by Anya Bateman
Lyla? Why mention Lyla? Why didn’t he just give his speech? What was he doing? I bit my lip and clutched at Alex’s arm again.
Alex apparently still didn’t know where James was going with this either because he sat stone still, staring forward. Across the stage, the candidates looked confused. John Carlisle’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement, his head cocked to one side; Brad and Yolanda leaned forward; Ruby and Salina lifted their eyebrows in surprise. Lyla, who had her mouth open, quickly shut it and looked around her.
“I may look completely different than I did a few short weeks ago,” James continued, “but inside I’m still James Orville Wickenbee, the guy from Idaho who doesn’t care all that much about his clothes or his appearance. You’re right, Lyla, I’m still the geek in the glasses.”
“Geeks rock!” somebody, probably a geek, shouted from the balcony. It seemed to surprise everyone and a soft wave of laughter rippled through the audience.
“Now I have to say that my friends tried. They did what’s known as a makeover on me, and I appreciate their help. When I stand up straighter, I do look better. And my hair . . . you like my hair? Somebody named Raphael cut it. That is Rrrrr- aphael. You have to roll the R when you say it. But Lyla, again, you’re right. This haircut, these clothes? None of this was my idea.”
“My big mistake,” James continued, “was taking off my glasses. If I’d been wearing them”—he turned and looked at Lyla—”I might not have tripped over your bag, Lyla. But I don’t blame anybody but myself.” I raised my eyebrows at Alex who raised his eyebrows back. A corner of his mouth was lifted.
“So . . .” James flipped his glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on. “If you elect me president, I promise to wear my glasses so that I can continue to see clearly what’s required to make Fairport the best school possible.” A few people clapped when he slipped the glasses onto his nose. To my relief they were his new glasses.
“I have a few notes here on what I, James Orville Wickenbee, have in mind for our school. And maybe it’ll help you understand exactly who I really am and what I stand for. Because even though I don’t care that much about clothes or hair, there are other things I really do care about.”
Okay. I could almost breathe again. I looked around as James proceeded to outline carefully his plans for the school. He covered just about everything he’d been telling us all along that he wanted to say in his speech. The heckling stopped and students were listening. There was no way this could be working, but it was.
“I see a school where students care about each other,” James finished. “I see a school where everyone without exception feels comfortable and accepted no matter what his or her race, financial state, social status, or religion. I see a school where not a single student feels like a loser whether he’s from the Fairport Heights area or a trailer park behind the Wal- Mart.” James took off his glasses. “As some of you know, I don’t drink, but nevertheless, I lift my glasses to Fairport!” James stretched his arm upward. “Here’s to every Clark Kent out there! Here’s to you if you’ve ever tripped and fallen! Here’s to you if you’ve ever felt like a loser! Here’s to a better school and better feelings between us because, in reality, there’s no such thing as a loser! There are no losers at Fairport High— only winners!”
I’d never seen James quite this animated. Oh, he’d come close to this level when he’d shown me his chemistry experiments,
but he was outshining even his performance that day. I was mesmerized.
The same sophomore who had stood before jumped up again and lifted both arms. James pointed to him and he pointed back as others began applauding. Grinning, James pointed to Cassie and Bud and then Derrick and Dokey. I don’t know if he found Sergei or Lotus or any of the other newer members who’d helped on the committee, but I think he saw Garlia and pointed to her. Lastly, he pointed to Sadie and Alex and me.
“I’m going to be walking back to my seat,” James said when everyone had quieted down. “Let’s pray I don’t fall on my face again. But if I do, I’ll get up. And we can all do that. We can keep getting up until together we lift this school, our own Fairport High, to new heights!”
The students of Fairport High clapped and cheered loudly. They seemed to be elated that Super- Jim had gone back to being just plain old James Orville Wickenbee. Most of all, I suspected, they liked the part about there being no losers at Fairport High School.
I looked around still amazed and laughed a little. Alex was chuckling and looking around as well. Terrance Dokey looped his arms around our necks and bumped our heads together. “Wowsers!” Cassie felt the need to shout right in my ear.
“Where did he pull that from?” I asked Alex. “Did you know he had something like that in him?”
“I thought I knew James pretty well,” my brother answered with a chuckle, “but I’m as surprised as you are.” Alex turned and high- fived Bud and then Derrick.
“He might even have surprised himself,” I said with a giggle.
“I have the strong feeling that our buddy got a little help from up there,” my brother said, pointing ceiling- ward.
I didn’t argue with Alex, first of all because I was far too happy and secondly because I’d just recognized the need to quickly brace myself. Cassie had hugged everybody on her row and was heading around to Alex and me. “You know, Alex, this just might be a much closer race than anybody would ever have expected,” I stated as I anchored myself to the back of the seat.
“He’s gonna win!” Cassie shouted as she lunged at us.
-B-
About twenty minutes later, as I headed to my locker, Dolly Devonshire, Lyla’s friend and our old lunch partner, hurried up to me. Her top covered a little more skin than usual, but not a great deal more. “Oh my gosh, I think James might have a chance. He’s so sweet, so different now, but still sweet. It was so cool what he said. He’s right, I feel like a goofus myself sometimes.”
“You are a goofus,” I heard myself say.
She stared at me.
“I mean we’re all goofuses deep down, aren’t we?”
That seemed to make her feel better. “Do you need anybody else on James’s committee?” Dolly asked.
I raised my eyebrows. “I thought you were on Lyla’s committee.”
Dolly pushed her lips forward and for the first time I saw the indication of intelligent life in those pale eyes. “I think James would make a better president,” she said.
Chapter Nineteen
•••
Everybody wants to know. Was James ever really a dork?” It was Christa Morningdove, my sophomore year debate partner, who first asked me the question. “I don’t know anybody who knew him before he ran for president, but when he first
ran and he wore those strange clothes and those really strange glasses . . . You and Alex put him up to that, right? Oh, and then the speech? Was it all planned that he trip and fall?”
“What do you think? Do you think it was all staged?”
“I do.” She smirked and nodded. “I think you planned the whole thing.” But then she paused. “Right?”
Had it been staged or hadn’t it? Students all over the school were speculating. After all, how could someone who had been until oh- so recently one of Fairport’s nonentities, rise up to be its most prominent student, the head of its student government, the king of the school?
Yes, in a major upset, James won the presidency of Fairport High. Lyla Fannen? She skulked off like a peacock with broken tail feathers. Did I feel sorry for her? Not in the least. In fact, I stayed on my guard expecting her to recover extremely quickly and soon be doing her best to undermine James’s efforts.
The Saturday after the election James and I played chess again just like we had every Saturday almost all year. Our weekly game was still a stabilizer in my life and seemed to help James relax as well. “You won,” I said, after he’d checkmated my king. “That’s twice this week.”
James looked up from the board and lifted one corner
of his mouth. He knew I was talking about the election and that it was my low- key way of saying congratulations. “We won,” he said.
James really does have class— genuine, from the core, class, I remember thinking. The kind of class you can’t hide even with bad clothes and a poor haircut. I found it highly satisfying that the students of Fairport had recognized that. It gave me a great deal of hope.
James’s classiness was once again confirmed that following week— the last week before the chess tournament. Even though he had to have felt overwhelmed with all his new responsibilities as president elect, James took the time to play extra games of speed chess with me to help me review and prepare. And undoubtedly because my friend was preoccupied with these other concerns, I finally defeated him in a game.
“Good job!” James said. “Impressive!”
I respected him for not falling off his chair in amazement and I let him know that.
“No, you’re really good,” he said. “In fact, I wouldn’t be
surprised if you kick you- know- what in the tournament!”
“Kick what?” It seemed like an uncharacteristic thing for James to say and I wondered if he would complete the thought.
“You know.”
“No, tell me,” I insisted.
James chuckled and reddened.
I giggled a little with excitement myself because, thanks to him, I was well- prepared for the chess tournament and I’d been looking forward to what I hoped would finally be my own personal claim to glory.
And then, as though it were a dream, I was sitting at a tournament chessboard in the Cleveland State library. I moved piece after piece, from my pawns to my knights, until finally I did kick “you-know-what” at the matches that week.
I qualified for regionals, where I defeated the skilled Frieda Lamboon and then, with some marginal effort, I defeated Jed Garcia, who’d won the year before.
It wasn’t until the semifinals that I lost to an irksome little freshman newcomer with droopy eyes and braces named Charles Roybal. A bit too confident by then, I grew impatient and made a truly stupid move that gave Charles’s knight access to my queen and ultimately his queen to my king. The instant I’d pulled my thumb and index finger from that bishop, I knew I’d made a huge error, but there was no going back.
I did feel a little better when I found out afterwards that measly Charles Roybal had an extremely un- measly IQ and was your basic boy genius. There’d been an article about him in the Cleveland Sun, according to Adriana. I felt somewhat vindicated as well when Charles ended up winning the state championship. I was also not surprised. Charles was the first opponent I’d played who I thought might actually have a chance against James.
“So are you all right?” James asked after the match.
“I’m all right,” I said. “There’s always next year.” It was funny how amazingly all right I really felt.
I analyzed it that night and realized that it came right back to the election. Nothing— not even winning the Teen to Young Adult Ohio State Chess Championship— could top the satisfaction of having helped James win the presidency of Fairport High— nothing. I wondered if there would ever be anything that would top that highlight in my life. Never would I have guessed that within a few short months, I would seriously be wondering just how glad I was that I’d help catapult my friend to leadership, prestige, and popularity.
-B-
All that summer James planned his presidency, or his “stewardship,” as he called it. He outlined in great detail his hopes and aspirations for the school, met with other student body officers, and coordinated plans with the faculty. He was one conscientious and busy president elect! But still he scheduled time to play chess with me weekly.
“Jana,” he said on a Saturday afternoon in July as he lifted one of his white knights. “I meant what I said in my campaign speech. I really want to make a difference at Fairport and I really hope to help our classmates lead better, more productive and meaningful lives. You won’t be sorry you helped me become president.”
“You’re boring, James.”
He grinned, but then his face once again turned earnest. “Do you mind if I run some things by you that I’m hoping to see happen in our school?”
“Of course not.” What else could I say when James was positively trembling with excitement?
As my friend began to outline his plans for the school in greater detail than he ever had before, I wasn’t surprised at how meticulously he’d thought everything through. Still, they remained extremely idealistic aims.
“I want people at Fairport High to feel real joy inside,” he said after a few minutes. Had his intensity been a light bulb, it would have lit up the room. “The students in our school look for happiness in all the wrong places. They hang out and party all the time, but they always seem to be searching for something they’ll never find in drugs or alcohol or immoral activities. I’m hoping I can help our classmates see that there’s a big difference between temporary pleasure and real joy and convince them that you can have a great time without detouring into dangerous territories. Jana, I want this to be the best year of their lives so far.”
“Well, good luck, Don Quixote,” I responded, my voice coming out a bit more gently than I’d planned. The truth is I couldn’t help admiring James’s extremely lofty and ambitious goals and I think he knew that. I was rooting for the guy. But then a concern that I’d been harboring ever since James had been awarded the Fairport presidency resurfaced and I looked up. “You’re not thinking of trying to convert everybody to your church, I hope. Please assure me you’re not going to attempt to . . . Mormonize everyone.”
“You mean am I going to proselyte? I’m not going to get up in front of the school and preach to the students if that’s what you mean. But I do want to convert our classmates to living lives that are worthwhile and good.”
I pointed at him with the rook I was holding and lifted my chin. “Just keep in mind that you’re the president of Fairport, not its bishop.”
Chapter Twenty
•••
They’re sheep,” I said to Alex several weeks into our senior year. “I’m telling you, the students at Fairport are all mindless sheep.”
During our junior year at Fairport it had been social suicide to indicate in any way that you might have values. Now, under James’s tutelage, morality seemed to be making a comeback. Yes, it was obvious things were moving in an entirely new direction at Fairport High. Even I wasn’t sure how James had managed it. Almost overnight it had become acceptable to act self- disciplined, moral, and even kind. Still, as he’d promised me, James didn’t preach. He was just . . . himself. In his quiet, respectful manner, he presented ideas in such a way that his words touched the hearts of the students of Fairport. Oh, he hadn’t accomplished this all by himself. I think it was actually Ruby Backus who started the Respect Yourself through Abstinence campaign. A few of the jocks complained and criticized the program but other than that the program was astoundingly well-received.
Just before the homecoming dance in late September James proclaimed, “I don’t think the students of Fairport High need drugs and drinking to have a good time.” He challenged us to
test this concept by celebrating homecoming clean and sober. Amazingly, only a few die hards slipped out of the dance to “booze it up.”
When Missy Ellis, a Down’s syndrome girl, was voted homecoming queen, Katrina Utley was furious. “How’d you like to lose to her?” Adriana overheard the former Lyla- nite unleash to Scott Wilkes. “It’s all because of James’s ridiculous kindness campaign.”
Yes, that was another theme James presented. He’d suggested the first month of school be designated as “Kindness Month” and for the first time possibly in years, no undersized Fairport freshmen ended up in their lockers. Nobody glued lockers shut and
I didn’t see one sorry soul walking through the halls with the traditional, though unimaginative, “Kick me!” note taped to his back. None of the eve
n worse, gross, nasty, or senseless acts we’d heard about the years before were reported either. Nobody, in essence, was shouting “Loser!” from the top of the social ladders. Kindness Month evolved into the Golden Rule, Golden School campaign. My stars, it was almost too corny to believe. But it was working. James was doing a makeover on the whole school!
Where was Lyla during all of this? Our former enemy remained curiously and suspiciously quiet. I kept expecting her to make a recovery any minute, like the monster in one of those
B- grade horror movies who pops back up after you think he’s finally been taken care of. I watched her carefully, staying on guard, thinking the empty- eyed, almost zombie- like way she was walking down the halls lately was all an act and that she’d strike any minute, eyes bulging. But it didn’t happen. By the beginning of November the news had spread through the school like a brushfire. Lyla was no longer a student at Fairport. Lyla wasn’t even in Ohio.
“I guess she couldn’t handle not being queen of the school anymore,” I said to Adriana that night on the phone.
“Oh, there’s way more to it than that,” Adriana informed me. “I got it from a good source that Lyla’s been shipped to her mother’s in Florida. Then, get this, her mom immediately registered Lyla into drug rehab.”
Lovely Lyla, my detective friend let me know, had a not- so- lovely drug addiction. According to Adriana’s source— Daffney Darnel, whose younger brother was best friends with Lyla’s stepbrother— Lyla’s dad had plans to run for a political office and, as Lyla’s new stepmom had apparently been happy to point out, his oldest daughter was proving to be a liability. Adriana quickly dismissed a rumor that Lyla had moved because she was expecting triplets. “That one’s bogus,” she said.
“And this was the girl you wanted to hook me up with so bad?” Alex asked when I told him the news. “I think you were ready to fling me into the lake when I refused to cooperate.”
“Badly,” I corrected. “And who knew? You’d expect that of someone from Garlia’s bunch, but not Lyla.”
