Maggie and Lena drifted back to their seats. “Boy,” said Lena. “She needs to go on a vacation. Like, forever.” Maggie didn’t say anything, but she could tell the Gray Gargoyle knew something they didn’t.
Kayla wandered over to where Lena and Maggie were sitting. “Hi, guys,” she said, flashing a smile and twisting one strand of her perfect hair around an index finger. “I guess a lot of kids signed up this year.”
“We’re not allowed to talk about it,” said Maggie.
“Oh, right,” said Kayla. “It’s just kind of weird, don’t you think? So many people wanting to run? No one ever runs.” Maggie had never heard Kayla’s voice sound like this before: mousy. “Well!” She seemed to rally. “I hope I can count on your support. I’m definitely the most qualified candidate and—”
“Kayla, you don’t have to campaign with me,” said Maggie flatly. “I know you. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Since kindergarten.” Kayla seemed to deflate a little, and Maggie couldn’t figure out what was going on. When had Kayla ever cared about Maggie’s support?
“I’m sure you’ll be a great candidate!” said Lena. Just then, the ping! of the morning announcement tone sounded, and Kayla hurried back to her seat, an unmasked look of dread on her face.
Following the Pledge of Allegiance and five seconds of silent reflection, Principal Shute got right down to business: “Normally I would announce the names of the candidates for class president this morning, but we’ve had an unprecedented number of students submit their names, and so I made an executive decision to add one more step to the election process. I have decided to require each candidate to gather at least ten signatures on an official petition paper in order to be included on the ballot. At this time, any student who submitted a name for nomination may proceed to the main office to receive an official petition. The signed petitions must be delivered to Mrs. McDermott by the end of school today. No exceptions.”
Maggie looked at Lena. Lena looked at Maggie. How could they possibly gather signatures in less than six hours when they couldn’t even go to the office to collect the official petition paper?
“Mrs. Dornbusch?” asked Kayla. “May I please go to the office to get my petition paper?” She was smiling, her usual confidence restored. Mrs. Dornbusch waved her away impatiently. She was bidding on eBay for a pair of argyles.
“Anyone else going?” Kayla glanced around the room. Colt stood up slowly, carefully marking the page in his book, and moved toward the door. “Colt! Guess it’s just us, then!” Kayla couldn’t have been happier. She scooped up her books and marched out the door, a slight bounce in her walk that made her shiny hair dance.
“Mrs. Dornbusch?” asked Lena, gathering up her books. “Maggie and I need to photocopy something for the Robotics Club meeting tomorrow. Can we go to the office now, instead of during lunch?”
Mrs. Dornbusch waved them away, but Maggie was pretty sure she heard the B-1 Bomber mutter, “And so it begins. . . .”
As they hurried up the stairs, Maggie said to Lena, “Mrs. McDermott isn’t going to give us a petition paper.”
“Well, not with that attitude,” said Lena, two steps ahead of her.
“Lena, this isn’t a question of attitude. We need a plan.”
“So we’ll make up a plan as we go,” said Lena, punching her way through the double doors at the top of the stairwell.
“I hate the way you make things up on the fly!” said Maggie, even though she had to admit that Lena was a pretty impressive wing nut.
When they got to the office, a cluster of students was waiting to pick up their papers. Kayla stood at the very front of the line.
“Excuse me, Mrs. McDermott,” said Lena, holding up a blank lab report from chemistry class. “Mrs. Dornbusch needs one hundred copies of this before first period. She asked if we would do it, because she’s very busy preparing for class.”
“I’m busy, too!” said Mrs. McDermott sharply. “With completely unnecessary paperwork, if you ask me.” She didn’t even lower her voice, although the door to Mr. Shute’s office was wide open. “Go ahead. I filled the paper tray this morning.”
“What are we doing?” whispered Maggie.
“I have no idea! Just look like we’re getting ready to make copies,” said Lena, lifting the cover of the copier. “We’ll think of something!”
Maggie and Lena fussed with the positioning of the blank lab report, watching as Kayla received her official petition paper. They needed to get their hands on that petition before anyone signed it.
Flattery! hissed Maggie’s father. It works with insecure people every time. . . .
Maggie paused. Insecure? What was her father talking about? But there wasn’t time to think. She walked over to Kayla and said, “Hey! Can I be the first to sign your petition?”
“Absolutely!” Kayla flashed her megawatt smile—it was, after all, campaign season—and handed her paper to Maggie.
“I just have to get my pen out of my backpack,” said Maggie.
“I have a pen,” said Kayla, holding out a pink gel pen.
Maggie wrinkled her nose. “You know, Kayla, pink is just not my thing. I’ll get my own.”
She walked over to the copy machine and slipped the blank petition into the feeder. “Distract her!” Maggie said to Lena.
But Kayla didn’t need any distracting, she was so busy chatting up the other candidates. “I guarantee you,” said Lena. “She’ll win some of their votes.”
Less than a minute later, Maggie returned the petition to Kayla. Kayla looked at Maggie’s signature and smiled.
“This is the best, Maggie,” said Kayla, and Maggie could almost believe she meant it, almost remember what it was like when they were best friends. Kayla was that good at faking.
When Maggie returned to the copy machine, Lena had already slipped the copies of the petition, each listing THE MOUSE as the candidate, into her backpack.
“You crazy master of improvisation,” said Lena.
Wing nut, said her father, but Maggie couldn’t tell if he meant it as an insult or a compliment.
TWENTY-ONE
LENA CALLED THEIR FIRST STRATEGY Operation Sea Turtle. They would blanket the walls with petitions, immediately rescuing any that had even one signature, in the hopes that sheer numbers would result in a few survivors.
“We don’t have tape!” said Lena, in a panic.
Maggie gave her a flat look. “I’m an engineer. I always have tape.” She produced three kinds from her backpack: duct, masking, and simple Scotch.
But not one petition survived to the end of first period. Mr. Shute had removed them all.
“We need a different strategy,” said Lena. They decided to adopt Operation Quail, camouflaging the petitions by placing them on crowded bulletin boards where they would blend in with their surroundings, thus avoiding Mr. Shute’s detection. But apparently the petitions blended in so well that nobody noticed them at all.
“This is hopeless,” said Maggie by the time lunch began. The other candidates had already collected their signatures and returned their petitions to Mrs. McDermott. It appeared that the list of candidates was complete. “We haven’t got even one signature, and we’re down to our last blank petition paper.”
“Think,” said Lena. “This is what you do best, Maggie. Don’t give up now! Remember what your dad wrote in his notebook: ‘Inside every large problem is a small problem struggling to get out.’”
“They’re all big problems,” grumbled Maggie. “We need to think of a place where lots of kids go, but Mr. Shute can’t go.” She slowly tapped her index finger against her lips. “A place where kids go. Where kids go.” She started to laugh. “Oh no. No! It’s too easy. Way too easy.”
By the time lunch ended, the Mouse’s “campaign team” had taped the final blank petition paper on the inside of the first stall door in the girls’ bathroom on the sixth-grade hallway. By the end of fifth period, they had over twenty signatures. What was surprising
was that one of the signatures belonged to Lyle. There was also a small bite taken out of the paper. When it came to doing things his own way, Lyle was in a league of his own.
“Have you figured out how we’re going to get the petition delivered to Mrs. McDermott—before the last bell?” asked Lena.
“Done,” said Maggie. “We just need to tape the envelope to the underside of the school mascot. I’ve already arranged for the pickup and delivery.” Inside her head, Maggie offered words of gratitude. Thank you, Vinnie. She paused. And thanks, Grandpop. Without his old pile of junk, none of this would have been possible.
Five minutes before the final bell rang, as Lena and Maggie sat in Mrs. Matlaw’s class, their eyes nervously on the clock, there was a ruckus in the hallway. Shouting could be heard, and the shouting clearly belonged to Principal Shute.
“Children,” said Mrs. Matlaw, moving quickly but smoothly to the open classroom door, “stay in your seats.” She walked out into the hallway. “Holy schnitzel!” she exclaimed, which was the closest thing to an expletive that anyone had ever heard come out of Mrs. Matlaw’s mouth. Within seconds, the entire classroom emptied into the hallway.
Principal Shute was shouting at a human-sized mouse: “Trespassing! Breaking and entering! Threatening children!”
“Look, Bud,” said the mouse, giving it back as good as it got. “This school is public grounds. I was buzzed in by your secretary. And I haven’t even seen a kid, so I don’t know what gives you the right to say I’m threatening one!” The mouse looked around. By now the hallway was filled with every sixth grader in the school. “Oh, hey, kids!” said the mouse, cheerfully waving with one hand. The other hand held an enormous bunch of helium balloons in every color: lilac, lemon, rose, sky blue. They looked like a floating springtime bouquet.
“I won’t have this disruption!” screamed Mr. Shute.
“Then stop making so much noise,” suggested the mouse. “Look, I was hired to deliver these balloons along with this card.” Maggie could still see the pieces of tape that she’d used to attach the envelope to the belly of the Wildcats statue. “And if you’ll just let me do my job, I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Fine,” said Mr. Shute. “Give them to me.”
“No-o-o,” said the mouse. “I was told, very specifically, to hand these over to Mrs. McDermott—and only Mrs. McDermott.”
“They’re for me?” asked Mrs. McDermott, who had been standing in the doorway to the main office. “But it isn’t my birthday or . . .” She reached forward, unable to resist the colorful, joyful effervescence of the balloons.
Mr. Shute advanced as though to block the delivery, but the mouse sidestepped the principal and made the handoff to Mrs. McDermott. In the tangle of the transfer, though, the balloon bouquet slipped between them. It started to float, higher and higher, toward the rotunda, which rose fifty feet above the ground.
Lyle—in an act of pure heroism, complete recklessness, and surprising speed—scrambled onto the back of the Wildcats mascot, jumped into the air, and grabbed the balloons before they floated out of reach. The sixth graders cheered as he walked back to Mrs. McDermott, who had just finished reading the card, and handed them to her.
“You know what, Mrs. McDermott?” Lyle said. “Even if it isn’t your birthday, you deserve these balloons, because you’re one of the nicest people in the whole town.”
Mrs. McDermott stared at Lyle, and tears began to sparkle in her eyes. “Well. Well, now. That is the sweetest thing that anyone has ever said to me.” Everyone cheered for the school secretary, who had kept Oda M running, even after the rest of the town had practically abandoned their school.
“The day isn’t over, Mrs. McDermott,” said Mr. Shute sternly, “and you have abandoned your post!”
“But I have official duties to perform, Principal Shute,” said Mrs. McDermott, unflappable as usual. “I have an announcement to make to the entire school, and since we’re all assembled, I will make it now: the Mouse is officially a candidate for class president.” She held up the signed petition, which had been tucked inside the card. Applause erupted from the students.
“We’re on the ballot,” whispered Maggie to Lena. Was it her imagination, or did Principal Shute single them out of the crowd and pin them with a particularly venomous stare?
As the final bell rang, Kayla turned on her heel and walked stiffly past both Maggie and Lena to retrieve her backpack from the classroom. On her way out, she passed them again and said in a voice so sharp you could have cut paper with it, “I don’t care if Santa Claus himself is on the ballot. I’m going to win this election, and I will be the last class president this school ever has.”
“Yikes,” whispered Lena to Maggie after Kayla had walked off.
“You have no idea,” said Maggie, shaking her head. “We just bought ourselves a world of trouble.”
TWENTY-TWO
“HOW MANY POSTERS SHOULD WE RUN OFF?” asked Lena. They had spent the afternoon at Lena’s house, eating cappuccino crunch ice cream and designing campaign posters for the Mouse. Lena’s house not only had better ice cream flavors—black raspberry swirl, butter brickle, pistachio chocolate chip—it also had her large-format printer. The only ice cream at Maggie’s house was Hoodsie cups, which Grandpop sometimes dropped by the spoonful into a tall glass of Moxie, calling it a Brown Cow. And Maggie’s printer was so old she couldn’t even get the ink cartridges for it anymore, except by special order.
“Ten each,” said Maggie. They’d ended up with two versions they liked.
The first poster showed the American flag waving proudly. But when you looked closely at the image, you could see that the red stripes were made up of dozens of tiny photographs of every sixth grader at Oda M—the photographs that Lena had been taking since school began. Everyone was represented. No one was left out. And right in the center of the field of stars was the face of the Mouse. The message on the poster was: E PLURIBUS UNUM. Out of many, one.
The other poster was a masterpiece, in Maggie’s opinion. Lena had used a photograph of a famous baseball player hitting a home run and Photoshopped the head of a mouse on the baseball player’s body. The message read, Everyone deserves a turn AT BAT. Maggie liked this poster even more, because it took aim at Principal Shute. Every sixth grader would know that the Mouse was standing up to the autocratic principal at Oda M.
“Let’s go for twenty each!” said Lena. “I want to cover the school.”
“You think big,” said Maggie, shaking her head as if she thought it was both a good thing and a bad thing.
“Yeah,” said Lena. “And there’s something else I’ve been thinking about, too. Don’t you think it’s time we let a few more people in on the whole Mouse thing?”
“A few more people? Like who?”
“Well . . . like the whole class.”
“What?”
A wing nut, said her father. I told you from the beginning. . . .
“I don’t mean we tell them that we started the Mouse. But we let them be a part of it.” Lena looked at Maggie as if she understood that what she was saying sounded completely crazy—but she believed it anyway. “Because now that the Mouse is running for class president, it’s not just a hack anymore. It’s a movement.”
“Just a hack?” said Maggie. “JUST a hack?”
“I don’t mean it like that. Hacking is great. It’s fun. It’s clever. But sometimes one thing grows into something else—something bigger. The Mouse has something to say.”
“The Mouse doesn’t even exist!” yelled Maggie. “It’s just something I made up because I wanted to see if I could actually stuff two hundred tennis balls into a locker. And you know what? I did. That was a great hack. It made people laugh. It made people scratch their heads and say, ‘How did they do that?’ And it was original. It had never been done before. At least not at Oda M.”
Maggie felt sick from eating too much ice cream, and the smell of the ink from the large-format printer was giving her a headache, too
. She didn’t feel well, and she did not want to be having this argument with Lena.
But she couldn’t stop it now that it had started.
“You always do this,” Maggie said. “You always want everything to have some big message or cause or revolution. I don’t know about where you come from, but in Odawahaka, we kind of just live our lives, you know? We’re not always out to change the world.”
“I thought you wanted to change Odawahaka!” said Lena.
“No! I want to get out. I want to leave this town. I want to go to college far away from here and never come back.”
“I know,” said Lena angrily. “That’s pretty much the first thing you told me when we met.” She picked up her camera and began to fiddle with the knobs, keeping her eyes down. “I just thought . . . well, anyway. I thought you might want the Mouse to be more than just a silly hack.”
Maggie stiffened. “Hacking is not silly.” Inside her head, she added, My dad was not silly. She felt flushed and a little dizzy, the ice cream in her stomach threatening to make a guest appearance all over the floor. She couldn’t believe that Lena was saying these things about her father. That he was unimportant. That he didn’t care about grand causes and big ideas. It was almost like she was saying that he hadn’t existed at all.
“You don’t get it,” continued Maggie. “You never did. I don’t know why I even let you know anything . . . about him. About me. About any of this.”
“Him?” asked Lena, still angry. “Who are you even talking about?”
“I showed you . . .” Maggie couldn’t believe she had actually showed Lena her father’s notebooks. They were the most private thing in her life. “We were fine before you came to town, you know. Just fine. We never needed you.” She picked up her backpack and ran out.
By the time Maggie banged through the gate of her own house, she had wiped the tears from her face.
“What’s the hurry?”
“Nothing, Grandpop,” said Maggie, hiding her face as she headed for the stairs. The TV was on, filling the room with its sickly blue light and the irritating hum of scripted excitement.
Nothing but Trouble Page 12
