President of Poplar Lane Page 8

  I gulped.

  “Where’s Clover?” Scott asked, scanning the cafeteria suspiciously.

  “I don’t know,” Amelia said. “But her not being here is great optics for us.” Before we could ask, she said, “That means we look good.”

  Rachel was standing in a corner by the recycling bins, chewing on a pen.

  It wasn’t like Clover to just not show up, especially on the day of the luncheon. But I couldn’t think too hard about it because Amelia was dragging me to a table in the middle of the cafeteria.

  My table.

  “The Outliers,” Amelia said. “This table has the most unaffiliated voters.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “People who haven’t decided who to vote for yet,” she said as we stopped. She cleared her throat.

  Here’s the thing about my lunch table. It’s huge. And nobody really talks much. We don’t hate each other or anything. It’s just that we’re united by the fact that we all do our own things. Some kids put their heads down. Other kids read comic books. Other kids doodle. Some kids actually eat lunch. I usually shuffle my cards and wear my headphones until a lunch aide tells me to take them off.

  But today I felt different. I wasn’t wearing headphones. I wasn’t shuffling my cards. I was just standing there, as myself. And I had to prove to Amelia, to my parents, to myself that a magician could be president. Without doing magic, I guess, since it was bad optics.

  “I’m Mike,” I said to the table.

  “We know,” said Larry Abrams. “Did you twist your ankle in gym?”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “You’re walking pretty funny,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. My ankle was fine. I’d been practicing my new walk on the way over. Maybe it needed some work.

  “Larry Abrams has two pet chickens,” Amelia whispered in my ear.

  “Nice,” I whispered back.

  “Ask him about his chickens,” she whispered. “And say their names.”

  “What are their names?” I whispered.

  “King O’Cluck and Captain Feather Pants.”

  “How are your chickens?” I asked in a louder voice. “I mean, Larry Abrams, how are your chickens? King O’Cluck and Captain Feather Pants?”

  “Oh,” Larry said. He sighed. “They’re still fighting all the time. It’s hard being a chicken referee. Oh, and Captain Feather Pants ate a millipede this morning.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “I think.”

  Larry sipped noisily through his straw. “Hey, man,” he said. “When’s your next magic show?”

  “My next . . . magic . . . what?” I said. I didn’t know Larry knew I did magic. But I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk about it. I felt like a robot starting to malfunction.

  “And Hannah Greer!” Amelia announced, moving me down the line. “Hannah went to clay camp this summer.”

  “Clay camp?”

  “It’s a very specialized camp.”

  I nodded at Hannah. “Hannah Greer, did you enjoy clay camp?”

  Hannah’s face brightened. “It was awesome. Clay is, like, the most expressive of mediums.” She held up a Poplar Tree Whisperer charm on her bookbag. “I made this.”

  “That’s awesome!” I said. I meant it.

  She grinned.

  We stepped away so I could sip on my root beer. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend it was chamomile tea, like the kind I have with Granberry sometimes.

  “I’m not sure if this is working,” I said to Amelia.

  “You’re doing fine,” she said. “Next time, do something funny.”

  When we got to Alan Firenza, I tried burping on command. I sounded like a dying cat, but he didn’t make fun of me.

  We kept going down the line. Thanks to Amelia, I learned more and more about the people I sat with every day.

  After a while, it got easier. People seemed really happy when you said their names and talked about stuff that was interesting to them. Maybe all people wanted was to feel like they mattered.

  “Mike!” called Peter. He walked over with Brayden Monk. “Brayden contributed one dollar to your campaign. Isn’t that terrific?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks, dude. That’s . . . terrific. Terrifically fungal.”

  Brayden looked confused for a second. Then he leaned down and got in my face. His breath smelled like free root beer. “Peter says you’re getting rid of homework,” he said.

  “He’ll do his best,” said Peter. “Homework reform is an important part of our campaign.”

  “Well, you’d better,” Brayden said.

  Root beer came up in my mouth. Suddenly I let out a real burp.

  I guess that impressed Brayden, because he snorted and shook my hand. I’m lucky he didn’t break any of my bones.

  “You’re all right,” he said. “Not like Magic Eight Ball over there.”

  He was talking about Alan Firenza. Alan always plays with his magic eight ball at lunch, but I barely even notice. He doesn’t bother me or anyone else. I nodded, mostly so Brayden would let go of my hand.

  The bell rang.

  “I only got to talk to one table,” I told Amelia.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Amelia said. “You made a great impression. You’re making an impact.”

  An impact. I’d only ever made an impact on little kids at birthday parties. But today I got to talk to kids my own age. Kids that could vote. Maybe I could be president after all.

  What’s New with

  Mel Chang

  If It Trends, We’re Friends.

  MONDAY WRAP-UP

  The Meet the Candidates Luncheon was way diff than expected.

  Mike’s performance surprised many peeps.

  “Good root beer,” said Alan Firenza. “And pretty solid burp.”

  “That wasn’t just a burp,” Big TOE chimed in. “That was art and science. Dr. Mike earned a PhD in mouth flatulence.”

  Others had concerns about Mike’s campaign.

  “This is my public plea to Peter Gronkowski,” Mateo Medina said. “Please stop emailing me. Or add an unsubscribe button or something. Mike’s okay, but . . . Peter, man. Peter. While we’re at it, why was there a creepy group of little kids waiting outside my house this morning telling me to vote for Mike?”

  Rumors flew re: Clover O’Reilly’s surprise absence from the luncheon.

  “Why was Clover in the principal’s office?” said seventh grader Holly Herman. “Her glitter-cat poster must have had a hidden camera. That’s why Dr. Dana made her take it down. It just makes sense.”

  Other students prefer to stay out of politics.

  “I think Grace Sibowitz will be an awesome president,” said eighth grader Shannon Dominguez. “Wait, did you say the seventh-grade election? I have no clue what’s going on in the seventh grade.”

  POPLAR POLL

  Clover: 67%

  Mike: 18%

  Undecided: 10%

  Anita Tinkle: 5%

  11

  Clover

  When I walked into my room after school, Dahlia was drawing pickles with heart eyes all over my blank poster boards.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  “We live in the same room,” Dahlia said calmly. “It’s community property.”

  “My art supplies are not community property,” I said, even though I followed the community-property rule when I shared a room with Violet. “Can you please go away? I have six tons of work to do.”

  Dahlia put her hands on her hips. “I’m going away because I want to, not because you told me to.” She ran down the hall.

  I stared at the poster wreckage on the floor. I didn’t have any clean posters left. How was I supposed to work pickles with heart eyes into my new campaign art? I pulled out m
y notepad to start brainstorming ideas.

  Whenever I sketch, I get lost in time, so I was totally surprised when Mom called me down for dinner.

  I was even more surprised when I saw Amelia Flem sitting in my seat.

  “Why are you here?” I blurted out.

  “Clover,” Mom said, glaring at me. “Amelia was helping me work on campaign materials. She’s part of my street team.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Hi.”

  “You’re in Clover’s seat!” Daisy told Amelia.

  “Sorry!” Amelia said, looking at me. “I’ll move.”

  “Of course not,” Dad said. “You’re a guest. You stay where you are. Clover can pull up a chair.”

  Pull up a chair, in my own house? Ugh. I squeezed between Daisy and Dahlia.

  Dinner smelled spectacular. We were having my favorite vegetable: green beans with bacon bits and Italian dressing.

  “Please pass the green beans—ow!” I yelped. Daisy had just thrown an elbow in my face. Not on purpose, but it still hurt, especially for such a small arm. And no one even passed me the green beans because Juniper kept saying, “Ow!” to copy me, and everyone thought it was adorable.

  “These green beans are delicious, Mrs. O’Reilly,” Amelia said.

  Mom smiled. “Thank you, Amelia.”

  Great. Amelia was sitting in my chair and eating my green beans.

  “Amelia’s been so helpful,” Mom told us. “Handing out fliers, getting signatures. She’s a lot like me when I was her age.” She smiled at Amelia again. “Maybe someday you’ll run for office!”

  Hello? “I’m running for office,” I said. “Right now.”

  Dad cleared his throat. I didn’t even have to look to know he had “find your filter” written all over his face. But why didn’t Mom ever talk about how I was like her? I’m her daughter and we were running for office at the exact same time!

  “Clover got in trouble today,” Violet announced.

  “What?” I asked. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Betsy’s little brother saw it on Mel Chang’s blog. He said you were in the principal’s office with Thalia Jung.”

  The old Violet, the one who was in the Older Sister Alliance, would never have told on me. I fumed in my seat.

  Mom raised her eyebrows. “Thalia Jung! She’s trouble, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “If you must know, I broke a dumb poster rule. That’s all.”

  “I got in trouble today, too!” Daisy crowed.

  “Why?” Mom asked.

  “Because I took off my shirt!”

  “You have to wear a shirt, Daisy,” Mom said.

  “Boys can take off their shirts!” Daisy said. “It was hot on the playground. Plus Ms. Winnipeg got mad ’cause I wouldn’t stand in the Ladybugs line.”

  “Why not?” Mom asked.

  “I wanted to stand with the Beetles!”

  “Isn’t the Beetles line for boys?” Dahlia said.

  “There are boy ladybugs!” Daisy said.

  “And girl beetles,” Dahlia added, chomping on a pickle. “I get it.”

  “Oh, and I farted during Rest and Reflection Time,” Daisy said.

  Dad groaned. “Daisy. Say ‘toot,’ please.”

  “Or don’t say either?” Mom said hopefully.

  “Why?” Daisy asked. “I like ‘fart.’”

  “‘Toot’ is cute,” Dad said. “More ladylike.”

  “Toot is cute,” echoed Juniper.

  “Frankie Wilkins said ‘fart,’ and he didn’t get in trouble! He’s not ladylike, either!” Daisy said. “And he takes off his shirt.”

  Dad groaned. “I thought girls were supposed to be easy,” he said.

  “Easy how?” I asked.

  “Well,” he said, “whenever I tell someone I have girls, they say, ‘You’re lucky. Girls are easy. Boys are harder.’”

  “Harder how?” I asked.

  Dad paused, like he was choosing his words carefully. “Girls . . . listen better. And they behave. They don’t act out as much as boys. Usually.”

  Mom glared. Dad threw up his hands. “That’s a compliment!” he said.

  “But it’s not,” Mom said. “When you tell girls they’re expected to be ‘easy’ or ‘better,’ you’re making it harder for them speak up.”

  “I . . .” Amelia started. She wiggled in her seat. My seat. “I sometimes wonder: are girls really better behaved? Or do boys just get away with more?”

  Mom nodded. “The whole ‘boys will be boys’ thing.”

  Amelia nodded, scanning the room like she was trying to see if it was okay to say more.

  “Well,” Amelia started. She cleared her throat. “I mean, boys can say ‘poop’ and ‘fart’ and it’s funny, but when it comes from a girl, people get . . . weird.”

  “There was a pooping contest in the boys’ bathroom yesterday,” Violet said.

  “Did the boys get in trouble?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Violet said. “But they also got high fives all day.”

  “I hope they washed their hands first,” I said.

  “Pooping contest,” Daisy muttered, like she was setting aside a great idea for later.

  “Like, can you imagine girls having a pooping contest?” Violet asked.

  Violet and Amelia laughed together. I dug my fingernails into my palms.

  “For girls, there are consequences,” Amelia said. “When a girl gets in trouble or acts out, people talk behind her back and call her names or she gets a bad reputation. Guys get respect.”

  “Girls have so much drama to deal with,” Violet said. “I wish I were a boy.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “Girls are awesome. Also, boys have drama, too. They have the same feelings as girls.”

  “That’s true,” Dad said. “And there are other rules for boys. Ways they’re expected to act or to look cool. That’s hard, too.”

  “They’re all dumb rules,” I said.

  Amelia nodded. “It’s pretty much impossible to follow the rules of being a girl or a boy,” she said.

  I couldn’t believe I was agreeing with Amelia.

  “Such a wonderful conversation, Amelia,” Mom said. “I’m so lucky to have a young lady like you on my team.”

  That was fast. I went from semi-bonding with Amelia Flem to almost barfing in my mouth in less than a minute. If I had said “poop” and “fart” at the dinner table, Mom would not have called it a wonderful conversation. But because this was Amelia Flem, super assistant, it was totally genius?

  Dad started humming.

  I stood up. “Can I be excused, please?” I asked. “I’m not hungry.”

  * * *

  Up in my room, I looked back and forth between my glitter-cat posters, the ones I wasn’t allowed to use, and the posters with the heart-eyed pickles. I thought about Daisy and how she was only in preschool but she wasn’t afraid to break dumb rules.

  I wanted my posters to say something meaningful, not just CLOVER CARES or GIRL POWER. I wanted them to show caring and girl power.

  I closed my eyes to focus. The pickles with heart eyes could mean something. They could represent how girls feel like they’re always being watched and judged. I decided to keep them as my background.

  Then I started transforming one of my glitter-cat posters. I cut out the cat’s teeth and arranged them like a crown on her head. Then I cut into her mouth. I made it wide open. Not smiling, just open, like she was talking. Loud. I pasted the cat over a pickle, with the heart eyes peeking through.

  Dahlia banged on the door. “It’s my room, too!” she yelled.

  “Argh!” I yelled back, about to snap.

  Snap.

  I dropped my scissors. My posters were amazing, but I could do something else.

  Snap. I pictured Freddy
snapping Rachel’s bra. My face felt hot from rage.

  Snap. I spotted the rubber band loom Dahlia had just gotten for her birthday.

  “Dahlia!” I called. “Remember what you said about community property?”

  WEAR YOUR GIRL POWER WITH PRIDE!

  HAVE YOU EVER:

  Had your bra snapped?

  Been told to clean up art supplies after class because the boys left a mess and ran out as soon as the bell rang?

  Been told to eat or sit “like a lady”?

  Accidentally farted in class and wanted to die (but when a boy does it, it’s hilarious)?

  Grab a GIRLS SNAP BACK bracelet to remind yourself to snap back! I made them in every color of the rainbow, so you’ll definitely find one you love.

  SPECIAL MESSAGE TO BOYS:

  You can support girl power, too! Did you know there are boy ladybugs? I made I’M A PROUD BOY LADYBUG bracelets just for you.

  CLOVER CARES ABOUT BOYS AND GIRLS!

  CLOVER FOR PRESIDENT!

  What’s New with

  Mel Chang

  If It Trends, We’re Friends.

  TUESDAY

  OH SNAPPED!

  Clover O’Reilly was called to Dr. Dana’s office AGAIN today. For those keeping count, and I am, that’s twice in two days.

  Pub opinion is split on her GIRL POWER bracelets.

  “Love! So presidential.”—Seema Singh, seventh grade (sporting an enorm stack from the West Corridor bathroom)

  “I don’t wear bracelets. It’s cool there are guy ladybugs, though.”—Seamus Henry, seventh grade

  There were also mixed reactions to Clover’s new posters:

  “My cat’s name is Mr. Pickles. So I really responded to the cat with the pickles. It felt like a personal message, just for me.” —Hannah Greer, seventh grade

  “What do pickles have to do with cats? And boy ladybugs? It’s so confusing it wrapped all the way back around to being understandable.” —Big TOE, seventh grade