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“Little dude.” Goober grinned down at Markie and then looked back at me. “You didn’t tell me you had a kid! This. Is. Blowing. My. Mind. Kev has his own kid.”

“Uh, Goob? I’m fourteen. He’s not mine. He’s just a friend.”

“Sure, ‘just a friend.’ ” He did air quotes with his fingers and wrinkled his face at me. “No worries. I don’t judge. Guy in my poli-sci class, he brings a ‘friend’ in a baby carrier on his back to class. It’s all good. Oh, wow”—he noticed Markie’s backpack—“I’ll trade you my wallet chain for that panda.”

“Deal.” I watched them hook Goober’s chain to a belt loop on Markie’s cargo pants and wrap it
around his waist to take up the slack—Goober is very tall and Markie is, well, four. Goober couldn’t fit his arms through the panda straps, so he held the backpack like a baby.

“Okay,” I told them, heading for the door, “now that the accessories exchange is complete: this espresso is burning a hole in my hand. Over to Buzz’s office.”

“Who has a crazy name like Buzz?” Goober petted the panda.

“Well, gee,
Goober
, that
is
a crazy name, isn’t it?” He nodded and rolled his eyes, totally missing my point. I sighed and explained, “It’s my aunt’s nickname because she drinks too much coffee. Her office is across the street, and JonPaul and Connie are meeting me there to discuss helping me run for student-body president.”

“Can I come with? I just stopped by to pick up my check. Be nice to see JP.”

“Yeah, sure, take Markie’s hand while we cross the street.” I probably should have told Markie to take Goober’s hand; Markie’s got more common sense and always remembers to look both ways.

This’ll be fun, I thought: Markie, Goober and Buzz in the same room. But then I realized
that no politician has ever gotten to choose their public. They play the hand that’s dealt them, citizen-wise, and so would I. Speaking in front of my family and friends would be good experience, since none of them, obviously, could vote for me, but I could still practice my speeches on them and use them as a focus group for, uh, whatever focus groups are used for. Connie would know. I’d leave details like that to her and concentrate on the fun things like affecting public policy and being adored.

We ran across the street and burst into Buzz’s office. I handed her the coffee and, hot as it was, she tossed it back in three gulps. She didn’t take a breath. Her esophagus is either made of cast iron or lined with scar tissue.

I noticed Goober eying her appreciatively. Goober has a thing for my mother, I found
that
out a couple weeks ago, and Mom and Auntie Buzz share a strong family resemblance.

“Betsy,” I hissed, reminding him of his girlfriend when he shifted the panda to his left hand and leaned forward to introduce himself to Buzz. He slapped his forehead and took a step back. I can’t blame him for forgetting; the idea of someone
like Goober having a girlfriend, especially one as … literate and clinically sane as Betsy, is hard to wrap your mind around. He smiled at Buzz, though, and nudged me, nodding. I shook my head at him: no hitting on my relatives.

“Ooh, blocks!” Markie and his new wallet chain jangled across the room. Buzz has a worktable full of wooden blocks in her reception area. She uses them for, um, spacial relativity or, uh, something, when she starts putting together rooms. I only know that much because Sarah and Daniel and I bought them for her for Christmas one year. Goober loped over to the block table and started divvying up the arches and columns between him and Markie. Hours of fun. That’d keep them busy while I negotiated space with Buzz and started the meeting when JonPaul and Connie arrived. I felt a sudden kinship with working parents, who have to occupy their kids while they try to get things done.

Look at that: one day into the campaign and already I was developing empathy with people I didn’t have anything in common with. So many awesome examples of my innate political ability had been wasted in this single day because no one had been there to witness them. Dang.

“You won’t be holding illegal gambling on my property again, will you?” Buzz narrowed her eyes and studied me. I’d hosted a small card game in her office the last time I’d asked to sublease from her.

“Of course not. I don’t gamble anymore. Or lie. Or play matchmaker. I’m running for office.”

“Uh-huh. You say that like it’s a step up from your past behavior.”

“See, that’s the problem: today’s citizen is skeptical of the political process. Too much empty dialogue, too many broken promises. I aim to change all that.”

“Sure you do. Well, okay, if you want to run for president, be my guest. But if I see so much as one playing card on my premises, I’m going to smack your behind so hard your grandchildren’s grandchildren will be born with stinging buttocks.” She filled her cup with coffee, huffed back to her office and slammed the door.

“I’ll just go see if I can help her,” Goober said, practically leaping across the office and rat-a-tat-tatting on her door. Markie followed him, an armful of building blocks clutched to his chest.

Whew! It’s official: we have office space for the
campaign. Now I just needed some staff. I turned and saw JonPaul, Connie and JonPaul’s girlfriend, Sam, opening the door.

Things were about to start getting good. I now had people on-site who would bear witness to my greatness and help me make the world a better place, one middle school at a time.

I felt the same sudden surge of energy and optimism that Thomas Jefferson must have felt when he signed the Louisiana Purchase papers with France. Or was he the one who bought Florida from Spain? Well, it must have totally rocked for him back then, just like it did for me right now.

Before I could open my mouth, JonPaul gave a huge yawn, Sam sniffled and wiped tears from her cheeks, and Connie, who had her nose buried in a textbook, walked into a coffee table.

“Great, glad you’re all here. You too, Sam, even though you don’t go to our school. Why are you crying?”

“MyhamsterHumphreydied.” Even in grief, Sam talks superfast. I was surprised she hadn’t owned a chipmunk, because she sounds like one sometimes.

Bummer about the little guy kicking the bucket. News of the recent death of a loved one is a real downer in terms of launching the campaign season
with a bang. So I did what all good politicians do when faced with a potentially awkward situation: I ignored it and moved on. With purpose and power, because then it’s not rude, it’s just presidential.

“Okay! As every student of the political arena knows, there are five crucial stages we must address as we become a well-oiled machine dispensing political clout and civic-minded, uh, greatness.”

“Oh, wait: I know this one.” JonPaul raised his hand like he was in class. “The five stages of sleep. Did I tell you that I just figured out that my rest is neither restorative nor recuperative like the fancy mattress advertisement says it should be?”

“Uh, no, you didn’t mention that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s true. My theta waves and sleep spindles, you know, light sleep, are in good shape.”

“We’re all grateful to hear that.”

As usual, JonPaul missed my sarcasm. “I know, right? But my delta waves and REM, that’s where I’m all messed up. Oh, wait, that’s only four. See, I’m so tired I’m losing memory function.”

“And this is important because …?” As much as I know I shouldn’t encourage JonPaul to obsess about issues surrounding his health, sometimes I can’t help egging him on. He’s a germaphobe,
a gym rat and a health nut, and it’s pretty good humor listening to him discuss the dangers of microorganisms, his fitness routine and what he puts in his body and how it later comes out. The fixation on rest was new, though.

“There is no way I can repair the damage to and encourage the growth of healthy cells if I’m not resting adequately. I’m aging faster than I should. Do you know what that’s going to do to my athletic career if I’m already a fourteen-year-old in a twenty-two-year-old body?”

“Sounds rough, buddy, and I feel for you, but the five stages of sleep are not what we’re discussing. Does anyone else have a guess?” I could have just told them, but real leaders encourage those around them to think for themselves. We lead people to discover great ideas on their own, we don’t just hand them out for free.

“It’sthefivestagesofgrief,” Sam answered, sniffling. “Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.”

“Uh, no. But, again, sorry you’re having such a rough time, Sam. It must be, um, painful to have lost your hamster.”

“Hamsters are hindgut fermenters,” Markie
said. He’d deserted Buzz and Goober and was building a castle on the floor next to me, his panda backpack once again clinging to his shoulders.

“How do you know that and what does that even mean?” Leave it to Markie to have the best vocabulary in the room.

“Your mom and I read it in a book this morning. Hamsters eat their own poopies.”

“They do not.”

“Actually, they do.” Connie looked up from her studying. “Hamsters ingest their feces in order to digest their food a second time, a practice known as coprophagy.”

“Why would anyone do that, even a hamster?”

“To obtain the proper nutrients from its food.”

“That is grosser than drinking mud-puddle water like I did earlier and I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Time to get back on the beam. Does
anyone
know what five things I’m trying to get you to name?”

“Is it the five stages of mitosis?” Connie murmured, her nose buried in her notebook. “Because I have a test on cell division tomorrow, and it would be super helpful if we could review that chapter
together.” She absentmindedly handed Sam another tissue and turned a page.

“No, group development. I’ve been reading up on this and—you’re going to love this—the key elements are forming, storming, norming, performing and adjourning.”

“That last word doesn’t rhyme,” Markie pointed out.

“Good catch. Plus, it’s negative, so we’ll skip that step.” Another important quality of a politician—cutting the deadwood. Look how trim and sleek this campaign was. Man, we were humming. I bet people on the street were stopping and cocking their heads trying to figure out where the buzz of success was coming from.

“In a nutshell, today’s meeting is all about team building.” I pulled out the notes I’d written up during my study period in the library, where I’d researched what it took to develop a healthy group dynamic. “(A) Forming: The group looks to the group leader, me, for guidance and direction. (B) Storming: The organization of the task function dimension—that’s when I tell you what to do. (C) Norming is when, um, interpersonal relations are characterized by cohesion, and, uh, I don’t
really get that one. Pull together, maybe? And finally, (D) performing, obviously, is the moment when people work independently and yet inter-dependently, which means you do what I tell you in small groups. Group identity, morale and loyalty are rocking on all cylinders at this point.”

I looked up from my notes and gazed into the middle distance as if I was seeing a future that the four of us, four and a half if you counted Markie, would forge from the nothingness of our current student government. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and said:

“I’m working,
we’re
working, on behalf of our entire school, for the betterment of generations as yet unborn and for those bratty and ungrateful sixth and seventh graders coming up behind us.”

I paused, slowly exhaled, opened my eyes and prepared to receive their admiration.

JonPaul’s head was thrown back on the couch; he snored softly and was drooling a little. Sam was looking at pictures of her hamster on her phone and wiping away tears. Connie was having an online video chat with—I snuck a peek—Katie, who was standing in front of a whiteboard pointing to various chemical equations.

Markie was watching me intently. I was gratified by his attention. Then he said, “Look, Dutchdeefuddy: I’m a giant and this is the village and I’m going to destroy it.” He swept his arm through the blocks and knocked down the structures he’d just built.

Thanks, Markie, good reminder: if you want anything done, you have to do it yourself.

I love these guys, I really do, but they don’t have what it takes to run with the big dogs and I’m going to have to let them go. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tingling with excitement at the thought of my first staff purging. Everyone does it. They probably teach it in Poli-Sci 101.

Or they should.

JonPaul, Sam and Connie all agreed that they weren’t cut out to be political advisors. No hard feelings. They wished me the best of luck and, except for Sam, who goes to another school, promised me their votes.

See? This is what today’s politicians are lacking: swift and decisive action, no looking back. You’ve got to clean house, kick booty and shake your groove thang. The whole political world was making so much sense to me, I was the tiniest bit freaked out. Like maybe I was tapping into a former life or something? Yeah, I could see myself as a Roman emperor. Too bad we didn’t
have those leafy crowns and chariot races at our school.

Markie, Auntie Buzz and I walked home together after the meeting. Buzz lives in the apartment over our garage, and Markie, of course, was my new roommate. We reminded Goober that he had to get to work when he started walking with us. He’d have followed Buzz home like a puppy.

“I have an announcement,” I bellowed as soon as Markie, Buzz and I opened the kitchen door. My family was standing around the counter, eating delivery pizza straight from the boxes. Man, if a reporter from the school paper came over to do some kind of “day in the life” piece on me, I was going to insist that my family have a proper meal in the dining room for the photos. Like the Kennedys. Maybe even some touch football in the backyard afterward.

“What is it, maggot?” Sarah, my sixteen-year-old sister, snarled.

“Hey, wanna hear the longest burp ever?” Daniel, my fifteen-year-old brother, chugged a glass of soda and, um, held forth.