Freshman for President

by Ally Condie

  “Oh.” Milo climbed into the passenger side of the car as Maura slid behind the driving wheel. She turned the key in the ignition. It wouldn’t start.

  “Oh, no,” she said, and tried again. Nothing happened. “That’s just great.”

  “Do you think the battery is dead?”

  “No.” Maura pointed to the light that said Check Engine. “That’s never a good sign with this car. Trust me, I know. We’ll have to have it towed.”

  “I didn’t bring my cell phone,” Milo remembered.

  “Me either,” said Maura. “I thought you had yours.”

  “Should we try to borrow a phone and call Dad or Jack for a ride?”

  “No, we can walk. It won’t take that long. It’s less than a mile.”

  Milo looked over at Maura, who was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt but no coat. “Are you going to be warm enough? Do you want to borrow my hoodie?”

  “I’ll be fine. You know me. I hate wearing coats.” She did. She rarely wore one, even in the high desert winter, which could be knife-cold some days.

  They started walking together, side-by-side.

  “I think I know why you couldn’t remember your speech,” Maura said, as they turned the corner near the vacant lot.

  “Why?”

  “Are you ever going to go for Eden, or what? It was totally obvious out there that you like her. You were like a deer in the headlights holding her hand.”

  “What is it with you and Eden?” Milo didn’t try to keep the irritation out of his voice. “You’re always telling me what to do. It’s none of your business.”

  “Just giving you some advice.” Maura’s face closed, and the teasing light in her eyes was gone. Any other time, Milo would have felt bad, but he was suddenly too angry to let it go.

  “While we’re dishing out advice, you could have a good thing going with Spencer, but you’re letting it go rotten, just like you are with all your other relationships.”

  Maura didn’t say anything, of course, just kept walking.

  She was back in her shell. Milo wasn’t going to stand for it. He didn’t care what he had to do to pry her back out. He’d had enough with unfinished and unspoken conversations between himself and Maura. Even though she had seemed to be getting better, they were still a long way from where they should be. He was tired of holding back.

  “Spencer’s a good guy, and he likes you, and you treat him like dirt. Well, I’m used to that because that’s how you treat me and Dad and Mom. You act like we’re not even good enough to talk to. I don’t think any of us deserve it. And Spencer really doesn’t deserve it.”

  He looked over at Maura, whose face was still expressionless. She didn’t respond.

  Milo was overcome with the desire to say something to hurt her, to make her feel or say anything. He opened his mouth to say something terrible, to tell her he hated what had happened to her and to their family.

  But she spoke first. She jammed her hands into her pockets and stopped walking, just outside of the pool of light from the nearby streetlight. She spoke from the dark, her face turned away.

  “I have something I have to tell you.”

  Chapter 27

  End of October

  From Milo’s journal

  * * *

  Maura started crying partway through her story. They sat down on the curb next to the vacant lot, and Milo awkwardly put his arm around her. He had never comforted her before. When she cried, it didn’t sound like she’d been saving up all the tears for months. It sounded like she had been saving up for years.

  Milo didn’t cry, but he had ground his teeth and set his jaw, and it had been hurting ever since. He ached.

  When all the tears were gone, and Milo had said, “I’m really sorry,” about fifty times, she stood up. “Let’s go home,” she told him. They walked the rest of the way in silence. Milo didn’t know what to say. All he could do was to keep step with her, walking beside her all the way home, holding the door open for her while she ducked through it and into the light of the living room, where their parents were waiting.

  At the sight of Maura’s tear-streaked face and Milo’s grim, set jaw, his parents immediately asked what was wrong. And this time, Maura told them.

  Things seemed to be improving for Maura since that night. She still didn’t want to call her friends, and she still spent a lot of time on the couch watching TV. But the problem was out in the open. Milo felt that, maybe, something had started to turn around for Maura. He wasn’t stupid enough to think it was going to be clear sailing for the Wright family from here on out. But she seemed to have moved back into the world a little more. She wasn’t alone now.

  * * *

  Milo, on the other hand, was beginning to understand how it felt to be alone. He couldn’t figure out how to talk to anyone about what he’d been feeling since Mrs. Walsh died, or about the things that Maura had told him and how they’d changed him. He was so angry. He was so tired.

  A few days later, on Halloween night, Milo stood next to the overworked printer in campaign headquarters, waiting impatiently for it to spit out a copy of his Election Day speech.

  “Where are you going?” Maura asked. She was sitting with their mom on the couch, eating pizza. “Don’t you want some pizza?”

  “I’m okay.” He wasn’t hungry. “I’m headed over to Eden’s to practice our speeches for next week.” Their final campaign rally was scheduled for Election Day in the high school gymnasium a couple of hours after school ended. Mr. Satteson had set up the whole thing. Both Milo and Eden would give speeches, and several television stations planned to cover the event.

  Milo felt tired just thinking about it.

  “Do you want to come, too?” he asked Maura.

  “That’s okay. There’s a marathon of really cheesy horror movies on cable. I’m going to watch them all.”

  He tried to make a joke. “So you’re saying watching lame horror movies is more fun than listening to my presidential speeches?” His voice sounded flat, even to him.

  Maura turned to look at him. “Do you want me to come listen?”

  Milo shook his head. “No, I’m just giving you a hard time. Have fun.”

  The walk to Eden’s house didn’t take long. It was already dark, and fall had just about given up. It felt like winter. He rolled up the speech into a cylinder, jogging past the knots of trick-or-treaters roaming the streets.

  “Come on in.” Eden pulled open the door. “It’s freezing out.”

  “It looks like you have everything ready to go.” Milo unrolled his speech. Eden had borrowed a lectern from the high school and set it up on a card table. A video camera stood on a tripod, ready to record them so they could play back their speeches later and analyze them.

  “I think so. My dad’s manning the door for the trick-or-treaters. He said he’d come in if we wanted an audience.”

  “Nah. Let’s just get it done. I’ll go first.”

  Milo stood behind the lectern and tried to unroll his speech. It kept furling back up at the corners, wanting to curl up again.

  Eden moved behind the video camera to start recording. Milo tried to smooth out his speech again but it snapped back into a roll.

  “Are you ready?” Eden asked.

  “No.” Milo looked up at her. “Let’s not record it, okay? I don’t think I’m up for it.” His speech rolled off the lectern and he bent down to pick it up. When he stood up again, Eden was standing on the other side of the card table looking at him. The camera was turned off.

  “Something’s going on, isn’t it? What is it?”

  He couldn’t even talk to Eden about it because it wasn’t his story to tell.

  “I can’t really tell you. It has to do with Maura. She told me what happened to her. But that’s all I can say.”

>   If he could tell Eden, he wondered, what would he say?

  Some . . .—he couldn’t even think of a word that described how strongly he felt—some lowlife, some jerk, messed with my sister. He acted like he was in love with her. She really did fall in love with him. And then, when she wouldn’t do what he wanted her to do, he did something she told him not to do. And then he told everyone else who would listen all about it, only he made her sound like . . . like trash.

  And whenever he saw her on campus, he would raise his eyebrows at her and laugh, and some of his friends started doing it too. And my sister, who is stronger than almost anyone I know, held her head up high and acted like she didn’t see them, like she didn’t care when people said things about her. And she fell apart a piece at a time. When she came home and was finally safe, she didn’t bother anymore. She let herself fall apart altogether. She had held it together too long on her own.

  “Is she going to be okay?” Eden asked, her voice full of worry and concern.

  “I think she is. I think. But I don’t know what to say or do. I thought it would be better when I knew, but I still don’t have a clue about how to handle anything. I don’t know what to do. I can’t solve her problems. I can’t solve the country’s problems. I’m just a kid.”

  Eden didn’t say anything for a minute. She looked at him across the lectern and he looked back. Finally, she spoke.

  “My turn.”

  “Your turn?”

  “Remember when you canceled some campaign stuff on the night of the Fourth of July?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “I’m canceling this. We can work on our speeches later.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Anything but this.” She looked toward the back door. “I know. We’re going to carve pumpkins.”

  Milo, not caring, followed her out to the backyard. The pumpkins sat on the back porch, recently snapped from their vines, waiting for something to happen to them. Carved, or turned into pies. Or made into a coach in a fairytale. But that had never really happened. All the good stuff never really happened.

  “Here,” Eden said, handing him one. There were three pumpkins left this year; she’d probably given the rest away to kids in the neighborhood.

  “Do you care if we don’t carve them?”

  “What do you want to do instead?”

  The anger Milo had been holding at bay since Maura’s revelation bubbled up. “Could we . . . throw them?” Instantly, he felt stupid. “I mean, never mind, you did all that work to grow them.” She didn’t say anything. He felt even more stupid. “I guess I was just thinking, I’ve never seen one smash before . . .”

  “Me either. We could do that. We need some seeds for next year anyway. Let’s go upstairs.”

  They carried the pumpkins up to the second story, to the office that looked out over the patio below.

  “You first.” Eden handed him a medium-sized pumpkin. It felt cool and waxy in his hands. And heavy.

  “Do you think your dad will care?”

  “No. I’ll just tell him we needed to get rid of some frustration.”

  “All right.” Milo looked at the pumpkin and thought, You are the guy in Tucson. He leaned out the window and threw it as hard as he could. The pumpkin dropped heavily, quickly, then exploded in a crash of glorious carnage, seeds spitting everywhere. Milo couldn’t decide which was more satisfying, the actual sight of the pumpkin bursting into several pieces or the dull and solid thonk it made when it hit the flagstones of the patio. The sound reminded him of getting a good hard hit in soccer or kickball. He gave a little cheer.

  “That was impressive,” said Eden from behind him. “Maybe we’ve been missing out all these years.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We can never tell Jack about this. He’ll freak out that we didn’t let him throw one.”

  “Your turn.” Milo stepped back and Eden moved closer to the window. She took a deep breath.

  “Here goes,” she said, and she dropped one out the window. Milo looked over her shoulder to watch it fall.

  For some reason, he didn’t feel like cheering this time when the pumpkin broke below. Maybe because Eden didn’t cheer. Neither of them said anything. They looked down at the mess below that had once been something whole.

  “What are you going to do now?” Eden held out the last pumpkin, the littlest one, for him to take.

  He didn’t throw it. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he handed it back to her. Their hands touched. “We should have carved them instead.”

  “It was cathartic, though. What should we do with this last one?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s see . . .” He tried to think of something crazy. But he couldn’t stop looking at her. He couldn’t stop thinking about how she had held his hand on the soccer field. And then he couldn’t stop thinking about how he just wanted to lean in toward her, right there, in front of the open window with the clear, cold air rushing in . . .

  “What are you thinking?” she asked him.

  I want to kiss you, he thought. But you’re my best friend. And, after everything else that has happened and changed, that’s the one thing I can’t risk losing. The one thing.

  Out loud, he said, “Maura said there’s a horror-movie marathon on cable. Do you want to come watch it at my house with my family?”

  Chapter 28

  November 4

  Election Day

  Letter from Maura Wright to her brother, Milo J. Wright

  Dear Milo,

  I heard you talking to Mom and Dad the other night. I eavesdrop. I admit it.

  You were in the kitchen, and it was late. You all thought I was in my room asleep, but I had come down to watch some more TV. Then I heard the voices, and my name, and I knew you were talking about me. For once, I didn’t mind. But I did want to hear what you guys were saying.

  Mom said she was glad I had finally told you. She thanked you for listening, for whatever it was you had done to make me finally say the words and talk about what had happened.

  You said, “I didn’t do anything. I was just the one who happened to be there.”

  I feel bad that you were the one I told first. I know you have been angry and confused and worried about me ever since. In some ways, the beginning of my feeling better was the beginning of your feeling worse. I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about the timing. I know you were feeling really sad about Mrs. Walsh, and that the campaign was getting more and more stressful.

  But I’m not sorry I told you. I needed to tell you. I had to tell someone. I was finally at the point where I knew I had to say something. Before, I wasn’t ready. I was too weak to talk about it. I had to just hang on and not fall. But I didn’t like to be alone. And because of you and the campaign, I could re-emerge slowly, when I was ready. I had somewhere to go. I had someone who needed me. I had to put one foot in front of the other. I had to take part in life again.

  When you asked me to help with the campaign, I thought about saying no. Why try? But then something in me told me I had to try. I had to hope. I didn’t have to be perfect and involved and act the way I used to act. But I did have to get in the car and sit there, surrounded by life, even if I wasn’t ready to take part in it yet. The little part of me that wanted to survive told me that.

  Exactly, Milo. You were there.

  You always say you’re not the flashy one, you’re not the one everyone notices—you’re the one on the sidelines. That’s why you ran for president, right? To be the one who people noticed?

  But Milo, the people like you, the people who are always there, are the ones who really count for something. People like Mrs. Walsh, Eden, her dad. Jack and Paige, Mom and Dad, and Spencer. No one can be there for everyone else all of the time; that’s not what I’m saying. But you can be there for other people a lo
t of the time. That’s what’s important.

  I saw your Last Will and Testament. I wasn’t snooping; you left it out on your desk and then you asked me to get a packet from your room. But when I saw it, I was scared. I read it, to make sure it wasn’t what I was thought it was. And it wasn’t. I knew you weren’t going to do anything stupid. But it still worries me.

  It’s not all pointless. Trust me. I have tried living without hope and it doesn’t work very well that way. You have to hope.

  I love you, and I am trying to be here for you as much as I can.

  Maura

  * * *

  There were signs all over town. Milo could see them through the car window as they drove past on his way to his last big speech as a candidate for president. The windows on the car were tinted and dark. It was a new car, loaned to them for the last week of the campaign by a local dealer. He had heard about the campaign car breaking down, and had thought it would be a great promotional idea to loan Milo a chromed-up, dark-tinted sedan to use.

  Looking through the windows, Milo felt like a tourist in his own hometown, as though he were already somehow removed from the place he loved and the person he’d been. He rolled down the windows instead. The air came cutting through the opening, cold and sharp and dry. Sage air. Milo breathed in deeply.

  It was only five o’clock, but it was already almost dark. The evening was settling in. The long nights of summer were a thing of the past. The lawns he had cut were crisp and brown. He could see houses and cars, and in the bright halogen headlights of the new car, he could see the signs. There were signs everywhere, and most of them had something to do with him.

  There were his official signs in people’s yards: Write in Wright. There were unofficial ones that people had made themselves: Sage Supports Milo. There was one in the yard of a former Purple People Eater that he could tell she had drawn herself. It said Coach Milo 4 Prazident. She’d drawn a stick figure portrait of him kicking a purple-and-white soccer ball.

  One sign that he’d noticed a few days ago was already gone: the For Sale sign in front of Mrs. Walsh’s house had only been up for a few days before it disappeared.