Vote (6 page)

“Kevin.” Katie never really says “hi” or “how are you doing” or “did you catch the game last night?” She just says your name in a cold, clipped way that makes you want to change it even when she’s trying to be friendly and throws her version of a smile into the greeting. “I never got the chance to congratulate you yesterday.”

“I was just saying that exact thing to Cash,” I said, fake-smiling back at her, because, for some reason, Katie and I had silently agreed we didn’t want him to know we didn’t get along. “But I was pretty sure I knew you wished nothing but the best for me.” The best failure.

“What a great choice the voters of this school are facing—Kevin Spencer or Cash Devine.” If insincerity were toxic, Katie’s voice would have melted the paint on the walls.

“I was just thinking how lucky the school is,” I said, nodding, picturing myself making my acceptance speech in front of an adoring and fortunate crowd.

We had to stop walking at that point because three girls from my math class came up and asked
Cash if they could get a picture with him. Katie and I stepped out of the frame.

“Okay, look”—the real Katie was back, slitted eyes and no-nonsense voice—“I’ve set up a debate on Friday during lunch for the two of you. We’re setting up a mike in the cafeteria and you two can debate while everyone eats tuna noodle casserole. The vote is during last period Friday and the ballots will be counted over the weekend—Mr. Crosby’s taking the ballot boxes home with him. The winner will be announced Monday morning.”

I didn’t want to let her know I was impressed with her knowledge or mad at myself for not coming up with the debate idea first. I nodded. “That give you enough time to bring Cash up to speed with the topics you think are important and have him memorize what you want him to say?”

“It’ll be tight—but no, wait! I don’t—I’m just helping.” She blushed. Pretty soon Katie and I will probably do away with talking altogether, because we think along the same lines and seem to be
thisclose
to breaking the seal on telepathic communication with each other.

“Got ya. So, um …” I racked my brain for suitable
debate questions to ask. “Who’s, uh, moderating and what’s the, whaddayacallit, format?”

“I’ve already spoken to Mr. Crosby.” She looked at me like the fact that I hadn’t should be reason enough to call for a public flogging. “Given our—your—time limitations, it’ll be a three-question debate. He’ll provide each of us—you—with the same question today so that we—you—have time to prepare. He’ll ask his second and third questions extemporaneously. That is—”

I cut her off by raising my hand. “I know what
extemporaneous
means.” I’ve had Crosby long enough to know that’s how he rolls: he asks the next question based on the prior answer. He says that keeps things fresh, keeps the students on their toes. I think it keeps antiperspirant companies in business.

Good things come in threes. First Cash, then Katie, had appeared out of thin air at the perfect moment. Now Mr. Crosby walked past. Without breaking stride, he handed each of us an index card.

How do you plan to be of maximum service to your school, keeping in mind that, as a leader, you will be encouraging your classmates, teachers and parents to follow your example?

Ah. I can still make Cash look bad, but in a totally acceptable and brutally public fashion.

Like any good politician.

Katie might be able to prep Cash, but only for the first question. She wouldn’t have any way of coaching his responses to the second and third questions. And, from what I’d seen in my three-second conversation with Cash and while watching him interact with the voters now (lots of smiles and photos, no chat), he was all sizzle, no steak. Whereas I think on my feet.

I looked up from the index card Mr. Crosby had handed me, smiling. Katie was chewing her bottom lip, and her forehead had gone shar-pei-like. She was studying Cash, who was surrounded by girls. She caught me watching her and tossed her head. Katie’s not really a whip-your-hair kind of person, so I could tell she was worried.

I opened my mouth to tell her, hey, since we both have the same question, it won’t hurt anything to run through how we’re going to answer. We won’t be giving up the edge, we’ll be assuring a lively debate.

I meant to say that, really, I did. But then I saw Tina—or rather, I caught a whiff of her first,
since she smells like cookies in the oven and lilacs on a spring day and new puppies—and I closed my mouth and backed away.

Carefully. Because I have a habit of running into objects or mowing people over when Tina is anywhere near me.

I couldn’t risk doing anything that might make me look bad in this all-important, post–first date, pre–second date period of my relationship with Tina.

“Dutchdeefuddy.”

I was dreaming about Tina. She and I were arm in arm on the stage of the school auditorium, waving to the clapping audience. Cash was sitting in a corner, weeping. His face was splotchy, he looked pale and out of shape and a river of snot flowed from his nose.

“Dutchdeefuddy. Wake up.”

Tina smiled up at me while everyone chanted: “KEV KEV KEV.” And then Cash poked me in the eye with something soft and fuzzy.

“Hey, it’s morning.”

I opened the eye Markie hadn’t poked with
his teddy bear and looked up into his face. He was straddling my chest.

“Umph.” I yawned and stretched. “What time is it?”

“The little hand is on the number that comes after six and the big hand is three little lines past the five. It’s four o’clock. Time for breakfast.”

I closed my eyes again, trying to picture the position of the clock hands and wishing I had a digital alarm clock. And that Markie could count past six.

7:28. My eyes flew open and I jumped out of bed, sending Markie tumbling to the floor with a soft whump. Lucky I had blown up an air mattress for him next to my bed; it broke his fall.

Oh no. I’d overslept. How had that happened? I never oversleep. It’s unheard of. Timeliness is crucial to the success of any politician. Everything appeared to be conspiring against me. It was like the universe suddenly didn’t want me to be the political success I knew I could be. I didn’t get it.

“The clock started to make a loud noise that scared me but I pushed the button very fast so it didn’t wake you up,” Markie told me. “You’re welcome.”

“Why didn’t my mom and dad wake me up?
Or even Daniel and Sarah if they saw I wasn’t up yet?” I was hopping around my room with my pajamas half on while I grabbed a shirt from the nearest pile of clothes on the floor and gave it a quick sniff. Clean enough. I pulled my Buket o’ Puke ’n Snot (best band ever) T-shirt over my head and slid into a pair of jeans.

“They’re gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Dunno. Everyone drank lots of coffee standing up. Then your mom got a phone call and said a word that should get her mouth washed out with soap and wrote something on the fridge and ran out. Still in her bathrobe. Everyone else left.”

Weird. Even for Mom. “How do you know?”

“I hid in the front closet and watched like we did that one time. Your family’s not very friendly in the morning.” He thought for a minute, watching me try to find matching socks. “Are they zombies, Dutchdeefuddy?”

No one looks at socks, I finally decided, pulling on a couple of semi-clean gym socks and shoving my feet in tennis shoes. “Maybe Sarah. But probably not the rest. Ask them yourself later. Everyone
left? What am I supposed to do with you? It’s Wednesday. I have school. I have an election to win and a girl to get.” As I jogged to the kitchen, Markie trotting behind me, I speed-dialed Mom—my call went straight to her mailbox. I tried Dad—he didn’t pick up and neither did his voice mail.

I had to be at school in less than thirty minutes.
Where were they?
They did
not
forget about Markie. Aha! Notes. I spotted notes on the fridge. I bet they were all grateful that I’d gotten the magnetized notepad and held the webinar about the importance of keeping in touch. They’d grumbled, but now our family communication skills were stellar. Reminder: work
that
into a campaign speech.

I scanned the notes, hoping to read that Mom had just run out for milk before making Markie and me a special midcampaign breakfast of chocolate chip French toast with sliced bananas.

Am I the only one in this house who is trustworthy and steadfast? Apparently so.

It didn’t escape my notice that Mom had just spent Monday and Tuesday with Markie and had probably celebrated something as relatively low-key and calming as unrestrained water coursing through her bookstore. Dad could have taken Markie to the tourney and let him run with the other rink rats. But Dad says his best days with small children are behind him.

I studied Markie and eyed the phone; I have near-perfect attendance, so I could lie and have a sick day. But I couldn’t afford even the whiff of a scandal.

I slipped two waffles in the toaster and threw together two lunches. If Markie was going to school with me, I had to make sure he was
well fed. The only thing worse than a four-year-old at middle school is a cranky four-year-old at middle school.

I glanced up from slicing apples and saw him stuffing Sarah’s old Barbies and Daniel’s G.I. Joe figures in his panda backpack. Good thinking, Markie, prepare yourself for the day ahead.

But how to slip a four-year-old under the radar? Hmmm … My gaze fell on the flour canister and I got a brainstorm.

I texted Milania: “Meet me @ the flagpole B4 1st bell. Important.”

I frisbeed Markie a toasted waffle and he sat in the middle of the table eating while I ran through a list of the day’s objectives. The most successful and inspiring politicians always have a plan.

I grabbed Dad’s trench coat on our way out. Markie sang and hopped on one foot all the way to school. I made an alphabetized list of adjectives describing me:
astute, bold, cogent, dedicated, effective
. Or would
efficient
be more powerful?

I spotted Milania when we got to school. Markie and I jogged up.

“Hey, remember how I’m running for president because you asked me to?”

“Yeah.” She looked down at Markie and frowned. Bummer; not a fan of little kids. Well, tough, we all have to sacrifice for the greater good. Milania could Markie-sit for a little while.

“I need a favor in return.”

“You’re not even elected yet.”

“Details. It’s flour-baby week in home ec, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” She dropped her backpack to the ground and a cloud of flour poufed out. She bent down, unzipped her bag and yanked out a ratty-looking sack. Some flour spilled out of one of the many rips and tears.

“That baby has seen better days. What would you say if I told you I had the best flour baby ever and an idea guaranteed to get you an A in home ec?”

“I’d say, I’m in. Let’s hear it.”

“Dump the flour, take Markie.”

“Markie’s the one peeing in the bushes?”

“Yeah.” I pulled a bottle of hand sanitizer out of my bag, compliments of JonPaul, and tossed it at Markie, who dutifully used it. And then pulled up his cargo pants. “He won’t do that again,” I assured her before turning to Markie. “Don’t do that again.”

He shrugged, unwilling to commit.

“Here’s the thing: I’m in a child-care jam. I can
take him at lunch and my free period and probably even during social studies because I’ll explain to Mr. Crosby—somehow—that this is good for the campaign. Markie won’t be a problem in art because Mrs. Steck gets so excited at all the creativity in the room that she probably won’t notice Markie if I put a smock on him. And we have a sub in science, which means we’ll just do worksheets, so I can hide him behind one of the tall workstations. But I need help the other three periods.”

“Yeah, all right, but how—”

“You can hide out in the library. We’ll get you a pass from your home ec teacher. Say that you’re researching child development and need to observe and take notes and research the behavior he demonstrates. Passes practically write themselves when you explain you’re going above and beyond the call of duty. Then you and Markie can hang out in a study room.”

“For three class periods?”

“Intermittent periods. Plus, he has toys and snacks and a portable DVD player. You won’t even notice him. He practically raises himself. He’s a very low-maintenance child.”

“Okay.” She looked skeptical, but I hustled
her off to home ec to speak to Mrs. Nickerson before she could change her mind. Or Markie could pee again. When he wasn’t looking, I took the juice boxes and water bottles out of his panda backpack, just to be on the safe side.

Lucky I’m such a sweet-talker. I got Milania’s home ec teacher all excited about Project Markie. I could tell by the gleam in Mrs. Nickerson’s eye that she was thinking about assigning toddlers instead of flour babies next year. Great politicians always point out the implied or inferred, or whatever, benefits to all parties in every situation. Because people can’t always spot the advantages without some help.

Then I stashed Milania and Markie in the study room furthest from the librarian’s desk. Luckily, Markie likes sitting on the floor under a table—he pretends it’s a cave—so even if the librarian looked, all she’d see was Milania working.

I am a master at crisis management.

After placing Markie in a secure location—which is something that happens to politicians, usually former dictators—I went to language arts.