President of Poplar Lane Read online

  On purpose, I thought.

  “And . . . audience was all little kids. Then he did that character . . . talks like he’s a microphone?”

  Mike the Microphone. He’s been a hit since I debuted him at Clover O’Reilly’s birthday party last year.

  “Then the microphone said he was from a retirement home . . . I didn’t get it.”

  The audience had laughed pretty hard at that one. I’d thought it was because I was funny.

  “Then he pulled out his deck of cards.”

  I knew what was coming.

  “Tried to do this fan trick . . . cards all over the floor. Could’ve heard . . . pin drop . . . his face . . . felt sorry for him. I’m worried . . . bullies.”

  Something strong and hot rushed through my whole body.

  Dad had left something out. The reason why I failed at the Thumb Fan and dropped my cards. The reason I messed up. It wasn’t bullies.

  It was because I saw him checking his phone.

  Maybe Mel was right. Maybe I wasn’t very compel, at least not as compel as a cell phone. I swallowed.

  “Got him the PowerForce . . . like other kids . . . friends. But . . . still . . . magic . . . alone.”

  So that’s why Dad got me the PowerForce. He wanted me to make friends.

  I didn’t want to be alone. That’s why I wanted to go to magic camp. To find people who understood me.

  But Dad wanted me to stop doing magic.

  Why was sitting in your room playing video games okay but sitting in your room practicing magic was bad?

  I didn’t care about Mel’s two-star review or You Reviews or what other kids or koddlers thought. But I didn’t want my own dad thinking I was weird.

  What’s New with

  Mel Chang

  If It Trends, We’re Friends.

  Every year, the Random Acts of Artness Club makes a Welcome Arch to greet students on the first day of school. This year was no except.

  This year’s arch shimmers, prob because it’s coated with glitter. I’m partic impressed by Clover O’Reilly’s waving, smiling glitter cat—so chic for a seventh grader. VERDICT: Props to RAoA, with extra spesh props to Clover.

  4

  Clover

  During the entire first week of school, everybody was talking about the awesome Welcome Arch. A five-star review from Mel Chang basically means you’re a rock star. So when she mentioned my name in the review, I was pretty much set for the whole year, socially speaking. Even eighth graders said hi to me in the hallway.

  It was almost enough to make me forget about losing my own room.

  Almost.

  School was great, but home was a disaster. Violet was moving out of our room, and Dahlia was moving in.

  Now I had to deal with new roommate odors: Dahlia’s strawberry lip gloss and pickles (she eats pickles with everything, so the juice gets all over her clothes). The combination was even more disgusting than Violet’s Vanilla Angel Rainshower and burned hair.

  Plus I was losing half my wardrobe (Violet’s). Plus plus, Dahlia was stealing half the clothes I had left.

  “Do you like my outfit?” Dahlia asked on Friday morning, spinning in front of the mirror in our room.

  “Of course I like it,” I said. “That’s my shirt. And my belt, too. Take them off! I don’t want to smell like a deli!”

  “Argh,” Dahlia said, throwing my shirt into a pile of dirty clothes. “Whatever. You smell like rotten syrup! And I can’t go to school naked.”

  “Why not?” Daisy said, running topless into the room.

  “Sisters are supposed to share!” Dahlia whined.

  The doorbell rang.

  “It’s Rachel!” I yelled, racing downstairs.

  I needed my best friend more than ever. If things were normal I could tell her all about Dahlia being annoying, and the unfair tragedy of losing my room, and Mom being pregnant again. But things weren’t normal for two reasons.

  One, Mom was forcing me to keep everything a secret, to protect her campaign.

  The second reason was Amelia Flem.

  * * *

  I answered the door. Just like every other morning this week, there was Rachel (yay!) . . . and Amelia (nay).

  “Hi!” said Rachel.

  “Hi!” echoed Amelia.

  I smiled weakly.

  Rachel and I have been walking to school together since second grade. It’s one of our best-friend things.

  But this year, on the first day of school, Rachel brought Amelia over to walk with us. Amelia moved here over the summer. At first I thought Rachel was only being nice, that it was just some harmless first-day-of-school thing. But this was the fifth day in a row. It wasn’t harmless anymore.

  “Très difficile!” said Amelia as I lagged behind them. It’s hard to fit three people in a row on the sidewalk. One person always gets pushed to the back.

  It’s extra hard when two of those people are speaking French.

  Rachel and Amelia met over the summer. They both took a French class at the library. Their teacher, Madame Rutledge, says they’re supposed to practice French “conversationally.” That’s super annoying because I only know, like, ten words in Spanish and zero in French except “chic,” which was from Mel’s review.

  Today I couldn’t take it anymore. “What are you guys talking about?” I asked.

  “Sorry, Clover,” Amelia said, turning halfway around. “We were saying how hard it is to pick an elective. There are so many good choices! What are you picking?”

  “Art,” I said. We had another week to pick our final elective, but I didn’t give it a second thought. “What about you?”

  “Français!” said Rachel and Amelia at the same time. Then they burst into identical giggles.

  When I saw an opening, I sidled up beside Rachel.

  “Here,” I said, handing her a glitter-cat keychain ornament. Rachel and I exchange friendship art. It’s another best-friend tradition.

  “I love it!” Rachel clipped the cat to her backpack. Then she carefully pulled a piece of paper out of her front zippered pocket. She’d burned the edges to make it look old and fancy. “It’s a quote.”

  Rachel loves reading and words, so she has a quote for almost every occasion.

  I squinted at the purple ink. “A Room of One’s Own?”

  “It’s by Virginia Woolf,” Rachel said. “She said every great artist needs a room of her own—and money. But I don’t have any money right now. Anyway, maybe you can frame it and hang it in your new room!”

  “Great idea!” said Amelia.

  The truth bounced on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to tell Rachel so bad. But instead I said, “Thanks.”

  “You should see Amelie’s room,” said Rachel.

  “Who is Amelie?” I asked.

  “Amelia,” she said. “Amelie is her French name.”

  I wanted to ask why she picked a French name almost identical to her real name, but I didn’t. I remembered my filter.

  I stared at their backs while they chattered away in French. They even had matching real-bra outlines. I didn’t even wear a training bra yet.

  “Did you notice my pores?” I asked.

  Rachel turned back. She narrowed her eyes and peered at my cheeks. “I don’t see anything,” she said.

  “Then it’s working!” I said. “It’s Violet’s no-pore toner.”

  “Violet is Clover’s older sister,” Rachel explained to Amelia. “She has four sisters.”

  “You’re so lucky!” said Amelia.

  I shrugged.

  “So when do you move into your new room?” Rachel asked me.

  It was like she was stabbing me through the heart and twisting it clockwise and then counterclockwise.

  “Um . . .” I said.

  “Clover has been
waiting forever,” said Rachel. “She deserves it.”

  “That’s awesome!” Amelia said. “I’d love to see it sometime.”

  I set my mouth in a straight line.

  “Maybe we could have a sleepover,” said Amelia. “You, me, and Rachelle.”

  “Rachelle?” I asked.

  “Rachel,” she said.

  “Seriously?” But they didn’t even hear me.

  The trip to school took forever, like we were walking to the real France. Finally, we turned up the corner to Poplar Middle School.

  Mel Chang was standing by the Welcome Arch and waving. I turned around to see if she was waving at anyone behind me.

  “Clov!” Mel called. She stomped over in her clunky black shoes. “Sick cat,” she said, nodding at the keychain on Rachel’s backpack.

  Me. An eighth grader talked to me. She complimented my art AND gave me an awesome nickname. My skin got warm and tingly. I felt strong. Powerful.

  Amelia held the front door to the school open for us.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Merci,” said Rachel.

  They giggled.

  I marched into homeroom ahead of them.

  * * *

  DEMOCRACY MEANS ACTION! it said on the chalkboard, in all capital letters. DO YOUR DUTY!

  “Did we have homeroom homework?” I asked Rachel. “If so, I didn’t do it.”

  “Class, take your seats!” said Ms. Adamlee, our homeroom teacher. “Now let us all rise for the pledge.” She pulled out an American flag fan. “My, it’s a hot one.”

  Ms. Adamlee has American flag accessories for every occasion. She always has something new that you never even realized came in an American flag print.

  After the pledge, Ms. Adamlee carefully set her flag fan on her desk. “I have very exciting news,” she said. “Today we’ll choose our homeroom nominee for seventh-grade class president!”

  She waited like she was expecting applause, but everyone just stared at her.

  Ms. Adamlee went on. “I remember when I ran for my seventh-grade class president. Oh dear, what a lovely memory. And I would have won if it weren’t for the Cobb twits—I mean twins.” She shook her head. “So! Let us begin the nominations.”

  Scott MacGregor raised his hand.

  “What does a seventh-grade class president do?” Scott asked.

  Ms. Adamlee rubbed her hands. “Wonderful question, Scott! The seventh-grade class president represents the voice of the seventh grade.”

  “What voice?” Scott asked. “Aren’t there lots of voices in the seventh grade?”

  “Well, yes,” Ms. Adamlee said. “That’s why the seventh-grade president holds weekly after-school office hours, to hear what their classmates have to say. Then he or she passes along information to the eighth graders on the Poplar Middle School Student Council. A true representative democracy!”

  “But if everyone has a different voice and different opinions,” Scott said, “how can a president represent everyone? And how can you represent people if you don’t agree with them?”

  “Yeah, the people who win elections are just popular people and their friends,” said Todd Oliver-Engels.

  “That’s not even a democracy,” said Scott. “It’s a . . . it’s a . . . something else. What’s that called?”

  “An oligarchy,” Amelia chirped. “I learned about it at my old school.”

  Ugh. Why did Amelia have to try so hard all the time?

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Scott said, “the new girl has spoken!”

  Everyone laughed. Amelia set her hands on her lap and looked down.

  “It’s complicated,” said Ms. Adamlee. “But generally speaking, politicians are public servants. They work for you, and they should represent their voters.”

  “Speaking of voters, why does everyone get a vote?” Scott asked. “That’s messed up. Some people shouldn’t get to vote. Like Seamus.”

  Seamus Henry was fast asleep and drooling on his desk. Scott poked him.

  Seamus bolted up in his seat. “Where am I?” Seamus asked. “Who am I?”

  “Exactly,” said Scott.

  “What’s your point, Scott?” Ms. Adamlee asked.

  “In summary,” Scott said, “elections are just popularity contests. It’s all a joke.” He folded his arms like he was a lawyer.

  A popularity contest? That was a contest I could win. If I was the best artist in the school and president I’d for sure have the most power in the seventh grade. No one could replace me. Not a new baby. Not Amelia Flem. Not anyone!

  “Well then,” said Ms. Adamlee. “Moving on. Would anyone like to nominate a classmate?” She stood by the blackboard, gripping a piece of American flag chalk.

  Seema Singh raised her hand. “I nominate Clover O’Reilly! Clover got five stars for her Welcome Arch. That’s so presidential.”

  Some other girls cheered. My skin tingled for the second time that morning.

  “Clover?” Ms. Adamlee said. “Do you accept the nomination?”

  I was so excited my shirt stuck to my chest. I sometimes have trouble figuring out gym sweat from nervous sweat from excited sweat, but I was glad I’d used Violet’s deodorant today, even though she would kill me if she found out.

  “So about the office hours,” I said. “Do I get my own office?”

  “Well, not exactly. The class president would get to use Mr. Ishizawar’s classroom to listen to students’ concerns.”

  “So if I win, can I decorate it?” Maybe my Dream Room ideas didn’t have to go to waste.

  “I don’t know how he feels about redecorating. I . . . suppose that can be discussed,” she said.

  “But it’s not, like, a definite no,” I said.

  “I suppose not? But I wouldn’t pin my hopes on it. That’s not why you should run for office.”

  It was too late. I was already redecorating Mr. Ishizawar’s classroom in my head.

  “Let’s do this!” I said, flashing a grin at Seema.

  “Scott, I assume you want to run, too,” Ms. Adamlee said. “You certainly have strong opinions on the matter.”

  “Me? No way,” Scott said. “I don’t want to be anybody’s public servant. I just like to argue. It’s fun.”

  “Anyone else?” Ms. Adamlee asked.

  Scott raised his hand.

  “I nominate the new girl,” he said. “Because she knows what ‘oligarchy’ means. And that seems more presidential than being good at art.”

  “Her name is Amelia,” Rachel corrected him.

  Amelia blushed. “Wow,” she said. “Okay!”

  “Très bon!” Rachel whispered. I didn’t know what that meant, but it made me mad, because it sounded nice, and she should have been saying nice things to me because I was her best friend.

  The class put their heads down to vote. I wanted to peek, but Rachel was behind me, and there’s no way I could casually turn around to see who she voted for.

  Then Ms. Adamlee spoke up.

  “Clover O’Reilly is our nominee for seventh-grade class president!”

  The class applauded. I smiled. I couldn’t see Amelia’s face because she was bent over her desk, writing in a notebook.

  “And you’ll get to pick a campaign manager,” Ms. Adamlee said. “Just let me know by the end of today.”

  After the homeroom bell rang, Rachel and Amelia met me at my desk.

  “Greetings, future Madame President,” Rachel said. We high-fived.

  “Congratulations!” Amelia said. “This is so exciting! If I can help with the campaign, let me know. I know a lot about elections.”

  “Thanks, Amelia,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I can only have one campaign manager.”

  “But Amelia’s really smart,” Rachel said. “She’s a wonk.”

  “A what?
” I said.

  “It means she knows, like, everything about politics.”

  I put my arm around Rachel. “But if I can pick only one person,” I said, “I have to pick you. My best friend. Sorry, Amelia.”

  “I get it,” Amelia said. “No big deal.” She smiled, but her eyes looked a little darker and kind of sad.

  My heart hopped around. I didn’t want to hurt Amelia’s feelings too bad. And maybe it would have been okay to have another person on my campaign. But the truth is, I didn’t want Amelia around more than she was already. Plus she had her own gigantic perfectly decorated room.

  Plus plus, I wanted a reason to say out loud that Rachel was my best friend. My life was changing too much already.

  FROM

  WARTY MORTY’S TREATISE ON MAGIC

  Copyright 1973

  M Is for “Misdirection”

  If I tell you to take a left on Waverly Avenue, but a left on Waverly Avenue gets you to a dead end, what did I give you?

  Misdirections.

  Misdirection is the key to magic. The attention of an audience is focused on one thing in order to distract its attention from another. Managing the audience’s attention is the aim of all great theater.

  Sight, sound, and touch can misdirect attention. There’s also my personal favorite: humor. Another time-tested misdirection method? Patter.

  What’s patter, you say? I’m not referring to the pitter-patter of little feet. No sirree, Bob! Or “I’m afraid not, Robert,” if you’re the more formal type. Patter is what you say while you perform your magic trick, like a story or a joke. Patter can enhance your performance AND misdirect the audience. It also adds sizzle to your syntax.

  Patter can be instruction: “Pick a card, any card, Andrew.”

  A statement: “Andrew, I just shuffled the deck” (when, alas, you didn’t shuffle the deck at all! More misdirection. Sorry, Andrew).

  A question: “Hey, Andrew, is your shoe untied?”

  A story: “Let me tell you about the time I asked Andrew if his shoes were untied. Here’s the kicker: he was wearing loafers.”

  What makes patter effective and engaging? Looking into your spectator’s eyes. Learning your own tone of voice. And studying your own body language. What you say and do must look natural.