Kristy for President

by Ann M. Martin

  I thought if he kept walking backward, he was going to bump into the pole behind him, but I didn’t say anything.

  Alan crashed into the pole and slid to the floor. But the way he did it made me suspect he knew all along it was there. Mal giggled as he threw his arms out and pretended to be injured.

  “Good grief,” I said, stepping over his writhing body.

  “A debate is an exchange of dialogue, Kristy!” Alan propped himself up on his elbow to call after us. “Somehow, I don’t think you want to exchange dialogue with me.”

  “Brilliant, Alan,” I said crossly. “Talk about someone who needs a baby-sitter,” I went on to Mal.

  “Or a keeper,” suggested Mal. “A handler, an Alan-tamer.”

  “Now there’s a thought … See, Mal? You’re a fast thinker. You come from a big family where you automatically have to speak up for yourself. You’re a great baby-sitter …” Mal blushed and shoved her glasses back up on her nose. “So you’ll be fine in a debate.”

  “Thanks, Kristy.” Mal turned toward her locker. “I know you’ll do a super job. See, you’re already convincing me. Sort of.”

  “Good …”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “ ’Bye,” I said absently.

  Things will fall into place, I told myself as I opened the locker door. I caught my science book before it fell out — just the book I was looking for — and smiled. They will fall into place, I repeated to myself. Just like my locker. I can’t get everything done.

  Things did seem to fall into place over the next few days. I even found time to make a special campaign button for Jamie that said, “Kris for pres, ’cause she’s the bes,” with “by Jamie Newton” on the bottom of it, to take to him the next time I sat for him.

  But then another meeting was announced one morning over the loudspeaker. It was for that same day, right after school. Great, I thought. I had a conference then with my English teacher, Mrs. Simon. How was I supposed to go to the meeting and the conference? It just proved why I was needed as class president. This lack of organization was typical of SMS!

  I was still fuming as I dashed out of Mrs. Simon’s conference that afternoon, after agreeing to rewrite a report. “I know you can do better, Kristy,” she kept saying. “I’ve seen what you do when you work up to your full potential.” I thanked her, because I’d hate to drop my grade in English, but I didn’t see when I was going to have time to rewrite a report.

  I was ten minutes late to the candidates’ meeting. Grace looked over her shoulder as I came in, then whispered something to the person sitting next to her, and they both snickered.

  Ignoring them, I slid into a seat in the back of the room and tried to look intelligent as Mr. Kingbridge glanced over at me. He kept talking, but he also handed a piece of paper to a person in the first row, and gestured to him to pass it back to me. So then everybody turned around and knew I was late. Mal, who was sitting at the end of a row, gave me a sympathetic look.

  The handout was about Campaign Day. It also listed the campaign rules in writing. Mr. Kingbridge read them aloud, then said, “Any questions?” and looked at me.

  Even if I’d had any I wouldn’t have asked! I jammed the paper in my notebook and shot out of there as soon as we were dismissed.

  I had to get to the library, and fast. Charlie was going to pick me up in an hour, and I wanted some time to work on my newest science assignment. I had to get that done. It was due the next day, and I was baby-sitting for the Kormans that night. Which was, I’d decided, going to be the perfect time to do some of my homework.

  Was I ever wrong!

  I was almost late getting to the Kormans’. (Have you ever noticed that? How when a day starts getting crazy and hectic, it just keeps getting crazier and more hectic? And if you’re late, you keep running later …?) Luckily, I wasn’t really late. Which is good, because it is very important for members of the BSC to show how responsible they are, and being on time is a big part of being a responsible baby-sitter.

  So I was a responsible baby-sitter — just in the nick of time. Skylar, who is a year and a half old, had already started crying because she knew, probably by the way her mother and father were rushing for the door, that they were Going Out and Leaving Her.

  Melody, who is seven, was standing in the hall watching her parents in an abstracted sort of way, like they were people in a movie. Bill, Mrs. Korman told me, was upstairs doing his homework.

  “We’ll be back by ten,” Mrs. Korman told me. “Everyone has had dinner, but Bill and Melody can have dessert in a little while — it’s ice cream. You know where everything is, of course.”

  “Have a good time,” I said.

  “ ’Bye,” said Melody.

  “Waaah,” said Skylar from her playpen.

  I picked Skylar up. “Waah, waah,” I said softly. “Is that any way to say hello?”

  “WAAAAAh,” howled Skylar, struggling in my arms. I checked her diaper. No problem there.

  “Maybe she’s sleepy,” suggested Melody. “You could read to her.”

  “Good idea, Melody.” I shifted Skylar and headed up the stairs. “Why don’t you pick out a book and we can read to Skylar until she gets sleepy.”

  Melody ran ahead of me into her room. “Skylar has books, but they don’t have enough words,” she told me.

  By then Skylar’s wails had become the long babbling sounds of unhappy protest that babies make. She was winding down. Good, I thought. A couple of pages and she’ll be sleeping like a baby!

  But Skylar is a real individualist. I took the book Melody gave me, Bedtime for Frances, and started reading. Skylar kept complaining. I read to the end, with Melody standing at my shoulder, looking at Skylar and at the book, and Skylar kept complaining.

  “Another book?” asked Melody.

  “Okay,” I said. I wondered if I could read my history homework assignment to Skylar. That would probably put her to sleep.

  We read Goodnight Moon and Runaway Bunny. Skylar’s complaints were in the whimper range now, but they were definitely still there.

  “Let me try,” said Melody. So I handed the books over to her. She picked up Goodnight Moon and began to read in a singsong voice.

  And it worked! As Melody turned the last page, Skylar sighed and burrowed into sleep.

  “Good work, Melody,” I whispered. We crept into the hall. Now I could start on my homework.

  But Melody had other ideas. “I’ll help you with the ice cream,” she said.

  “Ice cream?”

  “Dessert,” she reminded me.

  “Okay,” I answered. “You tell Bill and we’ll rendezvous in the kitchen. Let’s coordinate our watches.”

  Melody looked puzzled and held up her bare wrist. “Aha,” I said. “When the big freckle gets past the wrist bone, then you’ll know it’s time for ice cream.”

  “Silly,” said Melody.

  A few minutes later Bill followed Melody into the kitchen, saying, “There’s no such thing as freckle ice cream.”

  “Freckle ice cream time,” said Melody, holding up her wrist. “And I bet there is so freckle ice cream.”

  “Yes … vanilla. It has those little freckle flecks,” I teased.

  “See,” said Melody.

  “What about Macadamia Nut? Big freckle ice cream.” Bill made a gagging noise.

  “Or Rocky Road — freckle and marshmallow melting skin ice cream! Ooooh!” shrieked Melody.

  “Or with raisins — freckle and wart ice cream,” added Bill.

  “Oooh, oooh, oooh!” Melody cried.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “What we have is Chocolate Chip.”

  “Yuck,” said Bill. “Ice cream with moles.”

  “Double yuck,” said Melody.

  I set the dishes in front of them. “Okay, guys, they’re just chocolate chips. Not moles.”

  “I don’t want any moles in my ice cream,” said Melody.

  “Me either,” said Bill.

  Great. I’d
created another monster. For the longest time, Melody and Bill had believed a monster lived in their toilet. Now they believed, or liked to believe they believed, that chocolate chip ice cream was full of moles.

  I took a bite of my ice cream. “See? Just chocolate.”

  Melody stared at me. “Yuck, Kristy.”

  “Okay, then pick the chocolate chips out.”

  Melody bent her head over the bowl and carefully began picking out the chocolate chips with her spoon and lining them up on the table.

  “They look like chocolate chips to me,” I said.

  “Moles,” said Melody.

  “Kristy, can you help me with my homework?” asked Bill.

  I sighed. I needed help with mine. But I said, “Sure. After you finish your ice cream.”

  “Grrreat. Stupendous,” said Bill. He started picking the chips out of his ice cream, too.

  I looked down at my own ice cream, which was melting into a vanilla and chocolate chip puddle. I wasn’t going to pick out the moles — er, chips. I was going to eat it all. Because I wasn’t going to get to my homework that night. That was clear.

  I took a big bite of the ice cream.

  “Eeew,” said Melody.

  “Yumm,” I said, smiling.

  If I couldn’t get to my homework, I wasn’t going to worry about it. I’d think about it in the morning.

  Have you ever noticed how fast tomorrow always comes? Like when you have homework to do? (I did finish my homework after baby-sitting for the Kormans. I got up extra early that next morning, and just managed it.) Or when you have to be at school early?

  We — the candidates — had to be at Stoneybrook Middle School half an hour early on Campaign Day to set up our booths. Claudia and Mary Anne also got up early. Then they came by to help me carry stuff into school (Charlie had agreed to drive us) and to give me some tips about dressing.

  “Why can’t I just wear jeans and a nice shirt?” I asked.

  “A light blue shirt would be good,” said Claudia. “I read somewhere that light blue looks best on television.”

  “This is not television, Claud. Just the SMS cafeteria. But I do have a light blue sweat shirt.”

  “Kristy. No sweat shirt,” said Claudia firmly.

  “Why don’t you wear your black pants?” asked Mary Anne. “They look good.”

  “Okay,” I said, digging through the closet.

  Claudia was doing some digging, too. “Here. Why don’t you ever wear this?”

  “This” was an enormous sweater of a sort of creamy brown, with little black and green stripes running across it. I shrugged.

  “Try it on,” said Claudia.

  At last I emerged, black pants, sweater, loafers. “I still look preppie,” I complained. But I really didn’t look too bad.

  “Kristy!” a voice called.

  “That’s Charlie — come on.” We gathered the stuff together, staggered down the stairs, and headed for school.

  The cafeteria rang with people talking, shouting, pushing tables, and jockeying for the best place.

  “Here,” said Mary Anne. “Not too close to the end.”

  “And not too close to Alan,” put in Claudia.

  We set up the booth, which Claudia had designed. My logo appeared on red posters, over and over again. We had buttons, ribbons, and a handout that told all about me and what I wanted to do. Claudia had designed that, too. It looked like a report card. Beside each point was the column for the grades, and in every column it just said “K+.” It looked pretty cool. It was concise, effective, and distinctive. And serious. I wanted to convey how serious I was.

  Which some people didn’t. Alan, for example, had dressed in balloons. He looked like a big bunch of grapes. Everyone who took a button and put it on got to pop one of the balloons.

  You could tell right away he was going to be a big, noisy hit.

  Mal, looking nervous, was sitting at her booth with Jessi. Behind her was a big drawing of a clock, and written across it was “Time to let Mal keep the minutes!”

  “That’s great, Mal,” I said.

  “Have a clock,” said Jessi. She handed me a button designed like a clock with the slogan on it.

  “This really is great,” said Mary Anne. “Oh, Mal, you’re sure to win. I wish we could all vote for you.”

  “You can, when Mal runs for student council president,” said Jessi.

  “No way,” said Mal, and we all laughed.

  “Uh-oh,” said Mary Anne. “Speaking of time, here comes everybody.”

  We headed back for my booth. Campaign Day had started at SMS.

  The next two hours were a blur, but a very distinct blur. Alan, who’d chosen a spot near mine (so much for planning), came to visit me almost right away.

  “Go on, Kristy,” he said. “Stick a pin in me.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I answered. “What are you trying to say, Alan?”

  “It doesn’t matter what you say, Kristy. It’s whether people remember you. First principle of advertising.”

  “This is a campaign for class president, Alan. You’re not trying to sell breakfast cereal or something.”

  Alan flapped his arms and made the balloons flutter. “Are we having a debate?”

  “No!”

  Just then someone said to me, “What is your platform?”

  At last! A real question. Someone who was interested in the issues. A voter who wanted to become an informed voter.

  I picked up my report card. “If you’ll look at this card, you’ll see the issues I am addressing. For example, I think we need to do something about our assemblies. They could be a lot more interesting. We could poll the students and find out what type of people they might like to see at the assemblies —”

  “Nobody’s going to listen to students.”

  “They will if you show them you care. And you can show them you care by voting for me.”

  Just then someone popped several of Alan’s balloons at once. Amid shrieks and laughter, people began to drift away.

  “Wait a minute,” I said.

  “They’ll be back,” said Mary Anne. “There’s a lot to see.”

  Claudia reappeared.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Grace,” said Claudia glumly.

  “What?” I cried.

  “Go see.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I headed in the direction Claudia had pointed, and then wished I hadn’t.

  Gruesome Grace and Creepy Cokie were in a booth set up to look like a studio. Cokie had slung a video camera over her shoulder. A monitor was perched on the table. Beneath a huge, glittering banner that said, “Meet THE candidate for class president,” sat Grace. Her makeup was about three feet thick, and she was wearing a pale blue sweater, matching stirrup pants, and a ton of jewelry. Grace was sitting and talking to people from our class, one by one. While she talked, Cokie taped them, and the event was being shown live on the monitor.

  Kids were standing three-deep around, trying to watch. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Cokie was also taking their pictures with a Polaroid while they sat with Grace beneath her banner. They got to keep the pictures.

  “I don’t believe this,” I said to myself. I also instantly thought of another idea for my campaign. From now on, there had to be a limit to how much money anyone campaigning for office could spend.

  “This must have cost a fortune,” muttered someone at my elbow.

  “No kidding,” I answered, turning before I realized who it was. “Pete!”

  “Hi, Kristy.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Not the best place for a booth, is it?” He nodded toward his own booth, directly across from Cokie’s.

  “Mmm,” I said. I was surprised, a little. Pete’s booth was serious, too. He had fliers and had buttons that said “Pete for President” and “Vote for Pete, for SMS’s sake!” Basic, but also serious.

  “I have to get back,” I said.

  “Good luck,” said Pete.
<
br />   “Oh! Uh, good luck,” I answered.

  “I hope Alan runs out of balloons soon,” said Mary Anne when I returned. When I didn’t answer, she asked, “How bad is it?”

  “Remember when Claudia was talking about television?” I asked. “And I said this wasn’t television?”

  Mary Anne nodded. Claudia smiled.

  “It is television. Only it’s Grace’s TV show. She and Cokie have a video camera here.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe her parents let her take their video camera.”

  “You know what?” said Claudia. “I bet it doesn’t matter. I bet plenty of candidates have been elected without major media campaigns.”

  “Major media campaigns?”

  “You know, we did a media blitz of our own. The whole school knows the K+ symbol.”

  “Media blitz?”

  “And I have more ideas, too.” Claudia picked up one of the buttons and examined it intently.

  “You’ll win,” said Mary Anne. “We just have to work extra hard.”

  “Extra hard,” I repeated. “You’re right, Mary Anne.” I picked up a poster and a button, and said to a crowd of students passing by, “Excuse me. I’d like to show you a very interesting report card …”

  The bell finally rang and the candidates began to clean up. We had gathered almost everything together when a nastily familiar voice said, “How are you feeling about being the underdog in this campaign, Kristy Thomas?”

  Grace and Cokie were standing behind me. Cokie had trained the videocam on me.

  “How about, ‘Underdog bites back’?” I suggested, stepping up close to the camera. “Are you getting that, Cokie?”

  Cokie backed up a little but kept the camera rolling.

  “You are so immature,” said Grace.

  I bit back the retort that it takes one to know one. Instead I shrugged. “You’re entitled to your opinion, Grace. Or anybody else’s, since I doubt you ever have any of your own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a difficult concept, Grace…. Are you getting this, Cokie?”

  “Turn it off, Cokie. Let’s go.” Grace glared at me. “The best man will win.”

  “Grace,” I said. “The best woman — and the best candidate — is going to win. So why don’t you just go somewhere and get some more practice at being a loser?”