My Perfect Life (3 page)

Someone behind me actually clapped.

Clapping, however, was not what I felt like doing. I stuffed my uneaten dessert back into my lunch box in what I hoped was a firm and significant manner. Lola is my best friend, but that doesn’t make me blind to her faults. I’d known her long enough for the words “I’ve got an idea” to chill my heart.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to know.”

Lola looked wounded. “For God’s sake, Ella … you haven’t even heard what it is yet. You can’t say no until you hear what it is.”

“Yes I can. And anyway, I have a pretty good idea what it is. You’ve found some way around the homeroom rep rule, haven’t you?” Something devious.

Lola coyly tilted her head. “Well…”

“You just never know when to stop.” I snapped my lunch box shut, and grabbed the piece of paper from Morty’s hands. “I’m signing Morty’s petition,” I said. “You’re on your own on this one.”

To my surprise, instead of arguing with me like she usually does, Lola just made a what-can-you-do kind of face, and sighed like a doomed Greek heroine.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll get the fifty signatures I need without your help.”

“Good,” I said. “You do that. But just remember one thing: there is no way I’m running with you for Vice President. Is that totally and absolutely clear?”

“Don’t get yourself all stirred up,” answered Lola. “Running for Vice President is the last thing on earth I’d want you to do.”

How was I supposed to know she was telling the truth for a change?

There
was a meeting of the school newspaper staff that afternoon.

Carla Santini had already bought a full-page ad for the next issue.

“Just so long as Carla understands that the paper is impartial,” said Barry, our editor-in-chief. “We don’t take sides.”

“What sides?” asked one of the other reporters. “Morty Slinger’s more a shadow than a side.”

Everybody laughed.

“We may as well write up the election issue now,” said someone else. “Santini by a Landslide: You Know She’s the Best.”

“Well, that’s a little defeatist,” I teased.

“And we’re all a little defeated,” said Barry. “Carla’s got a better war record than the American Army.”

After the meeting we went for a pizza, so it was late by the time I got home.

My mother was on the sofa, watching something on TV and drinking a glass of wine. She always had a couple of glasses of wine in the evening, to help her relax. Lola wasn’t the only one who wasn’t quite sure what my mother was relaxing from.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she called. “Have a good day?”

I said yes. Even if I’d had the worst day in the history of mankind, I probably wouldn’t have told her. My mother doesn’t handle disappointment well.

“Anything exciting happen?” she asked.

“No.” I flopped down in one of the armchairs. “Not really.”

My mother poured herself another glass. “I hear Carla’s running for School President.” She sounded pleased.

“Yeah,” I said. “She is.”

“You know,” said my mother, “I was talking to Mela today…” Mela is Carmela Santini, mother of Carla.

I didn’t want to get into a Carla Santini conversation with my mother, because a Carla Santini conversation always led to a Lola Cep one. My mother didn’t like Lola. Lola isn’t a character type my mother understands. My mother still had hopes then that I’d go back to hanging out with Carla Santini. Carla Santini she loved.

I stared hard at the television screen. “Really?”

I heard her put her glass down on the coffee table.

“Mela was saying that Carla’s not very happy with Alma as her running mate…”

“No?”

I heard her pick her glass up again.

“As a matter of fact, Mela thinks that Carla would much rather have you run with her.”

I nearly choked on my tongue. “You what?” I couldn’t stop myself. I turned around. “You can’t be serious.”

My mother shrugged almost coyly. I wasn’t sure if she was smiling again, or if she just hadn’t stopped.

“I’m only telling you what Mela said.”

What you have to understand is that this wasn’t just idle conversation over the coffee cups or the charity lunch. This was Carla Santini getting her mother to get my mother to convince me to run with her. That’s the way our little community of Woodford works. The CIA could have taken lessons from this crew.

“Well, you can tell Mrs Santini that I’m not interested.”

“Oh, honey…” My mother rubbed a finger on the stem of her glass. “At least give it a little thought.”

“I don’t have to. I don’t want to be Vice President.”

“But you and Carla used to be such good friends. Wouldn’t it be nice to be doing something together again?”

Not unless I was guaranteed to come out alive.

“I’m really not interested in politics, Mom. I’m the shy and retiring type, remember?”

“But that’s why you and Carla would make such a good team,” said my mother. “And think of the victory party you could have if you and Carla won.” Her voice rose with excitement. “We could have it here – it’s been ages since we had a party – and I could do the catering…”

My mother was always catering for charity dos and her friends’ parties and stuff like that. “Finger foods would be best – but not chips and dips. Chips and dips are sooo passé…”

“Mom, please … listen to me. I don’t want to run for Vice President. I really really don’t.”

She looked into her glass. “And what about Lola?”

“What about her?”

She looked at me almost slyly. “Isn’t she running? I can’t imagine Lola missing an opportunity for attention like this.”

I told you she didn’t like Lola.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m not sure. But I’m not running with her.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

My mother gave me a curious look as she reached for the bottle.

“Well, I suppose that’s something,” said my mother.

I
didn’t tell Lola about my conversation with my mother. This was partly because I knew it would only wind her up; and partly because Lola spent the next few days being very involved in her new role of political agitator.

She was always busy. Too busy for lunch. Too busy to walk to class with me. Too busy to leave school when I did. She even cut us down to two phone calls a night, because she was so busy. The phone company must have thought she was ill.

“I’ve had a lot to do in a very short amount of time,” Lola informed me on Wednesday. “The petitions have to be in by tomorrow afternoon.”

I didn’t want to encourage her – encouraging Lola is like encouraging dandelions, she just takes over – but I was pretty curious by then.

“So how’s it going? No hitches?”

“Not one.” She tapped the clipboard she now carried everywhere. “I shouldn’t have any trouble meeting the quota.”

“Really?” I didn’t ask how she’d managed to get around the homeroom rep rule. I wanted to know, but I didn’t want to become an accessory after the fact – the way I had when she “borrowed” Eliza Doolittle’s dress from the drama department. “What about Vice President? Who’s that going to be?”

In only a few short days Lola had acquired a politician’s smile. Possibly Hillary Clinton’s.

“Sam.”

“Sam?” She couldn’t be serious. Sam Creek is not a person you associate with school politics. He’s more a person you associate with revolution. “But he hasn’t even been in school all week.”

“Because he hurt his foot,” explained Lola, as though Sam would never miss school unless he was practically dead. “Some car spare part rolled over it, or fell on it … something like that. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Sam’s a lot more popular than you’d think for a social deviant. It must be because most of the boys take their cars to him.”

“Well,” I said. “So everything’s under control.”

“Absolutely,” said Lola.

I lowered my voice. “I do wish you luck, you know. It’s not that I don’t think you should be President. It’s just that I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Lola had been pretty upset when no one would believe that we’d been to the Sidartha party and met the lead singer, Stu Wolff. It was the only time I’d seen her even temporarily defeated.

“I know that,” said Lola. “Yours is a kind nature. But you don’t have to worry, El. This time it’s Carla Santini who’s going to get hurt.”

And then she dashed off to get some more signatures before the bell rang.

Carla Santini and her coven – Alma Vitters, Tina Cherry and Marcia Conroy – were standing outside homeroom on Friday morning, the day the nominations were announced.

“There they are,” muttered Lola. “The four cheerleaders of the apocalypse.”

Carla Santini didn’t look like a cheerleader today. She was wearing a tailored cashmere suit and a string of real pearls. She looked like an ambassador to the UN.

Carla was holding forth as usual. She never once so much as glanced in our direction, but I knew she’d seen us coming down the hall. Her voice went up several decibels.

“I think Mork the Dork managed to get himself nominated,” Carla boomed. “But aside from him I don’t think anyone else is running.” She sounded as though this was a crushing disappointment. “So much for democratic institutions.”

Tina Cherry shrieked. “Well, really, Carla. Who would run against you? You’re everyone’s first choice.”

“And their only choice, apparently,” said Lola.

She said it softly, but we were near enough to Carla and her crew that the Santini radar – imitated by bats, but never matched – could pick it up.

Carla purred. “I have to say, I was surprised to discover that you’re not running, Lola.”

She was going to be even more surprised when she discovered that Lola was.

Carla’s smile darkened the corridor. “You’re usually only too eager to humiliate yourself in public.”

Lola put on her politician’s grin. This time the politician was definitely Henry Kissinger.

“Oh, I’d much rather watch you humiliate yourself in public.” She swung her shawl over her shoulder, making Carla jump back to avoid being hit. “And I have this very strong premonition that this just may be my chance.”

“Mork the Dork?” Carla’s laughter ricocheted down the hall, deadlier than a speeding bullet. “You think Morty Slinger is going to humiliate me? Most of the student body doesn’t even know who he is. They think he works in the office.”

“Every election has its surprises,” said Lola. “Remember Truman? Remember Teddy Roosevelt?”

“Remember the Alamo,” said Carla.

The nominations were the last announcement of the morning. Dr Alsop did the honors. He started with his yearly lecture on the democratic process and the importance of participating in school government. And then, when even Carla Santini looked as if she might drop off, he cleared his throat.

“It gives me great pleasure to announce the nominations for the school elections,” said Dr Alsop. The tannoy crackled.

Carla looked up as though he’d called her name. Everyone else looked at Carla.

“For President,” Dr Alsop went on among more crackling, “Morton Slinger … Carla Santini…”

There was a burst of cheering and clapping from the Santini contingent that was so loud I nearly missed the third name.

“… and Ella Gerard…”

I might have convinced myself I’d misheard him if Sam, who had finally limped in to school, hadn’t given a war whoop.

“Way to go, Ella!” shouted Sam.

Now, except for me, Lola and Carla Santini, everybody was looking at me. Carla and I were looking at Lola. Lola was staring up at the tannoy as though this were all news to her.

Dr Alsop was still going. “For Vice President, Farley Brewbaker … Alma Vitters … (another roar from Carla and her crew) and Samuel Creek.”

Mr Geraldi, our homeroom teacher, laughed. “Good Lord, Sam,” said Mr Geraldi. “What’d you do? Lose a bet?”

Sam didn’t shout out a war whoop this time. He leaned over Lola’s shoulder. “Back up the truck here,” hissed Sam. “What does he mean ‘Samuel Creek’?”

Lola glanced back at him, rolling her eyes. “Well, Ella has to have a Vice President, doesn’t she?”

It was Carla who answered. Shakespeare warns about daggers in men’s smiles, but her smile contained an intercontinental ballistic missile.

“What Ella’s going to need is a pallbearer,” said Carla Santini.

God
knows how she did it, but Carla Santini’s face – larger than life and twice as scary – was plastered all over the school walls by the time we got out of homeroom.

“She must’ve hired elves,” said Lola, as she, Sam and I walked to our first class. “Look at this place. It looks like the Carla Santini Hall of Fame.”

It was more like a Hall of Mirrors, but I didn’t say so. I knew Lola’s tricks. I was not going to be diverted from what I considered the primary topic of conversation that morning by a discussion on the speed and efficiency with which Carla had launched her campaign.

I gave her a cool look. “Personally, I’m a lot more interested in how you managed to get me and Sam nominated without us knowing.”

“It was easy, really.” Lola’s smile was smug. She was pretty pleased with herself. “I just made sure I asked people who never talk to you. Which is at least half the school in your case, and almost all of it in Sam’s.”

“Well, you’ve really gone too far this time, Lola.” It was stating the obvious, but I still felt it had to be said.

Sam agreed. “Way too far. Right off the road.”

But the advantage of madness is that you’re protected from anyone else’s point of view.

“You’re both overreacting.” Lola’s tone was matter-of-fact and breezy. “Once you have time to get used to the idea, you’ll see that it’s absolutely brilliant. Near-genius.”

Sam shook his head. “Get a grip on yourself, Einstein.” His voice had more patience in it than you’d think a boy who looks like every mother’s drug-crazed nightmare would possess. “Listen to me, Lola. I’m an anarchist. I can’t stand for Vice President. I don’t believe in government.”

Lola’s shawl flapped in his face. “Oh, please… How can you not believe in government? That’s like not believing in air. And anyway, there’s no better way to destroy an institution than from within.”