by Dan Gutman
“Hi!” I said to each person cheerfully. “My name is Judson Moon. I’m twelve years old and I’m running for president of the YOU-nited States.”
“Keep smiling,” Lane whispered in my ear. “And don’t say anything that will make anybody angry. Kiss some babies.”
“I’m not really into kissing,” I complained. “Do I have to?”
“Then hug people.”
“I’m not very good at it,” I admitted. “I never know which side I should put my head. If I put my head toward the left and if the other person puts her head toward the right, we bump heads. Can’t I just punch ’em on the arm?”
We never had the chance to solve the problem. A beat-up Chevy Nova pulled up, followed by a minivan. A sloppily dressed guy got out of the Nova. He was carrying a pad in his hand and a pencil behind his ear.
“Judson Moon?” he said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Pete Guerra, with the Cap Times. I figured you wouldn’t mind if I brought a few of the TV newsboys with me.”
A couple of guys got out of the minivan lugging video cameras, still cameras, a tripod, tape recorder, and microphone. They took a bunch of pictures of me serving people lemonade, and then Lane ushered us off to the side so Pete Guerra could interview me.
“So why ya running for president, kid?”
“Well, I figure grown-ups have had the last one thousand years to mess up the world. Now it’s our turn.”
“That’s a good quote,” Guerra said, looking up from the pad he was scribbling on. “Did you think of that yourself or did your campaign manager feed it to you?”
“Lane’s job is to run the campaign,” I explained. “My job, as a candidate for the highest office in our nation, is to come up with good quotes.”
“Ya got any pets, kid?”
“A parakeet,” I replied. “Her name is Sn — Cuddles,” I lied. “Okay, let’s get down to more serious business, Judson. People are going to want to know what positions you take.”
“I play third base,” I said. “Sometimes I’ll play the outfield if the coach needs me out there.”
Guerra rolled his eyes and shook his head from side to side. “No, I mean your positions on the issues. Your opinions. Like, what do you think about gun control?”
“Guns don’t kill people. They usually just cause serious injuries.”
“What about race?”
“I love all the races. My dream is to see the Indianapolis 500 and the Kentucky Derby someday.”
“What’s the first thing you plan to do when you become president?”
“Install a skateboard ramp in the Oval Office and redecorate the White House with hip-hop posters.”
“When did you decide to run for president, Judson?”
“When I found out the White House had a bowling alley.”
When Guerra had enough of my wisecracks, he moved over to June Syers, who was dispensing her worldview for free with every cup of lemonade.
“Mrs. Syers,” asked Guerra. “How did you become Judson Moon’s running mate?”
“Musta been my good looks and sparkling personality,” she said.
“Does Moon have what it takes to lead the country?”
“He can’t hardly do any worse than the fools who are runnin’ it now, can he?” she said. Then she proceeded to give him a capsule history of the United States, which basically consisted of saying the Indians were fools, the Pilgrims were fools, the Founding Fathers were fools, the Union and the Confederacy were fools, and every politician except Franklin D. Roosevelt was a fool.
“And I oughta know,” she concluded, “’cause I lived through all of ’em.”
As soon as Guerra and the TV guys left, Lane began tearing down our stand. Mrs. Syers counted up the money, and proudly announced that we had raised sixty-five dollars. There was a lot more lemonade we could have sold, but Lane wasn’t interested.
“The idea wasn’t to sell lemonade,” he said. “The idea was to make news. The money will come later.”
“Turn on channel three!” Lane shouted breathlessly into the phone that night while I was eating dinner.
Dad and Mom didn’t seem to be paying attention to the TV, so I switched channels. “After these messages,” the anchorman bellowed, “we’ll tell you about a twelve-year-old boy who says he’s running for president. Stay tuned.”
“Where do they get these stupid stories?” Dad muttered from behind his newspaper.
I didn’t say a word. I wanted to see the look on his face. After three commercials, the news anchor came back on.
“Well, they say that in America any youngster can grow up to be president. But at least one youngster isn’t going to wait. Twelve-year-old Judson Moon of Madison is throwing his baseball cap into the ring right now.” Mom and Dad actually lowered their newspapers and looked at the TV. My face filled the screen and Dad’s jaw fell open. Mom dropped the glass she was holding and it shattered on the floor.
“Grown-ups have had the last one thousand years to mess up the world,” I heard myself say. “Now it’s our turn.”
“Moon will be running as a third party candidate representing ‘The Lemonade Party’ for the presidency in November,” the anchorman continued. “The sixth grader and his running mate — an elderly African-American woman named June Syers — have already collected the two thousand signatures they need to get on the ballot in Wisconsin, and they’re raising money by selling lemonade at a stand in front of Judson’s house. We asked Mr. Moon how he plans to get around the Constitution, which clearly states that a candidate must be thirty-five years of age to run for the presidency.”
“I’m actually thirty-six,” I said to the camera with a smirk. “I’m just extremely young for my age.”
“That’s our news for tonight. Good night and may all your news be good news.”
Before Mom or Dad could say a word, the phone rang. It was my aunt Lucy.
“Am I hallucinating!?” she shrieked. “Or did I just see you on TV?”
The instant I hung up the phone with Aunt Lucy, it rang again. It was one of my teachers. When I hung up with her, the phone rang again. Kids from school were calling. Mom’s friends were calling. Total strangers were calling. Finally, Dad took the phone off the hook.
“Is this one of your pranks?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he was angry or amused. “It’s sort of a prank,” I replied. “I don’t expect to win or anything. You’re always telling me I should get involved with extracurricular activities. Well …”
“I meant you should join the chess club or the school paper or something!” he said, his voice rising. “I didn’t mean you should run for president!”
“Why didn’t you tell us, dear?” asked Mom. “I did tell you, Mom. You just weren’t listening.”
“Well, I think it’s cute, honey,” she said, “as long as it doesn’t interfere with your schoolwork. Remember, homework first, running for president second.”
Dad just rolled his eyes and shook his head slowly from side to side.
In the morning, I got up early and rushed outside to get the paper. There I was on the front page, with this big smile on my face, pouring some lady a cup of lemonade. There was an article to go with the photo:
MOON MISSION: 12-YEAR-OLD ON QUEST FOR WHITE HOUSE
By Pete Guerra
While other boys his age are flipping baseball cards and dyeing their hair purple, Judson Moon has other things on his mind — like running for president of the United States.
The 12-year-old from Madison says he is disillusioned with the Republicans and Democrats and has decided to mount a campaign as a third-party candidate in November’s election.
“Grown-ups have had the last one thousand years to mess up the world,” claims Moon. “Now it’s our turn.”
The young man, outfitted in a suit and tie, was raising money on Saturday by selling lemonade in front of his house for 25 cents a cup. He will have to sell 80 million cups to raise $20 million, the figure he says he needs to mount a national
campaign.
Moon’s running mate and fellow lemonade saleswoman is Mrs. June Syers, a retired nurse who used to babysit for the candidate.
“We’re a perfect team,” Moon says. “I’m young and she’s old. I’m white and she’s black. I’m dumb and she’s smart.”
Watch out, Democrats and Republicans! Stand back, Tea Partiers! Here comes The Lemonade Party!
Word gets around fast. When I walked into school on Monday morning, it was like I was from another planet. Everywhere I went, everybody was looking at me, pointing, and whispering. I’d walk toward a crowd of kids and they’d part to let me through.
Pretty weird!
Abby wished me good luck. Several of the teachers gave me the thumbs-up sign. Even Chelsea came over to me.
“You weren’t kidding about running for president, were you?” she said, a lot friendlier than she was when we met.
“No, I wasn’t,” I replied. “You weren’t kidding about being First Lady, were you?”
“Actually I was,” she said. “But now that I know you’re really doing this, you can count on me.”
Arthur Krantz made a face when he saw me, and I made the same face right back at him. As every politician knows, you can’t please everybody.
Text copyright © 1999 by Dan Gutman. All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
This edition first printing, June 2012
Cover art by Paper Dog Studio
Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll
e-ISBN 978-0-545-35564-3
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