The Unofficial Wheeler & Dealer of Halsey School (Tales of the Uncool)

by Kirsten Rue

  “You guys,” I say, “I think I need to run for student body president. It’s the only way we can get Principal Presley’s attention and change her mind about the cheer squad. The only way.”

  Campaign Speech

  I march straight into the front office the next morning. I mean, once you’ve decided you’re going to do something, you have to get started! Beverly at the front desk says, “Hey! You can’t go in there!” but I ignore her. I don’t have time to follow rules the regular way. We now have exactly two weeks and six days until sixth grade graduation. Every second counts.

  I knock on Assistant Principal McCloud’s big wooden door. You didn’t think I’d go straight to Principal Presley yet, did you?! Geez! No, I know how it is with the really powerful people like Principal Presley. When you meet someone like her, you need to have an advantage on the court. You have to be the president of the seventh grade. Duh.

  Assistant Principal McCloud and I know each other well. When he cracks open his door and peers out, I can see his face settle into a frown. So I got into trouble for calling a boy names in the hall. So what?! I kind of feel like the boy misheard me anyway. He claims I yelled, “Hey, Lardo, stop blocking the hallway!” For all he knows, though, I actually said, “Hey Pardo, you’re looking nice today!” In my opinion, it is very much up for debate. Assistant Principal McCloud wasn’t too impressed with my argument, however. He gave me a detention and made me take a note home to my mom and dad. And then they wouldn’t let me do anything for two whole weekends in a row! I’ve learned my lesson: If you’re going to say anything in the hallway, keep your voice low. That way there are no witnesses.

  “Hello Stella,” Assistant Principal McCloud says in a wary voice. He doesn’t open his door any further. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Hello, sir! I would like to announce my candidacy for seventh grade class president!” I looked up stuff on the internet last night about past presidents. Talk about boring! But, that’s how I learned about the word “candidacy,” so it wasn’t a total loss. In case you’re wondering, the word just means I’m throwing my hat into the ring. Not that I wear hats. They don’t really look very cute on my head, and if I did wear a hat, I definitely wouldn’t throw it on the gross and dirty ground. Anyway.

  Assistant Principal McCloud’s frown deepens. I guess he’s not very impressed with my big announcement. “You do know that elections are only two weeks away, right? Perhaps you’ve noticed the, uh, posters and things around school? The other students all started the process weeks ago.”

  “You mean my competitors?” Now it’s my turn to frown. “How many are there?”

  “Well, at least two or three,” Assistant Principal McCloud says. “We had an assembly with speeches just recently.”

  “Whatever,” I tell him. “Um, Mr. McCloud, could you at least open the door so I can fill out a form or whatever?”

  I hear Assistant Principal McCloud sigh grumpily on the other side of his big door. “I was doing some things, you know.”

  “Sure, sure, you’re really busy, I get it. It’ll only take a second. I just need the forms and stuff that I need to fill out.”

  “So you’re still running.” He narrows his eyes.

  “Yep!” Assistant Principal McCloud, you don’t intimidate me! I know who your real boss is!

  With an even grumpier sigh, McCloud lets his door creak open enough to thrust a stack of papers through the doorway. I can just glimpse his goldfish Chloe fluttering around in her bowl on top of his desk.

  “Return these to Beverly at the front desk,” he barks. Then he slams the door. I grin. As my brother would say, I totally just owned that.

  “Girls,” I say, as I meet up with the Sweets at my locker before third period, “I need you to find out who else is running for seventh grade president. We have to know our competition.”

  “Not that anybody can compete with you,” Madison purrs. Which reminds me . . .

  “Madison, once I win, you’ll be my vice president. And Avery? You’ll be the secretary. Oh, and, Sarah H., you’ll be treasurer. The rest of you will be my cabinet.”

  “Uh . . . what does a cabinet do?” Sara N.H. asks. “Is that a different thing than a chest of drawers?”

  The other girls snort. “Duh! It’s like my support crew!”

  “Okay . . .” Sara N.H. replies sulkily. I can tell she wishes she was picked to be vice president.

  “We also need posters. Avery, as secretary, you’re in charge of posters.” She nods. Her parents have a really nice color printer at home so that’s a no-brainer.

  “We need something else, too . . . like a prize or something for people that vote for me.”

  “Skittles?” Avery suggests.

  “Ice cream?” asks Sarah H.

  “Hmmm . . .” says Madison. “What do kids at Halsey want even more than candy?” Avery and Sarah H. look stumped.

  “They want to see what it would be like to be a Sweet,” whispers Dana. I kind of forgot she was there, but for once, she’s coming in handy.

  Madison breaks into a grin. “You’re right! How could we get the other kids to feel like a Sweet for a day?” She shoots a glance at me and quickly adds, “But not that they’ll really be Sweets . . . just trying it out.”

  That’s when it comes to me: another super smart idea. I’m kind of on a roll.

  “Tell everybody that if they promise to vote for me, they can come to my birthday party.”

  “But you don’t even know what kind of party you’re having yet!” says Sara N.H.

  “Plus, um, do you really want all those kids to come to your house? What if they’re . . . weird and like mess up your bedroom and stuff?” adds Sarah H.

  “No, no, no, you guys. You’re not seeing the bigger picture! There will be two parties. One secret party, just for us Sweets. No non-Sweets allowed. And then there will be the big party for my voters.”

  “I thought that stuff wasn’t allowed . . . because you’re kind of trading for the vote?” Leave it to Avery to bring up the rules.

  “The last time I checked, I’m allowed to invite anyone I want to my birthday party.”

  At lunch, I breeze in through the doors like I own the place. I don’t even bother with the lunch line. I mean, if you want to be cool, you have to bring your own lunch. Today, I don’t bother with lunch at all, actually.

  Instead, with all of the Sweets flanking me (except for Alexa, who is gone again—surprise, surprise), I stand up on one of the cafeteria chairs. As soon as I do, I sorta regret it because the chair is a lot flimsier than I thought. Count on Halsey to have chairs that can’t even hold the weight of a very small sixth (almost seventh) grade girl. Still, now that I’m standing on my chair and all the kids in the lunch line and at the tables have turned to look at me, I can’t exactly step down.

  Ms. Arple is the lunch monitor today and I can see her shaking her head at me from across the room. I’m too far away to completely hear what she says, but I’m pretty sure it’s along the lines of, “Stella, get down from there!”

  “AHEM!” I clear my throat. Just because I’ve decided that acting is lame doesn’t mean I can’t still give a speech, right? “Guys, I’m super looking forward to seventh grade, aren’t you?” I look around and make eye contact with some of the other students and they nod and look away. Nobody wants to get on my bad side. The table of Football Lardos led by Joe Russo cheer and pump their arms in the air. They may not be the brightest supporters I have, but they are definitely the most loyal.

  “I didn’t hear you! Who’s looking forward to next year?” A couple of kids clap.

  “I’m looking forward to summer break!” hoots one of the Lardos.

  I roll my eyes and continue. “Look. I just wanted to let all of you know that I’m running for student body president. And . . . um . . . I think we should have more vending machines and maybe both Coke AND Pepsi, and also? We need to protect the cheer squad!”

  I get a few cheers for my promise of mor
e vending machines. “Skittles and ice cream, too,” I add, just to be safe.

  “AND, I want you to know that you’re all invited to my birthday party this year. Every. Single. One of you.” I scan the crowd of sixth graders, trying to settle on each and every face with my gaze. It’s kind of weird realizing that while I assume that everybody knows me, I don’t even recognize half of these kids. There are kids with glasses. Kids with spiky hair. Kids with fluffy hair. Girls dressed a lot like me and the other Sweets and girls dressed in plain hoodies. There’s also a girl eating a pickle balanced on a piece of cheese. I can’t help but stare at her for a moment longer. Ew, Kinsley Boggs, I don’t even want your vote if you’re going to eat pickles at my birthday party. There’s the table full of the Doomsday Geeks, whose group seems to be growing like a computer virus or something.

  There are the sporty boys and boys that I’ve never really looked at before because they wouldn’t be useful for homework help or anything. Wow . . . I can’t believe I just invited all of these people to my birthday party.

  “Thanks, everyone!” I say with a wave. “I’m going to keep it short and sweet, just like me! Vote for Stella Sweet!” Then I step off my chair platform and breeze out of the lunchroom the same way I came in. No lunch for any of the Sweets today. We have to stick to our cool exit.

  “1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . and toss!” I hiss to the other girls. In unison, all of us flip our ponytails to the right. It’s actually a move we practiced for the squad. I call it the Flippedy Flip. Yes! This one is perfectly executed, I think.

  The Sweet Squad is saved, no doubt about that. I told everyone to vote for me, so now I just have to wait for the votes to roll in. It almost seems too easy. . . .

  Get Out the Vote

  For the rest of the week, the other Sweets and I roam the halls. “Be sweet and vote for Stella!” is our catchphrase. Madison thought of that—another reason why she’ll make a great vice president after I win.

  Every time somebody promises to vote for us, we give them two things: an invitation to my birthday party and a sparkly heart sticker. Some of the other Sweets (ahem, Avery and Sara N.H.) were super against the idea of us handing out the stickers because they’re supposed to be our special thing. I explained that these are just stickers—the charms are like a totally different thing. BUT, what we need is a way to identify the sixth graders who’ve already promised to vote. That way we don’t waste any time talking to kids that we totally don’t need to talk to.

  Today, I stroll up to one of the Doomsday Geeks. He’s like the equivalent of me at the Doomsday Geeks’ table. In fact, he even planned the Mystery Ball or something, I think. Well, it was either him or one of the other Geeks. But it was probably him. Anyway, I’ve noticed that more and more students have been sitting at his table. Clearly, as much as it kind of pains me to talk to him in the hallway, this is a guy who has some influence at Halsey School.

  “Be sweet and vote for Stella!” I call out to him, putting on my biggest, most megawatt, most DO WHAT I SAY smile. I hold out a sparkly heart sticker. He stares at me. I keep holding out the sticker.

  “Um, seriously, Tim or Glenn or whatever? My arm’s getting a little tired.” Still I keep my smile nice and wide. Always bring your A game. This smile is my A game.

  It doesn’t seem to be working, though, because the Geek shakes his head at me. I mean, HE shakes his head at ME. What is it, Backwards Day or something?

  “It’s not, like, very nice to refuse a sticker that’s being offered to you,” I say. Avery and Sarah H. come and stand behind me. Now it’s the three of us in a face-off with the Geek, who’s not budging. He just keeps shaking his head.

  Finally he rolls his eyes and puts his hands up in front of him. “I can’t vote for you, okay?”

  “Um, why not?” My face feels a little hot with anger or embarrassment or I don’t know what. Let’s just say I was NOT expecting this.

  “Because I’m running against you! Tim? Tim Watkins? That name ring a bell?”

  I can’t really tell him that yes, it does ring a bell because sometimes I peek over his shoulder in class to see the answers he’s putting down for math problems.

  When you have a busy calendar like mine, math homework doesn’t exactly fall at the top of the list. I remember seeing the name “Tim Watkins” written in neat letters on the tops of his papers, but I’ve never actually talked to him. I mean, why would I?

  “So you’re still running?” I mean, not to be rude, but doesn’t he know that he’s probably going to lose?

  “Um, yeah I’m still running. And so is that girl named Esperanza. We both are. Which you would know if you paid attention. We’ve been putting up posters for weeks now. We even had optional speeches in the auditorium.”

  I hear Avery and Sarah H. whispering behind me. Now my face really is feeling hot.

  “Well, I decided to join later. So what? Doesn’t mean I won’t win.” I’ve decided that I don’t need this Geek’s—Tim’s—vote anyway. I stick my chin out and turn my big, winning smile to the “OFF” position.

  He just shrugs. “We’re not going to quit,” he says before turning and walking away.

  “Ugh!!! Conference in the girls’ bathroom! Now!”

  “So It turns out we have competition,” I inform the other girls as they gather breathlessly in front of the big mirror behind the sinks. Alexa, who is actually at school today, gets immediately lost in poking at a pimple on her chin. “Alexa! Pay attention! This is important. So. Apparently two other kids are still running for president. I mean, not that I’m worried or anything, but that Tim the Geek guy is NOT very nice at all. He made it seem like his friends were going to vote for HIM or something, which . . . who knows why?! And then some other girl named Esperanza is running, too.”

  “Actually, she changed her name to Espere,” Avery pipes up. She probably likes that because it sounds French.

  “Yeah, whatever. Well, all I’m saying is that we can’t let these Geeks and losers steal the election from us just because they got a head start.”

  “Maybe they actually want to win just as much as you do,” says Dana.

  “Dana, you’re not exactly HELPING! Do you want to have a cheer squad or not? I thought we were all working towards the same goal here. We only have one week left! Avery, I need you to get me a meeting with Esperanza . . . Espere. And guys? Talk to everyone you see in the hall. Everyone. Even if they sit at the Doomsday Geeks table. I mean, they may think they’re friends with those guys, but if they get a chance to hang out with us? I’m sure they’ll switch over to our side.”

  Still, as the Sweets and I slip back into the hallway and start heading to class, I feel the first twinge of an unfamiliar feeling. What is it exactly? I think my brother would call it “fumbling the ball.” It feels like . . . doubt? Or maybe just worry? Is it possible that I, Stella Sweet, the Most Popular Girl at Halsey School, have gotten in over my head?

  I decide it’s time for a second lunchroom speech. I may have missed the auditorium speeches, but you can bet the whole sixth grade will be in the cafeteria for fifty minutes today. I couldn’t even get Esperanza to talk to me, though now that I realize she’s best friends with pickle-eating Kinsley Boggs, I feel kind of meh about her. She’s no threat. For this speech, I carry a huge sign that the Sweets and I made over the weekend. It’s just five days until Election Day, so we’re in serious overdrive. Our sign is more like a banner, and it’s so long that every Sweet, including Alexa, needs to hold on to it once it’s unfurled. Start 7th Grade on a Sweet Note it says in the absolute nicest writing we could trace out onto the huge sheet. We decorated it with glitter (of course) and lots of bright colors because, duh, Halsey School could use a little fashion.

  With the huge banner behind me, I clear my throat. “I just want to remind you, Halsey sixth graders, that this week is your absolute last chance to be invited to the best birthday party of the year! And to get a heart sticker! So, on Friday, just remember to be Sweet!” I think I see
a few of the kids roll their eyes, but when I catch them with my death glare, they look down and lose the attitude. Once again, Ms. Arple is leaning against a post in the cafeteria, acting as lunch monitor. I told her we had to skip practice this week so we can focus on the election. Perhaps that’s why she’s giving me a disappointed look right about now.

  I kind of wish I could ask my brother what “fumbling the ball” feels like for real, because even after my speech, I can’t quite shake that feeling. I mean, usually if I want something, I just take it. It feels weird to have to count on others—and other sixth graders no less— to make my wish a reality. To have to ask them to do a favor for me, when it’s usually them asking for the favor. Very surreal. Not to mention, the other Sweets seem kind of bored with all this election stuff. We were all crabby making the banner over the weekend, arguing over who should get the glitter paint first and whether the pink was more of a fuchsia pink or more of a magenta pink. Man, is this what leaders have to deal with all of the time? Because it’s sort of exhausting, if you ask me. I hope being class president won’t be like that . . .

  Election Day

  Election Day dawns like the first day of summer, and I think we can all feel summer in the breeze. Okay, so I’m being a tad poetic, but you know what I mean. It’s hot out—hot enough that I get to wear my new capris and sandals. The big Halsey lawn has its sprinklers going even in the early morning. Just two more weeks and we can blow this popsicle stand! But first, a few things need to happen: I need to become class president. I need to convince Principal Presley to save the Sweet Squad. And, the Sweets need to perform at graduation. Add to that, planning not one, but two birthday parties, and I lose my nice, relaxed, summery feeling pretty fast.

  Madison and Avery are stationed at the Halsey doors to hand out as many heart stickers and party invitations as they can. I’m walking around with my A-game smile out in full force. We’re all voting in homeroom, the first class of the day, so I really don’t have a lot of time to change anyone’s mind at this point. I just have to hope that the sixth grade will do the right thing. I mean, sure, Tim might be a good president if you want the whole school to turn into a sci-fi movie, but it’s not like he has a cool party to offer, right? That’s what I tell myself, anyway.