I sink into my chair. I’m exhausted, and the day hasn’t even started yet. I pull out the mystery envelope with the heart over the a in my name and feel energized. When I don’t cut my finger sliding the flap open, I consider this a triumph.
Inside is a thick piece of cardboard with neat printing on it.
Dear Vanessa,
G.I. Haircuts
G.I. Hats
G.I. This
G.I. That
G.I. Like you
G.I. Do
G.I. Hope you like me, too.
No signature. I glance at Reginald and he smiles at me, his wavy hair falling over one eye.
I tell my heart to slow down before Reginald hears it pounding. Maybe Reginald didn’t really need me to help him with his poem last night. Perhaps it was just a ploy to keep me on the phone for nearly an hour. If this card is from him, it’s obvious he writes perfectly good poetry. That boy is practically Shakespeare!
Mr. Applebaum grips my shoulder from behind. I gasp and slam my textbook closed over the card. How did he get back there? A creepy feeling washes over me. Why must I have this man for both advisory AND math?
Mr. Applebaum clears his throat and stands tall. I am looking up at the tiny hairs curling out of his nose. “Saw your mom on TV last night, Vanessa.”
I wait for him to say something else. That he liked her. That he didn’t. He just stands there with his crooked bow tie and icky nose hair, blocking my view of something really important—Reginald, who would never allow hair to protrude (Protrude. P-R-O-T-R-U-D-E. Protrude.) below the level of his perfect nostrils.
After Mr. Applebaum walks to the front of the room, I rub my shoulder. He didn’t have to squeeze it that tightly just because he saw Mom on TV. Big deal. My heart is still going crazy because of that poem someone—I glance at Reginald—dropped in my locker.
I’ll never be able to focus on school today.
There is only one way to calm myself. I reach into my desk and pull out an old copy of The American Heritage Dictionary. I open to the v’s and start studying words because getting lost in spelling always relaxes me. I concentrate on the words in front of me, like “vacillate” (V-A-C-I-L-L-A-T-E) and “vacuity” (V-A-C-U-I-T-Y) and—OHMYGOD!—“vagina.” I slam the dictionary shut.
I’m totally not relaxed!
When the bell rings, I rush straight to my locker. I check inside to see if the mystery admirer has deposited another envelope. I’m a little disappointed to find that other than some unimportant textbooks, my locker is completely empty.
“Hi, Vanessa.”
I look up, hopeful. It’s just Michael Dumas, waving as he walks past.
I give him a weak wave back, spot Emma, grab her elbow, and walk her to her class. I whisper that I have to talk to her at lunch. Then I rush to social studies class because I’m late. Why do I have almost no classes with Emma Smith and tons with Michael Dumas? Were the people in scheduling trying to ruin my social life?
I can’t wait to get to lunch and show Emma my mystery poem. But once I do, she insists on going up to Reginald to ask him if he dropped it in my locker. Instead of eating anything, I spend the entire period convincing her not to do that. It’s Emma’s fault I’m hungry and can’t concentrate in language arts and mess up when I have to diagram a complex sentence at the board.
P.E. is no better. Coach Conner makes me run a mile. A mile! He is definitely a Republican. I can’t help Mom’s politics. Why should I suffer because of them? Of course, everyone in class has to run a mile.
But I’ll bet no one else is thinking about the poem Reginald Trumball may or may not have dropped in her locker while running, er, in my case, taking a slow, pitiful jog that resembles dragging my legs as though they were sequoia tree trunks.
And I’ll bet no one else is experiencing mondo cramps, either. I’m sure I’m a picture of grace and beauty dragging my tree-trunk legs and clutching my cramping stomach. What if…OHMYGOD! Here’s something totally un-funny: What if I get my period right now? What if a giant red stain blossoms on the back of my white P.E. shorts while I’m dragging my pathetic excuse for a body around this track?
I’m not designed for physical exertion. Still, I’m ahead of Michael Dumas. Of course, he has asthma and has to walk. Lucky!
Something pokes me in the back. I swing at it. It pokes me again. I whirl around. It’s Coach Conner. He’s jogging beside me. Effortlessly. “Vanessa, when you finish this lap, get changed and head over to the office.” How can the man talk?
“The…office?”
“Yes, they just called.”
Who called? “Is…everything…okay?”
He shrugs and jogs off.
Give that man an F in compassion. I finish the lap as fast as I can, which is only slightly faster than a slug that just consumed its weight in Valium.
When I look in the locker room mirror, my face is so red it’s purple, which is a really nice color, but not on my face! I’m not curious anymore about why I have to go to the office—I’m panicked. I don’t bother to shower. I shove my sweaty clothes into my P.E. locker and yank on my regular clothes. I hobble out, my left foot only halfway in my boot. Soon I’m nearly running down the hall. And right before I get to the office door, I stop.
What if…Couldn’t be. Not again. Still, I can’t make my arm reach out and open the office door. As much as I don’t want to know, I need to know. I take a deep breath and open the door.
Mrs. Foster turns to me, her lips parted. I’m sure bad news is about to spew from her mouth.
“Vanessa,” she says, “what in the world happened to your face?”
Of course, I’m mentally spelling s-p-e-w as my fingers fly to my cheeks, which feel warm. I remember that my face is a bizarre shade of reddish purple from “running” in P.E. class. My utter embarrassment ratchets the color up another notch. “I was…running.”
Her right eyebrow arches about two inches. How does she do that?
“Not in the halls,” I say. I mean, I was…in P.E. I was—” Ohmygod! Just tell me what happened to Mom!
“Vanessa, relax.” She pats my shoulder. “We called you to the office because your mother called.”
I knew it! If my heart beats any harder, it will explode. Tell me what she said! Is she okay?
“Your mother said she wants you to leave school a little early today to avoid the reporters.”
“That’s it?”
Mrs. Foster looks at me like I’m crazy. “Well, yes, Vanessa. What did you expect? A national parade in your honor?” She emits a fake laugh even though what she said was totally not funny. And I don’t dare tell her what I expected. But she should know.
I leave the office, shaking my head. Why didn’t Mr. Martinez just tell me we needed to leave early? When we emerge from the back door of the school, I’m surprised no reporters are there. Don’t they know candidates and their families almost never use front doors? I breathe in cold air and am glad to be walking away from school.
With each block closer to home, a seed of hope sprouts. By the time we pull up in the driveway, it’s blossomed into a wonderful thought. Maybe Mom called the school to have me leave early because she’s home and wants to see me as soon as possible. Maybe when I walk into the mansion, she’ll be there to greet me.
Mr. Martinez can barely keep up as I run up the driveway.
“Mom!” I drop my backpack on the kitchen floor and run so fast that when I make contact, Mom stumbles.
“Whoa, Nessa.”
Hearing Mom say my name sounds so good.
Mrs. Perez busies herself in the kitchen squeezing lemons into a measuring cup, but I see her glance at us and smile.
Mom grips my shoulders and looks into my eyes, as though she hasn’t looked into them for weeks. She hasn’t. “Oh, Nessa,” she says, her voice wobbling. A tear slides down Mom’s cheek and smears through her makeup.
“Mom?” I’m afraid she’s going to tell me some horrible news.
“I didn’t know this wo
uld be so hard,” she says, swiping at her wet cheek. “Being away from you. I know it’s been only three weeks, but you look like you’ve grown.”
I look at my chest. “Not here I haven’t.”
Mom laughs and gets spit on my face, but I don’t wipe it away.
We hug for a long time. It feels so good I don’t even tell Mom she’s squeezing too hard. When she lets me up for air, Mom grabs one of Mrs. Perez’s lemon squares. She closes her eyes after she takes a bite. “I’ve missed these. Remember when your father…?” Mom shakes the unfinished thought from her head.
“Oh, Governor,” says Mrs. Perez, “I’m making fresh ones. Wouldn’t you like to wait for them?”
“No, Gloria, I’ll just have another one when they’re done.”
This makes Mrs. Perez smile so wide her gold tooth shows. Mom has that effect on people.
“So, Nessa, tell me, have you been studying for the County Bee?”
I think of the poem dropped in my locker today. I think of Reginald being mean…then nice. I think of Coach Conner making me run a mile. I’ve been entirely too busy to study. Then I remember the three v words I looked at in the dictionary today. “Yes, I’ve been studying.” And if the word “vagina” is in the bee, Mom, I’ll ace it.
“Good to hear.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to come to the County Bee to watch me compete?” I say it casually, like I don’t really care one way or the other, but inside my head, I’m thinking: Please, please, please come.
Mom pops the last bite of lemon square into her mouth and absently says, “I’ll check with Arnie.” She glances at her watch. “Can you believe it? Meeting in fifteen. I was hoping to have a little more time with you.”
I deflate like a balloon. Mom’s finally here, but she’s not really here. “Do you have to go to the meeting?” I ask, hoping my pathetic look will sway her to cancel. “We could”—I take a deep breath—“play Scrabble.”
Mom leans over and kisses my forehead. “I’d love to, Nessa, but I’m afraid you’ll beat me.”
“As if.”
Mom ruffles my already ruffled hair and sighs. “Even if I’d like to pretend I’m not, I’m still the governor of Florida. And since I’ve been away campaigning, there are many things I need to take care of. Too many.”
I notice dark circles under Mom’s eyes and wonder if she has anemia. (Anemia. A-N-E-M-I-A. Anemia.) I remind myself to ask Mrs. Perez to ask the chef to fix Mom something with spinach for dinner.
“Nessa, do you know what tonight is?”
I’m afraid she’ll tell me I have to attend a formal state dinner. I’m fully prepared to use studying for the bee as an excuse. “No.”
“Well, I’m surprised. Gilmore Girls is on. And I want to make a date with you to watch it.”
Campaigning has scrambled Mom’s brain! “Mom, Gilmore Girls isn’t on tonight.”
“Yes, in fact, it is.” She touches her index finger to the tip of my nose. “I just hope you don’t mind watching it again. I recorded last night’s episode.”
I perk up. And I don’t tell Mom I never saw the show because of helping Reginald with his poem.
“I’ve scheduled one meeting after the next. But at eight-fifteen, I should be finished. So, let’s meet in my bedroom at eight-thirty. You bring the popcorn.”
Me, Mom, Gilmore Girls, and a bowl of popcorn. “That sounds sooo good.” I kiss Mom on the cheek, grab a lemon square, and run up to the Purple Palace.
I make the unusual decision to skip my prayers to the Boob Fairy so I’ll have maximum time with Mom before school. I hope she appreciates my sacrifice. I mean, now that Reginald may be my secret admirer, it’s more important than ever that my uncooperative boobs get with the program.
My wet hair slaps my neck as I rush to the kitchen, expecting to see Mom reading her stack of newspapers with her mug of coffee, bowl of grits, and overripe banana nearby.
But when I walk into the kitchen, all I actually see are the following: a bowl of cereal at my place at the table, a glass of orange juice, and an envelope with my name on it. Block letters. No heart over the a.
Dear Nessa,
I’m so sorry we didn’t have more time together. I apologize for falling asleep last night during our show. I was exhausted. This campaign schedule is killing me.
Poor word choice, Mom.
I had to catch a night flight to attend an early-morning rally. Interviews and meet and greets the rest of the day. I’ll call soon.
Love,
Mom
There’s still nearly half an hour before I need to leave for school. Time I’d hoped to spend with Mom. Did Chelsea Clinton feel like this when her dad was running for president? Of course not. She still had her mom at home. I don’t have either.
Without touching breakfast, I drag myself into the family room, flip on CNN, and perform half-hearted chest-enhancing exercises while hoping to get a glimpse of Mom. Other kids don’t have to watch TV to see their moms before school. When I hear Mom’s name, I turn up the sound and focus on the screen.
“When Governor Elyssa Rothrock appeared before a crowd early this morning…”
Mom’s on a small stage, gripping a railing and waving at people who are holding signs and cheering. She pumps her fist in the air and then, suddenly, she’s not on the stage anymore.
My hands fly to my mouth.
“Ohmygod!”
Mrs. Perez runs in, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She kneels in front of the TV. “Vanessa. ¿Que? ¿Que? ¿Es tu madre?”
My fist is in my mouth. I shake the remote at the TV and hit “rewind” on the TiVo. Even though I know exactly what’s going to happen because I just watched it, when the stage’s railing gives way and Mom tumbles to the ground and a pile of people land on top of her, I scream again.
“¡Ay, Dios mio!”
I follow Mrs. Perez to the press secretary’s office. “Mr. Adams,” Mrs. Perez says, breathless, “if you please, what has happened to—?”
Mr. Adams is on the phone. He waves at Mrs. Perez to be quiet.
I’m so glad Mrs. Perez is squeezing my shoulders because if she lets go, I’ll fall to pieces. Is Mom okay? Did she break something? What if she broke her neck? Could she be…dead? For God’s sake, Mr. Adams, hang up!
He does, and looks directly at me. “Vanessa, your mother is okay.”
My knees give out, and Mrs. Perez tightens her grip, holding me upright. She whispers in my ear. “Tu madre esta bien. Bien.” Then she squeezes my shoulders so hard it actually hurts, but I don’t mind.
Mr. Adams continues: “A railing gave way on a stage where your mother was speaking. It wasn’t constructed properly. She’s bruised, but I promise you, Vanessa, she’s okay.”
I gulp. “I need to talk to her.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, Vanessa. She’s extremely busy. I couldn’t even talk to her. Arnie passed along the news. But there’s no need to worry.”
No need to worry! I shake free from Mrs. Perez and run up to my room. I climb in bed, pull the comforter over my head, and hug Carter to my neck.
Someone knocks at my door. I pull the comforter off my head and hear Mrs. Perez’s labored breathing before she even opens the door. When she does, she looks sad. “Vanessa, please don’t worry. Your mother esta bien. Bien, and that is bueno.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Perez, but I need to be alone.”
She nods and closes the door.
I pull the comforter over my head again. How could this have happened? Aren’t there people there to protect her? How do I know Mom’s really okay? How dare Mr. Adams tell me I can’t talk to my own mother?
I scramble out of bed and grab my phone. Only in an emergency, I hear Mom’s words in my head. This is an emergency!
“Arnie here.”
“Arnie, how is—?”
“Vanessa, sweetheart. Your mom was afraid you’d see the news. She hasn’t had a moment to call. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
I nod
as though he can see me. “Yes,” I peep, now imagining Mom in traction in the hospital.
“Your mom’s okay, Vanessa. I promise.”
I nod again. “May I please talk to her?”
There is silence, and I’m sure he’s figuring out how to get rid of me without letting me talk to Mom. I’m ready to call Grandma and tell her we’ve got to get on a plane to make sure Mom’s really okay, even though the last thing I want to do is get on a plane.
“Nessa?”
Relief washes over me and I bite my bottom lip to keep from crying. “Yes?”
“You didn’t have to call, honey. I’m fine. Honestly. I’ll have a nasty bruise on my shoulder, but I’ve had X-rays and—”
“X-rays!”
“Of course. They had to make sure nothing was broken. You can be sure I’ll check railings from now on. That really startled me. And the police. They were so sweet. ‘How do you feel, Governor Rothrock?’ ‘Can we get you anything, Governor Rothrock?’ One of them gave me his coat while I waited for the ambulance.”
“Ambulance? Mom!”
“Just a precaution. I’m telling you, Nessa. I’m one hundred percent fine. In fact, I’m late for an interview. This fiasco has set me behind, not to mention made me look like a buffoon. I’m sure the opposition is going to have a field day with this one. If they’re smart, though, they’ll leave it alone.”
I’m spelling “buffoon” in my mind, so I know I’m okay.
“Nessa, I’ve got to get back to work.”
When Mom doesn’t say anything for a moment, I’m afraid the doctors missed a concussion and her brain isn’t operating at full capacity.
“And you need to get to school. Now.”
Her brain’s fine.
“Please, sweetheart, don’t worry about me.”
Don’t worry about you? That’s like telling me not to trip.
“Mom?”
“Yes, Nessa?”
“I love you.”
“Oh, honey, I love you, too. Now, get to school before you’re late.”
On the ride to school, I play the news clip over and over in my mind. What if Mom wasn’t okay? What if something worse than a railing falling had happened? What if…?
As If Being 12 3/4 Isn't Bad Enough, My Mother Is Running for President! Page 4
