The Kid Who Became President

by Dan Gutman

  “Forget about that stuff,” Lane scoffed. “The important thing is that it will make you look like you care about the people.”

  “I do care about the people!” I insisted.

  “Well, it’s more important to look like you care than it is to actually care,” Lane explained.

  “I’ll do both,” I said.

  Lane said he was planning the first Fireside Internet Chat for that evening, so he had to go set things up. As he was leaving the Oval Office, Chief Usher Honeywell escorted Chelsea Daniels in.

  I hadn’t seen the First Lady since Inauguration Day. Chelsea had been spending most of her time shopping. She looked fabulous, as always. The Secret Service agents in the hall were trying to look at her without being too obvious.

  “How’s it going, Moon?” Chelsea asked as she breezed in. She plopped herself down in my chair and put her feet up on my desk.

  “Call him Mr. President,” Lane corrected her as he walked out. “It’s a sign of respect.”

  Chelsea rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue. She hadn’t been very friendly to Lane ever since he told her he wasn’t going to help her become Miss America.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Daniels?” asked Honeywell.

  “I was just dropping off some bills for Moon to sign,” she said as she tossed the receipts on my desk.

  “I have to get approval from Congress before I sign any bills,” I joked as I examined the papers. “Ten thousand dollars … for one dress?!”

  “It’s an Oscar de la Renta dress,” Chelsea claimed.

  “Then why don’t you give it back to him?” I suggested. “You know, Chelsea, there are people in this country who are homeless, who are starving.”

  Chelsea looked at me blankly. She comes from a very wealthy family, and I don’t think she’s ever met a poor person in her life.

  “Moon, you’re thirteen years old and you make four hundred thousand dollars a year,” she said. “What are you complaining about?”

  “I wasn’t planning to spend all four hundred thousand on your wardrobe!” I shouted.

  “We had a deal, Moon. I would be your First Lady and you would give me an unlimited budget for clothes. Remember?”

  “Yes,” I admitted reluctantly.

  “You’re not the kind of president who breaks his promises, are you?”

  I thought about my campaign promise to abolish homework. Reluctantly, I handed the bills to Honeywell.

  “Pay ’em,” I said. Satisfied, Chelsea got up to leave.

  “Where are you going now?” I asked.

  “Shopping,” she replied.

  After Lane and Chelsea left, I had a general crummy feeling all over. I usually felt crummy after spending any amount of time with Lane or Chelsea, it occurred to me.

  At noon, Honeywell wheeled Vice President Syers in for our afternoon meeting. She could push her own wheelchair, but Mr. Honeywell seemed to enjoy fussing over her.

  “You look like a tomcat who’s used up eight of his lives,” Vice President Syers said to me. “What’s troublin’ my favorite leader of the free world?”

  “I don’t know,” I complained. “I guess I thought being president would be different.”

  I told Mrs. Syers about my conversation with Lane. I admitted to her that I never realized the president has to get the approval of Congress before he can do just about anything. I had been thinking I was the most powerful person in the world, when actually the president of the United States is pretty weak.

  Mrs. Syers rolled her wheelchair up to my desk.

  “You ain’t no king,” she said, taking my hand. “You’re a president. You can’t do any old thing you wanna do.”

  “What can the president do, anyway?” I asked.

  “One day when I was younger,” she said, closing her eyes to remember more clearly, “President Roosevelt came on the radio and told us about Pearl Harbor being bombed. I remember it like it was yesterday. He said we were going to war. And just by the way he spoke, he made me understand why it was so important that we fight that war. And he made me believe we were going to win in the end. And everybody pitched in to help — men, women, and children. And we did win in the end. That’s what the president can do.”

  “So the president is sort of the nation’s cheerleader?”

  “Cheerleader and quarterback,” Mrs. Syers replied. “Did Lane tell you about executive power?”

  “No, what’s that?”

  “It’s special power the president has in a time of emergency. In 1803, Thomas Jefferson used his executive power to buy the Louisiana Territory from France. It doubled the size of the country. Jefferson saw the chance, and he took it. He didn’t get permission from Congress. He used his executive power. And Abraham Lincoln didn’t get anybody’s approval to free the slaves. He felt it was right. The nation was ripped apart by war. So he used his executive power, and it had the force of a law.”

  “So executive power is sort of like having super powers.”

  “You might say that,” Mrs. Syers replied.

  “But we’re not at war now,” I pointed out.

  “Thank goodness,” Mrs. Syers said. “There’s no emergency, so you don’t need to use your executive power. But you have the power to inspire us. You nudge the country in the direction you think it oughta go. You can’t force it. But you can nudge it. That’s how you do good in the world.

  “At any moment,” she continued, “something terrible could happen. God forbid it ever does. But if it does, you, only you, have the ultimate power to launch a nuclear attack. Just by pressing some buttons in that briefcase. That’s your executive power. You got the power to determine the fate of the world. Still feel weak?”

  “I’m glad we talked,” I said. “I want to do some good in the world, like we talked about after the election.”

  “Then you got to stand up for what’s right.”

  “What’s right?” I asked.

  “That’s for you to decide,” she explained.

  That night, I had my first Fireside Internet Chat with America. Lane came over to the White House so he could sit next to me as I typed my answers to people’s questions into the computer. We figured people would be asking some tough questions about the economy and foreign policy, so Lane would be able to help me with the answers.

  Ladies and gentlemen,

  it said on computer screens all across America at exactly eight o’clock,

  Welcome to the first #FiresideTweets with the president of the United States.

  The account’s user image was a little fireplace with a simulated fire burning. A computer-generated version of “Hail to the Chief” came out of the speaker, one of Lane’s clever little touches.

  Hello, America, I typed.

  I welcome your questions and comments.

  Just use the #FiresideTweets hashtag to get started.

  We waited a few seconds and then the responses came scrolling up the screen faster than I could read them:

  SuzyQ: #FiresideTweets Moon is the greatest President since Lincoln!

  Hot_Rod: @SuzyQ You’re an IDIOT! Moon is way better than Lincoln. #FiresideTweets

  Blueboy: @Hot_Rod I disagree with that. #FiresideTweets

  sssnake: @Blueboy Who asked U, moron? #FiresideTweets

  JellyRoll: Hey, @SuzyQ, what U look like? #FiresideTweets

  “This isn’t working out quite the way I planned,” Lane said. “Ask them if they have any questions.”

  This is President Moon, I typed.

  Does anyone have any QUESTIONS?

  Badboy: Yeah, do U wear boxers or briefs? #FiresideTweets

  OobyDooby: #FiresideTweets Anybody got an Xbox they want to sell?

  Chameleon: Just ignore these jerks, Mr. President. #FiresideTweets

  molina: Moon rocks. #FiresideTweets

  MissMolly: #FiresideTweets I LOVE MOON!!!!!!

  Gollywog: How do I log outta here? #FiresideTweets

  Rattlesnake: Mr. Presid
ent, will U marry me? #FiresideTweets

  CCR: #FiresideTweets Moon is my hero.

  LODI: Moon = the man. #FiresideTweets

  JFog: Mr. President, I want to apologize on behalf of all Americans. These people are stupid. #FiresideTweets

  Mary: @JFog Hey, who ya calling stupid? You’re the stupid one! #FiresideTweets

  HERICANE: Is #FiresideTweets the hashtag of the Wilma Flintstone Fan Club?

  bayou: How do I get a date with the First Lady? She’s HOT! #FiresideTweets

  After an hour, we logged off. The people of America did seem to approve of me. But Lane and I decided to abandon the Fireside Internet Chat for the time being.

  Once I understood how the White House and the presidency basically worked, I was ready to put the wheels of government into motion. I encouraged Chief of Staff Lane Brainard to prepare a full schedule for me. The more appointments I had during the day, I figured, the more I would be able to accomplish, the more good I could do for the country.

  Lane told me exactly how to handle my appointments. When somebody entered the Oval Office, he explained, I should shake hands, greet him or her, chat for a few minutes, and pose for a photo. Then I should look at my watch and apologize that I couldn’t spend more time with the person. Lane would escort the guest out and whisk in the next appointment.

  “Bring ’em on,” I said.

  My first appointment was with a group of newspaper editors. I shook hands, made a little small talk, posed for photos, and told them I was sorry I couldn’t spend more time with them. They seemed thrilled to be in the White House and didn’t complain when twenty minutes were up.

  I barely had the chance to catch my breath when Lane brought in a senior citizens’ group. After twenty minutes they were gone, replaced by a women’s group.

  A group of disabled veterans was next, followed by some Elvis impersonators, who sang a song. Then came a garden club. Some animal lovers. An organization that wanted to abolish Daylight Saving Time.

  One after another they came and went. I presented some people with plaques that Lane had made up. People gave me gifts. I met with a team of kids who almost won the Little League World Series. A writer from Boys’ Life interviewed me. I was introduced to some people who contributed money to my campaign just so they could get their picture taken with me and put it on their walls at home.

  After a while, I gave up trying to pay attention to who they were and why they were there. I just shook hands, said hello, posed for pictures, and they were gone.

  Mayors came and went. Senators. Governors. There might have been a few kings in there, though I’m not sure, because after a while they all blended in with one another. It didn’t matter how important they were. Lane shuffled them in and out of the Oval Office like they were customers at Taco Bell.

  It was mind-numbing. After a few hours of meeting and greeting, my head was spinning. The barrage of camera flashes was giving me afterimages — black spots floating before my eyes.

  “Keep smiling,” Lane said between appointments. “You’re doing great.”

  The parade through the Oval Office continued. I met with some college kids who built a car that runs on moose turds. A barbershop quartet sang “Sweet Adeline” to me. Then I met the ambassador from a foreign country I’d never heard of. He was followed by the Michigan Apple Queen. Or maybe she was the Wisconsin Cheese Queen. Whoever she was, she was wearing a crown and left something edible that made a stain on my desk.

  One after another, the endless parade continued, and everybody had a picture taken with me.

  “We’re going to get great press coverage tomorrow,” Lane said gleefully. “Wait until you see the headlines. You’re doing a terrific job. These people love you. Keep smiling.”

  After a few more appointments, it was getting late in the afternoon. I was totally exhausted. It was a relief when Lane said there was only one more appointment left on the day’s schedule.

  “Who is it?” I asked wearily.

  “An organization that calls itself CMLMIMD, sir.”

  “What does that stand for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Send ’em in,” I said, suppressing a yawn. Lane brought two men and a woman into the Oval Office.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, President Moon,” the woman said as she curtsied and shook my hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” I replied. Lane had told me that anytime someone said what a pleasure it was to meet me, I should always reply that the pleasure was all mine.

  “President Moon,” one of the men said, clearing his throat nervously, “we realize you’re busy so we won’t waste your time with small talk.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “It’s been a long day.”

  “For about one hundred years,” the man continued, “people have been calling breakfast the most important meal of the day. We believe that, in fact, lunch is far more important than breakfast. And we believe it is a gross injustice to perpetrate this hoax on the American people.”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted. “What’s the name of your organization?”

  “The CMLMIMD, sir,” the other man chimed in. “The Committee to Make Lunch the Most Important Meal of the Day.”

  “Would you excuse me for one moment?” I asked, and pulled Lane aside to talk in private.

  “Are these people nuts?” I whispered.

  “I’m not sure,” he whispered back.

  “Who cares which is the most important meal of the day?”

  “Moon, they apparently care a lot.”

  “Why am I wasting my time with these bozos?”

  “They contributed five million dollars to your campaign, Moon.”

  “So what?”

  “It could be argued that you wouldn’t have been elected president without their help.”

  I went back to the smiling CMLMIMD people. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Please continue.”

  “It is our belief,” the lady said, “that lunch has been a second-class citizen for too long. Lots of people skip breakfast or just wolf down a Pop-Tart. We feel the time is long overdue to right this wrong and give lunch the credit it deserves.”

  “We’d like to discuss it with you tomorrow,” the first guy said. “Perhaps over lunch?”

  “That’s it!” I shouted. “Get out of here!”

  “What?” the three of them said, shocked.

  “Mr. President!” Lane yelled, trying to stop me from saying anything else. Secret Service Agent Doe peeked in the door to see what was going on.

  “Get these people out of here!” I hollered. “You and your organization are a bunch of losers who have too much time on your hands!”

  “So this is how you treat your contributors,” the lady said angrily, pointing her finger at me. “Well, we got you elected, Moon, and we can ruin you, too!”

  “Get a life, lady!” I shouted as Agent Doe grabbed her.

  “Hey, we never got our picture taken with the president!” one of the men complained as the guards dragged him away.

  “Beat it!” I screamed.

  “Moon! You can’t kick your supporters out of the Oval Office!” Lane complained after the whole fuss was over.

  “They’re morons,” I said. “Where did idiots like that get five million dollars anyway?”

  “By skipping a lot of breakfasts and dinners, I guess,” Lane said. “But Moon, you’ve got to understand how politics works. When somebody does a politician a favor, they expect a favor in return. Would it really hurt anybody if you named lunch the most important meal of the day?”

  “I guess not,” I said wearily.

  At the end of the day, I could barely keep my eyes open. I hadn’t set foot outside all day. I hadn’t seen my parents. I thought about taking a swim in the White House pool or playing some video games in the game room. But I was so tired, I just collapsed on my bed and was asleep in minutes.

  When I woke up the next morning, I opened the Washington Post to see this big headline:
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  MOON THROWS TANTRUM!

  VISITORS CLAIM PREZ WENT

  BERSERK IN OVAL OFFICE!

  And this smaller one:

  Lunch Named

  Most Important

  Meal of the Day

  Having a Secret Service agent watch your every move is creepy.

  Everywhere I turned, Agent Doe was there. When I woke up in the morning, he was outside my bedroom door, waiting for me. When I went to sleep at night, he was there. He never seemed to sleep or eat. He was always hanging around, twenty feet away from me, watching me but pretending not to.

  The weird thing is, after a while, I got used to it. I stopped noticing him lurking in the shadows. He became like a piece of furniture. A piece of furniture that carried a gun and just happened to move wherever I moved, like one magnet being pulled along by another magnet.

  Chief of Staff Lane Brainard told me to take up jogging, but the president can’t just go outside alone. Agent Doe had to go with me. I thought he was going to complain, but he didn’t. At more than 300 pounds, he knew he could use the exercise.

  We jogged early in the morning, before the streets were filled with people. Leaving from the White House, we could usually make it to the Lincoln Memorial and back in less than an hour. We must have been a sight, this enormous bald-headed black man jogging with a skinny thirteen-year-old white boy. Trailing behind us was always a car with Secret Service agents inside holding the football.

  Each morning, Agent Doe led me on a different route. He said that if we went the same way every day, it would be easier for somebody to try to harm me. It seemed ridiculous, but when it came to security, Agent Doe was my boss.

  As we jogged, little by little he told me about himself. He was from California. He’d never met his father, he said. His mom couldn’t afford to send him to college, so he put himself through school by working as a bouncer in a bar. A bouncer is a big guy who breaks up fights and kicks out people who get rowdy.

  He didn’t like that job, so he joined the Army. He fought in Iraq and Afghanistan, and his bravery was noticed by one of the generals. Soon Doe was with the Secret Service.