Don't Vote for Me (3 page)

That afternoon, the school bus dropped me off at the end of Jacob's Way. The school bus always dropped me off at the end of Jacob's Way, but since it was a Friday, a few notes of Sergei Rachmaninoff, Dad's favorite composer, drifted down the street to greet me.

Dad had been a lawyer, too, back when he and Mom worked on the Frivolous Lawsuit of the Century (or the FL of the C). That was how they'd met all those years and kids ago. Dad had been for the defense, and Mom had been for the plaintiff, but somehow, they'd impressed each other with their legal briefs. Mom's team had won the case, but they'd both made out like buccaneers on their share of the legal fees. As soon as that verdict had been read, they'd given their day jobs the boot and gotten married in Las Vegas (though it hadn't been one of
those
weddings—the ceremony had been private and several miles from the Strip). Mom had taken up Sudoku—she was now on the national team—and Dad had opened a garage.

Classics by Jesse had four bays and a storefront on Main Street, but that hadn't stopped Dad from turning our garage into a workshop complete with a floor jack and a fully stocked tool chest. He closed early on Fridays so his teenage employees could have a social life, so instead of tinkering at work, he spent the rest of the night tinkering in our garage.

“Hey, Dad!” I shouted over Mr. Rachmaninoff's most famous concerto. Dad's shop wasn't called Classics by Jesse just because he had a thing for classic cars. “Do you have a second?”

Dad pushed his goggles back. He looked like a reverse raccoon, with light eyes and dark cheeks. “Sure, Dave. What's on your mind?”

Dad was the only person on the planet who was allowed to call me Dave, but he could only call me that when Mom wasn't around. She thought nicknames were for pets.

“It's just this piece,” I replied, wrestling it out of my backpack. I felt kind of guilty as I handed it to him, since his hands were caked with grease, but then, Mr. Ashton had already nailed it with chocolate icing. “Have you ever heard of ‘La Vie en rose'?”

Dad whistled under his breath. “Have I heard of it? It's ‘La Vie en rose'!”

“Yeah, it's French,” I said weakly.

“That's right,” he said, nodding. “It literally means ‘The life in pink,' but a better English translation would be ‘A rosy life' or ‘Life through rose-colored glasses.'” When I just stood there blinking, he added, “You know, a perfect life.”

“Oh,” I replied. That must have been why Veronica liked it so much.

Dad looked over the music. “Edith Piaf wrote it, but Louis Armstrong made it famous.”

There was that name again. “Who was he?”

Dad threw up his arms. “Only the most famous man who's ever blown a horn!”

I took the music back before he could fling it far and wide. “So you think it's a good song?”

Dad nodded. “It's the best.” He wiped his hands off on a nearby rag (which, now that I thought about it, he probably should have done first), then sent me a sideways glance. “Out of curiosity, where did you get it?”

“From Mr. Ashton,” I replied. “He wants me to play it in the recital.”

Dad made a show of polishing his socket wrench. “He wants you to play it by yourself?”

I glanced down at my toes. “No, he thinks I should play it with Veronica Pritchard-Pratt.”

He set his socket wrench down. “I see.”

So he and Mom had been talking. I guess that shouldn't have surprised me. Worry rumbled in my stomach, but I couldn't decide if I was more upset or more relieved.

Dad snuck a peek at me. “So are you going to do it?”

“Play ‘La Vie en rose'?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I don't know,” I admitted, then sent
him
a sideways glance. “What do you think I should do?”

Dad considered that, then shrugged. “I think you should go for it. I mean, you only get so many chances to play the greats.”

“But what about Veronica? How can I work with her after…?”

“You dared each other to a duel?”

I ducked my head. “Yeah, after that.”

Instead of answering, he closed the hood of the Dodge Challenger he'd been working on. I'd never understood his obsession with the classics, but even I had to admit that the old girl was a beaut. With her long, sleek body and snub nose, she looked like a great white shark (if great white sharks were pumpkin orange and had black racing stripes). Once he fixed the carburetor and got the transmission up and running, she would be a squeal on wheels.

“I think,” Dad finally said, “that the election shouldn't matter. I mean, this will all blow over in another couple of days. It isn't like you're going to run.”

It was weird to hear my words coming out of someone else's mouth. Either he'd read my mind, or he'd bugged my lunch box. I didn't want to think about either option for too long.

If Dad noticed my distress, he did a good job of not showing it. “I'll see you in there,” he went on as he motioned toward the door. “Tell your mom I'm almost done.”

I didn't respond, just nodded vaguely. I was too busy thinking about everything I had to think about, but maybe that was just what he'd been trying to get me to do.

* * *

I played “La Vie en rose” the first time to hear what it sounded like, but I played it again just because it had intrigued me. It took me a few tries to get the syncopation right, but Dad helped me get it down, sometimes whistling the notes, sometimes pounding them out with his trusty socket wrench. By Sunday night, I couldn't remember a time when I didn't know the song, and even though my low B was shaky, I could say I was in love.

On Monday, I stomped back to the band room to tell Mr. Ashton I would do it. He must have known the song would sway me. But Mr. Ashton wasn't there. Why did that not surprise me?

I sat down in my usual seat and pulled out my trumpet. I didn't need the music anymore, so I left it in my backpack and focused on the beat: long one, and three, and four, long one, and three, and four—

“The counting is a nightmare,” a familiar voice cut in, “but I think you've mastered it.”

I cut the music off with an elephantlike wheeze. That note hung in the air like a bad taste in your mouth, but Veronica paid it no heed.

“Good morning to you, too,” she added as she swished through the door.

I cradled my trumpet. “I didn't think you'd come back and risk your reputation.”

“And I didn't think you'd follow through, so I guess that means we're even.”

“It's ‘La Vie en rose,'” I said, shrugging.

Veronica shrugged, too.
Of
course
it
is,
her shoulders seemed to say. Or maybe her shoulders had meant,
I
wasn't talking about “La Vie en rose.”

I shifted uncomfortably. Why Veronica had the power to make me feel inferior when she was the one risking her reputation, I couldn't have said.

Before I had a chance to figure out how I was feeling, she glanced up at the clock. “Well, I've got to go.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder. “It's May second, you know.”

I racked my brains to figure out why the date was so important. Was it some obscure holiday that the populars had made up? I wouldn't have put it past them.

I must have made a face, because Veronica rolled her eyes. “You know, May second?” she went on. “The last day to sign up for the seventh-grade election?”

“You're
reminding
me?” I asked.

“As I already told you,” she replied, “I'm tired of winning by default.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Well, I hate to disappoint, but I'm not playing your game.”

“Of course you're not,” she said. She was halfway out the door before she turned back and added, “Tell Mr. Ashton I'll do it.”

I leaped out of my seat. “You don't have to play with me. I can do another song—or find another pianist!” When I realized I was shouting, I blushed and sat back down. “Or Mr. Ashton can, anyway.”

“I'm not doing it for you,” she said. “I'm doing it for ‘La Vie en rose.'” Under her breath, she added, “And your technique isn't
that
bad.”

I couldn't decide whether that was a compliment or an insult, but what was even worse was that I couldn't decide which one I wanted it to be.

* * *

Even though I dodged that sign-up sheet like a bad case of the flu, I couldn't get it out of my head. Why had she reminded me about that stupid deadline? Did she really want me in the race, or was she just trying to throw me off? And if she
did
want me in the race, should I run the other way?

Dad and Spencer seemed to think I didn't have it in me, and Veronica had made it sound like she already knew I wouldn't do it. I'd heard people talk about reverse psychology, and though I'd never been clear on exactly what it was, I got the impression that they were using it on me.

By the end of seventh period, I was officially freaking out. A part of me wanted to flee, but another part wanted to wander past the office and see if someone had signed up. Riley seemed oblivious, so when he asked me if I was ready to go, I could have just gone. But instead of nodding, I said, “Oh, no, you go ahead. I'll have to catch up.”

Spencer would have grilled me for details—he was going to make a great dad someday—but Riley wasn't Spencer, so he just shrugged and said, “Fine.”

I almost told him right there, then changed my mind at the last second. I probably could have handled Riley's powers of persuasion, but if he went and got Spencer, I was going to be doomed.

I waited for him to turn the corner, then counted to thirty by threes and took off in the opposite direction. I tried to fake indifference by whistling “La Vie en rose,” but it turned out to be a waste. No one even glanced my way.

The commons was a ghost town littered with clumps of eraser and the partially digested remains of someone's spaghetti. I had to plug my nose to keep from gagging. Rumor had it that Olivia Fitch, who was less good at running than she was at playing Ping-Pong, had barfed on her way from the gym to the nurse's office. Clearly, those rumors were true.

My scoutmaster once taught us how to silently stalk prey, so I put that skill to good use as I crept across the commons. But it was hard to do anything with as much gear as I had, so I set down my trumpet case, then my backpack. With my stuff spread out behind me like a trail of geeky breadcrumbs, I might as well have hung a neon sign over my head: DAVID GRAINGER IS RIGHT HERE.

I was six steps from my goal when a flock of giggling seventh graders burst onto the scene. At first, I tried to freeze, but then it occurred to me that they probably had better eyesight than a Tyrannosaurus rex. I pretended to pick a scab instead, crossing my eyes in concentration. Luckily, they scurried off before I was forced to eat it.

Once the Giggle Girls vanished, I took off at full gallop. There was no more time for stealth; I had to get in and get out as quickly as possible. When I finally reached the door, I wrenched a pencil from my pocket and pressed it against the sign-up sheet. Veronica's name looked so official that I wished I'd brought a pen, but there was no going back now. If I went back, I knew I wouldn't come this way again.

I wrote a crooked
D
, but I was too shaky to finish. As I tried to stretch out my hand, my mind raced back over the last couple of days. If I finished writing my name, there'd be no going back. I'd forever be the BG who'd tried—and failed—to beat Veronica. Was
that
the legacy I wanted to leave?

Then again, what legacy would I leave if I chickened out now?

I drew a shaky breath, then set my fist against the door. But before I could sign my name, the door opened from the inside, and I stabbed myself in the eye with the blunt end of my pencil.

The woman who'd opened the door covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, I'm so sorry!” she squeaked. “I didn't poke your eye out, did I?”

I massaged my right eye (which was getting sorer by the second). “No,” I replied, “but I think my pencil did.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I'm afraid Edna left early, but maybe I could find some ice…”

“It's all right,” I said, blinking. Tears were gushing down my face, but I paid them no heed. “I'll get some when I get home.”

The squeaky woman, whose name might have been Ms. Marsden, fiddled with her necklace. “Oh, I feel terrible, just terrible. I wish I could do something for you.” She glanced down at my pencil, then back up at the sign-up sheet. “Were you trying to join the race?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but no sound came out.

The woman, Maybe Ms. Marsden (hereafter known as the MMM), gave my soggy cheek a pat. “It's okay,” she said (though I hadn't said anything myself). “I have a hard time getting my words to come out, too.” She scooped up my pencil and scribbled down my name. “It is David, isn't it? I try to memorize the yearbook, but I'm afraid this old noggin isn't what it used to be.”

I rolled my tongue around my mouth to get the spit flowing again. “Yeah, I'm David,” I mumbled.

She smiled sympathetically. She must have just noticed the name above mine. “Of course you are,” she said, then ripped the sign-up sheet off the door. “Now go home and get some ice!”

She slammed the door shut in my face, leaving me to gape at the scrap of sign-up sheet that was still stuck to the door. I didn't usually meet people who talked as much as I did. They knocked me off my game.

As I backed away from the office, I tested my eye. It would probably be tender for at least a day or two, but as the youngest of six boys, I'd definitely had worse. With any luck, I'd wake up with a killer black eye (and a tall tale to go with it), but for now, I was content. My method might have been unorthodox, but I was in the race.