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  Katie is surprisingly speedy for such a bookish girl, and she gained on me, so we burst through Mr. Crosby’s door at the same time, skidding to a stop in front of his desk.

  He’s our social studies teacher and the faculty advisor to the student government. He had the forms we needed to fill out to register as presidential candidates. If she hadn’t been my opposition, I’d have been impressed by the way great minds think alike and how Katie and I had known that we had to get to Mr. Crosby to make these campaigns official.

  “Well, this doesn’t look good,” he said, glancing up from his newspaper. “Whatever prompted the two of you to come flying into my room like small winged creatures from Hades can’t possibly be in the best interest of this school. Or me.”

  “Heh heh heh.” Katie and I gave the exact same forced laugh and then glared at each other. “I’m running for president,” we both said. Mr. Crosby raised his eyebrows. So did I.

  “I mean, Cash is running for president. It’s Cash, not me. Cash,” Katie corrected herself, looking flustered. Katie always has her facts straight, and I was fascinated to see her deteriorate in front of my very eyes. “Cash and Kevin are running. Against each other. And I’m his campaign manager. I’m Cash’s. Cash’s campaign manager, that is, not his, um …” Katie was about to implode next to me.

  She was saved when Cash and Connie straggled into Mr. Crosby’s room. Cash’s sandwich board was hanging from one shoulder; the string had broken in the crowded hall. Passing between classes can be brutal, especially when you’re wearing poster board. Note to self: extend passing time. That’ll be my first campaign promise. Man, five minutes into this campaign and already I’m coming up with genius ideas. I’m a natural. I’m just sorry I wasn’t of service to the citizens of this school sooner. They need me.

  “What’s going on here?” Mr. Crosby was studying us skeptically. I did a double take when I saw that Connie was clutching Cash’s hand; he must have grabbed her to follow us when Katie and I took off. She didn’t look unhappy to be holding on to him, nor did she look like she was going to let go. He had to pry her fingers off before he could turn on the charm for Mr. Crosby.

  “We haven’t met because I have Mrs. Skraw for social studies.” Cash leaned across the desk and pumped Mr. Crosby’s hand in a hearty handshake. “I’m Cash Devine, your next president.”

  Connie reached for Cash’s hand again. “Kevin has decided to run too.”

  “Against Cash.” Katie jerked him away from Connie and took a firm hold of his hand herself. “And he has—had—a sandwich board announcing his candidacy. He came prepared to win.” Katie let go of Cash’s hand, but only so she could tie the frayed ends of the string together and readjust the sign on his shoulders, before gently pushing him behind her so she and I were shoulder to shoulder in front of Mr. Crosby and Cash was out of reach of Connie.

  I looked back at Cash and noted that the sandwich board was still crooked and that his dollar sign had fallen off. VOTE 4 CA H. Cah is the sound a cat makes when it throws up, I thought. Fitting, since Cash is a hairball of a candidate. I read once that your thoughts can be seen on your face, so I put on a cheerful expression before I turned to Mr. Crosby.

  “Oh, hey, instead of, you know, with all the disruption and distraction and, um, dissension of the whole election process”—I looked meaningfully at Katie—“what do you say you just pick a president, Mr. Crosby?” Being appointed would be even better than running. Less worry and effort, more prestige. Besides, he doesn’t know Cash from a hole in the wall and he loves me. Or likes me. Or at least recognizes me from class. I edged closer to the desk and tried to look presidential.

  “Oh no. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can rope me into this mess, Kev.” Mr. Crosby and I have a history of misunderstandings, so I guess I can’t blame him for not taking me up on my suggestion. “I don’t even know if this school has an official policy for a student government vacancy, but, by the power vested in me by … by virtue of being faculty advisor because no one else volunteered, I’m creating one now: ‘In the event that the president cannot complete his or her term, an election will be called within one week’s time to elect a replacement.’ ”

  Katie and I smirked at each other. Cash checked his hair in the reflection of a shiny letter opener he picked up off Mr. Crosby’s desk, and Connie snapped a picture of me with her phone. At least, I think it was of me. She might have been aiming at Cash.

  “The election will be Friday during lunch.” Mr. Crosby started edging out of the room. “I’ll go make the announcement during, um, morning announcements. Good luck, thank you for your service to your school and keep it clean.”

  I was pretty offended that he directed the last warning to me alone and kind of bummed that he didn’t spot my leadership potential and just name me president. But then I decided to look on the bright side—because the chief characteristics of a great politician are, um, optimism and … being a natural-born campaigner. That’s me.

  I was ready. Not to mention happy and relieved that we didn’t have to fill out any forms after all. Paperwork is not my thing.

  Great things happen to great people. I’m convinced of that, whaddayacallit, truism, yeah, something that’s true. I mean, just look at me: one minute I’m just sitting there, trying to think of a way to show I’m worthy of being Tina’s boyfriend, and then, bang, an entire presidential election is pretty much handed to me. The second homeroom bell hasn’t even rung yet and already I’ve taken action that not only will change the course of my life, but also is likely to alter the history of this entire school.

  Actually, when you think about it, I hadn’t even had to take action; action had been thrust upon me. Fate called. Or was it duty? Which one calls? Well, whatever was taken or thrust or whoever called: Kev’s life was falling into place. I would run the greatest campaign this school had ever seen, I’d win the vote—and get the girl—and all would be right with the world.

  Man, it is good to be me sometimes, it really is.

  3

  The True Politician Plays to His Strengths

  I practically floated out of Mr. Crosby’s office, headed toward homeroom. I was psyched. This was the most foolproof plan ever for impressing Tina.

  While it’s true that my latest run of good ideas and awesome plans hadn’t been a hundred percent successful, I’m not the kind of guy who lets a few failures get him down. That’s another key component of a great political candidate: undauntability. If that isn’t a word, I’m going to pass a law and make it one, because that’s what this country in general, and this school in particular, needs more of: undauntability. It’s a word that will look great on a bumper sticker.

  A lot had gone wrong for me in the past. But this time, I thought, will be different. Because I’m not just thinking like a politician, I’m actually becoming one. I’m not just acting like my role model, I am the role model. That is going to make all the difference. See, in the past, I’d taken lessons learned from other areas and tried to apply them to the situation I was facing. That had been my downfall. It had been the overall conception, not my specific implementation, that had been faulty. But the disasters, or rather, growth opportunities of my recent past were behind me. I was unstoppable.

  I found my way out of homeroom and to my first-period class, where I took notes the entire time. Not on the lecture—they were discussing The Wizard of Oz, a novel that creeped me out as much as the movie version. Put the dog on a leash, Dorothy! I could handle the flying monkeys and even the house falling on the witch, but I couldn’t stop obsessing about Toto running around loose. I’m a little obsessive or else a huge advocate of pet safety to worry like that. Animal lover, I decided, jotting that down in my notebook. Voters don’t put their trust in candidates who demonstrate obsessive streaks, but everyone loves—and is happy to vote for—someone who loves pets.

  I’m also a people person. I wrote to myself, “Kev likes animals AND people.” Another quality that was going to come in handy.
I was just filled to the brim with characteristics that made me electable. All that was left was to let the student body know.

  I didn’t have any time to waste, since I was dealing with a warp-speed, five-day campaign season. First: whip through the school day gathering support. Which might consist of bellowing in the halls to each and every person I knew by name, “I’m running for student-body president! Vote for me on Friday!”

  Even though I know pretty much everyone in school because I’m an eighth grader and, let’s face it, lovable, there had to be a more efficient way of making myself known than hollering at every student. I needed to win over entire clumps of voters. What do they call them on TV during the presidential elections? Caucuses? Constituency? Cohort? Cormorants? Some C-word.

  Note to self: dig out the thesaurus. No one likes to watch someone fumble for the, whatchamacallit, right words. Also: carry note cards. Everyone always looks smarter referring to note cards. Even if they’re blank. I can’t prove it, but I’m sure teachers grade higher when they see that you’ve summarized your presentation on note cards; it shows you’ve done the work ahead of time. And, besides, a teleprompter would be, um, pretentious. And out of my budget, which is zero. And hard to carry through the hallway, while ruining the element of spontaneity. A guy like me has to take advantage of spur-of-the-moment opportunities to make strong impressions.

  Oh, good, my first dilemma and I was handling it masterfully. Granted, I was just sitting in class taking notes. But the important thing was that I was working the problem, the problem wasn’t working me, and it was good experience for later. Political people are judged by how they handle a crisis. By that standard, I’m a golden child.

  Who should I speak with first? I tapped my pencil against my notebook and concentrated. What’s the first interest group to approach? Teachers don’t vote. A real shame, considering how I’ve endeared myself to the faculty and staff, the recent bout with skipping classes and lying to everyone notwithstanding. But, hey, who hasn’t had a rough patch? It’s what makes the common man identify with a public figure. Smart move, Kev—in hindsight, a brilliant strategy. Even my goofs are helpful to me if I regard them in the proper perspective.

  I thought back to how the girls had feasted on Cash this morning. He’d locked down the female vote just because he was good-looking. And I couldn’t afford to lose half of the eighth grade right off the bat. Unless I got the younger girls on my side. Cash’s brand of physical perfection was probably intimidating to unworldly sixth- and seventh-grade girls. I’d play up my boy-next-door quality and win their trust. Given that I’d lived in this town my whole life and Cash had just invaded—I mean moved here—two weeks ago, I could consider “protective older brother to the younger girls” my turf.

  Enter Milania Zeman, captain of the girls’ junior varsity basketball team, my entrée to the sixth- and seventh-grade female population.

  I’d always considered Milania Zeman to be a shrill-voiced demon-brat, the kind of girl who’s likely to wind up on a reality television show, pulling her best friend’s hair and throwing food at her grandmother during a family gathering. But the younger girls in this school worship her because she almost single-handedly led the squad to state last year. This school is known for dismal sports teams (sorry, JonPaul, but it’s a fact), so her success was a big deal. She was scary, but her influence was impressive.

  Major bummer, though: I’d recently disagreed with her over who had dibs on the gym for practice. Excuse me, but the basketball team can run laps in the hallway, whereas the wrestling squad, of which I was a member briefly until another recent misunderstanding, has to use the gym because that’s where the mats are located. And no one ever died waiting twenty minutes for someone else to get done using the gym. Enough said.

  Except to Milania, who argued with me loudly enough for the wrestling coach to ask, in the interest of the team, for me to resign to make peace with Milania, because the girls’ JV basketball team were defending state champions, and upsetting their practice time would lead directly to them losing state this year, which would then cause the Earth to slip off its axis and slide out of its rotation and crash into the sun. Or something.

  To tell the whole truth, Milania had done me a solid, since I wasn’t unhappy to hang up my singlet and retire with a 0–0 record. “Undefeated athlete,” I jotted in my notes. The public loves successful jocks.

  Milania and I had gotten off on the wrong foot, but that was nothing we couldn’t repair with a good sit-down over lunch today. Face to face, we’d find common ground and become pals, after which she’d swing the vote of the sixth- and seventh-grade girls in my favor.

  I’d have the underclass girls in my back pocket by sixth period today. Not bad, Kev, not bad at all.

  As soon as I got to the lunchroom, before I could even look for Milania, a hand grabbed my T-shirt from behind and yanked me nearly off my feet, dragging me into a corner next to the milk cooler.

  “I hear that pretty boy Cash Devine is running for president,” Milania snarled as I checked to see if she’d crushed my windpipe when she’d heaved me out of the milk line.

  “Uh, yeah, I heard that too,” I said cautiously, smoothing my shirt back in place.

  “I need you to run against him. And win.”

  Interesting. “Why?”

  “Donnerson and I had an agreement. Now he’s gone. I need someone in the student government who can see reason.”

  “Agreement?”

  “Look, a school our size doesn’t have a JV basketball team going to state championships without help from friends in high places. Understand?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Danny always made sure to arrange pep rallies for us on the days of our big games.”

  “And?”

  “Pep is everything. Support from the fans is the sixth player on the court.”

  “I had no idea you felt so strongly about school spirit.”

  “It’s what I live for. I used to be a really awful person before I found sports and was able to channel my aggression into a positive outlet.”

  You mean there was a worse version of you? Yikes.

  Milania was still talking: “If I didn’t have basketball, I can’t even imagine how I’d wind up.”

  I could, but I didn’t share my mental image of her on that reality TV show.

  “Why me? Why don’t you run against him if you know what you want from student government?”

  “I admire you. A little.” She narrowed her eyes as she studied me. A chill ran down my spine as I hoped that middle school basketball really was going to be enough to keep her on the right path and away from becoming a violent, fame-seeking she-devil; sports heroes have the possibility of college scholarships, whereas angry mini-dictators face limited occupational opportunities. She continued, “You stood up to me, and that’s more than anyone else did.”

  That’s because people are frightened of you, I said silently, hoping she couldn’t read my thoughts on my face. Note to self: practice blank faces in the mirror. And trustworthy smiles. And serious concern.

  “Oh, well, I guess, I mean …”

  “And I can make sure you’ll get elected. I’ll make sure you have the support you need to beat Cash. People listen to me.”

  They tremble in fear, but sure, I can see why you’d put it differently. I nodded.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Milania locked her eyes on me. I am so glad I’m not a girl and I don’t play basketball, because that is not a look I’d want to see aimed in my direction with nothing more than a ref with a whistle to protect me.

  “The only thing I can: run against him. But only because I see your need.” I tried to sound a little reluctant so she’d feel like she had talked me into this. It’s always good for people to think they owe you favors. I think that’s what they call political currency. Man, I am so glad Dad and I just watched that movie about the newspaper reporters who went after the president.

  “Thanks. Remember:
pep rallies the day of every game. It’s essential.”

  Yeah, yeah, I thought, or else the Earth will collide with the sun. I smiled and nodded, feeling powerful. Ask and it shall be done.

  I’d already struck my first political deal and I hadn’t even cracked open my lunch bag.

  I. Am. Awesome.

  4

  The True Politician Carefully Builds a Strong Support Team

  I’d planned to ask if I could borrow Aunt Buzz’s conference room for my campaign headquarters—she runs her own interior design business—so I told JonPaul and Connie to meet me there after school. I was all set to blast straight over to talk to Buzz when I got a text from Mom: “GETHOMENOW.” Actually I received two texts; the first read “GETHOMENOW” and the second was 160 exclamation points.

  What the …?

  Oh. Right. Markie.

  Markie’s my four-year-old neighbor, and I babysit him once a week. The relationship started because I needed the money. Then it morphed into an I’m-a-good-influence-on-him-because-his-folks-are-splitting-up situation. Soon our arrangement became a Markie’s-good-for-me-because-he’s-surprisingly-wise-for-a-preschooler dealeo.

  He’s staying at our house for a few days because his parents have gotten back together and are going on a second honeymoon. I feel partly responsible for saving their marriage; but that’s another story.

  The point is: Markie’s parents had dropped him at our house that morning on their way out of town. Mom and Dad were each taking some time off work to watch Markie during the day with the understanding that as soon as I got home from school, they didn’t want to know we had a Markie under our roof. Fair enough.

  Mom might have gotten a smidge tired of Markie by now. I love him, but a little goes a long way and Mom hasn’t got my knack with children. Plus, she’s old. You have to be young and fresh and on your toes to cope with Markie.