Freshman for President Page 10

  2. The heat outside felt oppressive instead of promising.

  3. His hands didn’t smell like gasoline or grass clippings. They smelled like soap and syrup. His mom always made pancakes on the first day of school.

  4. He was standing by a locker in a hall that an overzealous janitor had waxed a little too much, and people were slipping and falling as they tried to make their way through the crowds.

  5. In a twenty-minute period, Principal Wimmer had already made three announcements: one telling them to go to homeroom, one telling them that they should now be in homeroom, and one telling them to hurry from homeroom to their first classes as quickly as possible.

  * * *

  After homeroom, Milo, Jack, Paige, and Eden converged to compare class schedules.

  “How’d we do?” Jack asked.

  Milo hadn’t lucked out. While the other three had several classes together, he just had two: history with Jack and Eden, and English with Paige. That was it.

  “Look at these schedules,” said Jack. “You guys are taking all the boring stuff and I’m taking all the good stuff, like wood shop and weights.”

  “Whatever,” said Paige. “You’re the one who’s in chorus.”

  “They need me in there, Paige,” Jack said. “I’m like the only bass in this pathetic school.”

  “You just like the fact the class is ninety percent female.” Paige took his schedule from him and studied it.

  “Maybe next year, if they start having elections again, we can all run for something and at least have student government together,” Milo said.

  “Don’t count on it.” Logan was standing behind them. “I think this crazy election is the beginning of a loooong losing streak for you.” He looked at Milo and Eden. “Neither of you seems to be able to take a hint. You’re losers. Give it up.”

  Milo wished Logan hadn’t included Eden in his insults. That was low, even for a jerk like Logan. Before he could say anything, though, Eden spoke up.

  “That hurts a lot, coming from the third-string quarterback on the football team,” Eden said. “But I guess you know a lot about losing.”

  Logan moved toward Eden, but Milo stood in his way. Jack stepped up next to him. “What do you care, anyway?” Jack asked. Since both Logan and Jack played on the football team, the two of them usually tried to get along. But Logan insulting Eden was taking things to a different level.

  “I don’t care,” Logan said, after a pause. “And no one else does, either. That’s the problem you have. No one cares.” He looked at Eden and Milo like he might say something more, but Jack was right in his face. Logan turned and walked away.

  They watched him go.

  “You should listen to your own advice,” Milo told Eden. “Remember how you lectured me on the Fourth of July about not letting Logan get to me?”

  “Maybe we should make a Logan Nash exception. I wish—”

  What Eden wished was absorbed into the shouts of a group of friends calling out to them, making their way down the hall. Dane, McCall, and the rest of their friends engulfed them and started discussing schedules. Milo looked over at Eden. She was deep in thought.

  “So what’s the latest with the campaign?” McCall asked Milo. “Are we still meeting on Saturday to put together more packets?”

  “Yeah, if you can make it, that would be great,” Milo said. He started to say something to Eden, but before he could, McCall was talking to him again.

  “I’ll be there. So let me see your schedule . . .” She took it from him and started comparing it with hers.

  “See you in history,” Eden said to him, brushing past. Milo wondered what was going through her mind.

  He knew what was going through his. No one cares. Logan wasn’t totally wrong. Milo had a bunch of friends who were willing to volunteer and help out, but most of Sage High was indifferent. Some of the kids thought the campaign was weird, some thought it was cool, but most of them had plenty to think about in their own lives. Milo could see it was going to be an uphill battle to talk to everyone about the issues. He didn’t know if he would have been that interested in the issues if someone else had been running. And everyone, even the ones who wanted to help out, had homework and fall sports and many more demands on their time with the start of school. Everyone’s lives were getting busier and busier.

  There was plenty to think about just being a teenager, without having to add politics to all of it.

  * * *

  The last class of the day was history, the one class that Milo, Jack, and Eden had together. Two things that happened were predictable. First, Jack could barely keep himself awake, which always happened after lunch. Milo had to prod him repeatedly with a pencil to keep him from dozing off at his desk. Second, it didn’t take long for their teacher, Mr. Satteson, to bring up the election. Mr. Satteson was the student government advisor as well as the history teacher and he loved all things political. He brought up the campaign right after the bell rang, before he had even called roll.

  “We have a minor celebrity in our midst,” Mr. Satteson said, looking over at Milo. “Two minor celebrities, in fact,” he said, gesturing at Eden. “Our presidential and vice presidential candidates. I think this could be a very interesting ride. Is it true you kids have been contacted by the national network news to do an interview?”

  Heads swiveled to look at them. Milo wished he could tell Mr. Satteson that yes, everyone had been knocking down their doors, but he couldn’t. The biggest press they’d gotten so far was still the tiny blurb on the Phoenix evening news, when they had shown the Fourth of July celebrations around the state and had mentioned Milo and his float. That had been pretty great and had gone a long way in getting the word out about the website and the under- eighteen vote, but the story hadn’t taken off the way they’d hoped it would.

  Milo cleared his throat. “No,” he said, then, trying to make a joke of it, “not yet, anyway. We can dream, right?”

  Mr. Satteson nodded at him. “You certainly can. Of course, my favorite part of your campaign is the idea about students voting. As the chair of the history department, I can tell you that all the history classes here will be participating in that vote.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Satteson,” said Eden.

  Behind them, they heard Logan whisper, “We’re probably the only school that will.”

  “How many schools have signed up so far?” asked Mr. Satteson.

  “Seventy-four,” said Milo, happy to be able to throw that number in Logan’s face. Traffic on the website had picked up since they’d been on TV on the Fourth of July. He turned slightly so he could see Logan as he spoke. “But we’re hoping for more.”

  “Wonderful,” said Mr. Satteson. “I’ll be contacting other teachers that I know, making sure they’re on board.”

  “That’s nice of you, Mr. Satteson. Thanks.”

  Mr. Satteson smiled at him. “I’ll want to discuss this again, but we should get started with class now. If everyone would take a look at the books on your desk, make sure there’s no significant damage to them . . .”

  Milo opened his book, feeling pretty good about himself. But then someone hissed in a whisper behind him, “What a couple of show-offs.” It wasn’t Logan—it was someone from another part of the room. Milo resisted the temptation to turn around to see who had said it. He could tell from the way Eden was suddenly completely absorbed in flipping the pages of her book that she had heard it, too.

  * * *

  Milo was relieved that Mr. Satteson didn’t say anything about the election for the rest of the class period. Although Milo was glad the teacher was supportive, they’d probably met their special attention quota for the next few weeks. As Milo stood up to leave after the bell had sounded, he glanced back in the direction where the whispers had come from. He couldn’t tell who it might have been. Every
one behind him was someone he’d thought of as a friend or an ally. That bothered him even more.

  Milo went down the hall to his locker, where Jack was waiting to discuss the J&M Mowing schedule for the week. “I’m mowing Mrs. Walsh’s lawn today. Is there anyone else I should get before Saturday?” Even though Milo was a presidential candidate, there were still lawns to mow.

  “Yeah, actually, the Lees called,” Jack told him. “They said they’re having a party Friday night and wanted to know if we could get them earlier this week.”

  “All right. I’ll do both after school. You owe me.” Jack had football practice after school now, so if people wanted their lawns mowed during the week, it was up to Milo. Their Saturdays were getting pretty full with campaign stuff, too, so Milo could tell he would be doing more and more of the mowing after school.

  “I owe you?” Jack said. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Listen, punk, and listen carefully. Who got you the job in the first place? Who works on your stinking campaign for free all the time? Who thought of the best idea ever for a float? Who—”

  “I got it, I got it,” Milo said, laughing. “I know. I owe you. I’ll get them both done.”

  Jack punched Milo on the arm and left for practice. Eden was staying after school for tennis, and Paige was going shopping with some other friends, so Milo walked over to Jack’s house alone to pick up the lawn mowers. It felt weird to be without Jack or Eden or Paige. They’d been even more inseparable than usual this summer.

  Milo heard the pounding of running feet behind him. “Hey, Milo!” someone called out, and he turned back to see Greg, the captain of the soccer team, and the rest of the team out for a conditioning run. Milo waved at them as they passed, and called back, “Hey, guys.”

  They were around the corner and gone in just a few seconds. Milo wished he were running with them the way he had the fall before, when he was a freshman on the team. But that had been one of his parents’ rules—if he wanted to keep campaigning for president, he’d have to give up soccer. “You’ll have too much on your plate if you try to do both,” they had told him.

  Milo had seen their point and reluctantly agreed, but he wondered how many more times like this were ahead of him. He also wondered if he would be able to make the team again next year, and if he would be demoted to Gatorade Boy at the camps next summer.

  Milo thought again about how much of a gamble this campaign was. He hoped he wasn’t giving up something for nothing. He hoped he won the teenage vote. Lately, his daydreams had centered on that victory. If he were someone who could win that vote, he was someone who could go places. He would be someone who had won something instead of someone who watched while other people won things.

  He arrived at Jack’s house, let himself into the garden shed with his key, and dragged a mower toward Mrs. Walsh’s house.

  Milo rounded the corner to Mrs. Walsh’s yard and stopped, looking at the empty spot in the driveway where her car would be parked if she were home. Too bad. He could have really used a lime Popsicle to lift his spirits. Sighing, he started up the mower and decided to do the backyard first, to get it over with.

  The backyard looked oddly empty. There were no toys lying around, no badminton birdies stuck in the pine trees fringing the lawn. The yard stretched wide and open in front of him, with no volleyball net strung across the middle. There was no need for it now; all the grandchildren were back in school. That made Milo sad for some reason, even though he had hated having to take down the net before he mowed.

  Mowing took forever without Jack. Still, Milo kept working, beheading one patch of grass at a time. He had finished the back and was almost done with the front yard when a red Audi pulled into the driveway. Only one person in town drove a car like that: Mrs. Walsh’s son, Patrick. He gave Milo a wave, then went around to open the door for his mother.

  “Milo! Hello!” she called out. “It’s hot as blazes out. Come in and have something to drink.” She turned toward the door without waiting for his answer. Milo hoped Mr. Walsh would leave, but he walked in, too, holding the door open for Milo.

  “My car was having trouble, so I took it into the shop, and Patrick came to give me a ride home,” Mrs. Walsh said, pouring out something that looked like bright red Kool-Aid from a pitcher. “I’m glad we caught you. I didn’t know you were coming today, or I’d have left your paycheck taped to the door, just in case.”

  “It was kind of a spur of the moment thing. I had some time this afternoon so I thought I’d take care of a few lawns. Our Saturdays are getting more and more busy with campaign stuff.” Milo looked over at Patrick Walsh. “Thanks to you, things are moving right along. Once we got the website going and the first batch of letters sent out, it all took off from there.”

  Patrick waved his hand. “You’re welcome. I checked out the website and it looks professional. The guy you have doing the design is pretty good. Does he freelance? Do you think he’d redesign my logo?”

  “I’ll ask him,” Milo said. He was sure Spencer could use the extra cash.

  Milo felt wildly uncomfortable sitting down for Kool-Aid with Mr. Walsh and his mother. He was concentrating so hard on thinking of something to say that he spilled a little of the bright red punch when he set his glass down on the table. Nice, Milo, he told himself. Try to act like an adult, not like a seven year old. You probably have a Kool-Aid mustache, too. He surreptitiously wiped his mouth with the back of his hand just in case, wishing Jack were there too. Then at least he wouldn’t have been the only seven year old in the room. He smiled at the thought.

  “How many schools do you have signed up now?” Patrick asked him.

  “Seventy-four, but we’re hoping to get more.”

  “Seventy-four!” exclaimed Mrs. Walsh. “That’s wonderful.”

  “You’re getting famous, kid,” said Patrick Walsh. “How does it feel?”

  “Not much different. I’m not really famous.”

  “You’re more famous than most kids your age,” Patrick Walsh said. “You can’t argue with that.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But I probably have more people who don’t like me than most kids my age.”

  “You’re a public figure now, Milo,” said Mr. Walsh, using Milo’s name for the first time. “You’ve put yourself out there, so people are going to have good things to say about you and bad things to say about you. Just the way it is.”

  Just the way it is. Just the way it is. Milo could think of a few situations where that was the truth. I wish I knew who said we were show-offs and why they didn’t like us, but I can’t figure out who it would be. Just the way it is. I wish Maura would be like she used to be, but none of us is getting through to her. Just the way it is.

  * * *

  Milo wasn’t paying attention to Eden’s discussion of what was next on the calendar, and she knew it. They’d spent a few hours stuffing packets, and now she was outlining what was planned for the next few weeks. “All right,” she said, sounding resigned. “You’re not listening. What is it?”

  Milo hesitated, but decided to ask her anyway. “Do you ever wonder if we made the right choice, doing this?”

  “Are you kidding me, Milo? We can’t look back now. All of these high schools are participating in the vote! We’re actually getting somewhere!”

  “I’m not saying we should go back. I’m just wondering if we made the right decision.”

  “Looking back doesn’t get you anywhere,” Eden said, sounding as though that ended the discussion. Out of the corner of his eye, Milo thought he saw Maura nodding agreement from her place on the couch. But when he looked over at her, all she did was change the channel on the TV. Her eyes never left the screen.

  Milo turned back and met Eden’s gaze. “All right. Forget I said anything. What were you trying to tell me?”

  “Right before I came over here, I got a call from Mr. Satteson.
He’s been busy. He has ten more history departments on board. So that’s ten more schools. We’re actually up to eighty-four.”

  “That’s great.”

  “This thing is mutating,” said Paige, sounding wise. “It’s only going to get bigger from here on out.”

  “We’ve had a few lucky breaks,” Eden said. “First we found Spencer, and then we got the donation from Mr. Walsh, and then we had those few minutes on local TV, and now all of this. Which reminds me—I need to call Spencer and give him an update.”

  While Eden was calling Spencer, Milo glanced at Maura, who was still sitting in the family room, watching TV. Lately, when his friends came over to campaign, she didn’t get up and leave the minute they came into the room. He thought this was probably a good sign. His parents thought so, too. “I wonder if she’s interested in your campaign in spite of herself,” his mom theorized. Milo didn’t think that was it, exactly, but he hated to tell her that. He wasn’t sure what it was.

  Milo thought it was sad how they looked for anything that might be a good sign with Maura these days. His parents dragged her to some kind of therapist every week, but Milo figured they might as well save their time and money. Nothing was changing.

  Eden hung up the phone. “Are you still worried?” she asked Milo.

  About what? he wanted to ask. About Maura? About the campaign? He shrugged.

  “What brought this up?” Eden asked him. “How come you’re asking questions like, ‘Are you sure we made the right choice?’”

  “Did you hear someone talking about us during history today?”

  Eden paused. “Yeah, I did. Is that what’s bugging you?”

  “Yeah,” Milo admitted. “I don’t know why, because people have said worse to us. I thought I was kind of getting used to it, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “I think it’s because it’s someone we know. We didn’t really know those people in Haventon who were being jerks to us.”

  “Just tell me who it was.” Jack flexed his muscles. “I’ll take care of’em. I’m practically Secret Service, after all.”