How Not to Run for President

by Catherine Clark

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Your clarinet!” he called. Then he slipped into the taxi and closed the door, and the car flew backward out of the driveway.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  “Now, you’ll call us, right? So we know you’re okay?” my mom asked me as we got out of the car at the giant gray FreezeStar plant. Either we were a little early to meet the bus or the bus was late, as it had been the day before. Either way, it was fine with me. I wasn’t sure I was ready to leave yet.

  Whenever I stand anywhere near the FreezeStar plant, I feel like a tiny bug. It’s so huge that it takes up at least fifteen acres. There was a large, random group of people gathered outside the huge main parking lot to see me off.

  Word had gotten around quickly, and I blamed it on Christopher. He and his friends were always texting, arranging last-minute parties, and he’d been at it for the last hour, while I was packing.

  “How am I supposed to call you? I don’t have a phone,” I said.

  “You’ll borrow one from that Stu guy. Did you see him? He has about twelve going at a time,” my dad said.

  “I still can’t believe they want you and not me,” said Christopher, shaking his head.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  Instead of answering, he disappeared into the crowd to find his friends. I couldn’t believe he’d take off at a time like this. No, not because I was leaving. It was that he was missing the chance to be photographed repeatedly. Knowing him, he’d be back as soon as the reporters arrived with the Fresh Idea Party bus.

  “Well, then, call us as soon as you get a chance,” my mom said. “Check in at least three or four times a day.”

  “Do we want him spending his time seeing the world or calling us?” asked my dad.

  “I’m not going to see the world,” I said. “The rest of Ohio. Pennsylvania maybe.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I bet they keep you all the way to the Beltway,” said my mom. She kept brushing tiny specks of lint off my red Ohio State T-shirt and smoothing my hair back. It felt like Christmas family-portrait time.

  “The Belt-what?” I said.

  “Washington, D.C.,” she explained.

  “I don’t know about this.” My dad frowned. “I still think this candidate is all photo ops, zero substance.”

  “Dad,” I groaned. “You said that yesterday.”

  “No, she’s not,” my mom said. “She has lots of substance. She has more nuts and bolts in her campaign platform than either of the other two guys. She makes good, honest common sense.”

  “Maybe so, but she’s not ready,” my dad scoffed.

  “And I think you aren’t ready for a woman president,” said my mom.

  “What?” Dad looked at her as if she were crazy. “That’s not it at all.”

  “Then what is it?” Mom asked.

  “She’s not ready,” said Dad.

  “What are you talking about? She has just as much experience as the other guys, if not more!” said my mom. “She’s been Minnesota’s governor for four years. She’s run a household, she’s a lawyer, she’s served in the state senate, on the PTA—”

  “The PTA?” My dad started laughing. “Since when does that qualify you to be president of the most powerful country in the world?”

  “Have you ever been to a PTA meeting?” my mom shot back. “You know, it’s just like FreezeStar,” Mom said. “Guys always support other guys. The guy managers make more than the women managers. The pay scale isn’t even. The—”

  “Sh!” my dad said. “You can’t stand here outside FreezeStar and criticize the company. What are you, crazy?”

  My mom poked him in the chest. “If anyone’s crazy around here, it’s—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, I walked off to see if I could find Simon to say good-bye and ran smack into Mort, my clarinet teacher. I’d called to tell him I wouldn’t be able to make my next few lessons. His assisted living place wasn’t far from the FreezeStar plant, so he’d walked over. Even at eighty-nine, he was pretty spry.

  Mort was always complaining how the FreezeStar trucks rolled all night and beeped when they were backing up. “The other oldies in here can’t hear worth a lick, so it doesn’t bother them,” he’d always say. “But me, I can’t sleep. Ears are too trained.”

  Most people probably haven’t heard of Mortimer Wrute, because most people don’t keep track of clarinet players in history, but until he retired, he played with famous orchestras in London, Berlin, and New York. Then he played with the Cleveland Philharmonic Orchestra for the last twenty years of his career. He was a real master.

  That’s my plan—or one of my plans, anyway. Play the clarinet, see the world. I know the odds are against me. How many brilliant clarinetists does the world need, anyway? But maybe one day I’ll be as good as Mort and become one of them.

  “Aidan, tell me again why you’re going on this tour,” Mort said now. He was sipping a coffee he’d picked up from the McDonald’s across the street. He went to McDonald’s every day for a free coffee, which he called the only benefit of being eighty-nine years old. “Why are you heading out of Fairstone with a bunch of unknowns?”

  “Because they asked me,” I said.

  “And would you jump off a short pier into a dry lake if they asked you?” Mort said. “I mean, really. You can say no.”

  “But … I don’t want to say no. I never get to go anywhere,” I said. “Look at you. You’ve traveled all over the world. I haven’t been anywhere except Cleveland and Columbus.” Besides, I kind of liked the attention. But I didn’t want to admit that to anyone.

  “Yes, but you’re only eleven,” said Mort.

  “Twelve,” I said.

  “Right, twelve.” He looked at me for a second. He held a hand over my head, then compared it against his height. “You’re short for twelve.”

  Why did everyone have to point that out? “I was a preemie, remember?” I took up wind instruments when I was six because my doctor, who’s Mort’s son, thought it would help me improve my lung function. I was born a couple of months premature, and because of that, or because of some other unknown, unfair reason, I have asthma.

  Back then, I could hardly hold the clarinet right, because it was nearly as big as I was. At least that’s how it felt. So Mort actually had me start with the recorder and then move up after a couple of years, when my hands were big enough. I’ve been taking clarinet lessons from him ever since, and I’m getting kind of good. He thinks I have “the gift,” anyway.

  Since my asthma is under control, I can play Little League and basically do anything I wanted. Sometimes when I have a cold or run too much in cold weather, I can have an asthma attack, which was why I have to carry my inhaler with me all the time.

  “Ah, I was only kidding you,” said Mort. “Don’t take everything so seriously.” He sipped his coffee.

  There was something I had to ask him, and I was dreading it. “Were you, uh, there yesterday?” I asked. “When the marching band played? Or actually, before they played, when I, sort of, uh, played?”

  “I was. And, quite frankly, there are some things it’s better not to talk about,” Mort said.

  My heart sank. I hated disappointing Mort. He worked so hard to get me into performing shape. And there I’d been, mangling an historic, patriotic anthem.

  “It’s like I always tell you, Aidan. Make every performance better than the last.” He coughed. “Which shouldn’t be too hard. On the plus side, people are talking about restoring the music program cuts. So maybe your performance wasn’t pointless after all.”

  I didn’t know whether to be glad or humiliated that my clarinet performance was inspiring my school to bring back music education.

  Mort pointed to the clarinet case in my hands. “Glad to see you’re planning to keep practicing on the trip.”

  “Yeah, for sure,” I said. “Actually, to tell you the truth, it was Governor Brandon’s idea.”


  “What—why? After yesterday?” Mort looked perplexed. “It wasn’t your best day, kid. That’s all I’m saying. I know you’re a lot better than that. But does she?”

  “She told me she used to play clarinet. Maybe she wants to play duets or something,” I said.

  Mort groaned. “Too gimmicky. Doesn’t she know that? Clinton tried it with the saxophone back in ninety-two.”

  I’d had to memorize the presidents, in order, for a history test last year. William Jefferson Clinton. Number forty-two. “President Clinton won,” I said, after a moment.

  Mort frowned. “Yes, but that’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?” I asked.

  “She’s not going to win by playing the clarinet on a late-night talk show!” Mort cried. “If that were true, any Tom, Dick, or Harry would be president.”

  I didn’t recognize the names. “Who?”

  “It’s an expression,” Mort explained. “I’m saying that she needs to back up her philosophy with concrete proposals.” He shook his head. “And would it kill her to announce her pick for vice president? If she doesn’t get her act together, she’s not going to have a chance.”

  “I thought she had a third of the votes in the latest polls,” I said.

  “Those numbers are fudged,” Mort said. “They move them around like cards in a three-card monte game, keep people confused until they pick the wrong candidate. Before you know it, the game’s over and you’ve lost.”

  Wow. I had no idea he was so bitter about politics and politicians. If that were true, why wasn’t he for Governor Brandon and her fresh ideas? I didn’t know what to say. “Well, I probably won’t be gone long. And she promised to get me and my family tickets to a game at Yankee Stadium, so … I’m going to go.”

  “Make the best of it, then,” Mort said. “Use the platform.”

  “What platform?” Why did everyone keep talking about a platform? Did this involve diving?

  “You know, you’re up there on the national stage now. Use the opportunity, the fact that people are listening to you,” said Mort. “Talk about how music funding for schools is being cut. How there’s nothing left. How this country will never again produce a generation of musically literate citizens.”

  I stood there, wondering how I was going to remember all that and say it as well as he did.

  “And,” said Mort, “practice every chance you get. And don’t let her make you play anything juvenile and embarrassing just to suit her.”

  “I won’t,” I said.

  “‘Happy Birthday.’ ‘Itsy-Bitsy Spider.’ Forget about it,” said Mort. “Flat out refuse. You have standards.”

  I nodded. “Sure. Definitely.”

  “And don’t forget what pitch means next time!” he called over the sound of the approaching Fresh Idea Party bus as it pulled in and came to a stop.

  First the team of Secret Service agents got off and scanned the area, communicating over their ear wires. Shortly after that, the governor got off the bus to shake hands and talk to people heading in and out of the parking lot. I couldn’t help noticing that Emma didn’t even get off the bus. She was probably too snobby to do parking-lot events.

  “Hello again, everyone,” Stu said, coming up to us. “We’ll be leaving in a couple minutes. You ready, Aidan?”

  I nodded. “I’m ready. I guess.”

  Mom and Dad each gave me a giant bear hug. Mom also gave me about a hundred different pieces of advice to pass on to Governor Brandon. Dad just told me to have fun and order room service and bill it to the campaign. “Maybe then she’ll understand how taxes and fees add up,” he said.

  “What’s that, Mr. Schroeckenbauer?” asked Governor Brandon, suddenly standing at his elbow.

  “Oh, uh.” Dad got all flustered. “Nothing.”

  “Believe me, no one wants to raise taxes in this financial climate,” the governor said. “I hear you.”

  Mom just stood there, looking starstruck to be in the governor’s presence. She didn’t speak.

  “I’m so glad to finally meet you both.” The governor held out her hand. “Bettina Brandon. Thanks for lending us your son for a few days. We’ll take good care of him—I promise.” She leaned closer to Mom. “And, as one mom to another, you know I’ll watch him like a hawk.”

  Mom laughed. “Make sure he keeps his hotel room neat. And if he says he’s brushed his teeth, check his toothbrush. And—”

  “Mom. I think that’s enough,” I said under my breath, but suddenly it was like the two of them were best friends. Mom couldn’t stop talking.

  Then Kristen was giving my parents all the contact information they’d need, plus a link to “follow the bus” online.

  Finally, Simon pushed his way through the crowd to us. He was panting and out of breath. “Sorry I’m late. I had to ride my bike to the store to get you something first.”

  “You didn’t have to get me anything,” I said.

  “Sure, I did. You won’t survive without these. Here.” He gave me a giant box of Lime Brains candy.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I will need these. I think I’m going to be bored out of my skull,” I whispered to him.

  “Yeah, but at least you’re getting out of town,” said Simon.

  “Good point.” I decided to wait and tell him about the trip to Yankee Stadium later, when I got home and it was more of a sure thing. “I wish you could come,” I said.

  “Yeah. That’d be cool. Make sure you get all the perks. Order room service, charge up video games, junk like that.”

  “Aidan, it’s time to go!” Stu called from the bus steps.

  “Well, see you,” Simon said. “Have fun being famous!”

  Just before I walked away, T.J. made his way around the reporters and pushed up right beside Simon.

  “You really should thank me, Shrieking,” he said. “Without that video I took, nobody would even know your name.”

  “You’re not the only one who made a video,” Simon said. “What, you think you’re the reason he was picked? Be serious.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m glad he’s leaving,” T.J. said. “Because with him gone, we can actually win a baseball game!” T.J. laughed loudly.

  All the reporters standing around the bus started laughing. Maybe getting out of town for a while wasn’t such a bad idea, I thought. “I’ll really miss you, T.J.,” I said. “Not.” I picked up my clarinet case, a backpack with my baseball glove and a baseball inside, and my duffel bag full of clothes and other assorted junk, and climbed onto the bus.

  I passed by the general, who was jotting down notes about a mile a minute on a legal pad. He glanced up at me. “More kids on the campaign trail. As if one wasn’t enough? Now I’ve seen everything.”

  “I thought this was your idea,” I said.

  “Nope. This came from the Haircut,” he said, going back to his notes.

  “The Haircut?” I checked out his bald head. He clearly wasn’t referring to himself. Then I remembered that was his nickname for Stu. I wondered if he had a nickname for me. Maybe, Needs a Haircut?

  He looked up again and focused on me. “You know the old saying? If you’re the president and you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”

  “Yeah—uh, sure,” I lied.

  “A dog,” he repeated. “Not a kid from Ohio.”

  Great, just great. The general hated me.

  I smiled at him, hoping he wouldn’t kill me, and looked down the aisle for an empty seat. Suddenly, I spotted one with my name on it—seriously, there was a sign that said AIDAN s. taped to the headrest. It was right behind Kristen, the governess, who was knitting.

  “Don’t let the general get to you,” Kristen said. “Deep down he’s a nice guy.”

  “How far down do you have to go?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Oh, I was a little worried about you, but I think you’ll do just fine.” She waved her knitting needles in the air, and I saw that she was knitting a sweater with an American flag pattern. “By the way,
I have a fifth-degree black belt in karate. I’m an expert at self-defense. And, I could pierce someone’s heart with one of these needles from thirty feet away,” she said.

  “Uh, okay,” I said, noticing how strong her arm muscles looked.

  Kristen smiled. “Just kidding about that last part. All I’m trying to say is that you’re safe with me, okay, Aidan? No worries.”

  “Right. Sure,” I said. “No worries.” As long as I stayed on her good side, that is.

  She smiled. “Have a seat, why don’t you? We’re about to hit the road.”

  Across the aisle, Emma was sitting with her feet up, acting like I didn’t exist. She had a small computer on her lap and didn’t look away from it.

  “Emma. Is that how we greet someone?” Kristen asked.

  Emma smiled like it was killing her. “It’s a pleasure,” she said in a monotone. She cracked her gum.

  “Emma! Please don’t do that,” said Kristen. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  Emma rolled her eyes at me and shifted slightly in her seat, snapping her laptop closed. “Where did you get that bag? Don’t you have a real suitcase?”

  I glanced at my blue duffel as I wedged it into the rack above my seat, along with my backpack. On the side, it said, FREEZESTAR: KEEPING IT COLD FOR 75 YEARS. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. It’s just not a real suitcase—that’s all,” she said.

  I sat down and placed my clarinet case on the aisle seat beside me. Oh, boy. She was going to be such a fun travel companion. “It’s called a duffel bag. You wouldn’t know because you’re not an athlete.”

  She raised an eyebrow and cracked her gum again. “I saw you play yesterday. You’re not much of an athlete, either.”

  I glared at her. I’d thought she was sort of cool when she’d played baseball with us, and she had even stood up to T.J. But that might have been the only good thing about her.

  The bus was pulling onto the turnpike, approaching the tollbooth.

  When I was younger I thought it was actually called a trollbooth, where a troll waited to attack when you tried to collect a ticket. My brother made sure I never forgot that. “Here it is, pipsqueak, the trollbooth!” he always yelled, and I’d cower down in my car seat.