Don't Vote for Me (12 page)

I went after her, of course, but by the time I reached the curtain, she'd already disappeared. I looked left, then right, but before I could decide which way to go, Mr. Ashton appeared out of nowhere.

“That was
stupendous
!” he announced, rattling the ceiling tiles. “You simply must do an encore!”

I shook my head. “We can't!”

“You can!” Mr. Ashton shouted.

“No, we can't!” I shouted back. “Veronica is gone.”

He turned his ear toward me. “What did you say?” he replied.

“I said, Veronica is gone!” I gestured toward the flimsy curtain (which was shivering in the breeze). “So you're gonna have to tell them to stop clapping!”

The blood drained from his cheeks. “I can't say
that
!” he hissed.

“Well, you're gonna have to say something.”

Mr. Ashton threw his arms up. “Fine!” After straightening his lapels, he plastered a grin across his face and headed back onto the stage.

I should have known that Mr. Ashton could plaster grins across his face. I'd always thought of him as a late-night televangelist who'd missed his calling in life, but then, his real job wasn't much different.

While Mr. Ashton made our excuses, I dried my hand off on my pants. If I could figure out why she'd run off, I might be able to find her. But as soon as he made the announcement, people rushed onto the stage and poured around the flimsy curtain. Hands shook mine violently, and every time I turned around, someone wanted to say hi or compliment me on my performance. I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and tell them that it was Veronica, but no one would let me get a word in edgewise.

I was about to give up hope when I spotted a familiar bow tie on the outskirts of the crowd. “Mr. Lietz!” I shouted. “Hey, Mr. Lietz, over here!”

He couldn't see me right away, but when he spotted my bandaged hand (which I was waving frantically), he managed to work his way over. “Good evening, David,” he replied. “What a magnificent performance—and with an injury, no less.”

I batted that away. “I only had a few measures.”

Mr. Lietz nodded knowingly. “And did you write the descant yourself?”

“Oh, no, that was Veronica. It was
all
Veronica.”

Mr. Lietz clicked his heels together. “You two make quite the pair, don't you?”

I knew exactly what he meant. “You know, Mr. Lietz, she was really glad that you could come. She was just telling me that she thinks your school's pretty amazing.”

Mr. Lietz smiled. “Then the feeling is mutual.”

I didn't know what he meant by
that
, but I didn't have a chance to ask him before he cleared his throat.

“I'm afraid I have to go, but please tell Veronica that I'd be happy to discuss her options at her earliest convenience.” He handed me a card (which I quickly stuffed in my back pocket), then gave my shoulder a pat. “I think you and Veronica have bright futures ahead.”

I held up my hands. “Oh, no, I'm not interested…”

But I couldn't decide how to finish that sentence, so I didn't.

Mr. Lietz didn't press me. “You'll tell Veronica?” he asked.

I dipped my head. “Of course.”

“Then I should let you get back to your celebration.”

Mr. Lietz slipped away as silently as a ninja, leaving me to navigate the backstage brawl alone. The crowd whirled and swirled around me, poking, prodding, jostling, but when I caught a whiff of lilac, I knew that I'd found Mom.

“David,” she said softly, wrapping her arms around me from the side, “that was the loveliest thing I've ever heard. I think you and that trumpet are finally starting to get along.”

“It wasn't me, it was Veronica.” I took a step back so I could look Mom in the eyes. “You haven't seen her, have you?”

“No,” Mom said, shaking her head. “Not since your performance, anyway.”

I glanced over her shoulder. “I just need to tell her…”

“What?”

That the nocturne had been awesome. That she was smart and strong and brave. That Mr. Lietz wanted to discuss her options at her earliest convenience. But I couldn't bring myself to say those things out loud.

“Oh, nothing,” I replied as I scratched the back of my head.

Mom smiled knowingly. “Then you'd better go and find her.”

Dad, who'd been fending off the teeming hordes, raised a hand to shield his eyes. “You'd think she'd be easy to spot.”

I felt my shoulders slump. “She isn't here, is she?” I asked.

Dad clapped me on the back. “Then there's just one thing to do.”

I crinkled my nose. “What's that?”

“Why, get out of here!” he said as he cleared a path toward the door.

I glanced at him, then at Mom, then plunged headfirst into the opening. For the first time since I'd broken them, my fingers didn't hurt at all.

The first thing I did when I burst into the hall was stop to catch my breath. The crowd was a lot thinner out here, so it wasn't as difficult to see. I checked both ways, then stopped to think, trying to decide which way to go. A few scattered clumps of people were milling around the commons, so I bet she'd headed south.

I found her outside the south door, just down the hall from the band room. She was talking with her parents, which I assumed was a good sign, since they clearly hadn't killed her. The recessed lights overhead dripped liquid gold onto their cheeks, softening their harsh features and blurring their rough edges. It made Ms. Pritchard look more beautiful and Mr. Pratt look less severe.

I looped my arms across my chest and settled in to wait them out. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but someone had propped the door open, so I couldn't help but overhear.

“—were amazing,” Mr. Pratt was saying. My jaw nearly dropped.

Ms. Pritchard nodded her agreement as she puffed on her cigarette. I guess she hadn't noticed the NO SMOKING sign behind her. “Those folks would've followed you to the moon and back,” she said. “That's power, Ronny. That's
real
power.”

Veronica crinkled her nose. “I don't play for power, Mom, and I don't play for praise, either.” She lowered her gaze. “I play to show people what I look like from the inside looking out.”

Ms. Pritchard smirked. “Well, you certainly did
that.
You might as well have taken all your clothes off and run around naked on that stage.”

I forced myself not to snort. Why did Ms. Pritchard ruin everything?

Mr. Pratt ignored her. “So why do you need Lietz House?”

“Yeah,” Ms. Pritchard said, aiming her cigarette at Veronica. “Aren't we good enough for you?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then snapped it shut again. “No,” she finally said, “you're not.”

Ms. Pritchard's lips puckered. Mr. Pratt gritted his teeth. A part of me felt proud of her, but another part felt sad, too. If her parents weren't enough, then I wasn't enough, either, but then, that didn't surprise me. I'd already figured out that she was meant for bigger, better things.

“I want to
do
things,” she went on. It was like she'd read my mind. “Learn a language, see the world.” When she dropped her gaze this time, a shadow fell across her face. “I want to be more than what I am.”

Ms. Pritchard stuck her hands on her hips. “What's wrong with being a Pritchard-Pratt?” she asked.

“
Nothing
,” Veronica replied. “But what's wrong with being a better one?”

It was a legitimate question, but Mr. Pratt didn't take the time to answer it, just patted her arm.

“Well,” he said diplomatically, “we don't have to decide tonight. You're, what, ten, eleven?”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I'm twelve and a half,” she said.

“When did
that
happen?” he asked, scratching the back of his head. When no one answered, he added, “You've become quite a young lady.”

Veronica half snorted, half gurgled. When a tear spilled down her cheek, I realized that she was crying. Embarrassment squirmed in my stomach, but before I could decide whether I was supposed to go or stay, something amazing happened: Mr. Pratt grabbed his daughter's arm and pulled her into a hug.

They just stood there hugging for what felt like a long time, Mr. Pratt's sweat-stained T-shirt muffling her louder sobs. Ms. Pritchard puffed on her cigarette, seemingly unaffected by this display, but it was all that I could do not to gawk. Any leftover ideas that might have been shuffling around my head instantly melted away, and I was forced to accept that Veronica was a human being, with goods and bads and hopes and fears. We might not have had a lot in common, but in every way that mattered, we were exactly alike.

I'd just decided to leave when Veronica sniffled. I probably should have kept going, but like a moron, I looked back. As soon as our eyes met, I knew that I'd been caught white-handed.

I covered my face with my bandaged hand, furious at myself for staying. I thought about slinking away, but she'd already seen me. There was no reason to run now.

Mr. Pratt and Ms. Pritchard touched Veronica's arm, then went their separate ways. Ms. Pritchard swayed up the sidewalk, but Mr. Pratt headed back in. When he dipped his head at me, I blushed down to my toes.

I waited until her parents had vanished, then awkwardly shuffled out the door. The evening hadn't turned to night, so the sky was pink and frothy, like a strawberry milkshake. The doorway still smelled like smoke, but it smelled flowery, too, like Ms. Pritchard's perfume. For once, it didn't make me gag.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I really didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just had all these things to tell you, and when I found you, I just…stayed.”

It was a pretty lame excuse, but she didn't call me on it, just tilted her head back and stared solemnly up at the sky.

“Anyway,” I hurried on, “I just wanted to tell you that the nocturne sounded great. I mean, you sounded great. I mean, you sounded great while you were playing the nocturne.”

She half smiled, half winced. “Yeah, my dad said the same thing.”

“I know, I heard him,” I replied, then realized how that must have sounded. “Not that I was trying to overhear him. It's just that someone left the door open, so I could hear what he was saying.” I tugged at my bandage, accidentally unraveling a loose thread. “Oh, and Mr. Lietz wanted me to give you this.”

I handed her the card (which had gotten slightly crumpled), but she didn't bother to inspect it, just tucked it into her pocket and blinked up at the sky. I had to force myself not to shake words out of her. When she was ready, she would talk. Until then, I'd have to wait. I shoved my good hand in my pocket, then carefully pulled it back out. Shoved it in, then pulled it out.

Finally, I blurted, “I think you should be class president.”

Veronica didn't react. “Then I'm sure Spencer is glad that it isn't up to you.”

I honestly couldn't decide whether or not she believed me. The milkshake sky faded to purple, then, finally, settled on blue. Even though it was the end of May, a cold wind whipped down the street, and I turned to go inside, but I didn't make it through the door before she said, “She gave it to me.”

I glanced back. “Who gave you what?”

“My piano,” she replied. “You asked me where I got it, and I told you that I stole it. But I didn't really steal it. Old Lady Foster gave it to me after Evelyn told her she didn't want it. When Evelyn found out, she threw this terrible fit and tried to convince her grandma to take it back. Luckily, her grandma didn't budge.” She sent me a sideways glance. “I just wanted you to know.”

I swallowed. “Thanks for telling me.”

Veronica half nodded, half shrugged. “How would I have moved it, anyway?”

I blushed despite myself. “Well, I thought of that, but…never mind.”

She perked up. “No, what'd you think?”

I fumbled for an answer that wouldn't make me sound idiotic, then, finally, settled on the truth: “That you were a superhero.”

Veronica's sad smile didn't make it to her eyes. “I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

The election had always seemed so far away, and now it was just around the corner, only one wake-up away. I didn't think that I was ready—but ready or not, here it came.

The déjà vu made me jumpy. As I snuck a peek around the curtain, I couldn't help but dodge the spotlight (even though it wasn't on). If it hadn't been for my
Ghostbusters
shirt (circa 1993), I might have thought that I'd been sucked back into last night's recital.

At least it had occurred to them to leave a chair for me. It looked exactly like Veronica's, but I still couldn't sit down. I was as jittery as Ms. Clementi after her morning cup of coffee, but that was probably Spencer's fault.

“David!” he shouted in my face. Though it was barely after eight, his breath already smelled like Cheetos. “Are you even listening to me?”

“No, not really,” I admitted. I was through with scams and lies.

He raked a hand through his black hair. He must have forgotten that he'd gelled it, because his hand came away sticky. “Well, concentrate!” he said, pointing his chin at my shirt. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you weren't taking this seriously.”

Not only had he done his hair, but he'd borrowed a suit for the occasion. He'd wanted me to dress up, too, but I was also through with suits.

“Listen,” Spencer whispered after glancing at Veronica, “I took the last straw poll this morning. As long as you don't mess this up, I'm sure we've got it in the bag.”

I wrinkled my nose. His Cheeto breath was overwhelming. Maybe he ate them for breakfast, or maybe he ate them in his sleep. For some reason, that thought made me giggle uncontrollably.

Spencer shook my shoulders. “What are you laughing at?” he asked. “It's like aliens sucked out your brain.”

I gave him a not-so-playful shove. “My brain's right here, all right? So you can stop hyperventilating.” I tried not to smack him as I straightened my shirt. “It's not like I'm running for Supreme Dictator of the Galaxy.”

Spencer fixed his tie. “You're right. You're running for class president, which is actually, you know,
real
.”

I forced myself to keep my mouth shut. He was perfectly entitled to his own stupid opinions.

Once Spencer could tell that I wasn't going to disagree with him, he jerked some cards out of his pocket. “Your speech,” he said sharply as he handed them to me.

I thumbed through the cards while Spencer paced back and forth. This speech was more Riley's than mine, since he was the one who'd written it. It was called “Your Voice, Your Vote,” and though it was a wonder of modern speechwriting and we'd spent the last few days going over it, I couldn't recall a single word. Also, my vision was so blurry that his handwriting looked like Japanese.

I was still reviewing Riley's cards—or at least
trying
to review them—when Ms. Quintero made her entrance. Anxiety growled in my stomach as her heels clicked to a halt. When Veronica looked up, I tried to get her attention, but she was so fixed on Ms. Quintero that she didn't notice me.

Ms. Quintero set her sights on Spencer. “You may take your seat now, Mr. Chen. Your candidate is on his own from here.”

He smacked my back one more time, then headed for his front-row seat. Just before he disappeared, he leveled a finger at me. “Don't mess this up, or I
will
kill you.”

I didn't bother to reply.

Ms. Quintero cleared her throat. “I'm sure I don't need to remind you that I expect no tricks, no funny business. You will sit where I tell you to sit, and you will talk when I tell you to talk. You will not drool or pick your nose, and you certainly won't make a scene.” She gave me the hairy eyeball. “Have I made myself clear?”

My mouth was too dry to form words, but I did manage to nod.

“Very well,” Ms. Quintero said. “If you'll please follow me.”

I swallowed, hard, then followed Veronica onto the stage. The risers from last night had mysteriously vanished, so except for two plastic chairs and the scuffed-up podium (which was older than I was), the stage was deserted. It looked even more threatening than it had last night.

Ms. Quintero marched up to the podium, and the audience quieted down. “Welcome to this morning's assembly. As you know, you'll soon be voting for the boy or girl you want to represent you as next year's class president. The candidates, David Grainger and Veronica Pritchard-Pratt, will have one last chance to win your votes with their remarks this morning. We'll begin with our incumbent.” Ms. Quintero glanced at Veronica. “Ms. Pritchard-Pratt, you have the floor.”

Veronica leaped out of her seat, much more confident than she'd been the night before. She'd traded in her usual All Stars for a pair of bright-red heels, and her knee-length skirt, plain black, looked positively presidential.

I was the only one who knew that she'd bought them secondhand.

“Good morning, Shepherd's Vale!” she said, then paused so they could whoop and holler. “It's an honor to be here this morning. I guess I have my opponent, the distinguished David Grainger, to thank for this opportunity.”

When she saluted me, I forced myself not to wince. I'd gotten into this race because I hadn't believed—in Veronica
or
myself—and now my plan was backfiring.

“There's been a lot of talk about ideas over the course of this campaign, and my opponent's had some great ones. Those mirrors were amazing, and I know I wasn't the only one who wanted one of those shirts.”

Someone whistled something that I didn't recognize, which made Veronica smile, which made everyone else laugh. It was a good moment for her. I snuck a peek at Esther, the
real
source of our ideas, and she was grinning from ear to ear. I'd probably just lost a vote, but strangely, I didn't care.

That thought was still rattling around my brain when Veronica gripped the podium with both hands. “But this race isn't about T-shirts or even great ideas. It's about picking the right person at the right time, and I'm here to tell you that the right person is
me
.”

Veronica had leaned in for this part, and the audience had leaned in, too. Her voice wasn't as hypnotic as her piano, but it was awfully close.

“Now, I could tell you,” she went on, “that I'm going to cancel seventh period and return pop to the vending machines, but I'm not going to do that. I could tell you that I'm going to extend Christmas vacation and cut the rest of the year in half, but I'm not going to do that, either. No class president has that kind of power, and no class president ever will.”

I tugged at my bandage. Where was she going with this speech?

“Which brings me,” she continued, “to my most important question—why
do
I think that you should vote for me instead of my distinguished opponent? If we don't have any real power, then why does it even matter?”

She let that question dangle for what seemed like an eternity, until everyone in every seat was waiting breathlessly for her reply.

“It matters,” she finally whispered, “because I want this more than he does. Because I
need
this more than he does.” She finally leaned back. “I always have, I always will.”

I was probably the only person who'd caught those last couple of words, but no one seemed to notice. Veronica had just delivered one whopper of a speech, so everyone was satisfied—everyone except for me. They might have thought it was an act, but I knew it was real.

“Thank you,” Veronica added, and the audience exploded. Why had I thought this place had bad acoustics? The catcalls were loud enough to shatter my eardrums.

Veronica paid them no heed as she went back to her seat. Our shoulders brushed as she sat down, sending a jolt of electricity down my spine. What was I going to say
now
? I snuck a peek at Spencer, hoping he'd know what to do, but he just shook his head and mouthed,
I
think
we've got this in the bag.
Or maybe he'd mouthed,
If you ruin
this, you're dead.
Either way, he hadn't helped.

I knew I had to get up and give my speech, but it felt like I was weighed down with thick chains. I was the only one who knew Veronica's truth, so I was the only one who could decide what I was supposed to do with it.

But I couldn't make up my mind.

Ms. Quintero stirred. “Mr. Grainger?”

At least that snapped me out of it. I squeezed Riley's cards and dragged myself out of my seat. The short walk to the podium felt more like a marathon. I was nearly there when I tripped over a cord and hog-tied the podium. The microphone shrieked in protest as I struggled to regain my balance.

“Hello!” I finally blurted, and the microphone shrieked again. I put down Riley's cards, which were now crumpled and useless, and tried to clear my throat. “I mean, thank you for letting me get up here and talk to you today.”

The spotlight wasn't on, so I could see the audience, and they could see me. When I spotted Spencer, I couldn't hold his gaze. It was almost like he knew I was about to mess this up, but there was nothing he could do.

When I looked back down, my eyes landed on the wad of crumpled cards, and my fear turned into guilt. Riley had poured everything he had into that speech. It certainly deserved to be given.

But I couldn't bring myself to do it.

I nudged the cards out of the way and gripped the podium with my good hand. “You probably think I joined this race because I didn't think Veronica should be our class president.” If she could come clean, then I could, too. “But that's only part of it. The truth is, I joined this race because I opened my big mouth and couldn't find a way to say, ‘I'm sorry.' And because the MMM accidentally poked me in the eye.”

The audience blinked and looked around. Thankfully, the MMM, who'd just poked her head through the side door, didn't seem to know who I was talking about.

“I've learned a lot lately,” I said, “and the most important thing I've learned is that people can surprise you. Sometimes they look different on the inside than they do on the out, and sometimes you discover you have a lot more in common than you ever thought you could.”

I drew a ragged breath. If I didn't say it now, I didn't think I ever would, and if I never found a way to say it, Veronica probably wouldn't win. And if she didn't win this race, it might throw off the delicate balance of music and the universe. What if it broke her will to win? What if she didn't get into Lietz House?

And what if I just thought she'd make a better class president?

I drew a bracing breath and prayed that Spencer would forgive me. “So don't vote for me. Vote for Veronica Pritchard-Pratt.”