Total Knockout (5 page)

I was trying to do some homework but really just obsessing about what happened at the assembly, when Melanie called on my cell. I hesitated, and felt horrible even as I hit the reject button.

I went in search of life in our house. Henry wasn't in his room, although his backpack sat next to his desk, and Mom's car still wasn't in the driveway, even though it was almost seven o'clock.

Back in the office, I found Dad at the computer. He wore an undershirt and old running shorts, no shoes. He looked over the monitor at me and smiled. “Hey, honey. You have fun at the Nixons'?”

I nodded. I wondered if he'd left home all day, and if he'd gone back to bed after we'd all left the house that morning. I wondered if he was going to make dinner, or if Henry and I would just get something on our own, like we were doing more and more often these days.

“What are you working on?” I asked, trying to be hopeful. I'm not sure any of us knew what he did all day—what he'd been doing for two months—but I still held out hope that even if he'd given up the thing he loved most, meaning boxing, he hadn't given up the thing he
needed
most, meaning a job.

Dad smiled at me in his don't-rat-me-out kind of
way and turned the monitor toward me. He'd been playing solitaire.

“Oh,” I said, overcome with disappointment. Usually when he gave me that look it was because he'd had an actual fight at the gym instead of just working out. “Where's Henry?”

“At Simon's, working on a science project.”

“When's Mom coming home?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Probably in an hour or so. Want to help me get dinner started?”

“I have homework,” I said, even though I was starving and intended to sneak into the kitchen for some peanut butter and apple slices. He hadn't even asked about the assembly. Two years ago, on the morning of my first assembly speech, he'd gotten up early and made me whole wheat pancakes for good luck.

“Well, y'all holler if you need anything. Okay, honey?”

He smiled at me, that smile that used to tell me there was nothing to worry about.

I went back to my room, shut the door, and clutched Paddy.

The next morning I waited for Melanie at the usual corner. Butterflies raced through my stomach, wondering how the elections would play out. If I was honest with myself, I knew that, way deep down, I would probably still win. But with Melanie's exciting performance, and the general lack of enthusiasm for the council in general, I had some major doubts.

At least Melanie was treating the day the same as always—she trotted out of her house just as the school bus pulled up, wearing a brown men's derby with a small pink flower she had plucked from her yard tucked into the band. Seeing her look so pretty, fresh, and relaxed put a smile on my face. As she took her breezy time walking to the bus, I realized how immature I'd been last night by screening her call.

“So,” Melanie began, “you okay about yesterday?”
We sat in our usual seat near the front. “I tried to call you last night. Did you get my message?” I could tell she was eyeing me closely, trying to gauge my mood. When I didn't get Ms. Jenkins's approval last year to eliminate home ec in lieu of sex ed, I got so red-faced angry that Melanie literally backed out of my room and walked a path around me for two days.

Before I could answer Melanie, something pelted me in the back of the head. We turned around to see Robbie Cordova with the most blatantly innocent look on his face as he concentrated on staring out the window. Melanie reached under the seat, and when she opened up her palm, she asked, “Oh, hey. Did you get one?”

The dreaded pirate pencil topper.

Melanie and I looked at each other, and I could feel my pulse quicken. She readjusted her derby hat, then turned back to Robbie and said, “Why do you even have one of these? It's not like you know how to write.” But he only howled with laughter.

“Anyway.” Melanie sighed. “I totally thought Mrs. P was going to start foaming at the mouth or something at the assembly.”

As she went on to tell me how she'd gotten the freebies (her dad, a marketing guy, had them left over from
an event and Melanie called his secretary to bring them in), I tried to think of her as I hadn't yesterday—as an opponent. I knew that, just like in boxing, you should never underestimate your opponent. I started to wonder if I had underestimated Melanie. It's not like I was her only friend. There were a couple of girls she hung out with at least as much as me. I guess I had wanted to think of her as my comrade in arms, but the truth was, Melanie worked in her own world, one that was fun and friendly and open. I wondered, not for the first time, if the students could accept me for being so serious all the time. But just like Melanie's breezy attitude made her who she was, my studious ways made me who I was.

At least, that's what my mom always said.

I didn't want to be mad at Melanie because she had only done what I asked—more or less. I knew that I was a little jealous—no,
envious
—of her ability to be spontaneous and laugh things off. I figured it was something she'd worked pretty hard to learn to do since her mom passed away.

Melanie's mom died when we were in fourth grade, before she and I became friends. Cooper and I had never known anyone who died, or anyone who
knew
anyone who'd died. We wanted to stare at Melanie in the halls
and in class to see what a person who had lost a parent looked like. Would she break down and cry at any moment? Was she bitter, and would she soon turn into a bad girl? Could you tell just by looking at her that she didn't have a mom anymore? The truth was, there weren't any signs written on her face. She was out of school for a week and came back the next Monday. Maybe we did all stare at her too much, because by Wednesday she was gone again for the rest of the week. After that she came back again, wearing a pink camouflage military hat pulled low over her eyes, but she was smiling. I even saw her laughing between classes with her sister, Beverly.

I didn't become friends with her until last year, even though we lived so close to each other. Melanie and her sister, Beverly, who was two years older, were always close, but after their mom died, they became inseparable. No one at our school could get through their force field. They walked to class together and sat alone together at lunch. Last year, though, Beverly moved on to high school, leaving Melanie behind. Melanie had other friends, like Rose Andreas, who was in my homeroom (along with Robbie Cordova), but I wasn't really friends with them. Rose didn't ride the bus, and with Beverly
in high school, Mel sat alone. One morning I asked if she wanted to sit with me. I wouldn't have thought we'd become such good friends—Melanie is the type of girl who always says yes, whereas I liked to think of the pros and cons of things, but I think that her willingness is part of what I liked about her. Still do, actually.

We were almost at school when I took a deep breath and asked her the question that'd been nagging me. “Hey, Mel? Do you want to be president?”

For a moment I thought she was going to say yes—something about the way she darted her eyes at me. But she said, “God, no! It seems totally boring. No offense,” she added. “Besides, I feel like I'm already so swamped with school that I wouldn't have time anyway.”

“Well, do you want to be vice president?” I didn't want her to want what I wanted, but I wanted her to at least want what she wanted—even if I did sort of orchestrate the whole thing. If that makes sense.

“Oh, sure,” she said. “Being the veep sounds like fun. Plus there's no, like, real responsibilities, right?”

“There are some responsibilities,” I said. “It's not a total cake thing.”

She waved her hand and said, “It'll be fun.”

As the bus pulled into school, I had a sinking feeling
that maybe, just maybe, things weren't going to turn out the way I'd planned.

In first-period algebra, everyone seemed like they were having a grand ol' time working out their quadratic equations—probably because everyone's pencils were topped with a pirate. Even Lily Schmidt, who had apparently gained some confidence from her six-word speech yesterday (“I'm Lily Schmidt. Vote for me.”), turned around and told me, “I nabbed an extra if you want one.”

In homeroom, I thought about how I should react, both if I won and if I didn't. Gracious, either way. I figured I would smile if I didn't win, maybe even shrug in a sort of,
What can you do?
kind of way. And if I won, maybe I should put my hand to my chest, bow my head, and mouth,
Thank you
.

When our principal finally came on the speaker, my heart pounded—I was more nervous than I thought I would be. I realized at that moment that I did care whether or not I won—a lot. I wanted to win. I had to win. Who was I if I didn't win?

“Attention all Blue Jays,” Ms. Jenkins began. “I have the student council election results I know you've all been waiting for.” I looked around the room and saw
Rose Andreas giggle and roll her eyes. I wondered what Melanie had said to her about running for vice president, and if maybe Rose told her she was wasting her time.

“Let me just begin by saying that this year's election was the closest presidential election in the entire history of our student council. I believe that
all
our candidates deserve our thanks for giving us such a rousing election this year.” I kept my face forward and tried to hold what I thought was a pleasant, slightly curious expression on my face.

“Let's not delay another moment,” Ms. Jenkins continued. “Here are this year's student council officers! Beginning with treasurer—Jared Hensley!”

“Ah, yeah.” Robbie laughed. “He's going to party away the money.”

“Student council secretary belongs to . . .” Ms. Jenkins paused for effect, like she was naming the top ten in the Miss America pageant. “Cooper Nixon!”

I wanted to burst out clapping for my best friend, but managed to hold back. I knew people would vote for Coop, and I was so excited to get to work with him on council. This was going to be the best year yet.
If
I won, I had to remind myself.

“Now, as you all know, we had very spirited speeches this year, and the race for the presidency was close. Both Lucia Latham and Melanie O'Hare deserve kudos for their efforts. This race was close. But this year's student council presidency goes to . . .” Ms. Jenkins paused again for dramatic effect.
Keep a pleasant face
, I told myself.
Act gracious, no matter what.
“. . . Lucia Latham!”

I pumped my arm and cheered, “Yes!”

As the others in my class openly laughed at me, I pulled myself together and thought,
So much for gracious
.

Leaving homeroom I secretly wanted to walk the halls to throngs of “Congratulations, Lucia!” and “It's great to have you back for a third year!” Or something. I don't know why—it'd never happened in the past. I guess I hoped that maybe this year would be different. I had made history and thought that was worth something.

Like a true best friend, Cooper was the first to congratulate me. He high-fived me in the hall when I passed him walking with Max, who yelled, “Way to go, Prez!” I didn't want to think he said that just because he was with Cooper, but it made me smile anyway.

Nicole Jeffries was the only other person at school who said anything to me, and that's just because of the interview.

“So, same time tomorrow morning, Madam President?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

I felt very strange. Like I was completely unsatisfied, which didn't make sense because I had gotten exactly what I wanted. I started to wonder what would make me happy, and the only thing I could come up with was a little bit of recognition. I mean, if they took away the student council tomorrow, not one person, besides me, would care. But what everyone didn't know was how helpful the council could be. Like with the homework thing, which I believed had been cut down a bit.