The Campaign

by The Campaign (retail) (epub)

  Then Amanda turned and looked at Meghan, who was sitting in a desk in the last row of the classroom, next to Bree Simon. And she was smiling as she handed her own form to Mrs. Lee. Amanda tried to make eye contact with Meghan—something she’d done hundreds of times before. Always when she did, Meghan made eye contact back like she knew, in the way only a best friend could, that Amanda wanted her attention. But this time, Meghan didn’t know. Or pretended not to. Either way, she didn’t make eye contact back with Amanda. Then Mrs. Lee asked for all eyes on her and made a few more announcements before homeroom ended. When it did, Amanda hurried out of the classroom. Partly because she had first-period Algebra with Mr. Corbett, whose classroom was all the way across campus, which meant she had to hurry to get there in time. But also because she was scared that if she waited, Meghan would walk out of homeroom with Bree. Amanda wanted to talk to Meghan about what happened, but she didn’t want to talk to Meghan AND Bree. And without looking behind her as she left homeroom, she had a bad feeling they would be together.

  So… Amanda walked alone to first-period Algebra and her brain filled with questions.

  Questions like: What in the world made Meghan decide to run for president when she knew that meant they would be running against each other? Did Meghan change her hair and get new clothes because she wanted to look extra good to announce that she was running for president of their grade? Why did she sit next to Bree Simon in homeroom? Like, what did Bree Simon have to do with things? And most important, how were she and Meghan supposed to keep being best friends now that they were opponents, too?

  Chapter Four

  THE PROBLEM WITH CINNAMON ROLLS

  (OR, WHY THIS WEDNESDAY I’M TOTALLY NOT IN THE MOOD FOR MINE)

  My eyes dart around the cafeteria looking for Meghan. And Jen. And Jill. And Jayda. Since the start of seventh grade, they’ve been my B-schedule lunch buddies. Normally, I don’t have to look for them. Especially on Cinnamon Roll Wednesdays.

  Wednesdays are when the cafeteria at Liberty Middle School serves breakfast for lunch. Eggs. Bacon. Hash browns. And cinnamon rolls. Ooey, gooey, warm, and yummy cinnamon rolls! Meghan and the J’s (that’s what Jen, Jill, and Jayda are officially called) and I all LOVE Cinnamon Roll Wednesdays. We’re always at the head of the line so we’re first to get our breakfast for lunch, then go right to our seats and gobble it up.

  But today, there’s no sign of Meghan. Or Jen. Or Jill. Or Jayda.

  Ben Ball, class clown and stand-up comedian wannabe (but ain’t gonna be), is behind me and gives a little kick to the back of my ankle.

  “Grab a tray, Adams, and move on. Or move out.” He snort-laughs like his joke was funny. Which it wasn’t. Meghan and I never laugh at his jokes because they’re not funny, but also because if you laugh at even one of them, Ben Ball follows you around, snort-laughing and telling you another and another and another joke until you want to scream, “BEN BALL, STOP TELLING ME JOKES OR I’M GOING TO SCREAM!” But today, I turn around.

  “Ha, ha.” I fake-laugh, then take a tray and move up into the line.

  Ben takes his own tray and shoves it onto the sliding rails so it bumps against mine. “Suddenly you think my jokes are funny?” He sniffs the air like he smells something other than warm cinnamon. “Buttering me up, eh? Trying to get my vote. Heard you’re running for class president. Is it true, Adams? You’d make a good president, you know.”

  “Um, thanks,” I say, surprised at how fast word travels around here.

  “So where’s your posse?” he asks.

  Meghan. The J’s. My posse. I scan the cafeteria again, but no sign of them anywhere. “Running late. They’ll be here,” I say, hopeful I sound more confident than I feel.

  Ben snort-laughs. “Not so sure about that,” he says. “Wanna know what I heard?”

  I’m pretty sure I don’t.

  I stare into the hairnet of the cafeteria lady who is scooping scrambled eggs onto plates and passing them along to the guy (also wearing a hairnet) in charge of hash browns. What could Ben have heard? Is it even possible that, only three periods later, the fact that Meghan is running against me for class president has already become newsworthy?

  My stomach churns, but not from hunger. “Um, what’d you hear?” I finally ask.

  Ben gives me a friendly clap on the back. “Now you want to be friends, too, huh?”

  I don’t answer. At least, not right away. The lady at the end of the line, the one in charge of doling out the cinnamon rolls, puts one on my plate and hands it to me.

  “Gave you a big one,” she says with a smile. “I know how much you and your friends like them. Then she looks down the line like she was expecting my normal gang of girls to be right behind me. Not Ben Ball. When she sees they’re not, she leans forward and whispers, “I hear there’s a virus going around.”

  It’s almost like she doesn’t want me to feel bad that they’re not there. Which makes me feel worse. I thank her, take a carton of milk, and move out of the line.

  “C’mon, Adams, you can sit with me,” Ben says. “I’ll spill the tea.”

  He shoots me a smug smile. But one last look around the cafeteria confirms what I already suspected: my friends are nowhere in sight. I walk with Ben to a table. He sits, then stuffs a whole slice of bacon into his mouth. When he’s done chewing, he looks at me. “So, you want the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Or the sugarcoated version?”

  Neither option seems great.

  “Let’s go with full truth,” Ben says before I have a chance to answer. “Rumor has it there’s a coup in the hen house.”

  “A what?” I ask.

  Ben shakes his head at me. “You take French. You know what a coup is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s when power is seized. Like from a government. But what does it have to do with a hen house?” I don’t wait for Ben to explain. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good. I lean across the table. “What’s going on?” I ask, dreading Ben’s answer.

  Ben leans across the table, and I catch a whiff of bacon and body odor.

  “I was in the office third period and heard Principal Ferguson tell Coach Cook that there are only three candidates running for seventh-grade president,” Ben says. “You. Meghan. And Frankie Chang. You know… the kid who should be in fourth grade but is so smart he finished third and skipped straight to seventh.”

  I raise a brow. “Frankie Chang skipped three grades?”

  Ben clacks his teeth together. The sound makes me want to get up from the table and run. “Maybe it was two. Or one.” Ben waves a hand through the air. “I don’t know exactly how many grades the boy skipped. The details of Frankie Chang’s academic record aren’t what matters.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Adams, you’re going to be running against a prepubescent math genius and your best friend, or, I should say, former best friend.” He clamps his lips together like he’s waiting for the words to sink in, then says, “There’s more. And you might not like it. I also heard Principal Ferguson tell Coach Cook that Meghan picked Bree Simon to be her running mate.”

  The cinnamon roll on my plate morphs into a giant, icing-covered lump of clay. Meghan is running against me! And she picked Bree Simon to be her vice president!

  Bree Simon!?! Beautiful, cool, popular, superstar of the girls’ basketball team Bree Simon!? She’s Meghan’s vice president? COULD THINGS BE ANY WORSE?!?

  “Yes!” says Ben like he’s reading my mind. “Things are much worse than they appear. Meghan has also picked her campaign staff. Your lunch buddies, otherwise known as the J’s, are all going to be campaigning for the incomparable Miss Meghan H. and Baby Bree.

  The way Ben says their names makes them sound more like rap stars than potential class officers. I shake my head like I’ve heard enough, but Ben keeps talking.

  “That’s right, Adams. The ladies who lunch with you… the ones who always eat their cinnamon rolls inside at the table in the corner… are sitting on the
outside benches eating the lunches they brought from home. And who are they eating them with? Baby Bree herself.”

  The cafeteria spins around me and I grip the edges of the table.

  At least now I know why Meghan and Jen, Jill, and Jayda aren’t here. But it doesn’t make it any better. Meghan running for president against me. Picking Bree as her veep. Eating lunch with her. Asking the J’s to campaign for her. This is all a mistake.

  A HUGE MISTAKE!

  When I woke up this morning, I was so excited about the day ahead. I thought for sure Meghan and I would be spending it making plans for our campaign. Now all I want to do is talk to her and straighten out this whole mess.

  I remember what Dad said last night when I told him I was going to run for president.

  “Don’t say you want to be the next president of the seventh grade. Say you’re going to be the next president of the seventh grade.”

  I don’t just want to straighten this out with Meghan.

  I’m going to straighten it out!

  “Um, Adams.” Ben waves his hands in front of my face like he’s trying to get my attention. “I don’t know where your head is, but it needs to be thinking about who you’re going to ask to be your vice president.” He sits straighter. “I’m available. And you know what they say: everyone likes a funny candidate.”

  I wrinkle my nose at Ben. “I’ve never heard that.”

  He flashes me a smile, this one so big I can actually see his back teeth.

  “Stick with me, Adams, and I’ll teach you all sorts of things,” Ben says. “How about this one: Why’d the vice president cross the road?”

  But I miss the delivery of Ben’s punch line.

  Right now, I don’t have time for jokes. I look at the big clock on the cafeteria wall. Lunches at Liberty Middle School are short. They fly by fast, but there’s still eight minutes left of this one. Just enough time for me to go talk to Meghan.

  And straighten this whole mess out.

  Chapter Five

  SMACKDOWN

  (OR, IT’S A FREE COUNTRY. HAVEN’T YA HEARD?)

  I march out of the cafeteria, past the outdoor picnic tables filled with students eating their lunches, laughing, and talking. I don’t stop until I get to the one where Meghan, Jen, Jill, and Jayda are sitting with Bree and sharing a bag of apple slices with caramel dip.

  I didn’t even know Meghan liked caramel dip. Not the point. I’m here because I have something I need to say. And the sooner the better. I just want this whole mess straightened out.

  I clear my throat and five sets of eyes (two blue, one hazel, and two brown) stare up at me. My stomach does a weird little flip. Then a flop.

  “Um, can I talk to you?” I ask Meghan.

  Her eyes flash with an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on. “Sure,” she says, but she just keeps sitting there on the bench like whatever I have to say can be said in front of Jen, Jill, Jayda, and Bree.

  I take a deep breath. “Alone?”

  Meghan gives Bree this weird glance, almost like she’s a student asking a teacher for permission to leave class and go to the bathroom. When Bree nods, Meghan stands up and we move a few feet away from their lunch table.

  I look right at Meghan. “So, I’m not really sure what happened this morning.”

  Meghan shakes her hair off her face. “What do you mean?”

  I feel a flash of anger. Meghan knows exactly what I mean. “Well, you knew I was running for president. So, I’m kind of surprised you decided to run, too.” I pause, then continue. “And that you didn’t tell me.”

  “I did tell you,” Meghan shoots at me.

  “Yeah. This morning,” I shoot back. “You told me you were running for president only after I asked you if you wanted to be my vice president.”

  Meghan’s hands are on her hips. “I texted you last night that I had something to tell you.”

  I can feel Bree, Jen, Jill, and Jayda watching us, but I block them out. Dad always says a good politician knows when to change tactics. I’m pretty sure now is a good time to change mine. I go with a softer approach.

  “Meghan, what I’m trying to say is that I was really excited to ask you to be my vice president. I think we’d make a great team.” I pause, carefully choosing the right words. “You’re my best friend. I mean, all you have to do is say you want to be my vice president. I still really want you to be.” I give her my friendliest smile. “So, do you wanna be?”

  Meghan just stands there, chewing on her lip. That’s something she does when she can’t decide what she wants to say.

  “What?” I ask, willing her to say what I want to hear.

  “Amanda.” Meghan says my name like she’s talking in slo-mo. “I’m sorry.”

  She actually kind of looks it. But that doesn’t make me feel any better. It’s suddenly way too hot inside my GIRL POWER hoodie, and I unzip it. “I don’t get it,” I say.

  Meghan’s eyes laser focus on my hoodie. “Remember last weekend at the mall… all you wanted to do was shop for the perfect outfit to announce you were running for president?”

  I nod, unsure where she’s going with this.

  “All day, all we did was shop for you.”

  A memory pops into my head—a memory of Meghan telling me she was starving and wanted to go to the food court and me telling her we had MUCH more important things to do. If I could push a do-over button and make our day at the mall include lunch, I would. But I can’t.

  “I’m sorry about that, Meghan. Really sorry.” I push a stray hair off my face. “But still, does it mean you have to run against me?”

  Meghan just shrugs.

  So that’s her answer. Even though all she’s doing is standing there in front of me, I feel like she just punched me in the gut. HARD! And it makes me want to punch back.

  “So, were you going to tell me that you picked Bree Simon to be your vice president?” I ask, my voice louder than I intended. I motion to Jen, Jill, and Jayda. “Or that you asked them to work on your campaign? I mean, how long have you been planning this?”

  Meghan narrows her eyes at me. “How’d you know that?”

  My mouth falls open. “Does it really matter?”

  Meghan huffs out loud like she’s the one who has the right to be mad. I smell caramel. And apples. “Amanda, for the past week, all you’ve talked about is what you want. How you want to run for class president. How you want to be in charge of the community service project and the dance. How you needed the perfect outfit for today. I mean, honestly, I think you’re being kind of… what’s the word for it?” She chews on her bottom lip. “Selfish. It’s all about you. But what if I want to be president, too?”

  On the mad scale, I shoot straight to ten. How can Meghan call me selfish? Me telling her I want to be president and do things like plan the community service project or the dance isn’t any different than her talking for weeks and weeks (which she did!) about auditioning for the school play and wanting to get the lead. Or talking until my ears go numb about how cute Caleb Johannsen is or what she can do to get him to notice her. And I can’t think of one other day at the mall (and we’ve had lots of them) when it was all about me.

  “I didn’t even know you wanted to be president. Because you never said anything!” I say.

  Meghan lets out a loud huff. “Well, now I have.”

  “We can’t both be president.” My voice is louder than I intended it to be.

  “SMACKDOWN!” a boy yells from the next table.

  I feel my face turning redder than my hair. I don’t want to be having a fight with my best friend. Especially not with everyone watching like it’s some kind of reality show. We’ve never even had a fight, which means I have no clue how to fight with her.

  “I just think best friends shouldn’t run against each other,” I say, taking a reasonable approach. “Wouldn’t it be great if one of us was president and one was vice president?”

  Meghan picks a nonexistent piece of lint off her sweater. “Su
re,” she says. “But I don’t want to be vice president.”

  Neither do I.

  The wheels in my brain are going round and round, faster than a moving fidget spinner, as I piece this all together. Meghan knew I was running. Then decided to run and didn’t tell me. Even worse, she cut her hair and bought new clothes and picked a vice president and a campaign team. ALL BEHIND MY BACK! If you ask me, that’s wrong. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

  “Did you ever think about the fact that it’s a free country?” Meghan asks before I have a chance to say that I think the whole way she has gone about this is wrong. “Anyone can run for office. And I’m running for president of our class.”

  “Go Meghan!” Jayda makes a fist pump in the air.

  “May the best candidate win,” I snap.

  What I don’t say: that candidate is going to be me!

  MY CAMPAIGN INSPIRATION NOTEBOOK

  Thomas Jefferson

  BORN: April 13, 1743, Shadwell, Virginia

  DIED: July 4, 1826 (50 years after the Declaration of Independence was signed!)

  SIGN: Aries (Positive traits: adventurous, courageous, positive. Negative traits: arrogant, stubborn, and confrontational.)

  POLITICAL PARTY: Democratic Republican (sounds confusing, but that’s what the Democratic Party used to be called)