How Not to Run for President

by Catherine Clark

  “The way they hog the TVs up there, you’d never know there was anything but news on.” She rolled her eyes. “Bo-ring.”

  “I know, right?” I agreed.

  “I can’t believe the Twins are losing,” Emma said. “The Indians are only the worst team in the AL right now.”

  “What? They are not!” I said. “The Tigers are way worse.”

  “Maybe. Not as bad as the Orioles,” said Emma.

  “Yeah, but they’re not in the central division,” I said.

  “Duh. I know that,” Emma said.

  “You’ll have to cheer for the Nationals soon,” I said.

  “I hate National League teams. Who wants to see pitchers trying to hit? And have you seen the Nationals’ caps? I mean, come on,” she said.

  “Don’t let the reporters hear you say that.”

  “What?”

  “That you hate the National League,” I said. “That could be really bad for your mom.”

  “Do you really want to know the truth? Why I’m down here? I couldn’t sleep, either,” Emma said, rubbing the side of her face. “I keep thinking about stuff like that. Moving to Washington, if she wins.”

  “Cool, huh? I’d be psyched if I were you,” I said. “Just the buildings—every time I see them on TV, they’re so majestic. Or whatever.”

  She didn’t look all that excited about it, which was strange. If I got to move into the White House, I’d have my own room—my own wing—and it would be gigantic. I’d probably have a butler, a maid, and anything in the world I wanted: the latest video games, a decent computer or two, my own phone, even.

  Of course, I’d hardly ever be home because I’d travel all the time. I’d fly to faraway places, like California and, I don’t know, Greece, Egypt, and Spain. I’d see any major-league game I wanted. Forget the cheap seats; I’d have a luxury box. I’d meet the players. I’d throw out first pitches. I’d—

  “I hate new stuff,” Emma finally said, interrupting my daydream. “I hate being the new kid in school, I don’t want to try out for new teams—that is, if they’ll even let me try out for new teams, because I might be out of their sight for two seconds chasing down a foul ball—”

  “How far foul is it going to be?” I asked. “Virginia?”

  She started laughing. “You’re funny when you’re not being a dork.”

  We were having fun, until I remembered how she’d thrown me under the bus, or actually, under the drums onstage. “Yeah, thanks. For nothing,” I said.

  Emma sipped a soda. “So why couldn’t you sleep?” she asked.

  “Haven’t you heard? I have to be on TV in the morning. Not just TV—Wake Up, America!” Just saying it gave me butterflies. “I have to help your mom convince people to vote for her.”

  “Yeah. I heard.” She passed me the bowl of popcorn. “Is that why you brought your clarinet down here?”

  “I was going to rehearse, but … never mind.” The game was going into the twelfth inning, and there was popcorn to eat.

  What felt like a few minutes later, someone was shaking my arm. really strongly. “Aidan! Wake up, wake up!” a voice was saying.

  I struggled to open my eyes, but I was so tired.

  “What are you even doing down here? We looked everywhere for you. Oh, you kids are going to be the death of me!” Kristen cried.

  “Kids? Plural? I didn’t do anything,” said Emma, who was beside Kristen.

  Kristen began shaking my shoulders. “Aidan, get up. Why are you here and not in your room? You’re not allowed to sneak out and sleep in the lobby!”

  “Who won?” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked up to see the entire campaign staff standing over me. Emma was dressed for the day, and behind her stood her mother, all ready for our Wake Up, America! interview.

  Meanwhile, I was wearing my ratty old sweatshirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and hugging my clarinet case to my chest like it was a teddy bear. And I was in public! Except it was the middle of the night, and it was still dark outside. I glanced at the clock above the lobby fireplace. 5:45 a.m. How did it get so early so quickly? Wasn’t it just midnight? I glanced over at the front desk, where Chuck was still working.

  “You were just here. We were watching the Indians-Twins game,” I said to Emma. “Why didn’t you wake me up when it was over?”

  Emma ignored me. She looked around the lobby. “What’s the deal with the breakfast? When does that start? I’m starving.”

  “Emma, you were right here. It was the twelfth inning,” I said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Emma. “I wasn’t here.”

  “Yes, you were.” I sat up. “You were right here, and Chuck was over there, and we had popcorn—”

  “I was in my room the whole night,” she said, shooting daggers at me. Then I remembered: she really wasn’t allowed out at night. Still, I would have liked to have had a partner in crime. Then maybe I wouldn’t look so bad.

  “You must have been dreaming, kid,” said the general. “Come on, I’ll follow you back upstairs and wait while you get dressed. You have five minutes.” He strode over to the elevator and pressed the up button. “Of course, with your wardrobe, that’s more than enough time.”

  I yawned and stretched my arms, still holding the clarinet. Who even got up at five in the morning? The only other person I could think of who’d be awake was my dad, at work. I suddenly missed him and wished I could call him. He’d know what to say to make me calm down. He’d say, “Whatever happens, it’ll be over soon. One way or another.”

  That was what he said whenever I had to go to the dentist, and it seemed like this TV show could be about as unpleasant.

  “FYI, the Twins won it in fourteen,” the general said. “Indians had a chance to win, but that new closer—what’s his name?”

  “Hayashi?” I said.

  “Right. He gave up a three-run homer in the bottom of the fourteenth inning,” the general told me. “Course, the Twins only needed two runs to win it. Sayonara, Indians.”

  “Great. Just great,” I said as we stepped into the elevator. Even my heroes were letting me down.

  “Haircut, fix Aidan’s hair,” the general said as we pulled up in front of the TV studio in downtown Cleveland. “I told you we should have had it cut.”

  “Why is that my job?” Stu stopped. “Fine, I’ll do it.” He rummaged in his shoulder bag and came up with a tube of hair gel.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Stu,” the governor said. “They’re probably going to whisk you into hair and makeup as soon as we walk in, Aidan.”

  “Aidan’s not supposed to look perfect,” Emma said. “remember? You’re supposed to look authentic. And you do. You look authentically awful.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “This is my best Mud Hens shirt.” The Toledo Mud Hens are a Triple-A affiliate team of the Detroit Tigers, and the only team whose games I actually get to see in person. I had on a pair of decent jeans and my usual sneakers.

  The elevator doors opened, and I stepped off beside her. “It’s your fault I didn’t have time to get ready this morning like everyone else,” I said quietly. “And you know it.”

  “I didn’t make you come downstairs in the middle of the night,” she whispered back. “I didn’t force you to watch that baseball game. So if you’re looking for someone to blame for your bed head, it’s not me.”

  “You could have said something,” I whispered. “When you left.”

  “And wake you up from your beauty sleep?” she asked. “No way.”

  In the lounge outside the recording studio, where guests waited, there were comfy chairs, a large TV, and a breakfast buffet. I reached for a banana muffin.

  Kristen grabbed my arm and nearly tore the muffin out of my hand. “You can eat afterward, not before.”

  “But I’m hungry,” I said.

  “Yes, but you’re going on in five minutes. You won’t have time to brush your teeth again. Interview first, eat second,”
she said as if it were something everyone in the world knew except me.

  “She’s always saying that.” Emma looked at me, rolled her eyes, then picked up a bunch of grapes and popped a few into her mouth.

  “Hey! What about her?” I asked.

  “She’s not going on camera this morning. You are,” said Kristen.

  “So there.” Emma picked up a chocolate donut and took a bite. “Mm, oh, that’s delicious.”

  “What about your peanut allergy?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry, this is all peanut-free,” said Kristen. “I had it all arranged ahead of time, like always.”

  “Too bad,” I muttered. Not that I wanted to see Emma seriously hurt or anything, but after what she’d done to me, a little choking fit wouldn’t be horrible, would it?

  The governor and I practically flew in and out of the hair and makeup room. Even then, it was too much time. Maybe my hair needed a little fixing, but since when did I need makeup? I hoped no one watching would notice. I’d never be able to live that down.

  “Kind of weird wearing blush, isn’t it?” the governor asked, looking over at me from her seat, eyes half closed as they dabbed makeup onto her lids.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said.

  The makeup artist swished a brush against my cheeks. “Well, now you do,” she said.

  “Great. Just great,” I mumbled, avoiding the mirror in front of me.

  Then a local producer walked us out to the set, where TVs in every direction showed the Wake Up, America! broadcast in progress.

  “Looking good, kid,” Stu said, nodding at my styled hair.

  “Is that powder on your face?” the general asked.

  “Leave me alone. This wasn’t my idea,” grumbled in reply.

  The producer told me and the rest of the campaign team how everything would happen, and in what order. I found out we were going to be interviewed by the superstar host, Candace McKnight, via satellite. We’d talk to her on-screen, sort of like Skyping. I did that with my grandparents sometimes, so I was used to it.

  We’d sit on a sofa to talk first, then move over to where they’d set up chairs and music stands so we could perform our duet. The show was filmed live in New York City, but they would hook up with their affiliate station here to interview us.

  “And in just a few minutes,” Candace was saying to the TV audience—all however many millions of them, “we’ll be live with the latest sensations on the presidential campaign trail right now. We’ll be right back with the candidate and the clarinet player!”

  The camera at the New York studio panned to the large plate-glass window behind Candace’s desk, where people were holding up signs. My eyes widened as I saw what they said:

  WE LOVE AIDAN

  CLARINETS RULE!

  AIDAN FOR VP

  SHORT HAPPENS

  Sure, the last one was kind of insulting. But I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. “They know who I am in New York?” I asked. “New York … City?”

  “Buddy, it’s what we’ve been trying to tell you,” Stu said. “You’re a media magnet.”

  “One minute till airtime,” a voice said over the PA system. “Governor Brandon, Aidan Slockenbeamer, on set please.”

  “Schroeckenbauer,” I said. “It’s not that hard to say!”

  I hustled out to the set. The governor was already perched on the sofa. Emma was sitting in a canvasback director’s chair, off camera. “Break a leg!” she said cheerfully as I walked past her.

  “What?” I nearly tripped on all the electrical cords running across the floor. Did she have a death wish for me or something?

  Our clarinets were laid out on the desk on the side, along with our sheet music on a couple of stands. I flashed a nervous smile at the governor, then took a seat beside her on the sofa.

  “You’ll be fine,” she assured me, scooting over a bit. She pursed her lips, and smiled at the camera. “We’ll be fine.”

  Suddenly, the host from Wake Up, America! was looking back at me from a TV screen. Candace McKnight was extremely pretty, with perfect hair. I was supposed to talk to her? Now? I felt my mouth go completely dry. Over the loudspeaker, a voice was saying, “Ten … five … three, two, one, and we’re live!”

  “And now we go to Cleveland,” Candace McKnight said, “where we’re checking in with presidential candidate Governor Bettina Brandon at our affiliate station. She’s traveling all over the central Midwest on the Fresh Idea bus, campaigning for the Fresh Idea Party. Good morning, Governor.”

  “Good morning, Candace!” the governor said, smiling.

  “How’s the weather in Cleveland this morning?” Candace asked.

  “Lovely. You know, we’re having a great time, meeting lots of new people, and getting new ideas out there,” the governor said.

  “That’s wonderful. We could use some new ideas here at Wake Up, America!” Candace said.

  “I don’t know about that, Candace. Your show is a well-oiled machine. I think you’re doing everything right,” the governor said.

  “We’ll take the compliment, thanks,” said Candace. “Now, I understand you’ve brought a friend and campaign worker along to talk to us this morning. Aidan Shriekenhoffer, nice to see you.” She smiled at me.

  “Thank you. It’s, uh, nice to be here.” I decided not to correct her pronunciation of my last name. There just wasn’t enough time to tell everyone in the world how it was actually said or spelled. I yawned.

  “Did we wake you up?” she asked.

  “Oh! Sorry, sorry,” I said. “Campaign work keeps me up late at night.”

  “That would explain the hair,” Emma said off camera, but loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kristen urge Emma out of the chair near the set and lead her farther away from us.

  “Campaigning like this may be exhausting at times,” the governor chimed in, “but it’s also exhilarating. There’s nothing like meeting people from all over this great country who inspire me to keep working hard for them. If I’m elected, I’ll work tirelessly to make sure people’s rights, homes, and jobs are protected.”

  I yawned again. I felt bad, but I couldn’t help it! This time I covered my mouth and coughed, hoping to hide it.

  “So Aidan, turning to you now,” Candace said. “As you said, back when all this began, the biggest issue you see facing the country is job security. Is that right?”

  Was that it? “Sure.” I nodded. “Yes.”

  “And why was that, for those of our viewers who might not have seen you yet?” she asked. “Of course, you’d have to be living under a rock not to have seen you.” She laughed. “But—anyway, go ahead.”

  I smiled, and felt myself blushing a little. “Well, I come from a town where there’s basically one big company, and everything kind of relates to that company somehow. They sponsor lots of things in our town, like Little League, the music program. Basically, they keep us going. My dad works there,” I said. “And my mom used to until she got laid off. And my grandfather did, too, and maybe I’ll end up working there, if it’s still around.”

  “And that’s the issue,” Governor Brandon said, joining the conversation. “Will important manufacturing jobs still exist here in the U.S. by the time Aidan enters the workforce? Only if we’re willing to make an investment in the manufacturing sector. As president, I’ll work to create tax breaks for industries—”

  “Excuse me, Governor,” Candace said. “I’d like to follow up on something Aidan mentioned. Aidan, you said your mother used to work for the town’s main employer until she was laid off. Isn’t that one of the issues here? Growing unemployment?”

  “Yes, we need to create an economy—” the governor began.

  “Aidan?” Candace interrupted her again.

  I glanced at the governor, and she nodded for me to go ahead. “Well, yeah,” I said to the camera. “My mom lost her job and we had to give up cable, Internet, trips to Cedar Point. We’re eating spaghe
tti, like, five nights a week.”

  “Don’t you like spaghetti?” asked Candace. “I heard it’s one of your favorite foods.”

  “Well, sure,” I said, wondering how she would know that, “but everything gets old after a while. Like being out of work. Maybe at first you get to watch a bunch of TV or relax and read a book. But then it’s not vacation anymore, you know? It’s definitely not the same thing as vacation. That’s what my mom says, anyway. She really wants to go back to work, but she just can’t.”

  “That’s an interesting point,” said Candace. “Well, I have another question for the Brandon campaign. First of all, are you aware of this?” She used the SMART Board on set to call up a Facebook page. “There’s a movement on Facebook,” she said. “A whole lot of people want you to pick him as vice president.”

  “Pick him who?” I said.

  “You, Aidan.” Candace tapped the board and made the type and images larger. There was a picture of me—my school picture from the year before—and the page was named SUPPORT AIDAN FOR VP!

  “There are over ten million members of this group,” Candace said. “What’s your reaction? Governor Brandon? Aidan?”

  My mouth was hanging open. I was shocked. Then I was flattered. Then I burst out laughing. “It’s not like that can actually happen, right?” I said to the governor. I was pretty sure you had to be at least old enough to vote to be elected to anything.

  “Well, I think this reflects what voters are looking for in this election cycle,” said the governor. “They want people who tell it like it is, who aren’t afraid to put the big issues on the table and talk about them, and come up with fresh solutions to old problems.”

  Man, she was good at talking on the spur of the moment. She didn’t even seem nervous. She’d probably make a great president, I suddenly realized, based on that fact alone.

  “Aidan? What’s your take on being chosen for vice president?” asked Candace. “Why do you think so many voters are behind this?”

  “Um … people like the clarinet?” I said. Everyone in the studio laughed. “What?” I said. “It’s true.”