by Gary Paulsen
I looked up from the index card Mr. Crosby had handed me, smiling. Katie was chewing her bottom lip, and her forehead had gone shar-pei-like. She was studying Cash, who was surrounded by girls. She caught me watching her and tossed her head. Katie’s not really a whip-your-hair kind of person, so I could tell she was worried.
I opened my mouth to tell her, hey, since we both have the same question, it won’t hurt anything to run through how we’re going to answer. We won’t be giving up the edge, we’ll be assuring a lively debate.
I meant to say that, really, I did. But then I saw Tina—or rather, I caught a whiff of her first, since she smells like cookies in the oven and lilacs on a spring day and new puppies—and I closed my mouth and backed away.
Carefully. Because I have a habit of running into objects or mowing people over when Tina is anywhere near me.
I couldn’t risk doing anything that might make me look bad in this all-important, post–first date, pre–second date period of my relationship with Tina.
8
The True Politician Finesses the Fine Line Between Personal and Professional Obligations
“Dutchdeefuddy.”
I was dreaming about Tina. She and I were arm in arm on the stage of the school auditorium, waving to the clapping audience. Cash was sitting in a corner, weeping. His face was splotchy, he looked pale and out of shape and a river of snot flowed from his nose.
“Dutchdeefuddy. Wake up.”
Tina smiled up at me while everyone chanted: “KEV KEV KEV.” And then Cash poked me in the eye with something soft and fuzzy.
“Hey, it’s morning.”
I opened the eye Markie hadn’t poked with his teddy bear and looked up into his face. He was straddling my chest.
“Umph.” I yawned and stretched. “What time is it?”
“The little hand is on the number that comes after six and the big hand is three little lines past the five. It’s four o’clock. Time for breakfast.”
I closed my eyes again, trying to picture the position of the clock hands and wishing I had a digital alarm clock. And that Markie could count past six.
7:28. My eyes flew open and I jumped out of bed, sending Markie tumbling to the floor with a soft whump. Lucky I had blown up an air mattress for him next to my bed; it broke his fall.
Oh no. I’d overslept. How had that happened? I never oversleep. It’s unheard of. Timeliness is crucial to the success of any politician. Everything appeared to be conspiring against me. It was like the universe suddenly didn’t want me to be the political success I knew I could be. I didn’t get it.
“The clock started to make a loud noise that scared me but I pushed the button very fast so it didn’t wake you up,” Markie told me. “You’re welcome.”
“Why didn’t my mom and dad wake me up? Or even Daniel and Sarah if they saw I wasn’t up yet?” I was hopping around my room with my pajamas half on while I grabbed a shirt from the nearest pile of clothes on the floor and gave it a quick sniff. Clean enough. I pulled my Buket o’ Puke ’n Snot (best band ever) T-shirt over my head and slid into a pair of jeans.
“They’re gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Dunno. Everyone drank lots of coffee standing up. Then your mom got a phone call and said a word that should get her mouth washed out with soap and wrote something on the fridge and ran out. Still in her bathrobe. Everyone else left.”
Weird. Even for Mom. “How do you know?”
“I hid in the front closet and watched like we did that one time. Your family’s not very friendly in the morning.” He thought for a minute, watching me try to find matching socks. “Are they zombies, Dutchdeefuddy?”
No one looks at socks, I finally decided, pulling on a couple of semi-clean gym socks and shoving my feet in tennis shoes. “Maybe Sarah. But probably not the rest. Ask them yourself later. Everyone left? What am I supposed to do with you? It’s Wednesday. I have school. I have an election to win and a girl to get.” As I jogged to the kitchen, Markie trotting behind me, I speed-dialed Mom—my call went straight to her mailbox. I tried Dad—he didn’t pick up and neither did his voice mail.
I had to be at school in less than thirty minutes. Where were they? They did not forget about Markie. Aha! Notes. I spotted notes on the fridge. I bet they were all grateful that I’d gotten the magnetized notepad and held the webinar about the importance of keeping in touch. They’d grumbled, but now our family communication skills were stellar. Reminder: work that into a campaign speech.
I scanned the notes, hoping to read that Mom had just run out for milk before making Markie and me a special midcampaign breakfast of chocolate chip French toast with sliced bananas.
H2O main broke @ store.
Mom
Took Daniel to hockey tourney in St. Charles.
Dad
Kev—you owe me for unloading the dishwasher last night. Your campaign doesn’t impress me enough to cover for you.
Sarah
Wish me luck!
Daniel the Puckmaster Spencer
Am I the only one in this house who is trustworthy and steadfast? Apparently so.
It didn’t escape my notice that Mom had just spent Monday and Tuesday with Markie and had probably celebrated something as relatively low-key and calming as unrestrained water coursing through her bookstore. Dad could have taken Markie to the tourney and let him run with the other rink rats. But Dad says his best days with small children are behind him.
I studied Markie and eyed the phone; I have near-perfect attendance, so I could lie and have a sick day. But I couldn’t afford even the whiff of a scandal.
I slipped two waffles in the toaster and threw together two lunches. If Markie was going to school with me, I had to make sure he was well fed. The only thing worse than a four-year-old at middle school is a cranky four-year-old at middle school.
I glanced up from slicing apples and saw him stuffing Sarah’s old Barbies and Daniel’s G.I. Joe figures in his panda backpack. Good thinking, Markie, prepare yourself for the day ahead.
But how to slip a four-year-old under the radar? Hmmm … My gaze fell on the flour canister and I got a brainstorm.
I texted Milania: “Meet me @ the flagpole B4 1st bell. Important.”
I frisbeed Markie a toasted waffle and he sat in the middle of the table eating while I ran through a list of the day’s objectives. The most successful and inspiring politicians always have a plan.
I grabbed Dad’s trench coat on our way out. Markie sang and hopped on one foot all the way to school. I made an alphabetized list of adjectives describing me: astute, bold, cogent, dedicated, effective. Or would efficient be more powerful?
I spotted Milania when we got to school. Markie and I jogged up.
“Hey, remember how I’m running for president because you asked me to?”
“Yeah.” She looked down at Markie and frowned. Bummer; not a fan of little kids. Well, tough, we all have to sacrifice for the greater good. Milania could Markie-sit for a little while.
“I need a favor in return.”
“You’re not even elected yet.”
“Details. It’s flour-baby week in home ec, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” She dropped her backpack to the ground and a cloud of flour poufed out. She bent down, unzipped her bag and yanked out a ratty-looking sack. Some flour spilled out of one of the many rips and tears.
“That baby has seen better days. What would you say if I told you I had the best flour baby ever and an idea guaranteed to get you an A in home ec?”
“I’d say, I’m in. Let’s hear it.”
“Dump the flour, take Markie.”
“Markie’s the one peeing in the bushes?”
“Yeah.” I pulled a bottle of hand sanitizer out of my bag, compliments of JonPaul, and tossed it at Markie, who dutifully used it. And then pulled up his cargo pants. “He won’t do that again,” I assured her before turning to Markie. “Don’t do that again.”
He shrugged, unwilling to
commit.
“Here’s the thing: I’m in a child-care jam. I can take him at lunch and my free period and probably even during social studies because I’ll explain to Mr. Crosby—somehow—that this is good for the campaign. Markie won’t be a problem in art because Mrs. Steck gets so excited at all the creativity in the room that she probably won’t notice Markie if I put a smock on him. And we have a sub in science, which means we’ll just do worksheets, so I can hide him behind one of the tall workstations. But I need help the other three periods.”
“Yeah, all right, but how—”
“You can hide out in the library. We’ll get you a pass from your home ec teacher. Say that you’re researching child development and need to observe and take notes and research the behavior he demonstrates. Passes practically write themselves when you explain you’re going above and beyond the call of duty. Then you and Markie can hang out in a study room.”
“For three class periods?”
“Intermittent periods. Plus, he has toys and snacks and a portable DVD player. You won’t even notice him. He practically raises himself. He’s a very low-maintenance child.”
“Okay.” She looked skeptical, but I hustled her off to home ec to speak to Mrs. Nickerson before she could change her mind. Or Markie could pee again. When he wasn’t looking, I took the juice boxes and water bottles out of his panda backpack, just to be on the safe side.
Lucky I’m such a sweet-talker. I got Milania’s home ec teacher all excited about Project Markie. I could tell by the gleam in Mrs. Nickerson’s eye that she was thinking about assigning toddlers instead of flour babies next year. Great politicians always point out the implied or inferred, or whatever, benefits to all parties in every situation. Because people can’t always spot the advantages without some help.
Then I stashed Milania and Markie in the study room furthest from the librarian’s desk. Luckily, Markie likes sitting on the floor under a table—he pretends it’s a cave—so even if the librarian looked, all she’d see was Milania working.
I am a master at crisis management.
9
The True Politician Deftly Sidesteps Problems That Might Arise from an Overabundance of Truth
After placing Markie in a secure location—which is something that happens to politicians, usually former dictators—I went to language arts.
Even though I was dying for class to be over, I acted the model citizen and perfect student as I waited for the bell to ring. Candidates are always being watched. The scrutiny gets to some, but I was surprisingly okay with the pressure. I even snuck a few peeks around the room, trying to spot the people who were watching me for examples of leadership potential. I didn’t see anyone studying me, but I probably didn’t look up fast enough to spot them.
Tina tried to catch my eye, but I pretended not to see her and flipped through my notes. It’s cool—and impressive—to be so busy and important that you can’t even notice the people around you. I hoped she was appreciating how hard I was working to be the right kind of boyfriend for her. She was totally worth all the thought and effort.
After class, I ran back to the library, slipped on my trench coat, did the Markie handoff with Milania, stuck him beneath the coat, which hung to the ground on me, and shuffled off to social studies. No one in the halls noticed a thing. Markie was perfectly camouflaged.
I unveiled him to Mr. Crosby and explained that Markie was my motivation for change in this school. “It won’t be long, um, ten years, before Markie will be walking through these halls. I want to leave a legacy of change and improvement for him.”
“I assume his mother is in the office, waiting to take him home afterward.”
I didn’t answer, because I don’t lie. I suddenly got very interested in tying Markie’s shoe, and by the time I looked up, Mr. Crosby was taking attendance. When he finished, I asked, “So, can I use the class period to talk about the importance of the campaign?”
Mr. Crosby didn’t totally buy my act, but he nodded, looking like he wasn’t sure he was making the right call. Now I could practice my public speaking on the class and officially start the public portion of my campaign.
“Gosh, thanks.” I tried to look humble and surprised. “In the interest of fair play, I hope you’ll speak to Mrs. Skraw, Cash’s social studies teacher, and encourage her to give Cash the same advantage.”
“Start your speech before my gag reflex kicks in, Kevin.” Mr. Crosby doubted me? He must be a disillusioned and cynical observer of government and history. Or else he just has my number.
Whatever. No homework and I got to talk. Two of my favorite things.
I used Markie as a living, breathing, semi-sticky example. “Markie here is but one member of the future generation for whom, together, we’re going to make a better school if”—meaningful pause while I looked down fondly at Markie and he smiled winningly back up at me—“we believe in the future and pull together.”
I was going to ruffle his hair, but, nah—too much. The good politician knows when enough is enough.
We got a standing O. Little kids are the greatest visual aid ever. Markie’s even cuter than the puppy on Cash’s poster.
Katie didn’t think so.
She stormed up to me after class and stalked me and a semi-hidden Markie on our way to art class even though it was obvious I was trying to blow her off.
“Can’t talk, Katie, no time. Catch you later.” I hurried as fast as it is humanly possible with a four-year-old tucked between your knees.
“You’re hiding him, aren’t you? His mother isn’t in the office, is she? He’s not authorized to be here, is he? Did you even ask permission from anyone to bring him to school?”
“Mind. Your. Own. Business.” Note: I did not lie. I merely failed to respond to her questions. There’s a difference. Politicians know that you can get in more trouble for what you do say than what you don’t. Therefore, keep your mouth shut. All for the greater good of the citizenry, of course.
Mouth shut, feet moving. Katie following. Still talking.
“Where did you get him? Did you steal him?” Katie looked horrified. Yeah, right, because every fourteen-year-old guy wants his own small child. It’s barrels of laughs to look after a preschooler. I’d only been responsible for Markie for a few hours and already I was exhausted.
“No, I didn’t steal him. He’s mine, fair and square.” Possession is nine-tenths of the law. I’d read that somewhere. Candidates have to be current with all law, um, things.
“What are you thinking? He can’t possibly be covered by the school’s insurance policy, nor the legal responsibility–slash–social construct of in loco parentis that schools and parents abide by.”
Latin phrases. Super smart-sounding. I’ll have to throw them around in the debate. Katie’s not the only one who can do a computer search.
Markie’s face peeked out from between the flaps of Dad’s trench coat. “Am I in trouble, Dutchdeefuddy?”
I glared at Katie. See what you’ve done? my gaze said. Scared the little boy. Nice job. Now go away.
As I’d suspected, Katie can read my mind. Her cheeks got red and she looked down.
“Are you mad that I’m at the big-boy school?” he asked. She shook her head and gave him a crooked smile. “Why did you make a mean face at her?” He tugged at my coat. “We can’t make mean faces at our friends in preschool. Well, we can, but then we don’t get stickers on our charts. It’s important to get along with our friends. That and not picking our noses.”
“Your preschool covers all the basics, Markie, but—” Our chat was interrupted.
“Mr. Spencer. Ms. Knowles. Small child. Just when I was under the impression that I’d seen everything middle school had to offer.” It was Ms. Lynch, the assistant principal. “I’d have thought you were more of the bag-of-crickets or box-of-frogs kind of troublemaker, Spencer. A little boy is a nice twist.”
“Hi! I’m Markie.” He flew out from underneath my coat—I can’t really blame him, the oxygen
level was probably getting a little low and I was sweating buckets—and stuck out his hand. Markie recently learned how to shake hands in a kiddie etiquette class.
Ms. Lynch looked at Markie’s hand like JonPaul looks at sink knobs in public restrooms: no way am I touching that.
I am oh-for-three today when it comes to Markie charming females. First Milania, then Katie and now Ms. Lynch. What happened to the nurturing maternal instincts in this school?
Why am I the only one who can see what a great little guy Markie is? Obviously, it’s because I’m so in touch with feminist issues. Most men aren’t really empathetic about stuff like that. Another point in my favor.
“What is it doing here?” Lynch asked.
I hope I never again see the look that was on Markie’s face when she called him an “it.” He took a step back and grabbed my hand.
Before I could move, Katie stepped over and took Markie’s other hand. He smiled at her and I could feel him relax.
“Kevin and I,” Katie told Lynch, “on behalf of Cash, after some brainstorming about the deeper meaning of a middle school election, brought Mikey—”
“Markie,” I corrected.
“Right, Markie, to school as, um—”
I jumped in: “—a reminder to the voters about what’s really at stake—the future students. Katie and I agreed that—”
Katie cut me off, but we were clicking, finishing each other’s thoughts. “—the kids in this building don’t have an appreciation of the bigger picture. It’s not just about them this year—”
“—it’s about all the classes that’ll follow us through these halls.”
“And you’re wrong and mean to have called a child an ‘it,’ ” Katie said in that cold tone that I usually despise but loved her for right now.
Lynch looked like she was going to cut Katie down to size, maybe whip out a detention form, but before she could open her mouth, Katie said, “It would be a real shame, given your hopes for promotion—I heard you have a shot at being named head principal at the new middle school next year—if a complaint were lodged against you for, you know, bullying.”
