Don't Vote for Me (4 page)

I didn't tell anyone what I'd done—not Mom or Dad, not Riley, and definitely not Veronica. But I hadn't taken morning announcements into account. The MMM delivered them almost every day at the start of second period:

“And we'd like to invite everyone who signed up for the seventh-grade election to meet in Ms. Clementi's room for the last fifteen minutes of seventh period. One more time, that's David Grainger and Veronica Pritchard-Pratt to Ms. Clementi's room for the last fifteen minutes of seventh period.”

The intercom's parting click left a vacuum of silence that no one dared to fill. But then someone yelled, “Go, David!” which gave the other kids permission to whoop and holler.

I felt my cheeks get hot, but I couldn't stop smiling, since the BGs were going crazy and Mr. Ashton was looking at me like I'd somehow made him proud. I might have been going crazy, too, if it hadn't been for
her
.

Lesser mortals might have flinched, but Veronica was a god. While the BGs stomped and catcalled and generally made fools of themselves, she just sat there staring, her long neck curved like a swan's, and I got the impression that I'd played right into her hands.

But it was too late to take it back, and as I sailed through the day, I didn't really want to. For the first time in my life, I had a chance to make a mark, leave a piece of myself behind that later travelers might notice. Just because Veronica had essentially goaded me into it wouldn't make it less meaningful.

But if Veronica
had
wanted me to enter the race, she obviously hadn't told her henchmen. As soon as I entered the lunchroom, Hector sidled up to me on one side, and Samantha closed in on the other.

“Davy, Davy,” Hector said, draping an arm around my neck, “I think we need to talk.”

My heart thumped like a snare drum, but at least my voice didn't squeak. “I'm sorry,” I said as I wriggled out of his grip, “but you must have the wrong guy. My name's David, not Davy.”

“Potato, po-tah-toe,” he replied at the same time Samantha demanded, “Is there a problem here?”

I glanced up at Samantha, who had to outweigh me by at least fifty pounds, and carefully shook my head. She was a bruiser, though she'd been a string bean back in kindergarten. She'd also been one of five or six Samanthas, which was why the teachers had renamed her Samantha P. The chants that had followed her around the playground had practically written themselves:
Look, it's Samantha Pee! Do you like to pee, Samantha Pee? How do you poop, Samantha Pee?

Too bad no one had realized that Samantha was the niece of the legendary Edgar Pearce, middleweight boxing champion of the Intermountain West, and that she'd soon outgrow the rest of us by a factor of three. No one had used that nickname since the end of the third grade.

But now that I thought about it, I didn't think Veronica ever had. Not that
that
meant anything. Veronica must have ignored her because she ignored everyone.

Before Samantha had a chance to introduce me to her fists, Hector steered me toward the office. “Come on, Davy,” he said, slinging his arm around my neck again. “Why don't we cross your name off that pesky sign-up sheet?”

I managed to escape his headlock, but I could still feel my pulse pounding in my right eye (which, unfortunately, hadn't bruised). “Sorry, Hector,” I replied, “but the MMM said it's too late.”

I had no idea whether it was too late or not, but sometimes the truth needed a little embellishment. Unfortunately, my embellishment still wasn't enough. When I made a break for my table, Samantha seized my arm and twisted it behind my back.

If you wanted to be a popular, there were only two ways to get in. The first was to be really good at something that most people thought was cool, like basketball or breakdancing. That was how Brady and Veronica had become populars. The second was a little messier. It involved standing beside the velvet rope that separated the populars from the masses and making sure the deadbeats never crossed it.

I guess it was pretty obvious how Hector and Samantha had gotten in.

Samantha's breath was hot on my neck. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.”

“What's the hard way?” I asked before I thought better of it, but deep down, I was thinking,
Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please.

Samantha bared her teeth. Her nails dug crescent moons into my arm, but when I tried to yank it away, they only sank in deeper. “The hard way,” she said slowly, like she was savoring the description, “involves finding a toilet and—”

“Let him go, Samantha.”

I didn't recognize the voice that had momentarily delayed my fate, and judging by the puzzled looks on Hector's and Samantha's faces, they didn't recognize it, either. Cautiously, we turned around. Esther Lambert, who I'd talked to maybe twice in my whole life, had come to my rescue. Her knees were bent, her shoulders were square, and she was brandishing a pencil like a rapier.

Esther was in newspaper with Riley and me, but since she was a designer and I was a reporter (which wasn't as cool as it sounded), we'd never had to exchange words or even get within three feet of one another's personal space. I never would have guessed that she'd take on the populars. She'd never struck me as a fighter.

Samantha squeezed my arm, cutting off my circulation. “Bug off,” was all she said.

Esther grabbed my other arm. At least she cut her nails every so often. “No, you bug off,” she said.

Samantha's ears flamed scarlet, but she didn't bug off. “What did you say?” she asked as her other hand clenched into a fist.

I would have taken one look at that fist and headed back the way I'd come, but Esther stood her ground. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

Samantha's sneer faltered. I couldn't help but be impressed. No one had stood up to Samantha since she'd hit her first growth spurt.

“Hector, do something!” she hissed.

But Hector just held up his hands. “Girls are your problem,
muchacha
.”

“You're such a wimp,” she said, but before she could cock her fist, a shadow fell over our shoes.

It was too tall to be anyone's but Veronica's.

“Let them go,” she commanded.

I forced myself not to yelp as Samantha let go of my arm. If she'd held on for another minute, they probably would have had to amputate. Still, I was going to have crescent moon–shaped indents embedded in my skin for hours.

Veronica sniffed. “I want a cookie.”

Hector and Samantha exchanged a confused glance. Either this request was a strange one, or they were dumber than they looked.

“I said, I want a cookie.” She pulled a dollar bill from her pocket and waved it under their noses. “Oatmeal raisin, preferably. Otherwise, a chocolate chip.”

Hector opened his mouth to argue, but Samantha dragged him away before he could get the words out. Esther hopped out of their way and offered them a courtly bow (which they purposely ignored). I tried not to wince as I massaged my injured arm, but I didn't fool Veronica.

“Did she hurt you?” she whispered.

Instinctively, I dropped my arm. “Oh, no, I'm all right.”

“Are you kidding?” Esther asked. “She practically ripped your arm off!”

“I said, I'm all right,” I growled. I didn't want Veronica to think that I was a first-rate wimp.

Veronica half nodded, half shrugged. “I'm still sorry,” she said. “They shouldn't have manhandled you.”

I felt my cheeks get hot. Did that mean she thought I was a man? But she didn't give me a chance to ask, just headed over to her table. I headed over to my table, too, where Riley and Spencer were pretending to be captivated by the fake wood grain. I was nearly there when I remembered to thank Esther. I glanced over my shoulder—she was probably finding a seat over at the artists' table—but she was right behind me.

“Oh, there you are,” I mumbled as I tipped over backward. Luckily, the bench broke my fall. Without meeting her gaze, I added, “Thank you for your help back there.”

“You're welcome,” she replied, then plopped down on the bench beside me.

I wasn't sure how to react. No girl had ever sat at our table before. Maybe if we pretended not to notice, she'd get tired and leave.

Unfortunately, Spencer was less patient. “Beat it, Esther,” he said, pointing a Cheeto at her head. He'd always had a way with women.

Esther stuck her chin out. “No.”

Spencer frowned. “Please beat it?”

“
No
,” she said again. “I'm here because I want to help.”

Spencer huffed. “Help with
what
?”

“With the campaign, of course. And with the security detail, since you two clearly aren't capable of keeping our candidate alive.”

At least Spencer had the decency to duck his head. “Why do you want to help?” he asked.

“Why do you think?” Esther replied. “David's the best chance we've got of taking down Veronica's dynasty.”

Riley glared at his carrot sticks. “He's the
only
chance,” he said, “because no one else was dumb enough to take the populars on.”

“
She
took them on just now,” I said.

“But I didn't sign up for the race.” Esther nudged me with her elbow. “That was a stroke of genius, by the way.”

I blushed down to my toes, but either Spencer didn't notice, or he just didn't care.

“That's the only reason?” he replied. “You're not fishing for a student council seat?”

Esther crinkled her nose. “Why would I want one of those?”

Instead of sneering, Spencer blinked. “Then I guess we'll think about it.”

I started to point out that
I'd
be making the decisions, but before I could get the words out, Riley shouted, “WHAT?”

We all looked at him like he'd grown a thirteenth toe (since he already had twelve).

He looked at Spencer like he'd shot him. “I thought you didn't support this!”

Instead of blushing, Spencer shrugged. “It's like my uncle always says—if you can't beat them, lead them.”

Not that Spencer's uncle was a beacon of what-to-do-ness—he was currently serving ten to twenty for mortgage and investment fraud—but in this case, he had a point.

Esther made a face. “Who died and made you campaign manager?”

“What campaign?” Riley moaned, plopping his chin into his hands. “Veronica is going to trounce him.”

I knotted my arms across my chest. “Thanks for that vote of confidence.” Then I set my sights on Spencer. “And I thought you
were
against this.”

“That was, like, last week,” he said. “Can't a guy change his mind?”

Riley stuck his chin out. “
No
.”

“I'm still waiting to find out why you get to be the leader,” Esther said.

“Because I have a vision.” Spencer leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Veronica doesn't win because she's good, she wins because she's popular, so we just have to figure out how to make David popularer.”

Riley made a face. “‘Popularer' isn't a word.”

Spencer tried to argue, but I beat him to the pause.

“It doesn't matter,” I replied, “because it isn't possible. Veronica is and always will be the queen of the populars.”

Spencer rubbed his jaw. “But they've never played the game
our
way.”

Spencer spent the rest of lunch describing—in very general terms—how we were going to beat Veronica, but every time Esther asked him for specifics, he pretended not to hear. I agreed to make him my campaign manager just to shut him up, but that only fanned the flames. By the time that lunch was over, he'd made Riley my speechwriter and told Esther to beat it (twice). She'd stormed off in a huff.

Spencer's bullheadedness had done one thing—it had convinced me this was real. I was actually running for class president. There was no denying it. By the end of seventh period, I honestly couldn't decide if I was more excited or more nervous.

Ms. Clementi's room was more of a museum than a classroom—her pencil stub collection took up one wall by itself—but at least it was familiar. Riley had signed up for band for me, so I'd signed up for newspaper for him. Ms. Clementi might have been a screwball, but at least she let us do our own things.

She looked up from her phone when I slid into my seat. “Good afternoon,” she said like we were sitting down to tea. “I was very pleased to hear that you'd signed up for the election.”

I swallowed, hard. “You were?”

“Yes,” Ms. Clementi said. “Why, it's not every day that a member of my staff campaigns for office.”

“Oh, well,” I said, blushing, “I kind of signed up on a whim. Well,
actually,
the MMM signed up on a whim for me. But she did use my pencil.”

She returned her attention to her phone. It was embarrassing to think that Ms. Clementi, who'd probably known Alexander Graham Bell personally, had a phone when I didn't. “How nice,” she said pleasantly. “It will be a shame when that Pritchard-Pratt girl kills you.”

I felt the blood drain from my cheeks, but before I could defend myself, Veronica walked in. She looked back and forth between us, then sat down in Riley's desk (which was directly behind mine). She must have overheard our conversation, but she managed not to show it.

Ms. Clementi got out of her seat and retrieved two cumbersome white packets that someone had stapled in the wrong corner. “The rules and regulations,” she said brightly as she handed them to us, then perched her glasses on her nose and proceeded to read the first page out loud: “Campaigning may begin as early as tomorrow and may continue until the assembly on the morning of Friday, May twentieth. Voting will take place immediately thereafter, and the winner will be announced by the end of seventh period.”

Veronica kicked the back of my seat. “May twentieth,” she whispered. “The day after the recital.”

I couldn't believe it. It was like my entire life had been leading up to those two days.

“As for campaigning,” Ms. Clementi said, “all candidates are allowed to spend fifty dollars on materials such as signs, T-shirts, and handouts.” She squinted at us over her glasses. “Keep in mind that these materials should not be inappropriate. And any handouts you distribute may not constitute a bribe. That means no candy, no gum, no merchandise of any kind. Perhaps you've heard of Michael Belcher, who tried to hand out barf bags in the lunchroom. It was disgraceful, just disgraceful.” She looked back down at her notes—and giggled. “Funny, but disgraceful.”

I grinned despite myself. Michael and Radcliff had been friends. In fact, I was pretty sure the barf bags had been his idea.

Ms. Clementi's smile vanished. “No barf bags, you understand?”

My smile vanished, too. “Of course not, Ms. Clementi.”

“All right, then. Now, where were we?” She scanned the first page of her packet, then flipped it over to the second. “Ah, yes, campaign materials. If any candidate cannot afford the spending limit, then arrangements may be made wherein the school will fund the difference.” She eyed Veronica and me again. “Will that apply to either of you?”

I shook my head swiftly. I didn't want to have to mention the FL of the C (which, as Mom was fond of saying, would pay for the lives of many Graingers and possibly the national debt). Veronica must have said no, too, since Ms. Clementi didn't linger. I thought about sneaking a peek at her, then changed my mind at the last second.

“Well, then, I think that covers it.” Ms. Clementi set her packet down and rubbed her eyes with baby fists, partially dislodging her glasses. “Now, do you have any questions?”

I flipped through the first few pages, less out of interest than anxiety. It looked like someone had typed it in seven-and-a-half-point font. “Are we supposed to read all this
tonight
? What if we break one of the rules?”

“Oh, well,” Ms. Clementi said, “we'd probably pry off all your toenails and make you eat them in a stew.”

Veronica half snorted, half choked.

Ms. Clementi laughed maniacally. “Hyperbole!” she said.

I laughed less maniacally. “Hyperbole” was her favorite word, though it had taken me a while to track the definition down (since it wasn't spelled like how it sounded).
Black's Law Dictionary
hadn't had it, but Merriam-Webster had defined it as “language that describes something as better or worse than it really is.” Until then, I'd thought it meant “crazy things that English teachers say to shock and horrify their students.”

Veronica's desk creaked. “Does that mean you'd kick us out?”

Ms. Clementi made a face. “Good heavens, no. Who do you think we are, the Federal Elections Commission?”

While Ms. Clementi giggled, I leaned back and hissed over my shoulder, “Don't you already know this stuff?”

She didn't lean forward to meet me. “Haven't had to run before, remember?”

“Oh, right,” I mumbled sheepishly as I felt my cheeks get hot. I was glad she couldn't see them.

Veronica ignored me. “Ms. Clementi,” she said loudly, “if I'm understanding you correctly, we just can't spend too much money, we can't hand out gum or candy, and we shouldn't be morons?”

“Yes,” Ms. Clementi said, “I'd say that sums it up.”

“Fantastic,” she replied as she slid out of her desk. She was halfway out the door before she turned around and asked, “Is it all right if we go?”

I snuck a peek up at the clock. The bell wasn't going to ring for another four minutes and twelve seconds.

“Of course!” Ms. Clementi said, wiggling her fingers at the door. “Just don't let Ms. Quintero catch you. That woman has no sense of humor.”

“Oh, don't worry,” she replied. “I'm best friends with Ms. Quintero.”

Veronica was out the door before I'd even finished sliding the packet into my backpack. I might have acted like tough stuff, but I didn't have any experience with avoiding Ms. Quintero. I managed to kill a few more minutes by zipping up my backpack really slowly, but there were still two minutes left by the time that I was done. With a pounding heart, I crept out into the hall—and almost leaped out of my skin when I ran into Veronica.

“Geez!” I said, falling back. “Are you trying to give a guy a heart attack?”

She didn't apologize for scaring me—but she did apologize. “I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about what happened in the lunchroom.” It took me a second to realize that she was talking about Hector and Samantha. “I didn't ask them to do that.”

“I'm sure you didn't,” I replied, beating a hasty retreat. “They're just naturally awful.”

She fell into step beside me. I tried to outpace her, but my ruler-long legs were no match for her yardsticks.

“Overzealous,” she replied. “They're overzealous, not awful.” Under her breath, she added, “And they have their reasons.”

I sent her a sideways glance. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Instead of answering, she shook her head. “They're not my secrets to tell.”

I tilted my head to the side. “So what
is
your secret?”

Veronica started to say something, then changed her mind at the last second. “Who said I had one?” she replied, then spun around and stalked away before I had a chance to answer (which was probably just as well).

I just stood there blinking as she disappeared around the corner. I guess the whole encounter really shouldn't have surprised me. If girls were hard to read and populars were complex and mysterious, then I'd never understand the most popular girl who'd ever lived.

* * *

Spencer wanted to get started on my campaign materials right away, but I told him they would have to wait. Mom and I had been planning a trip to Trash to Treasure for a week, and I wasn't about to cancel it for something as lame as a poster.

As soon as the ancient door clunked open, a rush of warm air greeted me. The store didn't have an air conditioner (or at least it didn't have a very good one). The swamp cooler in the back pumped slightly cooler humid air through roughly three-fourths of the building, but it had never bothered me. I drew a deep breath through my nose, then blew it back out through my mouth. It smelled like opportunity and Granny Grainger's attic, where Abner, my second oldest brother, had once unearthed the unabridged works of George and Ira Gershwin.

Mom glanced at her watch. “You only have twenty-five minutes. If you need anything before then, I'll be over by the cookbooks.”

I forced myself not to grimace. Mom had recently decided that she was a gourmet chef in hiding and that a library of cookbooks would reveal her hidden talents, but if I'd learned anything over the last twelve years, it was that good lawyers didn't necessarily make good cooks.

She punched me in the shoulder. “Happy hunting,” she added.

“You, too,” I mumbled weakly, though I was lying through my teeth. Secretly, I hoped she didn't come across a sequel to
The
Gourmet
Goulash.

While she headed off to Books, I made a beeline for Collectibles. Even though I collected lunch boxes, I'd never thought of them as collectibles, but where else were they going to shelve them, in Housewares or Small Appliances? The only things worth buying in either of those departments were the refurbished blenders, and that was only if you planned to convert them into blender rockets.

They didn't have any more lunch boxes (and they hadn't for months), so I strolled over to Clothing on the far end of the store. As the youngest of six boys, I'd inherited more hand-me-downs than I could keep in one closet, but I still had nineteen minutes and a hankering to find a T-shirt that had My Little Ponies on it
.
The quest had once been Radcliff's, but he'd passed it down to me after he'd gotten a real job. Designing skate parks for a living didn't leave him with a lot of time, and I liked feeling connected to my brothers, most of whom had moved out before I was potty-trained.

I wandered into the girls' section, which seemed like the most likely place to find the T-shirt I was looking for, but it wasn't long before I realized there wasn't a single graphic T-shirt in the entire store. The good people of SV clearly had no taste. When I hit the safari prints, I knew it was time to split, but before I could escape, a shadow fell across the aisle.

Rocking a T-shirt with a rainbow-haired pony was one thing, but getting caught shopping for one was another. After drawing a deep breath, I threw myself into a rack of cowboy shirts and settled in for a long wait. I'd gotten used to waiting for things, including puberty, the bathroom, and Taco Tuesday (which was the one night a week that Mom didn't insist on cooking). I was sure I could outlast whoever that shadow belonged to.

“Do you see something you like, Ronny?”

I had to bite my lip to keep from squealing. There was only one girl in SV who could have a nickname like Ronny, and she was the very last person I wanted to run into right now.

“Not really,” Veronica said. “I mean, this tunic's okay.” A nearby rack rustled. “But it's still kind of…”

“Gross?” the gravelly voice finished. I couldn't see the man that the gravelly voice belonged to, but he was probably looking at these cowboy shirts.

“I wasn't going to say that,” she murmured.

The man's shoe squeaked as if he'd shifted awkwardly. I shifted awkwardly, too, but not because of what she'd said. These cowboy shirts were itchy, and at least one of them smelled like the inside of a barn.

“I'm sorry,” the man said. “Sorry I can't take you to—”

“You don't have to apologize. It is what it is. There's no sense jawing about it.”

There was an uncomfortable pause before the man finally said, “Your mother says that.”

“Yeah, well, she says lots of things.”

This conversation might have gone on indefinitely if it hadn't been for the Almighty Sneeze. I tried to hold it in, but this sneeze was so almighty that it came out, anyway. It rattled the whole rack of cowboy shirts (which promptly spit me back out).

The man swore under his breath, but it was Veronica's response that made me want to shrivel up and die: “David, is that you?”

I pushed myself back to my feet, caking my hands with dust and grit. “I guess there's no denying it.”

She drew herself up to her full height. “Were you spying on me?” she asked.

“Of course not,” I replied, brushing the grit off my hands. I pretended to inspect one of the cowboy shirts “Yeah, I'd say this blend is sixty-three-percent fake.”

Veronica wasn't impressed. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

I thought about telling the truth, then immediately thought better of it. “It's probably better if you don't know.”

My eyes flicked to the man who was standing beside her. I started at his shoes (steel-toed work boots that were slightly smaller than huge), then worked my way up to his hair (thinning, light brown, and greasy). He had to be seven feet tall—which made him Veronica's dad.

“Were you in the NBA?” I blurted.

“What's the NBA?” he asked.