by Barbara Park
“Trust me,” said Max. “All you need to win an election is a smart campaign manager and a good platform. And I can help you with both.”
I stared at him blankly. A good platform? What the heck was he talking about?
“Have you thought about it yet?” he asked. “Your campaign platform, I mean?”
I couldn’t even fake an answer.
“Okay, fine. I admit it,” I said. “I don’t even know what a campaign platform is.”
Maxie just shrugged. “No big deal. My dad explained it to me. A campaign platform is like a general statement of what you’re all about. It’s made up of your all viewpoints and your stands on different issues and stuff. Except, in a campaign platform, your stands on the issues are called the planks. Get it, Rosie? Picture the campaign platform like a big wooden floor. The floor is made up of separate floorboards, just like a campaign platform is made up of separate planks.”
He thought a minute. “Let’s see. Like maybe your campaign platform could be that you stand for a fair and equal chance for every student in school. And one of your planks might be—”
“Punishing all the bullies!” interrupted Earl excitedly. “I mentioned it the other day, remember? When bullies break the rules, you could throw them in a dungeon where they can’t bother the rest of us. It doesn’t have to be a real dungeon or anything. Just a big, dark, smelly room with no ventilation. Like the cafeteria.”
Maxie gave him a dirty look. “In case you don’t know it, Earl, we’re being serious here.”
“I do know it,” said Earl. “I’m being serious, too. Okay, forget the dungeon idea. What about just a big old hole? We’ll dig a big old hole in the corner of the playground. And when a kid does something mean, we’ll lower him down there with a rope. And he’ll have to stay in the hole for a while with a … a …
“Snake,” he said.
“Earrrrrl,” growled Max.
Quickly, Earl held up his hand. “No, wait. A dingo,” he said. “Yeah, a dingo would be better. A dingo is one of those wild dogs from Australia.”
That did it. Maxie leaped over the seat and pounced right on top of him. Then the two of them fell on the floor and began wrestling all over the place. I had to get out of the car to protect myself.
Some of the time they were laughing. The rest of the time Maxie was yelling, “Ow! That hurts! Knock it off!”
Finally, Earl let him up.
Maxie’s face was bright pink and he had little red blotches all over his arms. Also, his clothes were all twisted and one of his shoes had come off.
He got back in the front seat again. Then he took a deep breath and quietly muttered the same thing he always does after he gets pounded.
“I won.”
Earl just smiled.
“This isn’t helping, you know,” I said as I climbed in the back. “Having you two wrestle the day away won’t help my campaign one bit. And anyhow, why do I even need a platform, Maxie? Why can’t I just hang up a bunch of posters that say ROSIE SWANSON FOR PRESIDENT, like everyone else does? No one else ever has a stupid platform.”
Maxie didn’t answer for a minute, but I could tell there was something on his mind.
“Well?” I asked again.
“I don’t know exactly how to say this, Rosie. But just think about it a second,” he said. “You’re going to be running against the two most popular kids in the fourth grade. One of them is a star soccer player, and the other one looks like a model. If all you do is hang up a few posters, who do you think is going to win?”
I hid my face behind my hands and groaned.
“Stop that and listen to what I’m telling you,” he said. “If you give people a good enough reason to vote for you, you don’t have to be a great athlete or a beauty queen to win an election.”
Earl nodded. “He’s right, Rosie. I did a report on Thomas Jefferson once, and he had the biggest nostrils I’ve ever seen. I mean it. The man could fit an ear of corn up his nose.”
“Thank you, Earl. I feel much better now,” I said.
Maxie wouldn’t give up. “Come on, Rosie. Earl and I can help you win this. I swear. The three of us will work on your campaign platform together. You know what they say—three heads are better than one. Right?”
I looked over at Earl.
He was measuring his nostrils.
I groaned again.
4 THANK YOU,
NORMAN BEEMAN
I don’t pout forever. I try my hardest. But usually I can only last for two or three days. Once, I pouted for over a week and a half, but that was pretty unusual. The red light was out at the end of my street, and my mother wouldn’t let me direct traffic.
After I got home from the garage that day, I curled up in my grandfather’s big easy chair and thought about what Maxie had said. All that stuff about how it was really possible for me to win and all.
I lay on my bed and closed my eyes. Before I knew it, I was imagining myself on the school stage again with that same American flag draped behind me. The crowd was going crazy, cheering and stuff. When I bowed, the gold crown I was wearing almost fell off my head.
I smiled. I realize that the president of fourth grade doesn’t actually get to wear a gold crown. But still, it’s a nice fantasy.
By the time the candidates met again on Monday morning, I was feeling a little more positive about things. The meeting was called so that Mr. Jolly and Mrs. Munson could tell us more about how to run our campaigns.
It wasn’t a long meeting. Mostly, they just told us about making campaign buttons and posters and junk. They said that there was no limit on the number of posters you could make, but they had to be in good taste. Good taste means no blood or cusswords.
Also, they told us that there were ninety-five kids in the fourth grade (forty-four boys and fifty-one girls), so that’s how many campaign buttons we should make.
The whole time they were talking, Louise the Disease was sitting in the middle of the room with this real annoyed expression on her face. It looked like she was about to blow up or something. She practically did, too. As soon as Mr. Jolly stopped talking, Louise shot right out of her chair.
“Could someone please tell Robert Moneypenny he’s not allowed to pass out real money,” she said. “He says his campaign buttons are going to be pennies, but that’s not allowed, is it?”
She spun around and pointed her finger in Robert’s face. “You can’t pass out real money, Robert. That’s just like buying votes. And in this country you’re not allowed to buy votes. This is America, mister.”
Mr. Jolly started to grin. Meanwhile, Mrs. Munson informed Robert that he’d have to use fake pennies instead of real ones.
“See? Told ya so,” said Louise the Disease.
After that, Mr. Jolly went on to explain more about the election. “In addition to making your campaign posters and buttons, there will be two meetings with the entire fourth grade,” he said. “The first meeting will be held next week. It will be called ‘Meet the Candidates.’ You will introduce yourselves to the class and talk a little bit about your campaigns. Directly after the first meeting, you will be given time to start hanging your posters.”
Mr. Jolly looked down at his notes. “The second meeting will be on Election Day. That’s the day some of you will give your campaign speeches. As it gets closer to the election, Mrs. Munson and I will be available to help you with your thoughts.”
Mrs. Munson looked at the clock. “Any questions?” she asked. “The bell is about to ring, so we’ll have to make them quick.”
Summer Lynne Jones raised her hand. “Is it okay if our friends help us make our posters? We don’t have to do all the work by ourselves, do we? I was thinking about having a big poster party and inviting a bunch of kids over to help me.”
Mr. Jolly nodded. “That’s a great idea, Summer. The more kids that we can involve in this election, the better.”
“How ’bout my soccer team?” asked Alan Allen. “It’s not a school soccer team, but c
an I still use our picture in my poster? I’ve got this really awesome picture where the guys are carrying me around on their shoulders at the last game. It was in the newspaper, too. Maybe you saw it.”
Mr. Jolly smiled. “I didn’t see it, Alan. But go ahead and use it if you want to.”
Finally, Roxanne asked the most important question of the day.
“Are you allowed to vote for yourself?” she called out.
Mrs. Munson seemed surprised. “Of course, Roxanne. I’m sure that each one of you thinks that you’re the best candidate for the job, so of course you can vote for yourself.”
“How many times?” I asked.
Everybody laughed.
It wasn’t a joke.
For the rest of the day, the election was all I could think about. I couldn’t concentrate on my schoolwork at all. When Judith Topper turned around to sneak a peek at my math, I didn’t even have any answers for her to copy.
Maxie was right. Unless I could give everyone a good reason to vote for me, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I’m not a great athlete like Alan Allen. I don’t have enough friends to have a big poster party.
Still, I didn’t want to quit. Quitting would have meant giving up my dream of ever being on top. And even though I knew it would be hard, I kept picturing myself with that gold crown on my head.
Think, Rosie, I told myself as I stared at my math page. Think of a way to get some votes. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with anything that sounded exciting enough.
I mean, there are lots of new rules and stuff that I’d like to see happen. Like imagine how much nicer lunch would be if it was against school rules for kids to laugh until milk comes out their nose. The trouble is, hardly anyone feels as strongly about this problem as I do.
Anyway, I was just sort of mulling over some of this stuff, when I happened to glance over at Norman Beeman. He was doubled over at his desk, and his face looked greener than usual. At first, I thought he was searching for something on the floor. But then he started hugging his stomach and going “Ooooo Ooooo.” So I got the picture pretty fast.
Ruthie Firestone got the picture, too. She tried to make a getaway. But she was only a step or two down the aisle when Norman’s lunch came up all over the place … including a few little splats that landed on the back of Ruthie Firestone’s left leg.
I won’t go into all the details of what followed, except to say that Ruthie Firestone went off the deep end. She started running all around the room screaming, “GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!” Which was so ridiculous, because no fourth-grader in their right mind is going to help you out in that situation. Finally, Ruthie Firestone ran out the door and we never saw her again.
All in all, Norman handled the situation pretty coolly, I think. Without saying a word, he went to the boys’ room and cleaned up. He was back in time to watch Mr. Jim, the custodian, come in with his bucket on wheels.
“You the one who did this?” Mr. Jim asked.
Norman nodded. “What do you expect? It was Salisbury steak and peas,” he said.
Anyway, the weird part about all of it was that Norman Beeman’s sick stomach saved the day for me. I’m not kidding. Because of Norman, by the end of the day, I knew exactly what my campaign platform would be.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” I hollered when I saw Maxie and Earl on the playground after school. “I’ve really, really got it!”
“Got what?” asked Maxie.
I looked around and lowered my voice. When you’ve got an idea as great as mine, you can’t go blabbing it for all the world to hear.
“The perfect campaign platform, that’s what,” I told him. “Wait’ll you hear it, you guys. Just wait’ll you hear it. I’ll tell you as soon as it’s safe.”
I made them wait until we got all the way to my house. I don’t know how I held it in that long. It’s a miracle I didn’t swell up and explode.
When we finally got to my front porch, I started dancing all around. “Before I tell you, I’ll give you a hint,” I teased. “Today during math, Norman Beeman tossed his cookies.”
Earl covered his mouth with his hand. Maxie just looked confused.
“Okay, okay, here’s hint number two,” I said. “He’d eaten a hot lunch from the cafeteria.”
“I don’t know,” said Maxie. “I give up. What, what?”
“Cafeteria food!” I yelled excitedly. “My platform will be to improve cafeteria food, Max! Just think about it! Cafeteria food is perfect!”
Earl scrunched up his face. “Cafeteria food is perfect? Are you nuts? Last week my mother made me buy the Alpo platter. It was some kind of shiny meat with brown-looking jelly gunk on top.”
He shivered a little and pulled out his pack of Rolaids.
I clapped my hands together. “Yes! But that’s exactly why it’s perfect, Earl,” I said. “Don’t you get it? Cafeteria food is gross, and I’m going to be the candidate to make it better! That’s the reason kids will vote for me!”
I put my arm around Earl’s shoulder. “I’ve even thought of a slogan for my campaign buttons already. Listen to this:
“ROSIE SWANSON—FOR YOUR TUMMY’S SAKE.”
Maxie smiled a little. “Hmmm. That’s not too bad,” he said. “And maybe instead of making the buttons round, we could make them in the shape of little stomachs. Like those pink stomachs they show on Pepto-Bismol commercials. What do you think?”
What did I think? I loved it so much I lifted him right off the ground.
Maxie kept his arms at his sides like a statue. He hates being picked up. Last year a couple of sixth-graders held him over their heads and passed him around the playground, and it’s left him bitter.
After I put him down, the three of us went inside and tried to come up with poster ideas. I made Earl my official art director. Art is Earl’s best subject. You should see the stuff he draws. One time he drew a picture of a monster’s foot stepping on the school that looked totally real.
He started doodling a little bit, and in no time at all, he came up with the first poster idea. It was pretty neat-looking, too. It was the same monster’s foot he’s so good at, only this time it was about to crush a little carton of milk with steam coming off it. Across the top of the poster, he printed:
ROSIE SAYS:
STAMP OUT WARM MILK.
I started to hug him, but he pointed his finger at me. “Don’t even think about it, missy,” he said.
After that, we really got down to work. For the rest of the afternoon, the three of us drove ourselves nuts trying to come up with clever ideas and poems about cafeteria food. We wanted to mention all of the food that kids hate most, but none of it seemed to rhyme that good.
Earl kept saying stuff like, “I’d rather eat a parrot than a carrot.” I finally had to hit him to get him to stop.
Anyway, after about two hours, we were all starting to get headaches when suddenly Maxie sat up and blurted out,
“The French fries are fine,
The fruit cup is better.
But don’t eat the peas,
Or you’ll ralph on your sweater.”
I grinned. “Hey. That’s good, Maxie. I mean, that’s really, really—”
Before I could finish, another poem popped right out of his mouth:
“Please don’t make us
Eat Salisbury steakus!”
Earl and I laughed out loud.
“Quick!” said Maxie. “Write these down! I think I’m having a burst of genius here or something.”
I grabbed my paper and got ready to write, but Maxie’s spurt seemed to be over.
“Come on. Keep going, Max,” I urged. “What about that shiny meat Earl was talking about?”
“Yeah,” said Earl. “The Alpo platter. The menu called it meat loaf, but it smelled more like feet loaf.”
We all cracked up over that one. I wrote it down.
The meat loaf
Smells like feet loaf!
Earl took a piece of paper and drew a
smelly foot on a dinner plate. Then he covered it with gravy and drew a lump of mashed potatoes on the side.
The whole time he was drawing, I was laughing. “That looks almost as gross as those corn dogs they had on Friday. Ever wonder about those things? I mean, what the heck are they, anyway? They sort of remind me of a—”
Earl covered his mouth. “Please,” he begged. “Don’t.”
After that, the three of us started wondering about corn dogs and what they were made of and stuff. Maxie and I began making up this funny, gross poem about them. It ended up being our best idea of the day. We called it “Dear Mr. Corn Dog”:
Dear Mr. Corn Dog,
What are you … really?
Your inside is meaty,
Your outside is mealy.
Are you a yo-yo?
Was it a clue,
When I ate you at noon,
And you came up at two?
I heaved on the playground,
I’m still feeling sick.
Now all I’ve got left of my lunch
Is your stick.
Dear Mr. Corn Dog,
I’m not being nosy,
But what are you … really?
Sincerely yours,
Rosie
5 STAR-SPANGLED
ME
It was the day before the “Meet the Candidates” meeting, and I was really getting excited. Earl and Maxie and I had spent hours making posters, and I couldn’t wait to hang them in the halls so everyone could see them. No one loves disgusting poems and posters more than fourth-graders.
In fact, everything was going so well I was feeling spunky, almost. And, I’m sorry, but sometimes when you’re feeling spunky, you can’t help bragging a teeny bit. Especially when you’re standing behind Alan Allen in the drinking fountain line … and he looks directly right at you … and he doesn’t even say hello. An insult like that can even make you mad, if you want to know the truth.
Alan Allen is arrogant. It’s a word I learned from Maxie. It means you’re so self-confident, you’re annoying. Arrogant people go around with this certain look on their faces. It’s almost a grin, but not quite. It’s the kind of look that makes people want to smack you.
