The Campaign

by The Campaign (retail) (epub)

  “Adams, if your mom is going to be upset when she hears it from you, imagine how she’ll feel if she hears if from someone else first. My advice: figure out how to tell her, and do it FAST!”

  REACTIONS #2 AND #3: MOM’S AND DAD’S

  As soon as Mom walks in the front door, I greet her with a cold glass of Diet Snapple Peach Tea (her favorite) and some good news. “Mom, I cleaned my room,” I say.

  Mom accepts the tea, then sinks into an armchair in our den and gives me a tired smile. “Happy to hear it.”

  “Did I hear something about a clean room?” Dad appears in the den without warning, then furrows his brows at me. “Amanda, you hate cleaning your room.”

  That’s true. I do hate cleaning my room. Mom and Dad are now BOTH looking at me like they suspect I had a cleaning motive. Better just to get this over with. I cross my toes inside my sneakers and make a wish that this talk will go well.

  Slowly I tell my parents what happened in the interview. When I get to the part about the tour, Mom shrieks my name.

  “AMANDA! Nixon was meant to be a cautionary tale. Not an example.” She shakes her head. “How could you promise something like that without asking me first?”

  Dad doesn’t give me a chance to answer. He immediately starts in on how it was wrong. How I put Mom in a difficult position. That she has a civic duty to represent all middle school classes in her district. Not just her daughter’s. And that the logistics of this sort of thing are complicated.

  “Your mother can’t play the favorite middle school game,” Dad says.

  A lump forms in my throat. I hadn’t thought about that.

  “Mom, I’m sorry. Really sorry. But I need your help.” My voice cracks as I talk. “I know what you and Dad told me about never making promises I can’t keep. But I won’t win this election if I don’t have something better than a beach party.”

  Mom and Dad exchange a look.

  “Amanda, Mom and I need to discuss this,” says Dad in his campaign-strategist-doing-damage-control voice. His words are low and scary, especially to me.

  I nod. That’s my cue that Mom and Dad have said all they’re going to say for now.

  I get up and go to my (clean) room. A tear trickles down my cheek. Followed by another. And another. This whole campaign thing has gotten so out of hand. It seems like a very long time ago that I was excited to declare my candidacy. So many bad things have happened since then. My best friend decided to run against me. I lost the most important soccer game of the season and let down my teammates and my coach and my school. Now, my parents are mad at me, too.

  Seriously… can it get any worse?

  REACTION #4: MEGHAN’S

  I stare at the screen of my laptop, trying to process Meghan’s latest Instagram post.

  It’s a picture of me shaking hands with Stella after the interview and a caption that reads: “Don’t believe everything you hear on TV. A Capitol tour? Hmmm. Really??? I would know. #nothappening #beachbound”

  I slam my computer shut and grab my phone. “Did you see what she posted?” I ask as soon as Ben answers.

  “Yep. And so did a lot of other people.”

  Comments on Meghan’s post are appearing faster than I can down a Gatorade after practice on a hot day. I read some of them aloud to Ben.

  How do you know?

  Is she lying?

  Can AA deliver on her promise???

  I growl into the phone. “This is bad,” I say to Ben. “My ex–best friend is basically calling me a liar!” As I watch the comments pile up, I realize lots of people believe her.

  “No one wants a liar as their president,” I fume. “And the worst part is that Meghan doesn’t know if it’s true or not.”

  “Exactly!” says Ben like I’ve made his point. “It might not be true.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “If I can find a way to get Mom to agree to it.”

  “Adams, where there’s a will there’s a way. Stay focused and finish your speech. Then put your head into figuring out how to persuade your mom to go along with the plan.”

  “Will do,” I say to Ben.

  What I don’t say: This is war. And Meghan started it.

  REACTION #5: MINE!

  I stay focused just long enough to finish my speech, which Mrs. Lee is expecting to see on her desk first thing tomorrow morning. I still don’t have a solution to the biggest problem on my list: getting Mom to let me keep the promise I made that she’ll take my class on a tour of the Capitol if I win the election.

  But to be honest, right now I can’t stop checking Instagram to see who else liked or commented on Meghan’s post.

  Every time I look, I just get madder. Not just about the post. But about everything that’s happened since the campaign started.

  It’s almost like there are two Meghans. The one who’s been my best friend since the first day of first grade and who likes to do fun things together, like go to the mall and conduct science experiments. The one who knows things about me that no one else does—like that I get nervous before a game, but that my nerves go away when the game starts.

  Then there’s the other Meghan. The one who decided to run against me for president of our class and planned it all behind my back. The one who picked Bree as a running mate, got the J’s to work on her campaign, and ordered special T-shirts and donuts. The one who came to my game but didn’t even watch, and now is calling me a liar!

  One of Dad’s favorite expressions is Every action has an equal but opposite reaction. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure Mrs. Lee said exactly the same thing when we were doing a science experiment in the lab. Sooooo if Meghan calls me a liar, don’t I have the right to react?

  The answer is simple. YES, I DO! Then a genius plan pops into my brain.

  Meghan isn’t the only one who can post on Instagram.

  I scroll through Meghan’s texts until I find the photo she sent me from the last football game. It’s of Caleb J running off the field. I remember when she took it. We were sitting next to each other in the stands, cheering like crazy, and Meghan was trying not to look like she was taking a picture of Caleb. But she did.

  I click on it.

  I enlarge and edit the picture so it’s mostly just a blurry jersey. But the number 23 is easy to see. I post the photo on Instagram with the caption: “A certain seventh-grade prez hopeful with blond highlights has a favorite number. #no lie”

  As soon as I post it, I get this weird feeling in my stomach. Like maybe what I did wasn’t such a good idea. I think about GW’s Rules of Civility and what he would have had to say about revealing your ex-bestie’s deepest, darkest secret on Instagram. Not to mention that she got highlights.

  George would be like: “Insta-what?” Social media was way before his time, so his opinion really doesn’t matter here.

  What’s done is done. I can’t undo it. And another thing Dad always says is that first instincts are always right and to listen to them. Well, that’s what I did.

  I think about Nixon. He wasn’t afraid to use the media. And I’m not either. I turn off my phone and my light.

  Then I go to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  A WHOLE LOT OF WRONGS DON’T MAKE IT RIGHT

  (OR, THE BATTLE OF THE EX-BESTIES)

  My alarm sounds and I blink open my eyes. For two sleepy seconds, it’s just like any other morning. But then I remember what I did last night, and I’m hit with a vision of Meghan’s face reacting to my post, and it’s not a pretty picture.

  Who wouldn’t be upset if an (ex) best friend spilled the beans on your secret crush. I can just see Meghan calling Bree and then the J’s, and I’m sure they were all like, “OMG, I can’t believe Amanda did that!! Bad Amanda. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.”

  Right now, I feel bad. Like even though Meghan did a lot of bad things to me, was it wrong of me to do something bad back? Yes? No? Maybe?!?

  I pull the covers up over my head to block out the answer.

  Thinking isn’t going to
help me feel better. Neither is turning on my phone. Leaving it off means I won’t have to read the comments on my post. It’s a stall tactic. But a good one.

  So is getting to school as late as possible.

  Slowly, I get out of bed and take my time getting dressed. White jeans. Purple top. Red sneaks. Then I change. Black leggings. Pink cardigan. Gray ballet flats. I take my time French braiding my hair into two long pigtails.

  When I’m finished, I put the copy of my speech that I printed out for Mrs. Lee’s approval and my phone into my backpack and head to the kitchen to make breakfast—the kind that takes as long as possible to make. I crack eggs into a pan and put bread in the toaster. I pour myself a glass of juice.

  Sooner than I’d like, I’m in the car on the way to school with Mom and Dad, who still haven’t gotten back to me about the verdict on Capitol-gate (my word, not theirs). And I haven’t exactly thought up a brilliant solution for how to persuade Mom to do the tour.

  But that’s a problem I’ll have to deal with tonight. Now, I need to see if I have another one. Stalling is no longer an option. Better to know what I’m dealing with before I get to school. Reluctantly, I turn on my phone and see dozens of missed calls and text messages. All from Ben.

  Ben: ADAMS! What have you done?

  Ben: Hey Adams! U There???

  Ben: Alive

  Ben: Where R U?

  Ben: Call me.

  Ben: NOW!!

  Ben: 911! Get here quick!

  Ben: OMG!

  Ben: It’s bad.

  Ben: Real bad!

  My stomach goes into free fall as I imagine Ben’s definition of bad. I see angry faces. Especially Meghan’s. Pitchforks. Principal Ferguson with a trash bag that has my name on it. As Dad pulls into the drop-off lane, I don’t even have to wonder what awaits me at school. There’s Ben. One look at his grim expression is all I need to know that whatever happened is serious.

  “Adams, where’ve you been?” he asks.

  “Sorry, my phone was off.”

  Ben rolls his eyes like that’s no excuse. “Seriously, what did you do last night?”

  Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I know Ben isn’t talking about the time I spent putting the finishing touches on my speech. He means the Instagram post.

  “Adams, everyone is talking about how you sold out Meghan and spilled the beans on her crush. That was low. I would have told you not to do it.” He shoots me a look. “Remember the burrito thing?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble.

  “Like, what happened to making all decisions together? I thought you were going to finish your speech and find a way to persuade your mom to give us the tour.”

  “I finished the speech. The other thing is still a work in progress. I can’t undo what I did,” I say. A bunch of kids in our grade are shooting us looks, and something tells me things are worse than Ben is saying. “I’m sorry. I know it was wrong. I should have talked to you first. But Meghan called me a liar and I snapped.”

  “Got it,” Ben says. “Not smart. But stuff happens.” He pauses. “Adams, there’s something else you need to know.”

  “Spit it out,” I say, even though I’m a ten on the dreading-what-he-has-to-say scale.

  “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Ben leads me down the hall to the bulletin board near Mrs. Lee’s room. On it is my campaign poster. Only now, there’s a mustache and a goatee drawn on my face with #LIAR written across it. “All our posters look like that,” he says.

  My mouth falls open, but no words come out. It was bad enough that Meghan called me a liar and that I spilled her secret. But this? I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  I hear whispers behind me. Then voices. And one in particular that I recognize. I whirl around to face my former best friend and the candidate who I’m sure defaced my poster.

  I point to it. “Did you do this?” I hiss at Meghan.

  She doesn’t answer the question. She says, “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

  “Who’s the liar?” I narrow my eyes at Meghan. “Seriously? How could you do this to my posters? It’s like something a little kid would do to another kid’s drawings. Not what seventh graders do to an opponent’s campaign posters.”

  Meghan’s mouth snaps open, then shut, like she’s not sure what to say.

  But I am. “I can’t believe you would ruin my posters.”

  “Look, I didn’t do this,” Meghan says under her breath.

  A list of all of Meghan’s wrongs, from the moment she told me she was running against me, plays like a loop in my head. “You started this,” I hiss at her. “By running against me.”

  Meghan’s hands are on her hips like she has the right to be mad. “Anyone can run for president,” Meghan hisses back. “And I’m not the one who spilled secrets. You did!”

  “You called me a liar,” I remind her.

  “Catfight!” someone yells. I ignore the whistles and voices around me. The only thing I’m focused on is Meghan as we exchange words I never thought we’d be saying to each other. Especially at school. As our voices grow louder, the ones behind me seem to fade.

  “I’ll never forgive you. Ever.” Meghan spits her words at me and moves closer.

  I don’t care if she does. “I’ll never forgive you, either,” I spit back, my face inches from hers like we’re both contemplating fighting each other. Then someone is pulling us apart.

  It’s Mrs. Lee. “Girls!” she barks, her voice harsher than I’ve ever heard it. We both look up at her shaking her head at us. “I couldn’t be any more disappointed in either of you.”

  Then she marches us straight to Principal Ferguson’s office.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “PLUS ÇA CHANGE, PLUS ÇA RESTE”

  (IN ENGLISH: “THE MORE THINGS CHANGE, THE MORE THEY STAY THE SAME”)

  Nasty posts. Name-calling. Ruined posters.” Principal Ferguson’s arms are wrapped tightly around the width of his chest. “Frankly, I’m shocked by what Mrs. Lee told me. And to think that you’re supposed to be friends.” He makes a loud tssk sound.

  Meghan and I both open our mouths to speak, but Principal Ferguson motions for us to stay silent. “You’ll have your chance to talk. But not yet. And not to me.”

  Meghan and I glare at each other. If we’re not going to be talking to our principal, who will we be talking to? Our parents? The honor board? The police!?!

  Principal Ferguson steps from behind his desk, then motions for Meghan and me to follow him to a small storage room next to his office. It reeks of the musty smell of stacks of old textbooks that line the walls. In the middle of the room is a small table and two chairs. “Ladies, you’ve allowed this election to turn into a nasty competition between friends, setting a terrible example for the students you will potentially be leading. I’m disappointed. Mrs. Lee is disappointed. I’ve spoken to your parents, and they couldn’t be any more disappointed.”

  Principal Ferguson shoots me an especially yours look, and the hot flush of shame creeps up the back of my neck. I can hear the lecture I’m going to get from Mom and Dad about how they didn’t raise a daughter to run a nasty campaign. How they expected more. But I don’t have time to contemplate what they’re going to say, because Principal Ferguson keeps talking.

  “My idea of a punishment was to disqualify you both from the election. But Mrs. Lee had an idea we both agree is more fitting.”

  Meghan and I exchange a look like neither of us likes the sound of that.

  Principal Ferguson points to the two chairs. “Have a seat. You’ll be spending the morning here. Just the two of you. I expect you to work out your differences. I also expect each one of you to come up with a new speech—one that unifies the grade, not tears it apart. Mrs. Lee and I both look forward to reading your thoughts on how that can be done.”

  He straightens his tie before finishing. “We’ll be back at lunchtime. Think of this as a test you both have to pass. If you both do, you can give your speeches to your whole grade tomo
rrow. And if either of you fails, you can both congratulate Frankie Chang on becoming the new president of the seventh grade. Good luck. I suggest you work together.” Mr. Ferguson shuts the door behind him as he leaves.

  Meghan and I huff. Then glare at each other. It’s just the two of us for the next three and a half hours. Not where I want to be. I’m pretty sure by the icy stares coming my way that it’s not where she wants to be, either.

  The clock on the wall ticks loudly as it creeps forward, but Meghan’s mouth stays clamped shut and so does mine.

  So much has happened since this campaign started that it’s hard to know where to begin.

  Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Meghan and I just sit staring at each other. Then a realization hits me: time is wasting. And if Meghan and I don’t work together to use what remains of our morning, we can both kiss this election goodbye.

  Finally, I’m the one to break the silence. I roll my eyes at our surroundings. “We got put into the isolation cabin like the Parker sisters in The Parent Trap.” I wait, unsure what Meghan’s reaction will be. But she gives me a small smile when I reference our all-time favorite movie.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Not much different from where we started in first grade.”

  I can’t help but smile at the memory of Mrs. Hudson putting us in time-out on our first day of first grade at Patriot Elementary. “We messed up, didn’t we? Again?”

  “Big time,” says Meghan. Her eyes flicker with an emotion I haven’t seen for a while.

  “Meghan, I’m really—”

  But before the word sorry comes out of my mouth, Meghan cuts me off. “Amanda, I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have told you I was going to run against you. But all you talked about before the election was how you wanted to be president.” She shrugs. “I was mad at you.”