Don't Vote for Me (7 page)

By the end of seventh period, I was ready for a break. My cheeks were sore from smiling, and my shoulders were black and blue from getting thumped and bumped all day. If it had been up to me, I might have called it quits right then. The MMM had gotten me into this mess, and the MMM could get me out. But when I got to the office, she was nowhere to be found. I was about to turn around when I heard what sounded like raised voices.

I'd never given student council much more than a passing thought, but I managed to remember that they met with Ms. Quintero once a month. They were supposed to air our grievances, but I'd heard they spent their time sucking up to Ms. Quintero and binging on pizza and breadsticks. So much for representation.

On any other day, I would have hightailed it out of there, but my feet were tired, too, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious. I leaned back against the door and folded my arms across my chest. The voices were coming from the conference room, so there was zero chance that they would see me, but if someone came along, I was going to need a good excuse to be hanging out around the office. Since I didn't have a phone, I'd have to pretend to be asleep.

“—would be a change,” a voice was saying. It sounded like Veronica's. “But I think it would be nice to mix things up, try something new.”

Someone snorted. “Don't be stupid.” This voice sounded like Brady's. “We're only having this conversation because that twerp entered the race. But it's not going to matter, since he's just going to lose.”

I was less concerned with this assessment than the fact that he'd called me a twerp. No one except my older brothers ever got to call me
that.

“It's not just that,” she said. “I mean, how would you feel if you never got a chance to make your opinions known?”

“It's a good question,” someone said. I didn't recognize this voice. “But there are other ways. We don't have to let them have our seats.”

Veronica drew a bracing breath, then slowly blew it out again. “I know I'm asking for a lot, but if it's for the greater good…”

Brady snorted again. “What good is it to suck up to a bunch of nerds?”

I had to bite my lip to keep from snorting myself. Was Veronica really suggesting that the populars step down so the nerds could take their seats?

There was an awkward pause, and then Ms. Quintero said, “I think that's all we have time for today. We'll have to take this up next month. Thank you, Ms. Pritchard-Pratt, for your thoughtful presentation. You've given us a lot to think about.”

They weren't the only ones. But I didn't have a chance to process it before they descended on me.

I made a break for the south hall, but I'd never been the strongest runner, so I wasn't out of sight before Veronica called after me, “Hey, David, wait up!”

Waiting for Veronica wasn't high on my to-do list, but her unexpected cheerfulness took me by surprise. It sounded as fake as Granddad's dentures, and I'd never thought of her as someone who had to fake anything.

By the time I turned around, she'd already halved the distance between us. “We need to practice,” she announced.

I opened my mouth to answer, then snapped it shut again. Brady had come up behind her and was now glaring lasers at me, like I was some kind of amoeba that had latched onto his shoe. It might have had something to do with the tail end of that meeting, but I'd never thought of him as someone who cared about that stuff.

Veronica knocked on my forehead. “Earth to David, Earth to David!” When I blinked, she said again, “We need to practice, like, right now.”

I tore my gaze away from Brady's face. “Yeah, sure,” I said distractedly. Maybe Brady thought that I was trying to make a move on his girlfriend. Nothing could be further from the truth. “Why don't we plan on tomorrow?”

She grabbed the handle on my backpack. “Why don't we plan on right now? Can I come over to your place?”

“His place?” Brady asked. He asked it like my place was one of those toxic waste facilities that belched green smoke into the air.

She made a show of shrugging. “We've practiced at his house before.”

I fought the urge to smack my forehead. If he'd been worried before, Brady had to be downright suspicious now. “Only once,” I said, backpedaling, but Veronica wouldn't let me go. I must have looked like a cartoon character that couldn't run away.

Veronica didn't seem to notice. “So are we going?” she demanded.

I shifted awkwardly. On the one hand, I wanted to play “La Vie en rose” with her again, but on the other, it seemed stupid—and possibly life-threatening—to incur Brady's wrath. The last thing I needed was a vengeful boyfriend on my tail.

I was trying to decide how to let Veronica down gently when I remembered my saving grace. “Well, my parents are downtown, and they don't let me have friends over when I'm home alone.”

Brady stuck his chin out. “Who said you two were friends?” he asked.

“Well, they don't let me have enemies over when I'm home alone, either, so it's kind of a moot point.”

Brady smiled smugly. “Then I guess we'll just have to postpone—”

“Do you want to come over to my house?” Veronica cut in.

“WHAT?” Brady replied. “You've never asked me over, and we've been going out for months!”

She held up a hand to stop him, then set her sights on me. “Do you or don't you?” she demanded, folding her arms across her waist.

I dug my toe into the carpet. I
did
want to play “La Vie en rose,” and if I was being completely honest, I also wanted to see her place. If Brady hadn't been there, it must have been a sight to see. They probably had security checkpoints, maybe even an electric fence. Her house was probably the nicest of any of the houses in SV.

“I'd have to call my mom,” I said.

Veronica motioned toward the office. “I bet you can use their phone. They let me use it all the time.”

“Don't you have your own?” I asked.

“It's a secure line,” Brady said. “You know, like a president's.”

Veronica actually blushed, but she didn't disagree. That must have meant that it was true.

Still, I hesitated. “I'd also have to see if she could pick me up.”

Veronica relaxed. “Even if she can't,” she said, “I could help you catch the bus.”

Brady straightened up. “So can I come over, too? I've never seen your—”

“No, you can't.” The way that Veronica said it left zero room for argument. “David and I will have to practice. We won't have time for official tours.”

Worry sizzled in my stomach like an egg in a hot pan. No Brady meant no witnesses. Was this some clever ploy designed to lure me to her lair?

I chuckled nervously. “Your parents aren't ax murderers, are they?”

“Of course not,” she replied (though she refused to meet my gaze). “It's just that…never mind. I guess you'll see soon enough.”

Since she was still clutching my backpack, it wasn't difficult for her to drag me back into the office. Brady sputtered like a dying engine, then, finally, stormed off. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd gotten the better deal.

As I dialed Mom's number, a part of me secretly hoped she'd put the kibosh on this whole plan, but she thought it was a grand idea. She felt like she knew everyone (since she'd been on the school board in Radcliff's day), but she couldn't know Ms. Pritchard or Mr. Pratt—could she?

Veronica lived on the last street of her school bus's last stop. I'd expected that school bus to take us up into the foothills that overlooked the valley, but when it turned west instead, I realized that I'd been off.
Way
off. By the time we clambered down the steps, we'd clattered over the train tracks and left the paved roads far behind. The houses on this side of SV were set apart by several acres, probably to accommodate the farms that had once been so common. But no one farmed anymore, so now it looked like the west-siders were trying to avoid their neighbors.

She kept up a running commentary as we tromped up the street. “That's Old Lady Foster's place,” she said as she pointed at a house with a rusted-out Volkswagen Beetle. “She's Evelyn's grandma, though Evelyn would never admit it.”

Evelyn Schmidt had been a popular through most of elementary school, but I'd heard that she and Veronica had had an argument. Evelyn and her closest friends had stopped sitting with the populars, but since she was the head cheerleader, we still thought of her as one.

“And that's the Markhams',” she went on, pointing at a clapboard shack. “They don't really go outside, so their place looks worse than it is.”

It certainly couldn't look much worse.

“And that's the Laras',” she continued. She didn't comment on their house, since we were coming up on hers. “And this…well, this is mine.”

It wasn't the worst house on the street—that honor went to the Markhams' shack—but that wasn't saying much. The yellow paint was old and faded (where it hadn't peeled off completely), and the whole house sagged to the left side. One corner of the porch had given out, and it looked like someone had put a baseball through a window and never bothered to replace it. They'd put a board up, though. The duct tape was a nice touch.

She drew a bracing breath. “Nowhere to go but in,” she said.

I had no choice but to follow.

The living room lived up to the outside, with ragged curtains and curling wallpaper. The whole place smelled like cigarettes. Or at least I thought that smell was cigarettes. I guess I didn't really know.

Veronica crinkled her nose. “I apologize about the smell. I know your parents probably don't—”

“What about the smell?” a voice cut in.

We turned toward it in unison. A beautiful woman had popped up in the archway that connected the front room to the house. Her long, blond hair looked like Veronica's (though it did look slightly crunchier), but her alligator business suit looked nothing like the ones that were stuffed at the back of Mom's closet. It clung to her like plastic wrap, and it wouldn't have surprised me if the alligator had turned out to be real.

Veronica just shook her head. “Nothing, Mom. Forget I said it.”

I'd already decided that the woman was her mom, but I didn't like the way that Ms. Pritchard was looking at me—like I was a piece of meat.

“Well, hello there,” she said smoothly as she sashayed into the room. “What's your name, little one?”

I wanted to tell her I was Radcliff—for some reason, it seemed dangerous to tell her who I was—but the lie caught in my throat. “My name is David,” I replied.

She offered me her hand. “And mine is Sue,” she said, winking.

I shook Ms. Pritchard's hand as quickly as I could. “Nice to meet you,” I mumbled. Though I called Riley's parents Beau and Abigail, it felt weird to call her Sue.

Ms. Pritchard tipped her head back and cackled like I'd just said something funny. I cocked an eyebrow at Veronica, but she didn't seem to know what her mom was laughing at, either.

“You'll have to clear out now,” she said as she rushed her mom away. “David and I are going to practice, and I know how much you hate the noise.”

Ms. Pritchard stood her ground. “Well, maybe I could listen just this—”

“No!”

Veronica's outburst took me by surprise (and if I didn't miss my guess, it took Veronica by surprise, too). But instead of backing down, she drew herself up to her full height. I couldn't help but notice that she had her mom by several inches.

Ms. Pritchard made a show of sniffing. “I can see when I'm not wanted.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “But I expect you to make dinner as soon as David leaves!”

Ms. Pritchard stormed off in a huff. When a door slammed shut upstairs, I jumped despite myself, but Veronica deflated.

“I apologize about her, too,” she said. “My mom is kind of…”

“Loud?” I finished.

She half snorted, half sighed. “Dad keeps saying he'll divorce her, but Mom knows that he's too chicken—and that we need the health insurance. She works at Kaufmann Travel, but I'm pretty sure she spends more time at the hair salon next door. When Mr. Kaufmann's gone, at least.” She glanced down at her All Stars. “But that was way more information than you probably needed.”

I forced a nervous chuckle. I wasn't used to worrying about things like health insurance (or what Mom did to stay busy), so I didn't know how to relate.

“Anyway,” she said as she lifted the piano lid, “we should get started. I don't know how long I'll have.” She glanced back at the archway, then returned her attention to the keys. “How about some warm-up scales?”

“Sure,” I said, shrugging, not because I liked warm-up scales—I didn't—but because I needed a second to adjust. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to me that Veronica's life wouldn't be perfect, that it wouldn't be like mine.

Veronica didn't mention “La Vie en rose” for the rest of the week, but that was fine by me. I didn't want to be her confidante or even her friend. And with the campaign at a standstill, I had plenty on my plate.

Spencer was on the verge of tears when he got to lunch on Friday. “Five,” he said dejectedly. I wasn't sure if he was talking about the straws still in his hand or the ones he'd given away. “Kepler, only five!”

Esther, who'd managed to make herself a regular fixture at our table, retrieved one of the castoff straws. “Only five
what
?” she asked.

“Only five people told me that they were gonna vote for David, and Sarah Sloan said she'd change her mind if I didn't stop bothering her.”

Riley perked up. “Sarah Sloan?” He'd had a crush on her forever.

Spencer waved that off. “It doesn't matter who it was! The numbers are what matter, and they've been dropping like my uncle's stock.”

Spencer had taken straw polls at every lunch this week, and the news wasn't encouraging. I'd scored thirty straws on Wednesday (which he'd attributed to Shiny David), but the numbers had been falling ever since. Today's count was a new low.

I scratched the back of my head. “You know, maybe Sarah's right. Maybe we just need to take a break.”

Spencer shook his head. “It's not just that,” he said, sighing. “The campaign is losing steam. We need to do something, and quick.”

Esther drained her chocolate milk, then slammed the empty carton down. “I'll take care of it,” she said, “and I'll do it quickly, too.”

Spencer's eyes narrowed. “You've got something up your sleeve?”

“Can't say I do,” Esther replied, holding out her arms to prove it. Then she pointed at her head. “But I've got plenty of ideas up here.”

“What kinds of ideas?” I asked.

Her only answer was a wicked grin.

I spent the afternoon waiting and wondering, but Esther didn't disappoint. Between sixth and seventh periods, she magically showed up at my locker with a stack of postcard-sized flyers. She tried to hand them to me, but Spencer intercepted them. After giving them a once-over, he handed them to me. I had to squint to read Esther's spidery handwriting:

Meet us behind Renfro's
at exactly 9:00 a.m. tomorrow for
THE EXPERIENCE OF A LIFETIME.

Spencer made a face. “What's ‘the experience of a lifetime'?”

“And why at Renfro's?” I added.

“You'll see,” Esther replied, still smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “For now, just pass these out.”

The color drained from Riley's cheeks. “We're supposed to give them to just anyone?”

“No, to
everyone
,” she said, handing us a few more flyers. “We want everyone to be there. We want everyone to own this.”

“Own
what
?” Spencer demanded.

“The experience of a lifetime,” she said simply. She turned around, then turned right back. “And you can come without a shirt. It'll just get in the way.”

As much as it shamed me to admit it, I almost peed my pants right then.

* * *

Riley and I showed up at Spencer's house at eight thirty the next morning. It was only a few blocks from Renfro's, so it had seemed like a good meeting place. He met us on the porch, his bare chest gleaming in the sun. We didn't bother to say anything, just dipped our heads at one another. If we were going to go down, at least we would go down together.

The walk to Renfro's was a short one, and since we were coming at it from behind, we could see Esther hard at work long before we actually got there. She was sitting on a crate, leaning against Renfro's back wall, a funnel perched between her legs. A water balloon dangled from the end, though she wasn't filling it with water. The multicolored streaks that stained her arms looked suspiciously like paint.

When Spencer kicked a rock that skittered across the empty lot and eventually stopped next to her crate, Esther looked up from her funnel. “Hey, guys!” she said, waving. Flecks of paint went flying, landing in her curly hair, but she didn't seem to notice. “I'm glad you decided to come early.”

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, planting both hands on his hips.

Esther looked him up and down. It made me glad I'd brought a shirt. “What do you think?” she replied as she tied off the balloon. “We're gonna do a little painting!”

Unease rumbled in my stomach like an approaching thunderstorm, but I managed to ignore it. “So what are we gonna paint?”

Her grin might have been contagious if it hadn't been so terrifying. “I'll give you one guess,” she replied as she retrieved a T-shirt from a grocery sack and chucked it in my direction. “Here, put this on.”

I caught the T-shirt in both hands, then bobbled it and finally dropped it. When I picked it up again, it had a dirt stain on the back. “I got this one dirty,” I said lamely, holding it back out to her. “And you forgot to take the tags off.”

Esther took it back and snapped the tags off with her teeth, then tossed it back to me. “It doesn't matter,” she replied, tossing shirts to Riley and Spencer. “They're about to get much dirtier.”

That probably should have worried me, but I was more concerned about taking off my shirt. The thought of changing while she watched was enough to make me blush.

I dug my toe into the dirt. “Hey, Esther, would you mind?”

“Would I mind
what
?” she asked.

I felt my cheeks get hot. “Would you mind turning around?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, but at least she turned around.

As soon as she turned her back, I shucked off my Care Bear shirt—another hand-me-down from Radcliff—while Riley did the same.

Esther made a show of cleaning paint out of her nails. “You know that I couldn't care less about seeing your chest, right?”

“All the same,” I said, shoving my arms into the sleeves, “I appreciate the privacy.” After yanking it over my head, I mumbled, “You can turn around.”

“See, that wasn't so hard,” she said.

I pointed at the masking tape that she'd stuck across the shirt. “What is this stuff for?” I asked.

“It's protecting the logo,” she explained, peeling the tape back to reveal the first word of YOUR PAINT, YOUR VOTE.

Spencer peeled his tape away. “What if the paint bleeds underneath it?”

She considered that, then shrugged. “If it's just a few drips, it won't be a big deal. The paintballs are oil-based—otherwise, the paint would just wash off—so if the logo takes a hit, we would definitely be in trouble. But the tape is heavy-duty—it's the kind that Toby uses—so I think it will hold.” She smacked Spencer's chest, hard. “Just don't fiddle with it, genius.”

He made a face at her.

She pretended not to notice. “So this is how it's gonna work. When everyone gets here, we're gonna line up over there.” She motioned toward Renfro's back wall. “Then we're gonna arm everyone with paintball guns and let them take potshots at us.”

I crinkled my nose. “What do you mean, ‘let them take potshots at us'?” I glanced at the wall, then back at Esther's paintball gun. “Oh, you mean they're gonna…?”

“Yep,” Esther said, grinning. “And it's gonna be freaking amazing. Every time they see these shirts, they're gonna remember this moment.”

I eyed the paint, the guns, the grocery sacks stuffed with new T-shirts. “This only cost you fifty bucks?”

“Well, the guns belong to Toby—he's part of this paintball league—but the rest of this stuff only cost me forty-seven eighty-three.” Esther smiled proudly. “And I have the receipts to prove it.”

I rolled my tongue around my mouth, but I was already out of spit. I guess it really was possible to be scared spitless.

“Don't worry,” Esther said. “The first shot's always the toughest. After a while, you'll get used to it.” She smacked me on the shoulder. “Let's get ready for battle!”

Riley checked his watch (which I sincerely hoped was paint-proof). “It's eight fifty-nine,” he said.

Spencer pointed out two lonely figures headed up the street. “And here they come!” he crowed.

My heart lifted a little. I could handle only two. But what started as a trickle quickly turned into a stream, then a genuine deluge. By ten minutes after nine, the empty lot behind Renfro's was filled to overflowing with a sea of eager sixth graders. A few looked vaguely interested, but most looked downright eager to shoot us with paintball guns. They must have deciphered Esther's flyers a lot more quickly than I had.

Spencer climbed up on a crate. “All right, all right!” he said to get everyone's attention. “First off, we want to thank you guys for coming. Our art director—”

“That's me!” Esther said.

“—will explain how this will work,” he said as if she hadn't cut in.

Esther cleared her throat. “All right, listen up!” she hollered. “This is pretty self-explanatory. We have these shirts, we have this paint, and we need you guys to help us put the two together.”

One of the kids who was standing near the front—I thought his name was Jason—motioned toward the paintball guns. “Are we allowed to go for head shots?”

Esther sized him up. “Sure,” she finally said, “if you think that you can hit one.”

While everyone else snickered, I started composing my last will and testament in my head.

“In addition to the guns,” she said, “we also have these paint balloons, so feel free to mix it up. And we have quite a few shirts, so even when we finish these”—she gestured to the shirts that we were wearing—“we'll have more to go around.” She pointed at the kid who'd asked the question about head shots. “Jayden, I'm putting you in charge of giving everyone a turn.”

Jayden nodded eagerly. Apparently, his name wasn't Jason.

“All right, then,” Esther said. “Once we get our headgear on, we'll get to work!”

Esther's mention of headgear produced a couple of friendly boos, but the others seemed okay with it (and thank goodness for
that
). She handed each of us a fencing mask—or what I figured was a fencing mask—and showed us how to put it on. I was grateful for the mesh screen, since I didn't want anyone to see me when I accidentally squealed.

“We'll start with our backs,” she said, pulling her mask over her face. “And please make sure you stay behind the solid yellow line!”

I snuck a peek over my shoulder. I hadn't noticed any line. With any luck, that meant it was on the
other
side of Renfro's.

Even though it was only nine, the wall was already warm. It was a good thing we had the masks, since my nose probably would have scraped it. I wanted to sink into that wall and grab a root beer float at Renfro's (or, better yet, escape when the others weren't looking). I fought the urge to barf as the crowd shifted behind us. Jayden must have been organizing everyone into a line and distributing the ammo.

Too soon, he shouted, “Fire!”

I'd never actually fired a paintball gun before, but Owen and Radcliff had both owned one, so I knew that creepy hissing sound wasn't a good sign. You had to attach compressed air canisters to make paintball guns fire, so they let off little hisses every time you squeezed the trigger. But I only had a second to think these less-than-helpful thoughts before a dozen welts rose on my back. I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming.

“Next!” Jayden shouted firmly, and there was a momentary lull as the weaponry changed hands.

I pressed my mask against the cinderblock and waited for that telltale hiss. The second volley missed our shirts, but somehow, it found our legs. As more welts bloomed on my calves, I cursed myself for wearing shorts.

While Jayden helped the next group, I blinked back nervous tears. A sudden breeze blew through the empty lot, stirring the leg hairs that weren't already plastered with paint. The breeze smelled like ice cream sundaes, and for a second, maybe more, I actually felt kind of good. So when the next wave of ammo hit and one of Esther's paint balloons exploded on my head, I did something unexpected:

I actually laughed out loud.

The sound bubbled up my throat before I could tell what it was. It started as a snicker, then morphed into an all-out belly laugh, knocking me onto my knees. By the time I got back up, Spencer was belly-laughing, too, and even Riley had stopped whimpering. We must have looked insane.

Esther, who'd been grinning like an idiot from the moment we'd arrived, slapped me on my paint-streaked back. “See, it's not so bad,” she said.

I was laughing too hard to reply.

She slapped me on the back again. “I think it's time to turn around!”

Hysterical tears clouded my vision, so even after I turned around, I couldn't tell what was going on. When a nervous hush descended, I rubbed the tears out of my eyes. The crowd was parting around something like a school of fish around a shark, and even though the something—or, more precisely, the some
one
—was still a long way from the front, I could tell who the shark was.

Apparently, Veronica had come to play with her food.