Vote

by Gary Paulsen

  “What is it, maggot?” Sarah, my sixteen-year-old sister, snarled.

  “Hey, wanna hear the longest burp ever?” Daniel, my fifteen-year-old brother, chugged a glass of soda and, um, held forth.

  Buzz was checking her phone for messages, but, to be fair, she already knew the great news. It’s hard to hear even amazing things a second time and stay excited.

  Mom was looking through a stack of mail, and Dad was tying a dish towel around Markie’s neck so he wouldn’t drip pizza sauce on his shirt.

  I didn’t imagine JFK had to put up with that kind of disrespect from Eunice and Teddy when he was running for office. I bet Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy made sure his sisters and brothers were supportive. I read that Mr. Kennedy paid for votes for JFK, which, although blatantly illegal and wrong on so many levels, was an impressive act of fatherly support. He probably got invited to the White House every weekend. My family, on the other hand, wouldn’t be making plans that included staying at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue unless their attitudes changed. A whole lot.

  But I was getting ahead of myself. First middle school. Then the free world.

  “I’m running for student-body president.” I looked down at the floor modestly. People like a humble candidate.

  Nothing.

  Well, another lengthy burp from Daniel and a tiny belch from Markie.

  Mom looked up and said, “Good job, son. That’ll look amazing on a college application.” My mother dreads the day she has three children in college and is forever encouraging us to do things that’ll help secure scholarships and grants.

  “Go get ’em,” Buzz said. “I gotta go. Thanks for supper.” She grabbed another slice and went up to her apartment. Buzz’s attention span lasts exactly as long as a meal.

  Sarah snorted at me and rolled her eyes. I can always count on my sister to react to anything I say with mocking disdain. I looked up mocking disdain in the thesaurus to make sure I got the right words to perfectly capture Sarah’s treatment of me. Nailed it.

  She scoffed, “You? Was there a fatal accident in the chem labs and all the other students melted in a puddle of goo?”

  “Yes, it was yellow and gelatinous and now we can’t use the second floor and the few survivors have superpower abilities but are barren and albino.”

  Despite her best intentions to find me repellent, Sarah laughed. And then I laughed when she started coughing because the pizza went down the wrong tube. And then Daniel laughed but made it sound like burps. And then Markie got the giggles so bad he fell off the counter where he’d been sitting eating pizza. And then Mom and Dad got mad at all of us for horsing around and, after checking to see that Markie’s pupils were equal and reactive and his skin hadn’t broken, went to read in the living room.

  Sarah handed Markie an ice pack for his head and Daniel sat him at the table and showed him pictures from a hockey magazine. Sarah and I started wrapping the leftover pizza in tinfoil and dumping the boxes in the recycling bin. We’re not the healthiest family in the world, but we are efficient.

  “So, seriously, Kev: how are you going to convince the voters to support you? What have you got to offer?” Sarah asked.

  I opened my mouth to answer and she tore out of the kitchen. This was mean, even for Sarah. I stood there thinking how sad it was that Sarah would never know the full extent of how suited for government service her baby brother was, when she came back in the kitchen with a tall, skinny, flat cardboard box.

  “You are one alien turdboy who should thank his lucky stars that the mother ship dropped off its defective goods with us and we took you in anyway,” she said, pulling two posters out of the box. “Because you landed in the home of a genius.”

  She flipped the first sign around and, on fluorescent-yellow board, in lime-green glitter letters, I read: Spencer for President: The Best Choice for the Best School.

  Wow.

  The second one was flaglike, sparkly red, white and blue with boingy letters that popped away from the poster on springs: Trust Spencer.

  Super 3-D cool.

  “There’s more where these came from.” She gestured to the rest of the posters in the box. “Like twenty-seven. And a map of the most effective locations to hang them in school. Good thing that I went with my last name when I ran for office and that I save everything of value from my past because we can recycle them for you.”

  “I’d thought maybe you’d sacrificed a unicorn and cast a witchbaby spell and made the posters appear out of thin air.” I smirked at her, but even Sarah could tell I was blown away by the posters. I pretended to remember I’d once known she ran for president. She’d lost.

  “What’s your platform?” Daniel looked up from the hockey magazine. “What are you campaigning for or against that’ll attract attention and make a good impression?”

  Didn’t see that coming. Usually Daniel only speaks in full sentences that contain the words puck, blood, stitches or compound fracture. He’s a hockey monster, lives, breathes and sleeps the game. His skate technical specialist is on speed-dial because having the right boots and blades is essential, and he has a running tab with the guy because he gets his blades sharpened every week or two. Having a weighty thought about something that happens outside the rink is a very rare moment for my brother.

  Which made me believe I shouldn’t answer him with “I’m only campaigning because I want Tina to be shocked and awed by her great boyfriend.”

  I said, “I dunno. What kinds of issues do you think are important?” I reached in the kitchen junk drawer for some notepaper. All I could find was a handful of Chinese takeout menus and an orange crayon. Well, I bet the Constitution’s rough draft wasn’t anything to brag about either.

  “You can’t go the obvious route,” Daniel said, “shorter school days, better cafeteria food, pizza parties every week, shorter cheerleader uniforms. And everyone’s sick to death of bake sales and candy-grams. You’ve got to really try to make a difference outside the school. Lead by finding ways to get the students to play a more significant role as citizens. You know, for the community, with the community, in the community.”

  Daniel was completely on the money with everything he was saying. I never would have guessed. Boring ideas, sure—total snooze fest, if you want my honest opinion—but bound to make me look ah-may-zing in the voters’ eyes. “Go on. Like what? I need specifics.”

  “A canned-food drive for the local food pantry. Everyone can bring a can or two from their kitchens, doesn’t cost much and it adds up fast. Very impressive visual. A penny collection is super easy—you put jars in each room and encourage people to dump their spare change. At the end of the year, you make a donation to a worthy cause. Stuff like that. Come up with ideas, put your own spin on things.”

  Sounded like a lot of work. Oh well, that’s what the student government is for: I’d come up with impressive and meaningful plans. Then I’d make the student representatives implement them. Leadership is all about delegation.

  “Those are pretty good ideas, Daniel,” Sarah said. “I wish I’d had you advising me when I ran.”

  “Next time,” Daniel said with a smile.

  Before I could ask about the interesting things, like power and influence, we were interrupted.

  “I like the way you three work as a team,” Dad said from the doorway. He and Mom had been listening in. Mom had a neutral look on her face, but her eyes were bright like she might burst into tears and sob about her babies if she didn’t keep a tight rein on herself.

  I could tell from Dad’s big dopey grin that he was a nanosecond away from calling for a group hug.

  For a preschooler, Markie can really read the emotional temperature of a room, and he’s not afraid of the dramatic gesture. So he gave a little urp and then barfed. Pizza doesn’t agree with him. It’s not the first time he’s yakked pepperoni on my watch.

  It was gross, but not as gross as the Spencer Family Bonding Moment we almost endured.

  Moving on.

  7

&nbs
p; The True Politician Relishes the Opportunity to Switch Things Up

  I arrived at school super early Tuesday morning, in much the same mood Napoleon must have been in after the whole Elba misunderstanding. Oh, wait, that didn’t end well for General Bonaparte. Scratch that, I only identify with the winners.

  So—I was feeling fine. Very powerful. On point. On the precipice of turning this school around by doing great and masterful things. I heard trumpets in my head. The blare from brass instruments should accompany great statements: Ta-da!

  I was armed with the posters Sarah had given me and the map of the best places in school to hang them, ready to blanket the walls with reasons to vote for me.

  Except that I wasn’t the first candidate to have that idea. Or the first one to arrive with a tape gun.

  When I walked into the school, I saw 8½″ × 11″ pages—dozens of them, hundreds of them, thousands of them—lined up at eye level, running along the wall from the front door, around the corner and down the hall. Someone had plastered the halls with an endless line of CA$H 4 PRE$IDENT posters.

  They weren’t posters so much as pictures of Cash. His image was everywhere.

  I confess: he is probably the most attractive human being I’ve ever seen in real life. If I’m being honest, I have to acknowledge that he’s probably wasting his time in middle school. Surely there’s some tween-oriented television show with a laugh track just dying to have him be the character that the plucky-and-doesn’t-know-how-pretty-she-really-is girl crushes on.

  I stopped counting Cash’s signs at 386. They were everywhere, an unbroken line of pictures proving that Cash had won the genetic lottery and was a perfect physical specimen. He must have been at school all night long hanging them. Or maybe someone who looks like that commands an army of fairies and sprites and other assorted tiny flying helpers who do his bidding.

  Probably just Katie. That girl has an amazing work ethic, so an all-nighter hanging posters wouldn’t faze her; plus, I’d seen how she’d melted when she ogled him yesterday. Yeah, this had Katie Knowles written all over it.

  The photos weren’t even the same image; there were a number of different looks. There was the double finger-point pose I’d seen him do the day before; a moody black-and-white shot of him with his chin down, looking up in what can only be described as a smoldering gaze; him at a beach—his eyes the exact shade of the ocean behind him; a view from the rear where he’s looking over his shoulder at the camera and laughing, as if he stood around shirtless all day and, oops, who knew the photographer was right there?; and, my personal choice as the most manipulative and calculated image, one of him holding a puppy, both of them looking soulful and plaintive.

  I looked down at my suddenly measly twenty-nine Sarah-created posters and knew I’d have to find another tack. Cash had claimed this form of media for his very own. Anything I did along those lines would make me look like a copycat. And maybe I wasn’t as handsome as Cash.

  I stashed the posters in the lost-and-found and sat on the floor to think.

  All my great ideas and personal charisma were no longer assuring me of victory. Let’s face it: we live in a superficial society that values style over substance. I had an uphill battle ahead of me if Cash was going to keep standing around looking that good.

  I hated to resort to taking the low road, but I couldn’t win unless Cash lost. And by that, I mean I was going to have to make sure Cash lost. I might have to play dirty. I didn’t want to, but he was making his campaign all about his looks, and I would have to make sure his reputation was as questionable as his face and muscles were godlike.

  Instead of merely garnering support for myself, I was going to have to organize dislike for Cash. Way easier, really, because he’s just got to be inherently unlikable. No one that pretty can be good on the inside. Except Tina.

  Okay, here’s the thing: I can’t lie about him, I don’t lie. Not anymore. And I can’t really tell the truth about him either. Because I don’t know anything about him. Except that he resembles James Bond and I’m terrified Tina’s going to look at him, look at me and realize that her destiny lies with someone of his caliber, not mine.

  So, this change in approach made things trickier for me, but not impossible. Think think think.

  Cash is probably the best-looking guy in school, that’s a given. But I am definitely the most articulate guy in school. Double duh.

  Plus, I’m in school. I’ll take a page from the faculty and do what teachers do every day to make us look bad: I’ll make sure to ask questions Ca$h can’t answer. He can’t even spell; how’s he going to form thoughtful responses? That way, I won’t have to jettison Sarah and Daniel’s good-for-the-school, good-for-the-community, do-gooder stuff after all. I just have to ask questions Cash can’t possibly respond to intelligently. How terribly politician of me.

  Mom dragged me to a town hall meeting last year during the mayoral election and I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Neither could Mom, and considering she works in a bookstore and reads like most people breathe, that’s really saying something. Obfuscate, she told me on the ride home, means “to confuse, stupefy, darken or obscure.” I’m all over that. Cash won’t know what hit him.

  The bell rang and I jumped up and joined the surging tide of middle school students heading toward homeroom.

  And, as luck would have it, found myself shoulder to shoulder—or rather, shoulder to upper rib cage, as Cash is Very Tall—with my opponent. Good timing is everything in life—and politics.

  “So, Cash, I didn’t get the chance to wish you luck in the race yesterday. Everything kind of happened really fast. A candidate is only as good as his opponent, right?”

  “That’s what Katie says.” He smiled and even I was kind of dazed by his grin.

  Until the words sank in. Katie. I’d forgotten about her influence. Cash was her pretty puppet. I wouldn’t get the chance to make him sound goofy, because she’d have fed him his lines ahead of time, given him talking points to circle back to. I know how Katie thinks.

  At that instant, Katie fell into step with us. She linked her arm through Cash’s and grimaced at me in her attempt at a smile. She’d probably put a tracking chip in his neck like the vet did to our cat, Teddy, so we wouldn’t lose him. Katie’s going to want to keep tabs on her candidate.

  “Kevin.” Katie never really says “hi” or “how are you doing” or “did you catch the game last night?” She just says your name in a cold, clipped way that makes you want to change it even when she’s trying to be friendly and throws her version of a smile into the greeting. “I never got the chance to congratulate you yesterday.”

  “I was just saying that exact thing to Cash,” I said, fake-smiling back at her, because, for some reason, Katie and I had silently agreed we didn’t want him to know we didn’t get along. “But I was pretty sure I knew you wished nothing but the best for me.” The best failure.

  “What a great choice the voters of this school are facing—Kevin Spencer or Cash Devine.” If insincerity were toxic, Katie’s voice would have melted the paint on the walls.

  “I was just thinking how lucky the school is,” I said, nodding, picturing myself making my acceptance speech in front of an adoring and fortunate crowd.

  We had to stop walking at that point because three girls from my math class came up and asked Cash if they could get a picture with him. Katie and I stepped out of the frame.

  “Okay, look”—the real Katie was back, slitted eyes and no-nonsense voice—“I’ve set up a debate on Friday during lunch for the two of you. We’re setting up a mike in the cafeteria and you two can debate while everyone eats tuna noodle casserole. The vote is during last period Friday and the ballots will be counted over the weekend—Mr. Crosby’s taking the ballot boxes home with him. The winner will be announced Monday morning.”

  I didn’t want to let her know I was impressed with her knowledge or mad at myself for not coming up with the debate idea first. I nodded. “That give you enou
gh time to bring Cash up to speed with the topics you think are important and have him memorize what you want him to say?”

  “It’ll be tight—but no, wait! I don’t—I’m just helping.” She blushed. Pretty soon Katie and I will probably do away with talking altogether, because we think along the same lines and seem to be thisclose to breaking the seal on telepathic communication with each other.

  “Got ya. So, um …” I racked my brain for suitable debate questions to ask. “Who’s, uh, moderating and what’s the, whaddayacallit, format?”

  “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Crosby.” She looked at me like the fact that I hadn’t should be reason enough to call for a public flogging. “Given our—your—time limitations, it’ll be a three-question debate. He’ll provide each of us—you—with the same question today so that we—you—have time to prepare. He’ll ask his second and third questions extemporaneously. That is—”

  I cut her off by raising my hand. “I know what extemporaneous means.” I’ve had Crosby long enough to know that’s how he rolls: he asks the next question based on the prior answer. He says that keeps things fresh, keeps the students on their toes. I think it keeps antiperspirant companies in business.

  Good things come in threes. First Cash, then Katie, had appeared out of thin air at the perfect moment. Now Mr. Crosby walked past. Without breaking stride, he handed each of us an index card.

  How do you plan to be of maximum service to your school, keeping in mind that, as a leader, you will be encouraging your classmates, teachers and parents to follow your example?

  Ah. I can still make Cash look bad, but in a totally acceptable and brutally public fashion.

  Like any good politician.

  Katie might be able to prep Cash, but only for the first question. She wouldn’t have any way of coaching his responses to the second and third questions. And, from what I’d seen in my three-second conversation with Cash and while watching him interact with the voters now (lots of smiles and photos, no chat), he was all sizzle, no steak. Whereas I think on my feet.