Total Knockout

by Taylor Morris

  I handed her a folder of information. “Ms. Jenkins, do you know what I did this morning?” She took a sip of her coffee and logged in to her computer. “I boxed. Just like I do at least three mornings a week. With Cooper Nixon, my new secretary. And do you know why, Ms. Jenkins?”

  “Isn’t your dad a boxer?”

  I sat up a little straighter. “Yes. He was.” I had no idea how she knew this, or why it threw me off momentarily. A flash of Dad teaching me to bob and weave raced through my mind.

  “So?” Ms. Jenkins prodded.

  “Oh,” I said, refocusing myself. “Because of the epidemic of obesity in this country.” I handed her a sheet of paper. “These are the statistics on childhood obesity. Are you aware that fifteen percent of children and adolescents in the U.S. are overweight? That’s”—I referred down to my own packet—“eleven million kids. You should be horrified at that figure, because I know I am.”

  “Point, Lucia,” she said. Ms. Jenkins often got quick and snippy with me like that, especially before she had her coffee. We’d worked together for two years, and I was used to it.

  “There’s something we can do, for our students now and for future Blue Jays. I know that your hands are tied when it comes to making PE mandatory for every student, but we can tackle this obesity issue with the foods we provide our students.” I passed her another stack of papers. “These are the figures for the vending machines we have as well as the nutritional value of each item, including trans fats. This here shows the nutritional values and lack of trans fats for the vending machines we should have.” I took a quick breath, happy to see that Ms. Jenkins was looking through the material. “Okay, now I also understand that the cost of our current vending machines is pretty low. But just think—Angus Junior High could be the pilot for these machines across the entire school district. We could be the leaders of this movement.” She looked interested in that, so I pressed on. I told her about the long-term risks of obesity, like high blood pressure and poor self-image. “Which is why, in the long run, it’s best to invest now.” Realizing that was a nice little sound bite, I decided to repeat it. “It’s best to invest. Now.”

  I sat back and waited for her reaction. I knew she would have a ton of questions about logistics and comparison prices, but instead she dropped the handouts on her desk and sighed.

  “The truth is, Lucia,” she began, “I’ve been wanting to do something like this for some time. I just haven’t had the time to come up with a solution.” She smiled. “Or maybe I just haven’t been creative enough.”

  My heart raced the fluttering beat of success.

  “Okay.” Ms. Jenkins clapped her hands. “I’ll look at these and make sure they’re the best ones for our school, especially with pricing. Did your council vote on this?”

  My heart caught in my throat. “We’re going to,” I quickly said.

  “I’d like to get this on the agenda for the next school board meeting, at the end of this week. Let me know once you’ve got your votes—you need three-fourths approval, correct?” I nodded.

  Before I left her office, Ms. Jenkins said, “Lucia? Nice job on this one.”

  Here’s the thing: I knew the bylaws of the student council better than anyone. I was even on the special committee in sixth grade that helped write some of the amendments. So I knew that what I’d promised was almost impossible because of two things:

  Article IV, Section 4:

  The student council shall meet only during regularly scheduled meetings as outlined by the advisor at the beginning of each semester. Unscheduled meetings may be called only in an emergency-type situation, with reasonable discretion.

  What that meant, but what wasn’t explicitly written, was that emergency meetings would be called only in a disastrous situation, like post tornado or school shooting. Like, a for-real emergency. And vending machines were not considered an emergency, I’m pretty sure.

  The second thing I knew about the bylaws was:

  Article VI, Section 2:

  Any council vote in which money is involved must have a one-week (seven days) research period between presentation of item and vote. Approval is at the discretion of the principal.

  And it was clear Ms. Jenkins didn’t know this. But I didn’t say anything because, honestly, at the time I was too excited about my presentation going so well. I’d spent all summer researching those machines, and in one five-minute meeting I got Ms. Jenkins’s approval. That felt amazing. I guess I just thought I’d figure out the other stuff later.

  The excitement of my mission accomplished faded quickly as I walked down the halls, my dilemma sitting like a brick in my stomach. I couldn’t get the vote if I took the rules literally. There wasn’t another school board meeting until next semester, and by then it’d be too late. The machines were supposed to be my big finish to an amazing three years as council president. If no one knew about the rules and I didn’t tell anyone, was that cheating? Considering no one cared about student council, I told myself not to worry about it.

  The second I got home I raced to my computer and set up our first student council meeting for the very next day.

  Welcome, Team, to the eighth-grade Angus Junior High Student Council!

  We have a lot of amazing tasks to tackle this year, so I hope you’re ready to buckle down and work!

  We’ll have our first meeting TOMORROW immediately after school in our fearless leader’s classroom, Mrs. Peoria’s, room 245.

  I have a great surprise for everyone, so make sure you arrive on time.

  Humbly yours,

  Lucia

  The more I thought about the rules of the meeting and voting, the more incensed I became. How could our own principal not know the bylaws? I barely paused to think if Mrs. Peoria, our student council adviser in name only, knew about them. It was clear she had no interest in us at all. I realized how weary I’d become of trying to shake everyone into seeing how important and useful the student council was. When they saw those gleaming new vending machines, they’d know that Lucia Latham got stuff done.

  As a test, I decided that if anyone at the meeting mentioned the bylaws, I would halt the vote and scratch the vending machine idea. Everyone had been given a copy of the rules and bylaws immediately after the election results were announced, so they were presumably informed—if they wanted to be.

  After school the next day, I dashed out of last-period science and raced for Mrs. Peoria’s classroom to make sure I was the first one there. I swear, Mrs. Peoria does the minimum required at this school, including the way she presents herself. Her graying hair was barely brushed, and her blouse was only kind of tucked into her slacks. I know it was the end of the day, but still. As soon as I arrived in her room, she collected some papers and a book and said she’d be in the teachers’ lounge if I needed anything. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.” She sighed as she dragged her feet out the door.

  The first council meeting was one of my favorite parts of each year. Sure, in the past I’d had unwilling participants who sometimes made things more difficult, or even impossible for me to accomplish (see: Steven Francis), but I loved those moments before the first meeting, when I actually had myself convinced that this was the year that people understood and cared about what I did.

  I arranged four desks in a circle so we could all sit facing each other. My first year as president I had held the meeting standing at the front of the classroom but felt that, after two meetings, the students were resentful of my authority, so I started doing the round table thing. It gave the illusion of us all being on equal footing.

  Cooper was the first arrive, with a little smile when he saw me. He wore his standard baggy polo shirt, and his hair—which needed to be trimmed—was all mussed up in a cute kind of way. I smiled back at him. Melanie came in next, wearing a pink newsboy hat and listening to music on her MP3 player. When she saw us, she did a little shuffle.

  “Did I miss anything?” she asked, taking out her earbuds.

  “We’re
just waiting on Jared,” I told her, glancing at the clock. I had avoided admitting it so far, but I was a little nervous about Jared. Only two people had run for treasurer—Jared, who mistakenly thought that being in student council got you out of homeroom, and a girl named Amanda, who failed prealgebra and ran as a dare.

  I didn’t have a problem with Jared per se, but I did have an uneasy feeling that he was always making fun of me. Anytime he said anything to me, there was always a bit of a smirk on his face, like he was in on something I didn’t get, and he liked it that way.

  Melanie popped her earbuds back in. “Hey, we should have a dance contest!” I could hear the rattling of music from across the table. “Wanna listen?” she asked Cooper, a bit loudly. She handed him a bud; he wiped it on his shirt, then tucked it into his ear. Melanie rolled her eyes but kept grooving. “Ah, yeah,” she said. Cooper smiled. “Like this,” she told him, and they shifted their bodies left and right in time to the music.

  “Y’all,” I said. I didn’t want to be a buzz kill, but (a) we should have started the meeting without Jared because (b) I was anxious about getting the vote going, (c) I hated to be kept waiting and felt it was the height of selfishness, and (d) the truth was, I was a little jealous at being left out of the dance party.

  The classroom door slammed, and we all turned to watch Jared saunter in. He flipped his hair out of his eyes as he sat down. “What’d I miss?”

  “We’ve just been waiting on you,” I said. I kept a pleasant but firm tone. I didn’t want to put him off at our first meeting, but I also wanted to let him know that I was the boss, and he had inconvenienced us all. But if he felt bad about being ten minutes late, he didn’t show it.

  “Well, I do have a life,” he said, dropping his books on the floor and slumping in his seat.

  Almost as a prompt to everyone, I said, “Well, Article Two, Section One says all members must be on time, and those who are tardy more than twice may be up for disciplinary action.”

  “Are you serious, Latham? How about next time you give us more than two seconds notice before you decide to have a meeting?”

  I waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, I said, “Let’s just get started.”

  Melanie, who was wrapping the earbud cords around her music player, said, “What’s this big surprise you mentioned in your e-mail?”

  I took a breath. I knew they wouldn’t be as excited about it as I was, but as long as they voted for it, I didn’t care—they’d eventually see how great the machines were. We were poised to make our mark on the entire school district, sealing our place in Angus history. Hopefully they’d think that was pretty cool.

  “Okay, well I worked really hard on this, and it’s a big deal that I know is going to be great in the long run.” I paused for dramatic effect. “We’re going to change out the old vending machines for new, better ones.”

  No one said anything. Blank. Silence. Finally, Cooper hesitantly said, “Wow. Good job, Loosh.”

  “So, what?” Jared said. “Does that mean you’re getting us something better? Like those ice-cream vending machines?”

  “Yummy!” piped in Melanie. “The ones with the ice-cream-in-the-cone thingies? What are they called?”

  “Drumsticks!” cheered Jared.

  “Yes! And Push-Up pops!” said Melanie.

  “The best,” agreed Jared.

  “No,” I said. “It’s sort of an . . . alternative vending machine,” I said. “With foods that are natural. Wholesome.” They looked like I had just told them we were adding an extra period to the school day. “Delicious. You’ll see. And we’ll be the first school in the entire district to do it. We’ll be pioneers!”

  Jared and Melanie looked disappointed, and I felt anxious.

  “What kinds of alternative foods?” Cooper asked suspiciously.

  “Like, soy cheese sticks, protein cookies, and veggie chips. But they’re good! I promise, you’ll like them.”

  Jared raised his hand. It was a sarcastic move, I knew, because he wouldn’t speak until I actually said his name.

  “Yes, Jared?”

  “Aren’t we supposed to vote on this kind of stuff? I mean, this is a democracy and all, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied. “That’s why I called the meeting. To present the idea and vote.” I pulled three folders out of my bag, identical to the one I had given Ms. Jenkins the morning before.

  “What are we supposed to do with all this?” Jared asked as I handed out the packets.

  “Read it,” I said. “I want everyone to be fully informed of the machines before you vote. Go through the information, and please vote via e-mail by tonight at midnight. Make sure you include everyone in the e-mail,” I added, since the votes are not private.

  “You expect us to read all this by tonight?” Jared moaned. “Come on, Latham. You must know we have lives.” He smirked. “Some of us, anyway.”

  Before I could tell Jared that being condescending didn’t constitute having a life, Cooper said, “I think it sounds great. Those salty corn chips and candy bars I usually eat with lunch make me feel like puking.”

  “Whatever,” Jared said. He rolled his eyes back to me. “I just think you should give us a little more time, that’s all.”

  Boxing teaches you that you always have to be prepared—the moment you’re caught off guard, down you go. I made sure to always be prepared for anything, even for someone to call my bluff and tell me we couldn’t get this done in this time frame. No one did. I said, “I understand, and I apologize for the quick turnaround time. I know everyone is busy, but once our vote goes through, Ms. Jenkins would like to put it on the school-board vote. That’s why we have to do it quickly.”

  “We can do it,” Cooper assured me, and I was so glad he spoke up. Jared still looked put out, and Melanie looked a little bored, but I was hopeful that they’d pull through as well.

  I asked Cooper to please type up the meeting minutes and e-mail them out to everyone. “Tonight?” he asked.

  “Well, just so everyone can be totally informed.” I really didn’t want to overlook anything else, since I was already on shaky ground.

  After the meeting, Jared bolted out of the classroom as Mrs. Peoria wandered back in, and Melanie’s sister picked her up for another trip to the mall.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Cooper said as we walked outside.

  I looked at this guy who I’d known as long as I had memory. “Thanks for always supporting me, Coop,” I said. “You always make things easier for me.” I immediately felt embarrassed—we never spoke to each other about our friendship.

  But it didn’t seem to faze him. “You’re my best friend,” he said simply. “That’s what best friends do, I guess.”

  The vote went through, just like I anticipated. Three for the new machines, one for keeping the old ones. I won’t even insult your intelligence by saying who didn’t vote for the new ones.

  As soon as the final vote came in—Jared’s, of course, at 11:59 p.m.—I sent an e-mail to Ms. Jenkins and told her to go ahead with putting the proposal on the school-board agenda. She wrote back that she was impressed that I got the vote done so quickly. I noted that we were both up late, working.

  About a week later, Ms. Jenkins came back to me with the great news that the board had voted to try out the new machines. “We’ll be the pilot school for them, and if they go over well here, they’ll consider expanding them to other schools.” I couldn’t believe that my idea—especially one this far-reaching and big—was really going to be implemented. This was the biggest thing I’d done yet, in all my years as president. I breathed a little easier with the realization that the vote wasn’t that big of a deal after all, and everything was turning out fine.

  Instead, I focused on revealing the machines to the school. Ms. Jenkins took care of all the logistics of ordering them, and I was in charge of presenting them to the school. Although all the machines would be delivered at once, Ms. Jenkins agreed to only stock the
one by the cafeteria until after I revealed it to the school. The others would be stocked later that day. I knew I needed to get my council involved to help them feel the enormity of this great project. So, I planned a press conference and gave everyone a job. I asked Jared to contact Nicole Jeffries to cover the unveiling for the school paper. I asked Melanie to talk to Lori Anne about taking photos. Finally, I asked Cooper to get in touch with the IT club to have them put up an announcement on the school’s website. I even told him I’d write it up if he could just get it to the proper person, but he said he’d take care of it.

  In my e-mail, I told everyone how important it was for us all to be there at the unveiling together, to show our solidarity and instill confidence in the students that our council was reliable. I gently reminded them that council members were required to attend two-thirds of all student council–sponsored events, which this counted as. After sending the e-mail, which I did several days before the press conference (no more last-minute stuff for me), Melanie responded, saying she’d bring a ribbon for the machine. “We can tie the ribbon around it and you and Mrs. Peoria can cut it.” Which I thought was a brilliant idea—it showed creativity and initiative on Melanie’s part.

  I’d never felt so happy and confident about a student council year as I did then. Despite an initial hiccup in the plans, everything was working out perfectly.

  Last year, at my request, the IT club set up an online poll on our school’s website to vote on how the people in charge were doing at their jobs. I thought it would be a great show of checks and balances after the administration said the cheerleaders could no longer wear their uniforms on game day, causing a momentary uproar between the jocks (including coaches) and the brains (like Ms. Jenkins). That first poll showed 99 percent support of the uniforms, and by the next game, the girls proudly wore them to school. The point of the whole system was that no one was above criticism, and everyone should have a voice.