshirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and hugging my clarinet case to my chest like it was a teddy bear. And I was in public! Except it was the middle of the night, and it was still dark outside. I glanced at the clock above the lobby fireplace. 5:45 a.m. How did it get so early so quickly? Wasn't it just midnight? I glanced over at the front desk, where Chuck was still working.

“You were just here. We were watching the Indians-Twins game,” I said to Emma. “Why didn't you wake me up when it was over?”

Emma ignored me. She looked around the lobby. “What's the deal with the breakfast? When does that start? I'm starving.”

“Emma, you were right here. It was the twelfth inning,” I said.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Emma. “I wasn't here.”

“Yes, you were.” I sat up. “You were right here, and Chuck was over there, and we had popcorn—”

“I was in my room the whole night,” she said, shooting daggers at me. Then I remembered: she
really
wasn't allowed out at night. Still, I would have liked to have had a partner in crime. Then maybe I wouldn't look so bad.

“You must have been dreaming, kid,” said the general. “Come on, I'll follow you back upstairs and wait while you get dressed. You have five minutes.” He strode over to the elevator and pressed the up button. “Of course, with your wardrobe, that's more than enough time.”

I yawned and stretched my arms, still holding the clarinet. Who even got up at five in the morning? The only other person I could think of who'd be awake was my dad, at work. I suddenly missed him and wished I could call him. He'd know what to say to make me calm down. He'd say, “Whatever happens, it'll be over soon. One way or another.”

That was what he said whenever I had to go to the dentist, and it seemed like this TV show could be about as unpleasant.

“FYI, the Twins won it in fourteen,” the general said. “Indians had a chance to win, but that new closer—what's his name?”

“Hayashi?” I said.

“Right. He gave up a three-run homer in the bottom of the fourteenth inning,” the general told me. “Course, the Twins only needed two runs to win it.
Sayonara
, Indians.”

“Great. Just great,” I said as we stepped into the elevator. Even my heroes were letting me down.