Don't Vote for Me (5 page)

I scuffed my foot. “You know, the National Basketball Association?” Or at least that was what I thought it stood for. Elias, my oldest brother, would have been able to say for sure. “Did you used to play?”

The man sniffed. “I don't play anything—not tiddlywinks, not board games, and definitely not basketball.” He sent Veronica a sideways glance. “Games are for fancy folks who want to get into important schools, and fancy folks and Pratts have never mixed and never will.”

“Oh,” I mumbled lamely. But maybe he wasn't her dad. “So you aren't Mr. Pritchard-Pratt?”

The man gritted his teeth. “No, my name's Mr. Pratt. Ms. Pritchard is my…wife.”

“Oh,” I mumbled again. I'd thought that moms and dads had to have the same last name.

Veronica grabbed her dad's arm. “We should go,” she said bluntly, tightening her grip on a purple shirt that Mom probably would have called a blouse.

“Are you gonna buy that?” I replied.

She glanced down at the shirt like she couldn't remember how she'd ended up with it, then returned it to its hanger. “Of course not,” she replied. “I've seen better tunics at the mall.”

Mr. Pratt's eyes hardened. “Ronny, you know we can't—”

“I
know
.” She gave her dad the stink eye. “I just don't want this one. Can't a girl change her mind?”

We both knew better than to answer that question.

“Come on,” she told Mr. Pratt. “Mom's probably home by now.”

She didn't look back as she strutted away, long, blond hair swinging behind her. Mr. Pratt gave me one last look, then raced to catch up with his daughter. His steel toes tapped indignantly across the linoleum.

Mom passed them on the walkway. “Finished?” she asked blithely.

I swallowed, hard. “Sure.”

She motioned toward the purple shirt. “Were you going to get that one?” she asked.

I made a face. “Give me a break.”

“Hey, it's your loss,” she said (though she was trying not to smile). “I think you would look good in purple.”

“Gross, Mom. That's just gross.” I shivered despite myself. “Purple
isn't
my color.”

But as I followed her to the registers, I couldn't help but wonder if it might be Veronica's.

As soon as we pulled up to our house, a plain-looking brown rambler on the northeast side of town, I spotted Riley and Spencer, who were waiting on the porch. When I said we'd get together later, they must have taken it literally. I was still trudging up the walk when Spencer launched into a rant about the evils of plaid flannel. It would have been an awesome opportunity to mention my run-in with Veronica, but he didn't stop to take a breath until I'd produced my keys, unlocked the door, and silently ushered them in. Besides, it felt weird to talk about Veronica when she couldn't defend herself, so I just kept my mouth shut.

At least Spencer shut up when I announced that I was ready to make my campaign materials. Mom provided the supplies (a few posters, some dried-up markers, and an old paint-by-numbers kit), Spencer organized us into stations, and Riley came up with the slogans—which left the painting to me.

By the time that we were done, we'd spilled the paint-by-numbers kit all over the back patio, but we'd also produced a couple of somewhat decent posters. But when we got to school on Tuesday, we knew that even Riley's best slogan, “This Grainger Ain't No Stranger,” wasn't going to cut it.

If I'd had to guess, I would have said that Veronica's poster—if you could even call it that—was twenty feet tall, with golden trim and one red tassel dangling from its pointed end (which was practically scraping the floor). I wasn't sure how she'd attached it, but it was hanging from the rafters like a banner in a throne room. It only said one thing—VERONICA PRITCHARD-PRATT, 7TH-GRADE CLASS PRESIDENT, with a larger-than-life picture of Veronica herself—but it said it so emphatically that I couldn't help but swallow. It wasn't a slogan; it was a simple statement of fact.

I chucked my poster on the floor, then gave it a swift kick for good measure.

Spencer didn't seem to notice. “What
is
that thing?” he asked.

“It's defeat,” Riley replied, collapsing onto his trombone case.

Spencer managed to ignore him. “Doesn't that break one of the rules?”

“I don't think so,” I admitted. She wouldn't have been dumb enough to spend more than fifty bucks.

Riley plopped his chin into his hands. “So what are we going to do?”

I glanced down at the poster that I'd kicked across the commons. Compared to Veronica's banner, it looked like a kindergartner's art project. “I don't know,” I mumbled.

“Well, I do,” a voice said.

We turned around in unison, our faces frozen in shock. Esther was standing behind us, and her hands were on her hips.

“You're gonna dump all of those eyesores in that garbage over there”—she flicked a thumb over her shoulder—“and then you're gonna make me art director of this bumbling campaign.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Esther replied, tucking her arms across her waist. “Or do you want to be the only kid at Shepherd's Vale who's never won a single vote?”

“Oh, that's cold,” Spencer said, but instead of dismissing her, he sighed. “Look, we appreciate the offer, but my candidate and I are gonna have to think about it.”

“Actually,” I said, “I don't think we need to think about anything.” I held out my hand to Esther. “Welcome to the team.”

Esther beamed as we shook hands, but Spencer sputtered like a leaky faucet.

“But I'm the campaign manager!” he said. “You can't hire someone without my say-so!”

“I'm pretty sure I can,” I said. “And I'm pretty sure I just did.”

Esther scooped up our old posters and dumped them brusquely in the trash. “Fantastic,” she replied as she dusted off her hands. “Now we can get to work.”

* * *

Esther's first task as art director was to get Ms. Clementi to agree to let us work on my campaign materials instead of next month's newspaper. I'd always thought that Esther was Ms. Clementi's favorite student (or at least I'd thought that since she'd said,
Esther, you're my favorite student
). We didn't make a ton of progress, though Esther spent the whole class scribbling. When the bell finally rang, she confirmed that we hadn't blown her budget on “our experiment in finger paints,” then slipped away with a vague promise that she'd have something in the morning.

I managed not to think about the election or anything related to it for the rest of the day, but on my way out to the bus, I accidentally crossed paths with Veronica. She was waiting for me in the commons, directly underneath her banner.

“David,” she said sharply as soon as I came into view. I was surprised that she would talk to me—and call me by name—in front of so many other people. “We need to practice our duet.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said distractedly. Practicing for the spring recital was the last thing on my mind.

“You don't understand,” she said as she hooked me by my backpack straps. “We need to practice it
tonight
.”

“Okay, tonight,” I said. Was she hard to read? You bet. Complex and mysterious? No doubt about it. “But I'll have to ask my mom.”

Veronica nodded. “Fine.” She pressed a Post-it Note into my hand. “Just call me once you know. As soon as you know, you understand?” She turned to go, then turned right back. “But we're going to have to practice at your place. I can't have people over at my house.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said again, though I wasn't really listening anymore. I'd stopped listening as soon as she'd pressed that Post-it Note into my hand. No girl had ever given me her number.

Veronica nabbed the Post-it Note. “You do have a piano, don't you?”

“Of course we do,” I said. It had been eleven years since Abner had moved out, but my second oldest brother was still a celebrity around these parts. Every time he came to visit, old ladies bombarded us with cakes and casseroles just so they could hear him play. “But do we have to do this
now
?”

“Yes,” was all she said as she smacked me on the chest. I didn't see the Post-it Note stuck to my T-shirt until she was already gone.

* * *

Mom didn't have a problem with the practice; she even dialed the number for me. I'd wanted to text Veronica so I wouldn't have to talk, but Mom hadn't let me borrow her phone. I was the only twelve-year-old on this side of the equator who didn't have his own, but my parents didn't care.
Sacrifice
builds
character
had to be their favorite slogan.

And that was how, forty-five minutes and one awkward phone call later, I found myself anxiously waiting for Veronica to show. I'd camped out in my room so I wouldn't be hovering by the door (and so I could watch for her, though I'd never admit as much out loud).

I flipped my blender rocket on and off while I kept an eye on the window. The blender rocket had been Owen's—he'd built it for a science fair, and it could fly as high as thirty feet—but then, most of my stuff had belonged to one brother or another. My T-shirts had been Radcliff's (though my boxers were my own). Elias's Michael Jordan posters covered one wall of my room, and Nathan's superhero sketches covered two of the other three. Abner had taken most of his stuff when he moved out of the house, but the CDs he hadn't wanted—and a few of the ones he had—were sitting on the bookcase next to his old stereo. Sometimes I wasn't sure if I was me or bits of them, but since they were the coolest guys I knew, it didn't bug me either way.

I was so busy deciding how much juice to give the blender rocket if I wanted it to graze the ceiling that I didn't notice her pull up (though I did catch a glimpse of her green messenger). I didn't jump up to get the door even after the bell rang, so when Mom didn't get it, either, I had to gallop down the stairs and hope she hadn't walked away.

“Hey,” I said, panting. With any luck, she'd think that I'd just been working out.

Veronica dipped her head. “Hello.”

I squinted down the street. “How did you get here?” I replied. Jacob's Way looked awfully quiet.

“I took the bus,” she said. “You should give it a try sometime.”

I made a face. “No, thanks. The school bus is bad enough. I've heard people actually pee on—”

“David!” Mom cut in as she clapped me on the shoulder.

I yelped despite myself. My shoulder was still sore from all of the congratulating.

“I'm sorry,” Mom replied, bumping me out of the way. She smiled at Veronica. “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied as she stepped across the threshold.

Mom held out her hand. “You must be Veronica.”

She shook Mom's hand feebly. “And you must be Ms. Grainger.”

“Mrs. Grainger,” Mom replied. “I haven't been Ms. Anything since I left the law firm years ago.”

Veronica's eyes bulged. “You're a lawyer?”

Mom shrugged. “Well, I was.”

Veronica shook her head. She must have been wondering how a lawyer had given birth to a musician as miraculous as I was. I wanted to inform her that Mom was pretty cool (for a mom), but that would have compromised the little bits of reputation I'd managed to scrape together.

I fiddled with my sleeve. “As much as I'd like to sit around and chat about my mom's old lawyer days, we should probably get going.” The sooner we ran through “La Vie en rose,” the sooner Veronica could leave.

Mom bowed with a flourish. “Shall I unbury the piano?”

Veronica looked back and forth between us. “What do you mean, ‘unbury it'?”

“Oh, you know,” Mom said as she breezed into the piano room (which she and Dad had made by knocking out an inconvenient wall), “they do take up a lot of space. And when you don't have someone playing them…”

She trailed off when we reached it. It looked less like a piano and more like a sleeping monster with an old drape for a sheet. Stacks of cookbooks, piles of junk mail, and one of Dad's old Phillips screwdrivers rested on every flat surface, and the dust was thick enough that it resembled dingy snow.

Mom sighed dramatically as she retrieved a stack of cookbooks. “I keep trying to get David to take up the piano, too, but he won't listen to reason.”

I crinkled my nose. “Abner's our piano man.”

“Well, who said a family couldn't have more than one?” Mom asked as she tugged off the dusty drape and unearthed the shiny Steinway. She surveyed it with pursed lips. “I hope it isn't out of tune.”

Veronica tested middle C. It only sounded slightly earsplitting. “It's lovely,” she replied.

“No, it's horrible,” I said as I unlatched my trumpet case. “Let's just get this over with.”

Mom tugged my ear. “Be nice. This young lady is your guest.”

“No,” I said, “she's my opponent.”

Mom rolled her eyes good-naturedly, but when she cupped my chin, her grip was bone-achingly tight. “
Be
nice
,” she said again, “or I might just have to ground you.”

I jerked away from her. I hated it when she cupped my chin; it made me feel like a three-year-old.

“And stop acting like a three-year-old,” Mom called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen, “or I might start treating you like one!”

I felt my cheeks get hot, but Veronica didn't seem to notice (or if she did, she didn't mention it).

“Your mom seems nice,” she said.

“She's a mom,” I said, scowling. “Don't they kind of have to be?”

Instead of answering, Veronica spread out her music and sat down at the piano. I perched on a nearby chair and freed my trumpet from its case. While I warmed up my mouthpiece, she traced the letters that spelled STEINWAY, then trailed her hands along the keys. The way she touched the keys made me think that they were sacred (or at least that she thought they were). The air suddenly felt charged, but whether with dread or anticipation, I honestly couldn't have said.

As the charge built up inside me, I knew I had to let it out or risk spontaneously combusting, so of course, I said the first thing that popped into my head: “That's a nice banner you've got.”

She glared at me across the Steinway. “It didn't cost more than fifty bucks, if
that's
what you're trying to say.”

I held up my hands. “I was only making conversation.”

That wasn't strictly true, of course, but if I'd come right out and said,
No, what I'm trying to say is that your campaign is gonna murder mine,
she probably wouldn't have believed me.

Veronica's shoulders slumped. “Mom thought I should get the big one—make a statement, you know? And she knew the guy at the print shop…”

Instead of finishing that thought, Veronica glanced down at her lap. I could have sworn her cheeks reddened, but I only caught a glimpse of them before her hair fell across her face.

“They went out for a while,” she explained, “so he said he owed my mom a favor. He only charged us forty-five. I can show you the receipt.”

I shook my head. “No, I trust you.” That wasn't strictly true, either, but I would have said anything—and I mean,
anything
—to keep from hearing more about her mom and Print Shop Guy.

She straightened her music (though it hadn't needed to be straightened). “Well, what about your signs?”

“What about them?” I asked, stalling.

“Where'd you put them?” she replied.

I scratched the back of my head. I probably could have lied, but the truth was even better. “I didn't, actually. They're at the bottom of the trash can in the middle of the commons.”

She half chuckled, half choked. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Instead of answering, I shrugged. It was a shrug I'd learned from Nathan, who'd once worked on a sidewalk-chalked landscape on the back patio for months.
Don't bother me with silly questions,
my shoulders seemed to say.
Haven't you ever heard of a work-in-progress?