by Rachel Wise
“Wow. What a wonderful story!” I said. “And your qualifications?”
John nodded, like he had practiced for this question. “I’ve written a great deal to the Voice about my positions on things in the news here. If you scroll through the back issues, you’ll see I’ve basically gone on record on all of the major things facing this school. I’m on the debate team, so I know how to stand up for what I believe in and I’m good at public speaking, which is an important part of being school president. I’m very engaged in politics in the larger world and always follow elections closely.” He held his hands out to me like he was offering me something and grinned. “I’m an open book! No secrets!” he said.
I chuckled. “I wasn’t worried you’d have secrets,” I said. “This all pretty much lines up with what I already knew about you,” I said.
“Oho! What did you already know?” he asked teasingly.
“Just good stuff, I swear,” I said, smiling down into my notebook. He was very charming.
“I sure hope so!” He laughed. “Otherwise I’ll have to work hard for your vote!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” I said, but then I stopped, remembering I was supposed to be objective.
“Maybe you’d like to be my running mate, then,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.
“Wait, what?”
“Do you want to?”
I was confused. “Do I want to be your running mate?”
He nodded.
I was flustered, like he’d suddenly asked me out on a date. I didn’t know what to say. Me? Vice president of the school? It was a thrill to even consider it. Especially because John would probably win. I was flustered. “Uh, well . . . I’ve never really considered running for anything before. This is a little, uh, spontaneous. Are you serious?” I really didn’t know what to say. I was confused, surprised, caught off guard. Like, had he seriously just asked me to be his running mate? It was a little weird but also a little flattering. More than a little flattering.
“I am very serious. Look, just consider it, okay?” he said generously. “I just know I need a female running mate, someone with a good name, a good reputation, cute, you know, to help me win. The whole package. And you’re it!”
I scrunched up my eyebrows, confused. “Thanks?” I said, unsure but still flattered (he called me cute, after all!).
He looked at his watch. “I’d better let you go,” he said, standing. We still had ten minutes before our next class, which was kind of a lot. I didn’t really have anywhere to go, since my next class was literally two doors from the lunchroom. I suddenly had the sense that he’d just run this whole interview, and it was a weird feeling; now he was dismissing me.
“Uh . . . okay?” I scanned my notebook to see if I had any more questions, maybe a tough one. There were a couple, but they seemed a little harsh and nosy suddenly, especially after his complimentary invitation, so I snapped the book shut and stuck my hand out to shake his. “A pleasure doing business with you,” I said formally.
“Likewise,” he said, shaking my hand. “Let me know what you decide. And if you could . . . would you please let me know by tonight?”
That was another surprise. I felt a little off-kilter. “Tonight? Um, sure. Why so soon? The election isn’t for another two weeks.”
John shrugged and smiled his big megawatt grin again. “Gotta get on the campaign trail!”
“Right.” I nodded. “Of course.”
“Thanks, Samantha, for your time. Looking forward to seeing the piece when it comes out,” he said.
“Just don’t write a letter to the editor complaining about it!” I joked.
He gasped in mock horror. “Me? Would I do such a thing? Anyway, I know it will be a great and beautifully written piece!” he said.
“Bye!” I found myself smiling as he walked away.
I sat back down and breathed a sigh. His charm and energy were almost tiring. And the invitation to run with him? That was insane! But the more I thought about it, the more my stomach got kind of a funny happy feeling about it. I couldn’t wait to discuss it with Hailey ASAP.
I scanned the room for her but instead spied Mr. Trigg across the lunchroom with a yogurt and a spoon, looking for a place to sit. Excited, I jumped up. “Mr. Trigg!” I called, and he looked my way. “Over here!” I cried, and he nodded and smiled and headed over to join me.
“Ms. Martone!” he said happily as he sat in John’s recently vacated seat. “How lovely. One never gets over that preteen horror in cafeterias of not knowing where to sit.”
I smiled. “I know. Even when your best friends are around, it can be tricky,” I agreed.
“How was your lunch?” he asked.
“Great!” I said enthusiastically, and I filled him in on my interview with John Scott.
“Wonderful!” he said between bites of yogurt. “Sounds like a lovely chap!”
I nodded. “And you’ll never guess what, Mr. Trigg. He asked me to join him as his running mate!”
Mr. Trigg put his yogurt down and his face broke into a huge smile. “Why, Samantha, you’d be splendid at that! Just terrific. You’re so good with the faculty and administration. I can see it now! Of course, we’ll miss you terribly, but you’d visit, right?”
I was confused. “Wait, what do you mean you’d miss me? I’ll be right here still.”
“No, but at the paper. We’d miss your writing and being a part of it all. You contribute such value to each edition.”
“Why wouldn’t I be at the paper anymore?” I asked.
“Well, you can’t serve in the student government and cover it for the paper. Besides the issue of time management, it’s a conflict of interest that we don’t allow. So you’d have to choose. I completely understand your interest in student politics . . .”
“Wait, I couldn’t write at all?” I asked again, incredulous. How could I ever give up writing for the Voice?
Mr. Trigg thought for a minute. “I suppose you could continue with you-know-what.” He raised his eyebrows to see if I understood.
I nodded at him, knowing he meant Dear Know-It-All.
“And perhaps, Ms. Martone, I could have you cover a sport . . . but everything else, I’m afraid”—he sighed heavily and shrugged—“off-limits.”
I stared into the middle distance, thinking hard. “Oh,” I said finally.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you knew.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t give up the paper. No way. It was my favorite thing in the world, the thing I most enjoyed spending time on. It made me . . . me.
“Okay,” I said. “Then I won’t do it.”
“Ms. Martone, at least give it a little thought! You’ve certainly put in a lot of time at the paper. Maybe you’re ready for a change.”
I shook my head, my campaign over before it had even begun. “No. No, I couldn’t do that.”
“Well then, welcome back, Ms. Martone!” joked Mr. Trigg, and I smiled back at him.
“Glad to be aboard,” I joked back.
“Glad to have you!”
Journalist Makes Right Choice.
Chapter 6
UNDERDOG IMPRESSES STAR REPORTER
I caught up with Hailey by phone when I went home to change. I called her to say I might be a few minutes late to Slices but that she should order me two plain slices and a Coke and I’d be along as soon as I could. “And guess what?” I asked.
“What?”
“I almost ran for vice president of the school today!”
“Whaaaat?”
I explained it all quickly, and Hailey laughed. “I just lost the best job in the world!” she moaned.
“You? How?”
“Best friend of a powerful government official: all of the perks, none of the headaches! I would’ve been great at that. Thanks a lot, Martone!”
“John Scott really is something, though. Boy, oh boy!” I said.
“Wait, does Mikey have a little competition here?” teased Hailey.<
br />
“No, no. Not like that. He’s just . . . exciting. He’ll make a great school president. That’s all.”
“Really?” singsonged Hailey.
“Really,” I said firmly, but I had to smile.
“Okay, good. Because I’d hate to see Mikey’s heart broken,” she said.
“Please! As if!” I protested, but I did hope she was right, of course.
Giggling, we hung up, and I dashed off an e-mail to John Scott, declining his generous offer. I pushed send with a heavy heart, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Then I hurried to primp a little, in case we did run into Michael and go for ice cream after the movie. I put on a cute pink turtleneck sweater, earrings, my faded jeans with a pretty belt, and even a little bit of clear lip gloss. Then I got my things together for my interview at the Java Stop with Anthony Wright, grabbed my messenger bag and notebook, and headed out. As I walked over there, I thought about Anthony and his nerdy image. I felt bad for the guy; he was such an underdog. It must feel awful to run against someone and kind of know you’re going to lose.
Or at least that’s what I thought before the interview.
Afterward, it was all I could do to stop myself from quitting the paper and begging to be his running mate.
At the Java Stop, Anthony was already waiting for me.
“I’m so sorry!” I said, rushing to his table and struggling to see my watch under my shirt cuff. “Am I late?”
Anthony stood in a display of old-fashioned good manners as I seated myself; he even tried to pull out my chair for me. As he did so, he laughed a shy laugh. “No, you’re not late. I’m compulsively early. Sorry. It comes from being the youngest of five in a family with a single mother. If I’m not ready to go when everyone else is, they’ll leave me behind!”
It was sweet the way he said it, not like he felt sorry for himself or anything, just plain and factual. I was charmed again by his deep, warm voice, and was suddenly excited about this interview. We compared notes for a few minutes on being raised by single moms before getting down to business.
“So, in the interest of time, I should start asking you some of my questions,” I said, pulling out my notebook and pen. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave by quarter of six.”
“No, please. You’re so nice to fit me in. I really appreciate it. We all pitch in after school with babysitting and activities before my mom gets home from work, so it’s always crazy schedule-wise. I wish I could join a lot more things at school, but as it is, I’ve had to choose just the ones that I really like the most. Anyway, I appreciate that you are taking the time to meet with me. . . . It’s hard for me to get my message out. I’m not a natural public speaker like John Scott is, and I’m not as well known, so this will really help.” He smiled at me, his teeth strong and bright, his smile genuine and a little shy. It was the first time I’d really seen his smile and he had a great one—contagious.
I smiled back. “Okay, first of all, tell me about the chess. I know it doesn’t really apply, but it’s all I read about you!” I joked.
But Anthony grew serious. “Actually, it kind of does apply. For one thing, I want to talk about how I got into it. I started playing at an after-school care program I went to starting in first grade. It was a state-funded program, and it really was so important to me. It gave me and a couple of my brothers somewhere to go after school while our mom got her graduate degree in nursing, and it got each of us into an activity that we love and still stick with. One of my brothers plays basketball, another is a math champion, and I do chess.”
I nodded for him to go on as my pen flew across the page, taking notes.
“The program lost its funding after our first two years, and for us, it was kind of okay since we were older and my mom was done with school. But I look back on lots of kids who had no other options, and I see what a shame it is that the program folded. I’d love to see something like that start at Cherry Valley. I have some ideas on how to fund it, too.”
“That would be great,” I agreed.
He cleared his throat and continued. “Okay, so second of all, chess is great strategic training. It teaches you to plan ahead, think of your next move, be patient. You can’t play chess with a hot head. I’ve learned to control my temper, manage my emotions, take things in stride, think on the go. All good.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I’ve never thought of that side of it before.”
He nodded. “It’s a great game. Then there’s the competition aspect. For me, it has been really fun to see how far I can go with this. Competing has meant organizing my schedule to accommodate the tournaments and the travel, learning to get my work done efficiently and manage my time effectively. It has also given me a lot of independence and self-reliance, since I have to get my own rides to the games, make my own money for the entry fees, stuff like that. And I pack my own lunch!” He laughed.
“Does your family like that you do it?”
Anthony looked down shyly. “They love it because I love it, and they like seeing me happy. They do come when they can.”
“Cool,” I said, impressed. “You’ve certainly done well at it. County champion, statewide runner up. Captain of the school chess team your first year.”
He shrugged modestly. “I enjoy it. Chess has been good to me.”
“And what else would you have in mind for the school?”
Anthony began outlining his goals, his long, tapered fingers gesturing beautifully as he spoke. He came so alive talking about his goals and plans for Cherry Valley Middle School, modest though they were, that I stopped seeing his nerdiness and almost saw him as an adult. He sure talked like one—in a good way. I could hardly write fast enough to keep up. His ideas weren’t flashy like John’s idea to make lunch longer or have less homework, but they were much more thoughtful. Anthony was very cost-conscious and very academically oriented. He had a good sense of the school’s mission and goals, as well as what its challenges were. He said he saw himself as an advocate for the students and a liaison between the kids and the adults in the community. He had done a ton of research on funding and budgets and felt he knew what was doable and what wasn’t. Hmm. Underdog Impresses Star Reporter.
One of his good ideas was having high school students supervise after-school care for the middle schoolers, either proctoring study halls or sharing skills. It could be a for-credit course they designed and committed to for the semester, or something they did to satisfy their volunteering requirements for graduation. The high schoolers would act as mentors for the middle schoolers. Anthony had even contacted a big national foundation and learned it was just the kind of innovation they liked to fund in public schools. He didn’t have a guarantee yet, but his contact there was interested. So he’d met with the principal and the guidance counselors at the high school and they were raring to go on the program.
Another idea he had was homework buddies. Again, free, but something that allowed students who were strong in one area to be paired with kids who needed help in other areas, kind of like me and Hailey.
He also wanted to start something called “working lunches” where authors would visit over lunch and speak to students about their work, and maybe a visiting scientist or mathematician program as well, to get kids thinking about the future and how they could apply their skills in different careers. I thought about Mr. Trigg already factoring in college recommendations. It was a really good idea.
He’d also looked into securing a grant from a company that taught kids how to grow and prepare some of their own lunch food, as our school chef had hoped they one day could, maybe even raising chickens in the side yard of the school. Chickens at school might be a long shot, but the idea was definitely cool.
At a certain point, I smiled and he caught me. “What? What’s so funny?” he asked, already grinning in anticipation of the joke.
I sighed and shook my head. “Just that John Scott is talking about less homework and longer lunch periods, iPads and gourmet food, and you’re talking about wh
ether we can afford an after-school program for kids who really need it. It’s a big contrast.”
Anthony looked a little dejected. “I know. My stuff is not as appealing.”
I titled my head and looked at him. “Don’t get down on yourself. You’re realistic, and you’ve done a ton of legwork. John’s . . . a politician.” I shrugged. “I think your ideas are amazing!”
He looked up and squared his shoulders. “I may not be the most exciting candidate, but I’m the right one. John Scott has to realize how overbudget the school is already. There’s barely enough money in the budget to buy new pencil sharpeners, much less iPads! And longer lunch periods and less homework? Doesn’t he realize the school has to conform to a set curriculum that mandates how long periods can be and things like that?” He scoffed in disgust. “I wish I could get my message out—jazz it up. Make it sound fun and cool.”
I tapped my pen against my teeth and thought for a second while he took a sip of his peppermint tea. If only Anthony could have a campaign manager. Someone stylish and focused on presentation, good at giving advice, someone who knew how to get the word out on Buddybook or Twitter . . .
“I’ve got it!” I cried. Anthony leaned close to hear my idea and then . . .
Poof!
A flash went off and nearly blinded us. I turned to see what it was and found Jeff Perry squatting near our table.
“Jeff!”
“Hey. Couldn’t resist a shot of such a heated conversation. What could be so exciting that you two are mere inches apart? This could make quite an interesting photo of life on the campaign trail. Awfully cozy for a reporter and a candidate, aren’t we?”
I scrunched my eyebrows. What the heck was he talking about? I looked at Anthony in confusion, and he seemed as perplexed as I was.
“What?” he asked Jeff.
Jeff shrugged. “A picture’s worth a thousand words,” he said, and then he walked away.
Anthony and I looked at each other. “Whatever,” I said, and rolled my eyes. “Listen, here’s my idea, and then I’ve got to run. . . . Anthony, you’ve got to meet my sister, Allie.” I filled him in, and he was eager to meet her.
