“Check this out,” she said. “You’re all over TV.” She switched from channel to channel. “I’ve been dying for you to get up so I could show you! You know the phrase ‘overnight celebrity’? That’s you, Aidan.”
On every station, the news of the hour started with a clip of me: Me pushing Governor Brandon to safety. Me talking about saving jobs. Me playing “America the Beautiful” on the clarinet and squeaking on the high notes. Everyone kept calling Ohio a “battleground state,” whatever that meant. Did people really fight during presidential elections? The last time it had happened, I’d been only eight, and I hadn’t noticed. I thought they just went into voting booths and pressed buttons.
Each reporter had a different, corny way of putting it.
“What started as a minor scuffle and a mistaken identity has turned this young boy—”
“I wish they’d quit calling me a young boy,” I said. “I hate that. I’m not young.”
“Nice band uniform,” Christopher said, laughing. “They carried you? I totally missed that. Oh, that’s awesome.”
Stupid girly spats on my feet. Stupid band hat that looked like a sheep on my head.
“What one young Ohio boy did today could change the course of the election,” said a reporter on another channel.
“Or not,” Christopher said, laughing. “Could your hair look any worse? Helmet hair, dude.”
I slumped down in my seat, wishing I could be invisible. Maybe it was a good thing we were losing cable. Maybe everyone should give up cable.
In the past twelve hours, according to my mom, my face had been on CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, NBC, ABC, and CBS. It was on Web sites, social media, everywhere. My mom had been up since five watching TV. She said she couldn’t sleep well, so she’d decided to get up and enjoy our last day of cable.
Mom wasn’t quite herself these days. One day, a few months ago, she’d gotten laid off, just like that. No advance warning. She and my dad argued a lot about money now, but never directly in front of us. It was awkward, to say the least.
Lately, she’d been shuffling around in her robe, doing crosswords and watching too much TV during the day, so then she couldn’t sleep at night. She kept downloading recipes she’d never cook and redecorating ideas she would never try. She had printed pages of this stuff, scattered on the coffee table. Then she and my dad would argue about where she should keep it all. He’d put it in a notebook, and she’d take it out and say he had put the pages in the wrong order.
Just then, Dad’s pickup pulled up in the driveway as he got home from the overnight shift. He goes to work at midnight and gets home after eight.
A minute later, he ducked through the front door, while our dog, Sassafras, barked and growled. When I looked outside, I saw that our lawn and driveway were full of reporters, shouting questions.
“That was insane,” said my dad. “Do you know how many people are out there? We’re in the spotlight, for sure.”
“It’s all because of doofus here,” said Christopher. “He’s like the MVP of YouTube.” “Hey, one of them said I was good on defense!” I spoke up. “They tried to interview me at work, but the security guards wouldn’t let them in,” said Dad.
“Why not? What are you hiding?” I asked. “Nothing!” Dad said. “It just cuts into our work to have visitors.
” “They’re worried about spies picking up on trade secrets,” said my mother.
“Yeah, right!” Christopher laughed.
Neither my mom nor my dad joined in.
“Seriously?” I asked. “Spies at FreezeStar?”
Dad nodded. “Not that there are any now, but corporate espionage is something we all need to be prepared for,” he said. He sounded like he was reading from an employee handbook. “In the new economy, there may be threats we haven’t anticipated.”
If I heard anything about the “new economy” one more time, I was going to hit someone. Every time we heard it, we got one more thing crossed off our Christmas or birthday lists.
All of a sudden, Sassafras started barking again like crazy.
“Someone’s at the door,” Mom said.
Christopher and I ran over to the living-room window and looked outside, parting the curtains. A taxi had parked behind Dad’s pickup, and three people emerged. They all looked familiar from the day before.
One was the tall, bald, African American general who had insisted Emma wear a Cleveland Indians baseball cap. He was wearing khakis and a crisp, white button-down shirt. The other man was much younger, with square black glasses and spiky hair. He had his tie flipped over his shoulder and was texting into a phone as he walked, plus he was having a conversation into an orange headset. The third person was a woman with short, dark hair who’d been hovering beside Emma the day before. She was wearing a business suit and walked briskly up to our front door.
“Great, more reporters,” Mom said as she prepared to open the door.
“Actually, I think they’re—” I started to say.
“Get rid of them,” Dad said.
“Get rid of them?” Mom asked. “Why would I do that?” She opened the door and smiled. “Hello. May I help you?”
The general smiled politely. “Good morning, ma’am. Is Aidan home, ma’am? We’d like to talk with him, if we could.”
“That depends. Who are you?” asked Mom.
“We’re with Governor Brandon’s campaign,” said the younger man, stepping up. “My name is Stu Brautigham. I’m the assistant campaign manager. Can we talk?”
“Full-time assistant campaign manager,” the general said, “and part-time haircut.”
“And this is General Roy McGarvin, US Army, retired. Everyone calls him the general,” said Stu. “We run the campaign together. And this is Kristen Lindgren, part of the governor’s personal detail.”
The woman held out her hand to Mom. “I’m also a very loyal campaign worker, and a governess for Emma,” Kristen said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Wow, this is amazing,” Mom said. “Anyone who works for the governor is a friend of mine. I absolutely adore Governor Brandon. She’s got my vote. Come on in!” She shook their hands and stepped back to let them into the house.
Kristen, Stu, and the general walked into the house. Kristen waved at me. “Hello, Aidan.”
“Hi,” I said, still wondering what they were doing at our house.
“What’s a governess?” Christopher asked. “Is that like an actress?”
“Not exactly. It’s like being a governor, only I’m in charge of one person instead of a state.” Kristen smiled. Christopher still looked confused, and I felt the same way. “I keep track of the governor’s daughter,” she explained quickly. “Make sure she stays out of trouble.”
“It’s not an easy job,” General McGarvin said with a frown.
“Listen, Aidan,” Stu said. “We’re here because if we’ve heard one thing in the last twenty-four hours, it’s this: everyone is really impressed by you. People admire what you said, and what you did.”
I laughed. “What did I do, exactly?” Besides embarrass myself on national television?
“Yeah, really. Which part? When he couldn’t hit a pitch, or when he butchered ‘America the Beautiful’?” Christopher asked.
I looked at him. I didn’t need that kind of help.
“Listen, let me tell you. We managed to spin that whole thing. Actually, other people did it for us,” Stu said. “Now all anyone can remember is that you saved the governor from a potentially life-threatening head injury and that you care about the election. So they even have a name for you.”
“Who does?” Mom asked.
“This should be good,” Christopher said quietly.
“The press! Haven’t you heard? They’re calling you the ‘clarinet hero.’” Stu grinned. “Pretty cool, right?”
I smiled. I kind of liked the sound of that. I didn’t think I’d ever been called a hero before.
“Ridiculous.” retired General McGarvin rolled hi
s eyes. “Everyone overuses the word hero nowadays. Used to mean something.”
“Oh.” I looked down at my shoes.
Stu coughed. “What the general is trying to say is that this was Governor Brandon’s YouTube moment, the one that pushes her over the top. You were there, kid. You made it happen.”
The general cleared his throat. “In fact, we’re here because we’d very much like you to come on the campaign trail with us. With Governor Brandon.”
What? “Will I get a horse?” I joked. “You said trail, so …” Nobody laughed. I was starting to think they weren’t the joking kind.
The general narrowed his eyes at me. “You don’t know much about politics, do you?”
“Not really.” I shrugged. I’ve taken social studies like any other kid, but that’s about it. “I did a project on John Glenn once,” I added. “Famous, uh, astronaut, senator, Ohioan.”
“We know who he is,” said the general.
“Perfect. You’re so perfect.” Stu looked at me and smiled.
“Oh. He’s a dream come true for this campaign,” said Kristen. “No question. We may need to cut his hair, but …”
“Oh no, I say keep the hair,” said Stu. “Authentic kidness.”
“If that’s what you think, then we’ll definitely have it cut,” said the general. “ASAP.”
Why was everyone suddenly talking about me as if I weren’t in the room? I coughed loudly, in case they’d forgotten I was still there. “You know, maybe you want my brother, Christopher, to go instead of me,” I said. “He’s older, and he’s very, uh, photogenic.”
Christopher smiled his school-picture smile, the one that makes tons of girls want to go out with him. Personally, I think it’s a little cheesy.
The general studied Christopher for about a half second. He seemed to be scanning him for known viruses. “No. I don’t think so. No, thanks.”
Christopher frowned. He wasn’t used to getting rejected, and I felt sorry for him all of a sudden. I could give him about a dozen pointers on rejection. He’s been sheltered all his life, because he’s good at everything and doesn’t know what to do when he isn’t. “But he’s older,” I argued, “which means he can vote soon.”
The general laughed. “This isn’t about who can vote! It’s about the future of our country. It’s about appealing to a broad base. You do that.” He ran his hand over his bald head, as if he still had hair there. “Don’t know why, but you do that.”
I raised my eyebrow. “That’s the deal? really?”
“Really.” He nodded.
“Really?” I asked again.
“Kid, I don’t have time for this,” said the general. “We’re leaving town in an hour, as soon as the governor finishes the pancake breakfast at a firehouse a couple of towns over. Pack a suitcase and get ready.”
I gulped. Me? On the road with them? Seriously?
In a weird way, I liked all this attention. I felt like a superstar. But in another way, I did not want any attention paid to me at all. I wasn’t comfortable with the spotlight. So far it hadn’t been very flattering.
“He’s too young to travel around like that, isn’t he?” said my dad.
“No, he’s not,” said Mom.
See? They can fight about anything. If Mom says the sky is blue, Dad says it’s red.
“Well, I say he is,” my dad insisted. “We don’t even know you people, and you want him to go away with you? Why should we let you?” He tended to be a bit overprotective of us.
“Because it’s for Governor Brandon’s campaign,” my mom said. “I’d do anything for her.”
“You don’t know her,” my dad pointed out. “You know her image. That’s not necessarily the same thing.”
“With Governor Brandon, it is,” the general argued.
“He’ll have a chaperone,” Kristen said. “Me.” She smiled. “I’ll make sure you dress appropriately, act appropriately … and don’t do anything to raise questions about the candidate. Mr. and Mrs. Shrabeckenstauer—”
“Shroeckenbauer,” my dad said. “It’s not that difficult, is it?”
“My apologies, Mr. Schrookenbear,” said Kristen. “Aidan will be in good, good hands with us. I’ll watch him like a hawk. I won’t let him out of my sight.”
“Well, to take care of any worries, what if you let me come with Aidan?” Mom asked. “I’m a huge, huge fan of the governor’s, and I’m not working right now, so I’m able to travel. I could volunteer, pitching in doing whatever needs to be done for—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the general interrupted. “That’s impossible. We haven’t had time to properly vet you.”
“Vet me?” Mom asked.
“We’d have to do a thorough investigation before we added an adult to the campaign. Aidan’s a kid, so he has no history,” said the general.
Since when did I not have a history? I’d written my autobiography in fifth grade for school. Maybe it was only two pages, but I did have a history.
Besides, this was my mostly mild-mannered, PTA-joining, brownie-baking, Christmas-pageant-planning mom. What could she have ever done that would get her into trouble?
“If you’re worried about being lonely, Emma will be on the bus with you, remember?” Kristen smiled. “You two can be friends. She is a lot of fun.”
I remembered the gum-cracking, glove-stealing girl from yesterday. Fun? Really?
“We also have lots of perks,” Kristen explained. “The bus is totally high-tech, with Internet, satellite TV, video games, catered meals, a fridge full of soda and snacks—”
“Who cares about the perks?” my mother cried. “This is about an election to save our country. This is your chance to make a difference, Aidan.”
Stu snapped his fingers. “Exactly. You gave the campaign a much-needed bump. Your job is to get Governor Brandon the small-town vote, the youth vote, their parents’ votes.”
“Why can’t Emma help you with all that?” I asked. “She’s a kid.” Even if she was aggravating in almost every way.
Stu shifted in the chair and adjusted his tie. “This is different. People have read about you. They know you. You’re a valuable commodity to the campaign. You’re an outsider; she’s an insider.”
Funny, but I thought it probably had more to do with the fact that she was completely annoying. “I just … I don’t know,” I said. I walked to the wide sliding door in the dining room and looked out at the deck and our backyard.
Summer was for hanging out, for doing nothing except playing baseball, riding my bike, swimming at the reservoir. Why would I want to be shipped off with this group? It sounded like joining the army—especially with General What’s-His-Name in charge. I was way too young for that.
Dad came over to stand beside me. When he spoke, he kept his voice low. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I kind of want to go. But then … I don’t know,” I said.
“I’m the same,” said Dad. “It’s an amazing opportunity. I’m proud of the way you spoke up. But, you know, they’re talking about stealing you for a couple days.”
“Dad, they’re not stealing me,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. But when you’re a dad, you’ll understand.” He fiddled with the vertical blinds on the door, trying to get them all to face the same direction. “Like it or not, you’re a celebrity now. You can’t just disappear. You may as well try to get some issues out there, if someone’s willing to listen to you.”
I thought about what the governor had said to me the day before, how the other candidates talked too much and never really listened. “But who’s going to listen to me?”
“I don’t know, but I guess some people are, Mr. Clarinet Hero. Look, this is a chance of a lifetime. You might be able to change some things, or at least put us on the map. You’d be helping the town.”
Only if I don’t mess up, I thought.
“Think of how much it would mean to your mom,” he said.
The fact he wanted to make my mom
happy—I couldn’t resist that. His eyes had dark circles under them, and I realized that no matter how tough things had been lately, he’d hardly ever complained. What if I could do something to help everyday workers like him? The company, or the town?
“We’ll miss you,” he continued. “But I bet it’ll only be a week. Knowing this crew and the way candidates change their minds, maybe only a couple of days. You won’t miss summer—don’t worry.”
“But you don’t even want to vote for her,” I said.
“Not yet,” he agreed. “Maybe she’ll say something to make me change my mind. Maybe you’ll help her sort out the issues. Maybe you’ll be the one who convinces me to vote for her.”
“So … you think it’ll be okay?” I asked. “For real?”
“Definitely.” He nodded. “It’s a gut feeling I’m getting, just so you know. I usually rely on those. I think these are good people. I think you’ll be safe with them.”
“Okay, then. I’ll do it,” I said. We both turned around, ready to go tell the group our decision.
Before I could say a word, the general said, “Listen, kid. We’re getting nowhere here, and we’re out of time. What’s something you really, really want?” The general sighed, as if he was running out of steam.
I could tell him I was already planning to say yes, or I could hold out for something good. I had to think for a minute. I had a long list, but there was one thing I’d been dying to do for years. “I’ve always wanted to go to a Yankees game. At Yankee Stadium,” I said.
“Done. We’ll get tickets for your whole family, we’ll fly you to New York—”
“And my friend Simon,” I put in. “He needs to come, too.”
“And your friend Simon,” the general said. “Fine. Done and done. But hurry and pack. We’ve got to strike while the iron is hot. Everyone, meet us outside FreezeStar in an hour.”
“What—what do I bring?” I asked, but they were already gone, out the door, off to their waiting taxi.
Mom, Dad, Christopher, Sassafras, and I stood in the doorway, watching them go.
Before he got into the cab, Stu turned back toward us. “Oh, and Aidan?” he yelled. “There’s just one thing Governor Brandon wants you to promise you’ll bring with you.”
How Not to Run for President Page 4
