“Whoa. Look, Vanessa, I just called to—”
“To what, Reginald? To humiliate me again? Well, no thank you.” I don’t want anyone in the hall outside my room to hear me, so I lower my voice. “Once a day is quite enough. I can’t believe you were so mean. What have I ever done to you?” Other than love you? I turn off the TV, gnaw on the skin beside my thumbnail, and press the phone to my ear. I can’t believe those words just spewed (Spewed. S-P—Oh, for goodness’ sake!) out of my mouth. I look over at Carter and am certain that were he a living donkey and not a stuffed toy, he’d be very proud of me.
Reginald sniffs. For a minute, I think he’s crying. Good.
“I deserve that,” he says.
You deserve a lot more than that!
“You still there? Vanessa?”
I hold my breath.
“I liked it better when you were yelling at me,” he says.
I want to laugh, but hold it in. Why does he have to be so cute?
“I’m just calling to say, well, you know, that I’m…Vanessa, what I’m trying to say is…”
I know Reginald is suffering. But that’s how I felt when I was crying in the girls’ bathroom, so I say nothing to make this easier for him. He doesn’t deserve my kindness, even though, for some stupid reason, I want to give it to him.
“Vanessa, I’m really, really sorry. What I did today was mean. And stupid. Jordan dared me. And it’s just that—”
“It’s okay.” Did I just say that?
“No, Vanessa, it’s not okay,” Reginald says as though he’s reading my mind. “I don’t know what happens. Sometimes, when I’m around certain people, like Jordan, I act like an…”
I want to say “ass.” I really want to say “ass.” I really, really want to say “ass.” I look at Carter, my stuffed, well, donkey, and remember that I, Vanessa Rothrock, am the governor’s daughter. So, for Mom’s sake, I hold it in.
“A complete idiot,” Reginald finishes.
I bite so hard on the skin beside my thumbnail that the spot actually bleeds. I suck on it and taste metal. I want to hang on to my anger, but it’s like squeezing a handful of sand—the harder I try, the more it slips away. “You didn’t tell anyone else about my, um, list, did you?”
“Oh, no, Vanessa. I didn’t. I swear. And I only told Jordan about number one. I’m really sorry. I totally understand if you hate me.”
I let out a big breath. Hate you? I’ve loved you since fourth grade when you punched Joey Simmons in the mouth for putting a live worm down my shirt. “Just don’t ever do anything like that again!” How lame!
“Believe me, I won’t.” Reginald says this in such a quiet, sexy way that I think I’ll melt. “So, Vanessa, you finish that poem for language arts yet?”
I reach into my backpack and pull out my poem. “Yes. It’s not good, but it’s done. Did you finish yours?”
“Let me hear it.”
“Huh?” My eyebrows shoot up. “Read? You? My poem?” I sound like I’ve been speaking English only a short time. “I told you. It’s not good.”
“Yeah, right,” says Reginald. “Read it.” The line is quiet.
I scan my poem. Not only isn’t it good, it’s actually bad. In fact, it’s clearly abysmal. (Abysmal. A-B-Y-S-M-A-L. Abysmal.) “Oh, stop with the spelling already!”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” I pound my forehead with the heel of the hand that’s holding the poem and poke myself in the eye with the corner of the paper. I blink incessantly while I read to Reginald. My eye waters so much it’s hard to see the words. I worry that I’ll lose vision in that eye. I can’t lose vision because then I’ll have trouble reading, get horrible migraines, and be unable to study for the county spelling bee. I’m so worried about losing my vision that I totally mess up my poem and have to read it a second time. As if reading it the first time wasn’t embarrassing enough!
There is complete silence when I finish. I brace myself for Reginald’s laughter.
“That’s great, Vanessa. I mean it. That’s a great poem. You are so talented.”
Maybe, I think, there’s still a chance I will have Reginald’s 2.3 children. I swipe at my eye with my sleeve. The eye is still watering, but I’m pretty sure I can see.
“If you’re not busy…,” Reginald says, and I immediately think he’s talking about me having his 2.3 children. I blush fiercely. “Could you help me write mine?”
Gulp. “You want me to help you write your poem?”
“Well, yeah. You’re good at writing and I’m…well, let’s just say writing’s not my best subject.”
“What is?”
“Huh?”
I can’t believe I just asked Reginald Trumball such a stupid question. I wish there were a rewind button on my mouth.
“Uh, I don’t know. P.E., I guess.”
“P.E. is cool,” I say, not meaning it. I hate to sweat. I hate to wear the P.E. shorts and T-shirt because the shorts make my butt look too big and the T-shirt makes my boobs look too small (which they are). And Coach Conner is the meanest human being on the planet, outside of a few evil dictators who shall remain nameless. I guess I could learn to love P.E. if it means that much to Reginald. “What do you want your poem to be about?”
In the end, I write most of Reginald’s poem—about winning a basketball game. By the time he says “Well, I’ll see you in school tomorrow,” I’m totally in love with him again. I mean, everyone makes mistakes.
I’m humming as I turn the TV back on. The credits for Gilmore Girls roll. Why didn’t I record it? I realize Reginald and I were on the phone for nearly an hour.
I’m dying to tell somebody, but all I have available is Carter. “Nearly an hour!” I tell my stuffed donkey, shaking him as though it might activate his hearing. “Reginald Trumball spent nearly one hour talking with me on the phone.” Carter appears nonplussed. (Nonplussed. N-O-NP-L-U-S-S-E-D. Nonplussed.)
It doesn’t matter, because my world is right again. There is still a chance with me and Reginald. And the first person I think of telling is Mom. But where is she?
When the phone rings again, my heart stampedes because I’m sure it’s Reginald calling to ask me out. Could this day get any better?
I grab the phone. “Hey, Reginald,” I say, trying to sound cool and calm even though inside I’m bursting.
“Reginald? Who’s Reginald?”
My throat squeezes.
“Nessa, it’s me. I don’t have much time.”
“Mom!” I turn off the TV and press the phone against my ear. I want to tell Mom everything about Reginald, at least the good parts. I want to tell her how he liked my poem and how we talked on the phone for nearly an hour. But all that comes out is “Where are you?”
“Excuse me?”
I’m not sure if Mom can’t hear me or if I’ve put my size 9½ foot into my mouth by saying something stupid.
“Vanessa,” she screeches. “Aren’t you watching the news?”
As if I actually watch the news when she isn’t here. “I was watching—” I start to say I was watching our show, Gilmore Girls, and I wish she’d been here to watch it with me. Then I realize I didn’t watch it at all because I spent the time on the phone with Reginald. “Why?” I ask. “Did something happen?” I worry that Florida is about to be pounded by another hurricane and I was too busy on the phone with Reginald to hear about it, but this is ridiculous because hurricane season ended almost two months ago.
“Turn it on, honey. Turn on CNN.”
I turn on CNN, and what I see knocks me backward. Fortunately, I fall on the most padded part of my anatomy. (Anatomy. A-N-A-T-O-M-Y. Anatomy.) Oh, for goodness’ sake!
Mom’s face takes up the whole screen. She’s wearing the gold earrings Dad had given her when she first became governor. I’m used to seeing Mom on the local news, but CNN? That’s for important people. I read the banner above Mom’s head. “Ohmygod!”
“Nessa, you see it, don’t you? Do you know what this mi
ght mean?”
I mumble the words on the screen: “Elyssa Rothrock, Governor of Florida, wins New Hampshire primary.” My stomach drops as though I’d plunged down the tracks on a roller coaster without wearing a safety bar across my lap. I know exactly what this might mean. I thought when Mom won the Iowa caucuses last week, it was just a fluke and she’d lose the rest of the primaries, but this…This means she might actually have a chance to win her party’s nomination. To run for president of the United States!
“That’s right, Nessa. And with the Iowa caucuses win, this should give me the boost we need to take the lion’s share of primaries in early February.”
This is real.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she asked.
How did this happen? When Mom asked if I’d support her running for president, I said yes because I thought it would take her mind off things. I never imagined she actually had a shot at winning the party’s nomination. I mean, Mom’s got two things going against her—boobs! Didn’t anyone bother to tell her she’s a woman, and a woman has never been elected president of the United States, except on TV? I mean, she’s a great governor. But president? She’ll be so busy, I’ll never see her!
“Nessa?”
“I’m here.”
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“Vanessa!”
I can’t deal with this now. “Did you know I won the school spelling bee today? I’m going to the County Bee.”
“Didn’t you get the flowers I sent?”
I sigh. Mom did send the flowers. “They’re beautiful. I totally love them. Purple is my favorite—”
“Coming, Arnie!”
I move the phone away from my ear. Arnie is Mom’s campaign manager, and spends tons more time with her than I do. “Mom?”
“Looks like we’re both winners today, Nessa!”
Then why do I feel like a loser?
“There’s someone from National Public Radio waiting to interview me,” Mom says. “I’ve got to go.”
Trying to hold on to her a few moments longer, I whisper, “Love you.”
“Coming, Arnie!” Mom shouts. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”
“I love you, too,” I say to the dial tone.
As soon as I hang up, the phone rings. I’m hopeful it’s Mom wanting to talk a little longer, but realize it must be Emma calling me back.
“Hey, Emma,” I say.
“Emma? It’s me, dear.”
“Oh, hi, Grandma. Sorry, I thought you were—”
“Have you been watching the news?” Grandma says in a way-too-excited voice.
What is it with you Rothrock women? Of course I haven’t been watching the news. I’ve been doing something much more important—talking to Reginald Trumball for nearly an hour! “Yes, of course I’m watching.”
“Isn’t it exciting?”
I let out a breath. “Yeah.”
“Vanessa, you don’t sound excited. What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine, Grandma. Just tired. Did you know I won the school spelling bee today?”
“That’s wonderful. Two Rothrock winners in one day.”
“Thanks, Grandma.”
“I’ve got to go tell my lady friends. I’m so excited.”
I’m not sure if Grandma is talking about telling her lady friends about my spelling bee win or Mom’s primary win, but I guess she’s talking about Mom. “Okay, Grandma. Talk to you soon.”
“Take care of yourself, dear. I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay. Bye.”
After I hang up, I think of calling Emma. She’s got to be done with riding lessons and homework by now. But when I start to dial her number, I realize I’m exhausted and don’t feel like talking anymore.
I get into pajamas, grab Carter, and watch the news awhile to see Mom’s face and hear her voice before I go to bed. I throw a kiss to the screen. “Good night, Mom.”
When I wake, I enjoy fifteen blissful seconds before thoughts from last night rush into my mind and knot my stomach.
For the first time, there’s an actual chance Mom will win her party’s nomination (Nomination. N-O-M-I-N-AT-I-O-N. Nomination.) to run for president of the United States. I might wake one morning, open my eyes, and be in a bedroom in the White House. I could sleep in the very room that Chelsea Clinton slept in. That would be cool because she and I have similar hair issues.
But then I remember something else—it’s freezing in Washington, D.C., during the winter. And Grandma doesn’t live in D.C.; she lives here in Florida in a fifty-five-and-older community where the ladies play bunco on Monday nights and pinochle on Wednesday nights and bingo on Friday nights if they’re not taking a bus to the mall or the theater. She wouldn’t give all that up to move with us. And worst of all, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to paint my room even a very light shade of purple.
I squeeze my eyelids shut and push the thoughts from my mind. I’ve got to get ready for school.
I go into my bathroom and wish I could lock the door. A girl my age should be able to have complete and total privacy in that particular room. But I’m not allowed to lock a door. Ever. Security needs to be able to burst in and save me. What could they possibly save me from in my own bathroom? An alligator squeezing through the drain? As if! There was a tiny frog in the toilet once, but the only thing it did was make me scream. And then it made Mom and me laugh hysterically as Dad caught it in a shoe box and ran outside to the Manatee Sculpture Garden to set it free. It was hilarious at the time, but the memory makes me sad now.
I undress quickly and pull the shower curtain tight.
As the water runs down my back, I perform my morning ritual. I pull my elbows back and thrust my chest forward repeatedly while saying a prayer to the Boob Fairy. “If you’re not too busy this week, Boob Fairy, please visit me. You’ve sprinkled magic boob dust on many of my classmates (most of whom are female), and I’m sure I must be next on your list. In case you’ve forgotten, I live at 700 North Adams. You’ll recognize it because it’s, well, the Governor’s Mansion. And Florida is really nice to visit this time of year.”
On the car ride to school, I pull a sheet of loose-leaf paper and my purple pen with the feather from my backpack and write the following:
Reasons Mom Should NOT Run for President
1. I need her way more than the rest of the country does, even more than that guy with the hungry, cold family in New Hampshire I saw on TV last night. He said that Mom’s his only chance to get back on his feet again.
Was he a plant?
2. Mom will have to shake hands with a million people and might catch a horrible disease, like what happened to the president on that show 24.
3. As if enough photographers don’t already snap my picture when I look my absolute worst! Can’t Mom wait to do this until after I’m out of my awkward stage, you know, like when I’m thirty?
4. And the most important reason Mom shouldn’t run for president is: I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.
I fold the paper and stuff it into my backpack. By the time the car pulls up in front of Lawndale Academy, my throat feels tight and tears are caught on my eyelashes. Why can’t Mom be here with me, instead of off in some freezing state trying to convince people we don’t know to vote for her so she can have a chance at a job I don’t want her to have? I take a deep breath because, even though I miss Mom, I don’t want to cry and make my nose all red and puffy for when I see Reginald.
When Mr. Martinez opens my door, Mrs. Foster’s face is in front of mine. Her breath smells like peanut butter and coffee. Hasn’t that woman ever heard of Tom’s of Maine or Mentos?
“Come on, Vanessa,” she says.
Mr. Martinez takes my arm and pulls me toward school. Mrs. Foster follows. I grip my backpack to me as though my life depends on it. What’s going on?
“Vanessa! Over here.”
I turn and a flash blinds me. Then more flashes. There is a tremendous crowd of
reporters lining the path to school. For a moment, I think the reporters are there because I won the spelling bee. Then I realize all this fuss is about Mom’s winning the New Hampshire primary. Oh, why didn’t I spend more time this morning on my hair and less time praying to the Boob Fairy?
I imagine tomorrow’s Tallahassee Democrat with a photo of me squinting and being dragged into school. Very attractive! I hope Reginald doesn’t read the newspaper.
Why is this happening to me? How come I can’t go to school like a normal kid and get picked on by bullies and stuff like that? A pox upon Mom’s campaign! It’s ruining my life.
Inside school, the quiet rings in my ears. I smile at Mr. Martinez, my way of telling him I’m glad he’s here with me today. Big crowds give me the willies.
He winks. This makes me think of Reginald.
I remind myself to take deep, cleansing breaths as I walk to my locker. By the time I get there, I’m hyperventilating. And what I see inside my locker doesn’t help. On top of my math textbook is an envelope with my name on it. At first, I think someone in the school administration put it there. I mean, who else would have access to my locker? Then I notice a tiny heart on top of the a in my name. Mrs. Foster isn’t the tiny-heart kind of principal.
I touch the envelope and realize it might contain a note from Reginald. But how could that boy have gotten it inside my locker without knowing the combination? I notice the slots in my locker door—they’re just wide enough to accommodate (Accommodate. A-C-C-O-M-M-O-D-A-T-E. Accommodate.) an envelope.
I glance back at Mr. Martinez and shove the envelope into my backpack along with my textbooks and rush to class. I’ll open it later when no one is looking.
In advisory with Mr. Applebaum, Reginald nods at me and winks as I approach. “Way cool about your mom,” he says. “I saw her on the news last night.”
Way cool? Did Reginald just say “way cool” to me? Maybe this campaign can be a good thing after all. “Thanks,” I say. Thanks? Is that the best I can come up with? Thanks? Way to show off your personality, wit, and large vocabulary, Vanessa. Now he’ll never want to father your 2.3 children!
As If Being 12 3/4 Isn't Bad Enough, My Mother Is Running for President! Page 3
