President of Poplar Lane Page 7

  “Mike who?” —Anonymous

  “Why would I vote in the seventh-grade election?” —Amber Sledge, eighth grade

  9

  Clover

  On Monday morning, Rachel showed up on my doorstep alone.

  “Amelia texted me last night,” she said. “She thought it might be better not to walk to school together this week. Bad optics or something.”

  “Does she need glasses?”

  Rachel shook her head. “No, ‘bad optics’ means it wouldn’t look good, since she’s on Mike’s team.”

  “Oh!” I said. “She’s probably right. After all, she’s kind of our enemy, since she’s working for Mike.” I said “our” especially loud to make sure Rachel heard it.

  Rachel raised an eyebrow. She’d been practicing a lot, and she’d gotten really good.

  “Didn’t you just throw a pool party,” Rachel said, “because you said being on different teams doesn’t make you enemies?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re really not seeing this, are you?”

  I shrugged. Rachel was kind of right, but I didn’t want to say so. For some reason, even though I was running against Mike, it felt like me against Amelia. Maybe that’s because I liked Mike, and I knew deep down I would probably win. In the best-friend battle for Rachel, I wasn’t sure.

  “Did you notice at the party that Mike didn’t even mention my weaknesses?” I asked Rachel as we walked through the front doors of Poplar Middle.

  “You didn’t ask him,” Rachel said. “You only asked for your strengths.”

  “Still,” I said. “Pretty cool!”

  “Yeah,” Rachel said. “Too bad he has a girlfriend.”

  “Right?” I said. “I bet she goes to Poplar Prep.”

  I set my girl power glitter-cat posters down carefully on the hallway floor.

  “Whatever,” I said, unrolling my glitter tape. “It’s middle school. It’s not like they’re getting married.”

  Seema Singh ran over to us, squealing. “Clover!” she said. “That glitter cat is beyond presidential. And girl power? I love it!”

  She high-fived me as Mel Chang stomped by.

  “G-pow!” she said, raising her fist.

  “Whoa,” I said. I was already making a difference, and I wasn’t even president yet!

  Amelia and Mike were hanging his posters in the lobby while Peter talked into a headset. Scott MacGregor stood by the front doors, watching people suspiciously.

  “Mike’s posters aren’t very . . .” Rachel looked around to make sure he couldn’t hear. “Interesting.”

  “Yeah, I don’t get them,” I said. “I know he’s an abstract guy. But he didn’t really take advantage of the art supplies at my party.”

  Mike’s team had taped up white posters in random places that said, WHO IS MIKE? and HAVE A ROOT BEER WITH MIKE AT THE MEET THE CANDIDATES LUNCHEON. In plain black marker. No color or glitter whatsoever. It was kind of sad, really.

  “I don’t even like root beer,” I said. “But if it’s a chance to hang out with Mike . . . hold on. Can you switch off your taste buds, kind of how you hold your nose so you don’t have to smell something? That way I could drink root beer with him.”

  Rachel snorted. “I don’t think so. And it’s not a date. You’re supposed to talk to voters. Plus, pretending to like root beer for a boy is, like, the opposite of girl power.”

  “Bummer,” I said.

  Later, just after fourth period, I was struggling to re-tape my glitter cat to the wall when a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

  “Clover O’Reilly, please report to the principal’s office.”

  I heard “ooh”s and “uh-oh”s all around me. People always say that when someone gets called to the principal’s office.

  I snorted. There’s no way I did anything wrong. The principal probably just wanted to compliment me on my campaign. Or maybe it was a secret admirer . . . OR Mike broke up with his girlfriend and sent me flowers. Or balloons! Or waffles! He knows me so well.

  When I walked into the principal’s office waiting area, there were no flowers or balloons. Just Poplar Middle School troublemakers.

  Seamus Henry. Pepper Kowalski. Freddy Tremble. Thalia Jung. The usual suspects. They were talking but stopped as soon as I came in. I swallowed hard and sat as far away from them as possible.

  A few seconds later, Pepper spoke up. “What are you in for?” she asked Seamus.

  “Fell asleep again,” Seamus said. “It’s not my fault, man. It’s so hot! You?”

  “I used a remote keyboard to type on Ms. Appollonia’s projected screen,” Pepper said.

  “Classic,” said Freddy. “What did you type?”

  “I am a ghost,” Pepper said. They high-fived.

  “What about you, Thalia?” Seamus asked, nodding at her bandaged fist.

  “I got in a fight,” Thalia muttered.

  I cringed and tried to sink into my chair. Every-one in the hall could see me through the office’s glass windows. A few people did double takes, probably wondering what I did to be in here.

  These kids weren’t like me. They cheated, lied, got suspension, and talked back in class. Nobody in here would run for class president.

  The clock on the wall said it was eleven. If I had to wait much longer I’d miss the Meet the Candidates Luncheon. Not that I really needed to meet anyone. I already knew everyone. It would just be fun. And I could hold my nose and drink a root beer with Mike.

  “What did you do, Freddy?” Seamus asked.

  “He snapped Rachel’s bra,” I blurted out. The usual suspects stared at me. Oops, filter failure. But even though these kids kind of scared me, I wasn’t sorry I said it. Freddy hurt my best friend.

  “Nah,” Freddy told Seamus. “Abusing bathroom privileges.”

  “Ooh,” said Seamus sympathetically. “Diarrhea?”

  “No! Hiding.” Freddy looked over his shoulder. “Brayden Monk was trying to take my lunch money again.”

  “Wait,” I said. I couldn’t help myself. “You’re in the principal’s office because Brayden tried to steal your lunch money?”

  “Yeah,” Freddy said.

  “What about Brayden?” I asked.

  Freddy shrugged. “If he doesn’t get me in school, he gets me on the bus.”

  “WHAT?” I said. “You have to tell somebody!”

  Everybody laughed.

  “Nobody listens to us,” Freddy said. Then it hit me. Maybe these kids felt ignored . . . like me, living in a way-too-crowded house and possibly losing my best friend to a French-speaking know-it-all. They needed someone to stick up for them. If I was going to be president, I had to represent them, too.

  “Freddy,” Thalia said. “Did you really snap somebody’s bra? That’s messed up.” She gave me a nod.

  I half smiled, mostly because I was afraid of Thalia. She’d never really talked to me before. But I could swear we had a moment. Just then Dr. Dana stepped out to call me into her office.

  “Clover,” she said as I sat down in the puffy green chair across from her. “Your posters don’t follow the rules of the campaign.”

  “What rules?” I asked.

  “They’re not on standard-sized poster boards. They’re . . . floating cat heads. And,” she said, leaning forward dramatically, “you didn’t use painter’s tape.”

  “The ugly blue tape?” I wrinkled my nose. “It doesn’t mesh with my aesthetic.”

  “The rules for campaign materials are in the Integrity Contract,” Dr. Dana said. “You signed it.”

  “Wait, that’s why I’m here?” I asked. “For cat posters and tape? What does that have to do with integrity?”

  “There’s a reason for the rules, Clover,” she said. “Painter’s tape is important. When you peel it off, it doesn’t disrupt the
surface underneath.”

  “Cat washi tape is disruptive?” I asked.

  Dr. Dana made Dad’s “find-your-filter” face. “Your tone is disruptive, Clover,” she said. “Being president is a big responsibility. You need to be a role model for your classmates. That means not causing trouble and not breaking the rules.”

  My face felt all sunburned.

  Dr. Dana folded her hands on her desk. “So do we have an understanding? New posters, new tape.” She smiled. “Presidents shouldn’t be in the principal’s office.”

  I stood up. My blood boiled as I stormed past everyone and toward the cafeteria.

  The lunch bell rang, and kids were starting to spill out into the hallway. Ugh! I’d missed the Meet the Candidates Luncheon.

  I went back to the lobby, gritted my teeth, and took down my posters. The tape didn’t even disrupt the wall! Dr. Dana was worried for nothing.

  I didn’t want to be disruptive, I just wanted to be a leader. Dr. Dana was a woman in charge. More than anyone else, she should understand.

  What if the rules are silly? Shouldn’t someone disrupt them?

  I balled up the washi tape in my hand. Artists don’t play by the rules. They break them . . . or they change them.

  The Cool Candidate Checklist

  by Amelia Flem

  Swagger/confidence. THIS IS KEY. Practice your walk.

  Cool clothes, especially shoes (shoes can be funky).

  Cool hair. Maybe a man bun? Will consult with Rafael X if we can ever afford him.

  Headphones are okay only if you wear them around your neck. Then you look like a DJ.

  Use cool slang.

  Be a little mysterious.

  Come into class after the bell rings, and don’t rush to your seat. Stroll in casually and take your time.

  Don’t wear a helmet when biking to school.

  Step on sidewalk cracks.

  Run in hallways past CAUTION: WET FLOORS signs and ignore hall monitors.

  Act smart but not too smart.

  Fail at least one quiz a week. Wave it around so that everyone knows you don’t care too much about grades.

  Once a week tell everyone you forgot to do your homework (even if you did it).

  Be funny (in the right way).

  Do funny pranks, like turning your desk/chair backward and pretending like everything is normal.

  Study how to burp on command.

  Perfect your teacher impressions.

  Call a teacher by their first name.

  Make funny InstaVid videos in the school bathrooms (but no flush noises).

  Stand out but not too much.

  Always surround yourself with people/an entourage.

  Be good at sports or be friends with people who are good at sports.

  Be someone you’d want to have a root beer with.

  10

  MIKE THE UNUSUAL

  “Rafael X says the key to natural makeup is looking like you’re not wearing any,” said Peter. He mixed a few colors together in a pan and painted makeup on a zit near my mouth. “You’re an Autumn, Mike. These colors pick up the warmth of your skin tone.”

  I nodded like I had a clue what he was talking about. We were in the bathroom right outside the cafeteria, in the stall closest to the window.

  “How about this natural light?” Peter asked. “Rafael said it’s the best in the whole school. I realize professionals don’t usually put makeup on people, but it’s my brand evolution. Beauty services.”

  We hadn’t earned enough money to hire Rafael X, so Peter had been watching more of Rafael’s Insta-Vid tutorials. Peter had to wear rubber gloves while he put on my makeup, so it kind of tickled. He’s allergic to something called mica, and that’s in a lot of makeup.

  In a way, getting my makeup done was relaxing. At least it distracted me from the fact that we were getting ready for the Meet the Candidates Luncheon.

  “Should we put this on InstaVid?” I asked, squinting at Amelia’s Cool Candidate Checklist.

  Scott shook his head. He was sitting on the sink. “No one wants to see how the sausage is made,” Scott said.

  I nodded, even though I didn’t know if he was talking about real sausage or poop or something else.

  “I brought my leather jacket for you,” said Peter, nodding toward the windowsill. “Amelia said you should look cool. I wore it for my Rocks Rock! business launch last year.”

  Scott snatched up the jacket and looked at the label. “This is pleather,” he said.

  “So?” Peter said. He raised his eyebrow. “I bet you don’t even have a pleather jacket.”

  “Bingo,” Scott said. “Why would I need a pleather jacket?”

  Peter glared and pressed powder on my nose. I sneezed.

  “I’ve got something way better than pleather,” Scott said, patting his overstuffed backpack. “My dad bought some Frosty Top root beer. He won’t even notice it’s gone till after he gets home from work. Cool, right?”

  I didn’t even like root beer. I remembered Amelia’s Cool Candidate Checklist and tried to think of something cool to say back, but my brain froze. I looked down. Scott was wearing flip-flops, and his toenails were really long.

  “So . . . so fungal, dude,” I said.

  “Fungal?” Scott said. “Fungal. I like it.”

  “Almost ready?” Amelia called from the hallway. “We don’t want to be late for the luncheon.”

  Peter, Scott, and I packed up our bags and met Amelia. “You look awesome!” she said to me.

  “I think you mean fungal,” Scott said.

  Amelia wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Great job on Mike’s makeup,” she told Peter. “And the sandwich board is perfect! Exactly like I pictured.”

  My sandwich board said: I’M MIKE.

  “It’s a little obvious,” Scott said.

  “It’s intentional,” Amelia said. “It answers the question from the posters: Who is Mike? You’re the perfect contrast to Clover. She’s glitter and glitz. You’re simple. No high-end art supplies. Just plain black markers.”

  In a 2-1 vote, my Dream Team had made an executive decision to drop “the Unusual” from my name. Amelia said she didn’t want people thinking of me as too “different.” I was the underdog, but I should still be familiar.

  Peter was the only person who’d voted to keep it.

  “I still like Mike the Unusual,” said Peter, tilting his head. “It’s more on-brand with his magic. Just plain Mike is boring.”

  “That’s kind of the point,” said Amelia. “That he’s a regular guy. No magic.” She whispered the word “magic.”

  I didn’t feel like a regular guy, whatever that meant. What was a regular guy, anyway? Guys were pretty different. There wasn’t just one kind.

  “I’m not sure about the jacket,” she said. “Did you bring the WPOP-TV sweatshirt?”

  “On it,” said Scott, pulling it out of his backpack.

  I took off the sandwich board and replaced the pleather jacket with the sweatshirt. The shoulders were so big that the sleeves slumped down my arms.

  “Much better!” she said, beaming. Then she frowned. “The sandwich board covers the WPOP logo. The logo is important.” She grabbed the marker and wrote ASK ME ABOUT WPOP under my name.

  She clicked the cap on the marker. “Does everyone have a copy of the map?” Amelia asked. She’d drawn a map with different categories of kids and where they sat in the cafeteria. It was called “Pranksters, Traders, Outliers, and More: The Poplar Middle School Electoral Map.”

  Scott nodded. “I’m in the Pranksters category for sure,” he said as we headed down the hall.

  “You forgot to include a ‘Professionals’ category,” Peter told her. “But I suppose I’d be the only
member. I, of course, mentor many Traders.”

  “What category are you in, Mike?” Scott asked.

  I wasn’t sure. I’d never really thought of myself as part of a group before. I’m kind of off by myself. Plus, I didn’t know if people really fit into categories all the time. And there’s something I knew from magic: boxes. Magicians use boxes for escape. No one really wants to be in one.

  Amelia answered for me. “Mike’s an Outlier,” she said. “They’re a key electoral group. We need their support.”

  “What are you, Amelia?” Scott asked.

  “I’m an Outlier, too,” she said, looking at me. “I sit at your lunch table.”

  “You do?” I asked.

  She nodded. “There are a lot of us. Strength in numbers.”

  “Why don’t you sit with Rachel?” Scott MacGregor asked her. “Aren’t you friends with her?”

  Amelia nodded. “We’re French-class friends. But not lunch friends yet.”

  Why couldn’t people just be friends? Then again, I never even knew there were cafeteria categories.

  “The cafeteria is really political,” Amelia explained. “There are only a certain number of seats at a table. Once you get to seventh grade, most seats are taken. Either there’s one open or there’s not. And when you’re new, you have to find the empty seats. Maybe someday, if you’re lucky, a seat will open up where you’d like to be.”

  “Girl stuff is complicated,” Scott said. “I know. I have two older sisters.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes.

  I was pretty sure it was more than just girl stuff. Guys had to figure out where they fit in, too.

  Scott peeked into the cafeteria. “I’ll go first,” he said, “to assess the situation.” He whispered something into his collar and ducked inside.

  “I’ll set up my business cards,” said Peter. “Oh, and the root beer.”

  “Are you ready?” Amelia asked me.

  I nodded. But I wasn’t. I just didn’t have a choice.

  “All we have to do is win over one voter today,” Amelia said. “It only takes one.”