I search for Meghan but don’t see her anywhere. And don’t have the time to keep looking. The Brookside girls are on the field, and the referee signals the start of the first half.
The ball is kicked from center circle and my stomach does an Olympic-style double backflip with a half twist.
Focus, I tell myself. What happens for the next thirty minutes is a blur. Players clad in blue jerseys (ours) and red jerseys (theirs) kick the ball up and down the field in front of supporters screaming at the top of their lungs for their respective teams.
I try to block out the noise and focus on one thing. The ball. More than a few times it hurtles toward me, and each time, I lunge, jump, or dive, doing my best to catch or block the ball and prevent Brookside from scoring. Then I pass it back to my teammates.
Each time I hear the roar of approval from the crowd. But I don’t let it distract me. Surprisingly, my mind stays on one thing: doing my job.
But Brookside’s goalie does her job, too. It’s a hard-fought first half, and neither team scores. When the buzzer signals that it’s time for the break before the second half, all of the players on both teams jog back to their benches.
I plop down on mine and wait for my breathing to steady.
“Great job, ladies,” says Coach Newton.
Emily Peters slides onto the bench next to me. “Good work,” she says.
“Yeah, awesome defense,” adds Callie.
Other girls on the team voice their approval, too.
“Thanks,” I breathe out, pleased by their compliments, but too winded to say much more.
I dig a bottle of Gatorade out of my gym bag, screw off the cap, and chug it down. As I drink, I see Ben in the stands waving and giving me a thumbs-up like I did a good job. Preventing Brookside from scoring was a lot of work. Now all I have to do is keep it up for another thirty minutes. I try not to think about what happens if I don’t.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a towel while Coach Newton goes over our second-half plays and what she expects from both our offense and our defense.
“Stay focused,” she warns when the buzzer sounds that ends the break. “And Amanda,” she says, looking straight at me. “Watch out for air balls. It’s what Brookside is known for.”
“Will do,” I say as I sprint back to my position.
The second half gets under way, and it’s not any different from the first. Players move the ball up and down the field, with the support of the cheering crowd, but neither team scores. With just ten minutes remaining, the energy on the field and in the stands is supercharged.
So am I.
My arms and legs ache. Sweat drips down my forehead and back as I block and catch balls. But I don’t care. When one of the biggest players on the Brookside team kicks the ball straight at our goal, I dive across the ground and use my entire body to deflect the shot.
The roar of the Liberty crowd fills my ears.
I look up at the clock. Less than two minutes to go, and so far I’ve done what I’m supposed to do: prevent Brookside from scoring.
My teammates pass the ball back down the field. It goes from Julie to Emily, who is dribbling it toward the Brookside goal. I will my team to score. If we do, I’ll have the game and a whole lot of votes in the bag. I can practically taste the victory.
I relax, just for a second, and glance up into the stands.
That’s when I see it: Meghan and the J’s. They’re all sitting there, looking at something on their phones and laughing. Not one of them is watching the game, and I feel a flash of anger.
How can Meghan sit there looking at Instagram while I’m down here trying to help my team win the most important game of the season? And what kind of a friend does that make her that she doesn’t even care enough to watch and cheer me on? On the mad scale, I’m a ten!
Then I hear my name being shouted. “AMANDA!”
And faster than I can react to what’s happening on the field, an air ball goes sailing right over my head and into the goal. The roar of the crowd fills my ears.
But it isn’t coming from the Liberty side of the field. The fans in the Brookside bleachers are going CRAZY, and my stomach goes into free fall.
There’s only a minute and a half left to play. I say a silent prayer that somehow my team will score, but when the buzzer sounds, it’s a prayer that has fallen into the unanswered category.
I look down at my cleats, too afraid to look at the disappointed faces of my teammates. Or Coach. Or the fans in the stands. And unable to watch the Brookside players doing their victory dance. One second, maybe two or three, was the amount of time that I lost my focus. Three teensy, tiny little seconds. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.
In that short little window of time, my team lost the game.
And quite possibly, I lost an election.
Chapter Sixteen
I’M FINE… FINE. FINE. FINE. FINE. FINE.
I’m fine,” I tell my parents. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
They exchange a worried look, then Dad sips from his soda and puts his glass down on the table. It makes a loud thunk sound.
“Amanda, that’s eight fines since we sat down. What’s going on?’
I stuff my mouth with pizza. Papa Rocco’s mushroom and pepperoni pizza. My favorite pizza in Arlington. If I were stranded on a deserted island and could only take one food, it would definitely be Papa Rocco’s mushroom and pepperoni pizza. But now I’m eating it not because it tastes good. It’s a stall tactic. With my mouth full, there’s no way I can answer Dad’s question.
The one about what’s going on with me.
There are some things a seventh-grade girl just doesn’t want to discuss with her parents. Like that she just lost the biggest soccer game of the season, has a whole team of girls mad at her, and got a long lecture from her coach about staying focused during the WHOLE game, and that if she doesn’t at the next game, she’s out as starting goalie. Not to mention she’s about to lose an election to her ex–best friend. Which Meghan so is. Especially after today’s game. I just don’t get how she could sit there looking at her phone while I was trying to win a game.
Mom nibbles the crust from her slice of pizza and studies me.
“Amanda, I know my daughter,” she finally says. “And I know something is bothering you. You can tell me right now or…”
I clamp my lips shut and wait for option B.
“Or I can guess,” Mom adds. “Is this about the game? The election?” She glances at Dad like she’s looking for his approval before saying what comes next. He gives a small nod, and she adds, “Or what’s happening with Meghan? Honey, she’s your best friend and I know that having her as an opponent doesn’t feel good.”
I sigh. “Fine,” I say.
“No more fines!” Mom and Dad grunt at the same time.
I push away my plate. I didn’t mean fine as in I’m fine. More like, Fine, I’ll start talking. Telling my parents everything that’s wrong can’t make me feel any worse than I already do.
“It’s all of the above,” I say. Then I start by telling my parents about everything that has happened with Meghan. And how she came to the game today but wasn’t even watching.
I sigh. “Ever since the campaign started, all of our friends are now her friends. She’s always with them and her running mate, Bree. Seriously, it’s like they’re glued to her side.” I shoot Dad a helpless look. “Remember the talk you wanted me to have with her?”
Dad nods.
“Well, there was no way I could have it, because she’s never alone!”
Mom shakes her head. “I know how hard it can be when things with your best friend aren’t right. But I have a feeling you girls will work through your differences.”
“Um, Mom, I’m not so sure about that.” A best friend gone AWOL (a military term I learned in Social Studies that means “absent without official leave,” or away from one’s post) makes me wish more than ever I had a dog that could curl up on my lap and
look at me with eyes that say Don’t worry, you’ll always have me. Now seems as good a time as any to remind my parents how much I want one. “I’d probably feel a whole lot less bad about what’s happening with Meghan if I had a dog,” I say.
My parents exchange a look I can’t quite read. “Amanda, let’s stick to the election conversation. How is your campaign going?” Dad asks.
I frown. “Awful! Meghan’s campaign posters and stickers were soooooo much better than mine. And there’s the issue of who is voting for whom.”
I tell Mom and Dad about the groups in my grade promising to vote for Frankie, the ones supporting Meghan, and how Ben got people to promise to vote for me if I stopped Brookside from beating Liberty.
“I didn’t do it. And now there’s no way I’m going to win this election.” I stare down at my plate. “Even the girls on my team aren’t going to vote for me.” I think about the “we told you so” conversation they had with me after the game. Not my idea of fun.
“Yes, they will,” says Mom.
“No,” I look up to correct her. “They won’t. They didn’t want me to run in the first place because they didn’t think I could play good soccer AND run for office.” I blow out a breath. “And they were right. It’s my fault we lost the game.”
The server returns to our table to refill our water glasses. When she’s done, Dad gives me a father-knows-best look. “Kids will still vote for you even though Liberty lost the game. And I know you’ll find a way to get the support of your teammates.”
“No,” I say to Dad. “I won’t. I’m the reason my team lost, and everyone knows it. I’m not just talking about the girls on my team. I’m talking about EVERYONE in my grade!”
“Have you heard the term yesterday’s news?” asks Dad. “People have short memories. By next week, they won’t even remember the soccer game.”
I shake my head. They’ll definitely remember.
“Amanda…” Mom says my name in her I’m-about-to-make-an-important-statement voice, but I interrupt before she can say more.
“Mom, no one is going to forget about the most important game of the season. I don’t think you understand: NO ONE wants me to be president of the seventh grade.”
I prop my elbows on the table and let my chin fall into my hands. “I’m toast.”
I see Dad biting back a smile as he motions for the check. “Amanda, I’m about to teach you an important rule of all campaigns: it’s not over until it’s over.”
“Your father is right,” adds Mom. “Do you have any idea how many campaigns I was certain I was going to lose up until the very last vote was counted?”
“None?” I guess. Mom never loses. She never even comes close to losing.
My answer makes both of my parents laugh out loud and the people in the next booth look at us like they want to know what’s so funny.
“Amanda, your mother has been in more close elections than I can count,” says Dad. “Even people who promise to vote for a candidate often don’t. But as campaigns come to a close, things have a funny way of happening that persuade voters to change their minds.”
I scratch at a mosquito bite on my wrist. “What kinds of things are you talking about?”
Dad leans forward as he speaks. “All you’ve done so far is hang posters and pass out stickers. Those things set the tone of your campaign. But they’re not nearly as important as what your campaign is really about. What will you do as class president?”
I get what Dad is saying. “Interviews with the candidates are on Tuesday,” I say. “And speeches are Thursday morning before the voting.”
“Great!” says Dad. “That gives you two opportunities to share your platform with your classmates.” He picks up a spoon from the table and sticks it in front of me like it’s a microphone. “Amanda Adams, what would you do as president of the seventh grade?”
Ben and I have talked a lot about this, which means it’s a question I can answer. I sit up straighter in my chair and lean over Dad’s mock microphone.
“I’ll start a petition for longer lunches.” I lay out my plan for Mom and Dad about how I plan to lobby Principal Ferguson to add five more minutes to lunch. It sounds like a small thing, but anyone (and that would be every single student at my school) who has had to throw down their lunch to get to their next class on time knows what a difference five minutes would make.
“I like that idea,” says Dad.
Mom smiles. “Me too.”
“Yeah,” I say. “A lot of kids will. Ben and I talked to almost everyone in our grade to see what issues are important to them. The jocks want the track resurfaced. The brass section of the band wants new instruments. The photo club thinks they need a new darkroom. And the vegan club wants a ban on junk food in the vending machines. The two things everyone we talked to wanted were a Starbucks on campus and longer lunches.”
Dad smiles. “Sounds to me like you’re backing the right issue.”
“I think so,” I say. “Hopefully Principal Ferguson will agree to longer lunches. I’d feel bad promising something and then not delivering it.”
“Amanda, another cardinal rule of campaigns is to never EVER promise something that you’re not sure you can deliver,” says Dad. “You can promise to try.”
“Got it,” I say. I understand the difference.
Our server returns to our table with the check and three peppermints. I pop one into my mouth and give my parents a grateful smile. “Thanks for your help,” I tell them.
“Glad we could be of assistance,” says Mom. “Just remember… the days leading up to voting day can be the most stressful.”
“She’s right,” says Dad. “Be prepared for whatever might come your way.”
I roll my eyes. I’ll admit that something could go wrong when you get interviewed on school TV and have to make a speech in front of your whole grade.
But nothing can be worse than losing the soccer game and knowing you let down your entire team AND school. Or enduring the stares and mumbles that came my way after I did. Most of them were behind my back, but it made me feel like I had a giant “L,” for loser, posted on my chest. Even worse was my talk with Coach Newton after the game. She was crystal clear when she warned me that I have one shot at redemption or I’m O-U-T as starting goalie.
I shudder just thinking about it.
I can’t rewrite history. But what I can do is focus on the future.
Ben and I spent a lot of time finding the most important issue to campaign on. Tomorrow, he’s coming over and we’re working on what I’m going to say at the interview and in my speech.
Bottom line: Nothing that happens next week can be as bad as what happened this week.
Right? Right!
Chapter Seventeen
IF IT LOOKS LIKE A DOG AND BARKS LIKE A DOG, IT STILL MIGHT NOT BE A DOG
It’s Monday afternoon. Fifth-period science class. I try to focus on what Mrs. Lee is saying about the supplies for our charcoal water purifying experiment, but that’s not so easy to do. Not when my lab partner keeps talking about what happened at last week’s soccer game. So much for Dad’s yesterday’s news theory.
“You must have been pretty upset,” Meghan says.
“Um, yeah,” I say, stating the obvious. I’m not sure if she’s trying to make me feel better or worse. I glance over at her for a clue.
Meghan’s wearing the jean jacket I persuaded her to buy. The one with little silver studs all over it. I remember the day she found it at the mall and I told her it was soooo her and she had to get it. I also remember the day we talked Mrs. Lee into making us lab partners and gave her our solemn promise we would spend our time in the lab experimenting, not talking. Then I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Now I don’t feel like opening it.
“Amanda.” Her mouth starts to move like she has something more to say, but before she has the chance, Mrs. Lee calls on me.
“Amanda, do you and Meghan have a pre-experiment hypothesis?” she asks.
“We do,”
I say. Meghan and I might not be best friends, but we’re still A+ lab partners. We both love science, and even before we both wanted to be president of our class, we wanted to be famous scientists. We even had ideas for things we wanted to invent—gummy bears that make you remember everything you learn so you’re always prepared for pop quizzes, and an aerosol spray that prevents bad hair days and pimples.
Our love of science will never change. But other things have changed a whole, whole lot.
“Our pre-experiment hypothesis is that charcoal can remove molecules from water,” I say. “This is based on our previous knowledge that charcoal filters are used to clean water.”
“Good work,” says Mrs. Lee.
Meghan gives me a thumbs-up, even though we both know the analysis was a simple one. We both have Brita pitchers in our refrigerators at home, which use carbon filters.
Mrs. Lee is talking, and I force myself to focus on her directions for our experiment.
Fill a measuring cup with ½ cup of water.
Add eight drops of red food coloring and stir until mixed.
Divide the colored water into two baby food jars.
In one jar, add two teaspoons of activated carbon.
Set the jars aside and check them each day for three days for color changes.
When Mrs. Lee is done talking, Meghan and I start prepping for our experiment. Usually when we prep, we talk. That’s almost always when Mrs. Lee has to remind us that we’re in class. But today, Meghan and I fill our baby food jars and neither of us says a word.
Whatever Meghan was going to say before Mrs. Lee called on me, she doesn’t. And I don’t say anything, either. It feels weird to be so quiet during lab. But it’s like neither of us is sure what to say.
When we’re done, we label our jars A & M and put them on the observation shelf.
The Campaign Page 9
