President of Poplar Lane Read online

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Margaret Mincks

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Ebook ISBN 9780425290958

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Mincks, Margaret, author. Title: President of Poplar Lane / by Margaret Mincks.

  Description: New York : Viking Books, [2019] | Series: [Poplar kids ; book 2] | Summary: Clover O'Reilly, who struggles to be heard in her large family, and comedy magician Mike the Unusual, who only feels confident onstage, compete to become Poplar Middle School's seventh-grade class president. Identifiers: LCCN 2018051041 | ISBN 9780425290934 (hardback) Subjects: | CYAC: Politics, Practical—Fiction. | Elections—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Magic tricks—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M6315 Pre 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018051041

  Version_1

  For Scott, Mattie, and Adam

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Clover O’Reilly’s Dream Room Wish List

  1: Clover

  2: Mike the Unusual

  3: Mike the Unusual

  4: Clover

  5: Mike the Unusual

  6: Mike the Unusual

  7: Clover

  8: Mike the Unusual

  9: Clover

  10: Mike the Unusual

  11: Clover

  12: Mike

  13: Clover

  14: Clover

  15: Mike

  16: Clover

  17: Clover

  18: Mike

  19: Clover

  20: Mike

  21: Clover

  22: Clover

  23: Mike

  24: Clover

  25: Mike

  26: Mike

  27: Clover

  28: Mike the Unusual

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Clover O’Reilly’s

  DREAM ROOM WISH LIST

  PAINT (BY WALL):

  Walls one, two, and three: Eggplant Tangerine Dream

  Wall four (the Mood Wall): chalkboard paint

  FURNITURE AND ACCESSORIES:

  Beaded curtains

  No bed (soooo boring)—piles of mismatched pillows

  Sewing machine for curtains and pillows (do these still exist?)

  Easel and splat mat

  DREAM ROOM LAYOUT:

  Sketching corner

  Painting corner

  Sculpture corner

  Mixed-media corner

  MISCELLANEOUS ESSENTIAL ITEMS:

  Sewing machine (??)

  Three jars of gold glitter (at least)

  Three bottles of gold glitter glue

  Two smocks with pockets

  Palette for mixing paints

  Paintbrushes

  Molding clay

  Posters and markers for DO NOT DISTURB—ARTIST AT WORK sign (NO SISTERS ALLOWED on flip side?)

  1

  Clover

  I took one last, deep breath. Don’t worry, I wasn’t about to die. It was just my last breath of roommate-oxygen. The last time I’d ever be surrounded by the smell of my older sister Violet’s Vanilla Angel Rainshower body spray.

  Soon the air would be filled with another odor. (Not body odor. Ew!) The glorious odor of paint: Eggplant Tangerine Dream. It’s a custom color, which means I invented it. Sometimes you can’t find what you’re looking for, so you have to make up something new.

  If I had to wait twelve years and 150 days to get my own room, I wasn’t picking some boring color off the shelf at Homer’s Goods Emporium.

  “Clover!” Mom yelled up the stairs.

  I grabbed my Dream Room Inspiration Folder—stuffed with pictures, sketches, paint swatches, and my wish list—and raced outside.

  Today would be a super great day. First, we were going to the Pancake Jamboree. If there was anything I loved as much as having my own room, it was breakfast food. Then we were going to Homer’s for the paint.

  Then it was only two more days till I started seventh grade. It was like a new me was blossoming from a cocoon, if cocoons had blossoms.

  I love school for way too many reasons to mention, but mostly because all my friends are there. And Mike the Unusual, the cutest boy alive. Plus I’m in the Random Acts of Artness Club this year. Plus plus, new school supplies—crayons, sharpened pencils, notebook paper—are just so visceral. I learned that word from my best friend, Rachel. She reads a lot. “Visceral” means that something connects with your feelings. It’s the perfect word for me because I have a lot of feelings.

  I slid open the side door of the van and inhaled Vanilla Angel Rainshower. Violet was rubbing lotion up and down her arms. I gagged.

  Sometimes having a mega-strong sense of smell can be a curse, not just a blessing. I must have a sensitive nose because I have a lot of earwax. I’ve read that when one sense is weak your other senses have to be extra strong to make up for it. In that way I’m kind of like Beethoven, even though I don’t play the piano.

  “I don’t want to wear a shirt!” my little sister Daisy wailed. Baby Juniper wailed, too, because she copies everything Daisy does.

  “You have to wear a shirt to the Pancake Jamboree,” Dad said as he started the car.

  Daisy and Juniper sat strapped into their car seats in the first row, with Juniper still facing backward. The second row was Dahlia and me.

  “Pancakes are very . . . typical,” Violet announced, filing her nails. To Violet, anything “very typical” is bad.

  Violet got to sit by herself in the optional third row. When you’re in a family with five kids, you don’t get many options. But if anyone does, it’s Violet. Not only does she get her own row, she’s also getting her own room like me and she gets to wear makeup. She’s not as artistic as I am, but today she had on three different colors of cat-eye eyeliner. I’m mature enough to admit it looked cool.

  Honestly, I’m scared to try three eyeliner colors, because that’s six chances to poke my eye out (since I have two eyes). Violet’s beauty routines are dangerous. We both have curly red hair, but Violet wakes up super early to make hers straight. The last time I used her flat iron, I almost burned my hair off.

  So, back to pancakes. The Pancake Jamboree is at Town Hall. We live close enough to walk, but we had to drive because we were hauling a ton of Mom’s campaign signs. She was running for Poplar School Board against a man named Rocket Shipley. His real name is William, but Mom says he made up a nickname for himself so he can be “more memorable.” I didn’t know you could make up nicknames f
or yourself when you were an adult.

  Clover is already a memorable name. But if I wanted to be even more memorable, I would be Clover “Anastasia Emerald” O’Reilly.

  “Mom, are you gonna win the selection?” Dahlia asked.

  “It’s called a special election,” I said.

  “Why is it special?” she asked.

  “Because a guy who was on the school board went to jail, and they have to fill his spot,” I said.

  Dahlia gasped. “Why did he go to jail?”

  “Because he stole a bunch of money and lied,” said Violet.

  “If you steal and lie, then you go to jail?” Dahlia asked.

  “Yup,” Violet said.

  Daisy burst into tears. “I don’t want to go to jail,” she said.

  “Why would you go to jail?” Mom asked.

  “I stole Violet’s makeup!” she wailed. She pulled a pan of Vice City eye shadow out of her Pet-a-Pony purse.

  “Oh boy,” said Violet. “You’d better give it back.”

  “I’m not a boy!” Daisy cried even harder.

  “No one’s going to jail,” Dad said.

  “Some people go to jail,” Dahlia said. “Or else jail would be empty.”

  “No one in this car is going to jail,” Dad said.

  “Yet,” muttered Violet.

  “There are different kinds of lies,” Mom said. “There are little lies that don’t really matter. And then there are big-deal lies.”

  “What’s a little lie and what’s a big-deal lie?” Daisy asked.

  “A little lie is like when Mom told the people at Fun World you were still two so you could get in for free. Or is that a big deal?” Dahlia asked.

  “It’s . . . complicated,” Mom said.

  “I’ll still vote for you, Mom,” Dahlia said. “Even though you lied.”

  “Me too, Mommy,” Daisy said.

  “I’m voting for her first,” Dahlia said. “In my heart.”

  Daisy’s face turned red. She was on the verge of her second breakdown of the car ride until Mom reached back and squeezed her foot.

  I rifled through my Dream Room Inspiration Folder. Dahlia snatched it right out of my hand.

  “Hey!” I yelled. Magazine clippings and paint swatches scattered all over the floor, which was mostly covered in half-munched crackers and decaying French fries.

  “Hay is for horses!” Dahlia said.

  “Neigh!” said Daisy.

  “No, hay!” Dahlia said.

  “No, hay neigh!” said Juniper, clapping.

  “Clover, can you take it down a notch?” Mom asked.

  “Why is this my fault?” I asked. “I’m the victim!”

  “Please,” said Violet. I turned around to stick my tongue out at her. Like she could hear anything with her giant pink-skull headphones (which I also admit were truly awesome).

  Mom rubbed her temples. Dad massaged her shoulder with his non-driving arm as he pulled into the parking lot.

  Violet kicked the back of my seat. I turned around to glare at her, but the worry on her face stopped me. She nodded toward the front.

  I turned back around. My parents were giggling.

  Giggling is a signal. It means something.

  “I’m starving,” Mom said, rubbing her belly. Dad touched the hand on Mom’s belly.

  Giggles. Starvation. Belly pats.

  Oh no. Not again.

  Violet’s eyes flashed with the same fear that bubbled in my chest.

  We knew what was coming. We’d been here before. We were veterans in the Older Sister Alliance, even though Violet doesn’t talk about that anymore. I guess you don’t need sisters when you get to high school.

  “Girls, we have wonderful news,” Dad said.

  I sunk down in my seat.

  Violet groaned.

  “We’re having a baby!” Mom said.

  “A baby?!” yelled Dahlia.

  “A what?!” screamed Daisy. Clogged ears must be hereditary.

  Juniper tried to scream “A what?!” like Daisy, but instead she scared herself and started crying.

  “This cannot be true,” I said. “You said the shop was closed for business!”

  Our life was chaos already. Weren’t there enough kids in this van? Did they really need more?

  “It was a bit of a surprise,” Mom said. “And did I really call myself a shop?”

  “I need details!” I said.

  “I don’t,” Violet muttered.

  “There wasn’t really a plan,” Dad explained. He pulled into the Town Hall parking lot. “Aren’t you guys excited?”

  Wonderful. Excited. Parent code words telling me how I was supposed to feel.

  “A baby!” Daisy screamed again.

  Daisy didn’t get it. She thought a baby meant good-smelling heads and goo-goo-ga-ga and (delicious) baby food for everyone. What it really meant was less of everything: time, attention, food, space . . .

  “Wait,” I said. “A baby needs a nursery.”

  “Yes,” Mom said. “We’ll pick out some new paint when we swing by Homer’s later today.”

  “Nontoxic, of course,” Dad said with a grin. “It’ll be fun!”

  Then I realized what they really meant.

  “I’m not getting my own room,” I said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of absolute truth.

  Mom looked at me all surprised, like it never occurred to her. “Oh! Oh, honey.”

  “But what about me?” Violet said.

  “You can still have my office,” Mom said. “As long as you don’t mind my campaign stuff all over the dining room table.”

  Violet smiled and slipped her headphones back on.

  Why did I ever think we were on the same team? Violet was on their team because she was still getting her own room. So much for the Older Sister Alliance. Second oldest meant next to nothing in this family.

  “Dahlia, are you excited to move in with Clover?” Dad asked.

  “You must be talking about some other Clover,” I said. “Because you cannot be talking about me.”

  Dahlia squealed.

  “Dahlia uses a heart nightlight projector,” I said. “And she steals my art supplies.”

  “Is Dahlia going to jail?” Daisy asked.

  “Maybe she should,” I said.

  “Find your filter, Clover,” Dad warned me. He says that when I go too far or say something mean.

  “Sorry,” I said. Dahlia frowned, and I felt kind of bad. The new baby wasn’t her fault. Sometimes when I talk without a filter, it hurts people’s feelings. I’m good at a lot of things, like art. One thing I’m not good at is hiding my feelings.

  But really, I don’t think it’s some big accomplishment if you’re great at hiding your feelings. That’s just more lying.

  Mom turned around. I could see in her eyes that she was kind of sorry. But she also looked happy. Happy there was going to be more of us. But did anyone ask the kids who already existed what they wanted?

  “Can you still run for school board when you’re pregnant?” Violet asked as we piled out of the van.

  “Of course,” Mom said. “But there’s something we need to talk about before we go inside. The baby needs to be a secret for now.”

  Daisy gasped. “Secrets, secrets are no fun!” she said.

  “Secrets, secrets hurt . . .” Dahlia said, pausing dramatically. “My buns!”

  “It’s not ‘my buns’!” Daisy screamed. “It’s ‘someone.’ Secrets, secrets hurt someone.”

  “There’s a reason I want to keep it a secret,” Mom said. “A couple of reasons, actually. I’m only eleven weeks along. That’s on the early side, and we want to make sure the baby is healthy.” She lowered her voice. “Also, politics can be . . . difficult.”

/>   “‘Difficult’ means ‘hard,’” said Dahlia smugly.

  “Some people might think that if I’m pregnant, I won’t do a good job on the school board,” Mom said.

  “Why not?” Daisy asked.

  Mom shrugged. “It’s just old-fashioned thinking. That a woman can’t work if she’s raising a family or taking care of a baby. That’s not true, and it’s not fair. But that’s the way some people feel. So can we agree to keep this a family secret for now?”

  She made a shhhh sound with her finger up to her lips.

  Dahlia and Daisy did the shush-finger thing like Mom. Juniper tried, too, but she just kind of spit.

  “A secret?” I said. “Don’t you mean a lie? Are you going to wear tents or something to hide it?” Dad gave me the “find your filter” face without saying a word.

  Maybe hiding your pregnancy is better than whatever that guy who went to jail did. But Mom was lying, too. In a way, maybe her lie was worse because I had to keep her secret, and I was her kid. How is it okay to make your own kids lie when if they lie on their own, they get in trouble? And why is it okay to lie when you’re an adult? I guess it’s because you’re the one who gives the punishments, and it’s easy not to punish yourself.

  We gathered Mom’s campaign stuff from the trunk and headed to the Town Hall entrance. Dad hummed as Mom’s cross-body bag flopped around on his hip.

  Dad always hums as a way to change the subject, to move past bad feelings like they’re not even there.

  “Who’s ready for pancakes?” Dad asked as he pushed open the door to Town Hall.

  Everyone squealed except for Violet and me. Violet didn’t squeal because she probably thought squealing was typical. But I didn’t squeal because my heart was breaking. I wasn’t getting my own room. My dreams were as important as the litter on the floor of our minivan.

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