Vote (3 page)

I’m also a people person. I wrote to myself, “Kev likes animals AND people.” Another quality that was going to come in handy. I was just filled to the brim with characteristics that made me electable. All that was left was to let the student body know.

I didn’t have any time to waste, since I was dealing with a warp-speed, five-day campaign season. First: whip through the school day gathering support. Which might consist of bellowing in the halls to each and every person I knew by name, “I’m running for student-body president! Vote for me on Friday!”

Even though I know pretty much everyone in school because I’m an eighth grader and, let’s face it, lovable, there had to be a more efficient way of making myself known than hollering at every student. I needed to win over entire clumps of voters. What do they call them on TV during the presidential elections? Caucuses? Constituency? Cohort? Cormorants? Some C-word.

Note to self: dig out the thesaurus. No one likes to watch someone fumble for the, whatchamacallit, right words. Also: carry note cards. Everyone always
looks smarter referring to note cards. Even if they’re blank. I can’t prove it, but I’m sure teachers grade higher when they see that you’ve summarized your presentation on note cards; it shows you’ve done the work ahead of time. And, besides, a teleprompter would be, um, pretentious. And out of my budget, which is zero. And hard to carry through the hallway, while ruining the element of spontaneity. A guy like me has to take advantage of spur-of-the-moment opportunities to make strong impressions.

Oh, good, my first dilemma and I was handling it masterfully. Granted, I was just sitting in class taking notes. But the important thing was that I was working the problem, the problem wasn’t working me, and it was good experience for later. Political people are judged by how they handle a crisis. By that standard, I’m a golden child.

Who should I speak with first? I tapped my pencil against my notebook and concentrated. What’s the first interest group to approach? Teachers don’t vote. A real shame, considering how I’ve endeared myself to the faculty and staff, the recent bout with skipping classes and lying to everyone notwithstanding. But, hey, who hasn’t had a rough patch? It’s what makes the common man identify with a
public figure. Smart move, Kev—in hindsight, a brilliant strategy. Even my goofs are helpful to me if I regard them in the proper perspective.

I thought back to how the girls had feasted on Cash this morning. He’d locked down the female vote just because he was good-looking. And I couldn’t afford to lose half of the eighth grade right off the bat. Unless I got the younger girls on my side. Cash’s brand of physical perfection was probably intimidating to unworldly sixth- and seventh-grade girls. I’d play up my boy-next-door quality and win their trust. Given that I’d lived in this town my whole life and Cash had just invaded—I mean moved here—two weeks ago, I could consider “protective older brother to the younger girls” my turf.

Enter Milania Zeman, captain of the girls’ junior varsity basketball team, my entrée to the sixth- and seventh-grade female population.

I’d always considered Milania Zeman to be a shrill-voiced demon-brat, the kind of girl who’s likely to wind up on a reality television show, pulling her best friend’s hair and throwing food at her grandmother during a family gathering. But the younger girls in this school worship her because
she almost single-handedly led the squad to state last year. This school is known for dismal sports teams (sorry, JonPaul, but it’s a fact), so her success was a big deal. She was scary, but her influence was impressive.

Major bummer, though: I’d recently disagreed with her over who had dibs on the gym for practice. Excuse me, but the basketball team
can
run laps in the hallway, whereas the wrestling squad, of which I was a member briefly until another recent misunderstanding,
has
to use the gym because that’s where the mats are located. And no one ever died waiting twenty minutes for someone else to get done using the gym. Enough said.

Except to Milania, who argued with me loudly enough for the wrestling coach to ask, in the interest of the team, for me to resign to make peace with Milania, because the girls’ JV basketball team were defending state champions, and upsetting their practice time would lead directly to them losing state this year, which would then cause the Earth to slip off its axis and slide out of its rotation and crash into the sun. Or something.

To tell the whole truth, Milania had done me a
solid, since I wasn’t unhappy to hang up my singlet and retire with a 0–0 record. “Undefeated athlete,” I jotted in my notes. The public loves successful jocks.

Milania and I had gotten off on the wrong foot, but that was nothing we couldn’t repair with a good sit-down over lunch today. Face to face, we’d find common ground and become pals, after which she’d swing the vote of the sixth- and seventh-grade girls in my favor.

I’d have the underclass girls in my back pocket by sixth period today. Not bad, Kev, not bad at all.

As soon as I got to the lunchroom, before I could even look for Milania, a hand grabbed my T-shirt from behind and yanked me nearly off my feet, dragging me into a corner next to the milk cooler.

“I hear that pretty boy Cash Devine is running for president,” Milania snarled as I checked to see if she’d crushed my windpipe when she’d heaved me out of the milk line.

“Uh, yeah, I heard that too,” I said cautiously, smoothing my shirt back in place.

“I need you to run against him. And win.”

Interesting. “Why?”

“Donnerson and I had an agreement. Now he’s gone. I need someone in the student government who can see reason.”

“Agreement?”

“Look, a school our size doesn’t have a JV basketball team going to state championships without help from friends in high places. Understand?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Danny always made sure to arrange pep rallies for us on the days of our big games.”

“And?”

“Pep is
everything
. Support from the fans is the sixth player on the court.”

“I had no idea you felt so strongly about school spirit.”

“It’s what I live for. I used to be a really awful person before I found sports and was able to channel my aggression into a positive outlet.”

You mean there was a
worse
version of you? Yikes.

Milania was still talking: “If I didn’t have basketball, I can’t even imagine how I’d wind up.”

I could, but I didn’t share my mental image of her on that reality TV show.

“Why me? Why don’t you run against him if you know what you want from student government?”

“I admire you. A little.” She narrowed her eyes as she studied me. A chill ran down my spine as I hoped that middle school basketball really was going to be enough to keep her on the right path and away from becoming a violent, fame-seeking she-devil; sports heroes have the possibility of college scholarships, whereas angry mini-dictators face limited occupational opportunities. She continued, “You stood up to me, and that’s more than anyone else did.”

That’s because people are frightened of you, I said silently, hoping she couldn’t read my thoughts on my face. Note to self: practice blank faces in the mirror. And trustworthy smiles. And serious concern.

“Oh, well, I guess, I mean …”

“And I can make sure you’ll get elected. I’ll make sure you have the support you need to beat Cash. People listen to me.”

They tremble in fear, but sure, I can see why you’d put it differently. I nodded.

“So, what are you going to do?” Milania locked
her eyes on me. I am so glad I’m not a girl and I don’t play basketball, because that is not a look I’d want to see aimed in my direction with nothing more than a ref with a whistle to protect me.

“The only thing I can: run against him. But only because I see your need.” I tried to sound a little reluctant so she’d feel like she had talked me into this. It’s always good for people to think they owe you favors. I think that’s what they call political currency. Man, I am so glad Dad and I just watched that movie about the newspaper reporters who went after the president.

“Thanks. Remember: pep rallies the day of every game. It’s essential.”

Yeah, yeah, I thought, or else the Earth will collide with the sun. I smiled and nodded, feeling powerful. Ask and it shall be done.

I’d already struck my first political deal and I hadn’t even cracked open my lunch bag.

I. Am. Awesome.

I’d planned to ask if I could borrow Aunt Buzz’s conference room for my campaign headquarters—she runs her own interior design business—so I told JonPaul and Connie to meet me there after school. I was all set to blast straight over to talk to Buzz when I got a text from Mom: “GETHOMENOW.” Actually I received two texts; the first read “GETHOMENOW” and the second was 160 exclamation points.

What the …?

Oh. Right. Markie.

Markie’s my four-year-old neighbor, and I babysit him once a week. The relationship started
because I needed the money. Then it morphed into an I’m-a-good-influence-on-him-because-his-folks-are-splitting-up situation. Soon our arrangement became a Markie’s-good-for-me-because-he’s-surprisingly-wise-for-a-preschooler dealeo.

He’s staying at our house for a few days because his parents have gotten back together and are going on a second honeymoon. I feel partly responsible for saving their marriage; but that’s another story.

The point is: Markie’s parents had dropped him at our house that morning on their way out of town. Mom and Dad were each taking some time off work to watch Markie during the day with the understanding that as soon as I got home from school, they didn’t want to know we had a Markie under our roof. Fair enough.

Mom might have gotten a smidge tired of Markie by now. I love him, but a little goes a long way and Mom hasn’t got my knack with children. Plus, she’s old. You have to be young and fresh and on your toes to cope with Markie.

So I power walked home. Not only was I hurrying home to assume my responsibilities (another excellent character asset in anyone aspiring to hold
public office), but I was getting in shape and building stamina. The voting public likes healthy candidates who are in tip-top physical shape.

“Dutchdeefuddy.” Markie was waiting for me on our front stoop. He greeted me with his special name for me; it means best, most favorite buddy in the world forever. I waved at him, bent over, put my hands on my knees and tried to catch my breath. As I waited for the stitch in my side to subside, I congratulated myself on my foresight in holding my first workout so privately. Man, those bananas dipped in melted chocolate chips I’m always eating haven’t done me any favors.

“Hey, Markie,” I said when I could talk and breathe at the same time. “What are you doing on the front stoop?” I dropped down next to him.

Markie handed me a bottle of water from his backpack, which looks like a baby panda, and I chugged half the bottle.

“After we read eighteen picture books and made a fort out of pillows—do you know there are twenty-two pillows in your house and they’re all in the family room right now and only four are wet?—and played hide-and-seek with the cat—see my scratch?—and ate worm cookies—that’s what I call
the cookies with the chopped-up figs but it made your mom gag a little—and I still didn’t want to take a nap because I’m four and not a baby anymore, she said I should sit outside and think quiet thoughts until you got home and we both went far away for a long time. Do you want some more water?”

“Yeah, do you have another bottle in that backpack bear?”

“No, but there’s a puddle in the backyard.”

“Did I just drink water from the ground?”

“No.” But he was nodding yes.

Gross. But I had bigger things to think about than water. I popped a mint, hoping it would freshen my breath and kill any yard bacteria I’d just picked up. “C’mon, Markie, we’re going to Auntie Buzz’s office.”

“I love Auntie Buzz.” Markie smiled and slipped his hand in mine as we headed toward Buzz’s office. Of course Markie was crazy about Buzz; they’re both a little on the loony side. And I say that with love. Markie and Auntie Buzz are two of my favorite people. But they’re both a few crayons short of a full box.

I sent Mom a text on the way, letting her know the house was a Markie-free zone for a few hours.

We stopped by the bakery across the street from Buzz’s office. Sustenance. We both ordered a custard-filled doughnut, but then I remembered that Markie’s only four and needs to eat a healthy and well-balanced diet, so I changed his order to a mini–apple pie. Fruit is the cornerstone of any four-year-old’s snack time.

“It’s tiny,” Markie said. “It’s like I’m a giant and this is a regular-sized pie. Can we buy some magic beans so I can grow a beanstalk in the backyard?”

“Maybe later. Here, hold my doughnut while I put more sugar in the triple espresso for Auntie Buzz. Oh—hey, Goob, didn’t see you.”

Goober is JonPaul’s cousin and he’d gotten a job at the bakery because of me a few weeks back. I’d turned the owner on to a lucrative side business selling pastries at the local college’s dorms during study time. Goober had been hired to make the deliveries.

“Kevinnnnnn.” He air high-fived me since I had my hands full of espresso and Markie, who’d moved closer and grabbed my hand when he saw Goober. I can’t blame him. Goober had recently texted me to tell me he’d started growing dreadlocks. He’s pale and freckled, with bright red hair, and I don’t think he had the hang of how to start
new dreads. At least, I hoped not. He looked … clumpy. I peered closer and saw that he’d gathered sections of his hair in multicolored scrunchies and then twisted them around like some really horrible version of bed head. Dude, I thought, scrunchies are so out. Even little girls don’t wear scrunchies anymore. And Rastas with real dreads have never worn elasticized tubes of patterned fabric.

“I like your hair,” Markie whispered from behind my legs. “Did you get in trouble for doing that?”