Vote for Effie

by Laura Wood

  “We didn’t see you at the party, Aaron,” Angelika says, and I dare to look over at him. Our eyes meet, and for a second I feel the crackle of dislike zapping between us like an angry electric shock.

  “I couldn’t make it,” he mutters. “Homework.”

  “Which you didn’t even need to do,” Katie says then, and she sounds a bit grumpy, as if they’ve already been fighting about it. “You know the teachers always give you extra time because of football practice.”

  “They do WHAT?” I explode, and Katie and Aaron eye me nervously. “Let me guess,” I snap, “the girls’ netball team don’t get the same treatment.”

  “The girls’ netball team aren’t the defending league champions.” Katie tosses her hair again, as if that puts an end to any argument.

  “Unbelievable,” I mutter.

  Aaron just continues to look bored.

  Angelika turns to Jess. “Did Effie tell you that she’s running against Aaron for junior class president this year?” she asks casually.

  “No, she didn’t tell me,” Jess says in her loud voice. “But she’ll never beat Aaron.” Aaron’s face fills with a look of annoying self-satisfaction at this. “He’s not very clever,” Jess continues, as if Aaron isn’t standing right in front of her, “but people seem to vote for him anyway.” Aaron’s smirk slips a bit.

  “Well, you never know.” Angelika smiles serenely. “This year could be different.”

  “That’s true,” I say, plucking up my courage and drawing back my shoulders. “After all…” I turn to him. “You’ve never run against me before.”

  “Can we go now?” Aaron says to Katie in a put-upon voice, ignoring me completely and tugging at her hand.

  “Of course,” Katie says.

  “Guess some people can’t handle a little friendly competition,” I smile.

  Aaron’s eyes slide over in my direction. “There’s no competition about it,” he says in a bored voice. “I’m going to wipe the floor with you. I don’t know why you’re even bothering.”

  He sounds completely sure of himself, as if there’s nothing anyone could do to take the victory from him. As if it’s all already his and he doesn’t even have to try. I feel my fingers curl into my palms, but I force myself to smile. “I guess I’m bothering because I think it matters,” I say lightly. “I think the best candidate should win. Maybe that’s you … but maybe it’s not.”

  “We’ll see,” is all Aaron says, but his mouth is set in a thin line.

  “Yes,” I say, and my voice is strong, certain – I feel like this is a momentous statement, as if an enormous orchestra should be playing dramatic, stirring music behind me as I get slowly to my feet. “I suppose we will.”

  CHAPTER Eight

  A week later, things finally get real. We have a big assembly in the enormous school hall and our head teacher, Ms Shaarawi, stands at the front and calls all the current junior student council members to the stage. When Aaron steps up, the polite applause suddenly gets loud and rowdy. There are noisy whoops from a huddle of boys at the back who spring to their feet, and Aaron grins at them, clasping his hands together and shaking them in the air, like he’s a big champ, which makes me want to growl like an angry dog.

  “Yes, thank you,” Ms Shaarawi says. “Settle down, please.” The boys at the back sit down and the student council members hover to one side. “So,” Ms Shaarawi continues, “as you know, we will be electing a new student council in just a few weeks’ time. The student council is an important part of our school, and running for a spot is a good way to make a difference for your fellow students. It will also reflect well on your school record, and give you an insight into how important hard work and being part of a team can be.” She looks over her glasses at the rows of students in front of her. “If you are interested in running for any of the positions, please sign up on the sheets pinned to the noticeboards in reception.” She turns to the group currently standing onstage and smiles at them. “And I would like to thank our current student council for all their hard work over the last year. They did a great job, throwing a junior prom that I think will not easily be forgotten.” There are whoops and cheers again here and a long round of applause before the assembly wraps up.

  Junior prom? Parties are good things, don’t get me wrong, but surely a student council could have more to show for itself by the end of the year? I squirm in my seat, imagining all that could be achieved, imagining the difference I could make. For starters, how about distributing the money more evenly so that everyone gets a chance to join a club or society that they’re interested in?

  As I file out of the assembly with everyone else, my head is spinning with ideas. I have to win first, I remind myself, and I must admit that running against Aaron is a little intimidating, even for me. In the last week I have only become more aware of how popular he is. He’s in year nine now, but he was elected as president when he was in year eight like I am, and he was the first year-eight student president we ever had. He’s the captain of the football team, and he literally has a fan club of girls in year seven who follow him around in their lunch breaks and pick bits of his rubbish out of the bin. I mean, I suppose we all need a hobby, but that seems a bit odd to me.

  As for me and Aaron, we haven’t spoken again since the lunchtime run-in with him and Katie. Every so often we’ll catch each other’s eye and I swear I hear the sound effects for two swords smashing together. Unfortunately, keeping him at a distance doesn’t seem to be an option when I actually run into him in the corridor after assembly. I am walking with Angelika and chatting away when I feel a shoulder bash into mine.

  “Ooof!” I exclaim as we ricochet off each other like we’re inside a pinball machine.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t—” I start to say until I realize who it is.

  “Kostas.” Aaron’s voice is icy.

  “Davis,” I spit, jerking my head in a little nod.

  “Apology accepted.” He stretches his mouth out into a smile that shows off white, shiny teeth, but which doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “It was just an automatic response,” I snap, my hands on my hips. “It’s called being polite. I once apologized to a chair that I bumped into.”

  Aaron snorts at this and I shoot him my best withering stare. “I notice you didn’t apologize for bashing into me,” I huff.

  “Why would I?’ Aaron shrugs and starts to walk away. “You’re the one who wasn’t looking where you were going.”

  I stand still, glaring at his back as he saunters off. Fury is bubbling inside me like a potent witch’s brew in a steamy cauldron. He’s so full of himself. I want to beat him so badly.

  The only person who wants it as much is Angelika, who is spluttering indignantly beside me. Over the past week we’ve been hanging out non-stop. Like me, Angelika has big plans for her future. She wants to be a world-class surgeon, and she’s already thinking about getting into university. She thinks running my campaign will beef out her application, and she’s going to run for secretary again so that we can combine our votes to get some changes made around here. We have so much in common that we’ve quickly become inseparable, but it’s not just that … it’s that she really believes in making a difference. When I go on long rants about the importance of democracy, about how we can do anything we set our minds to, and how – even though we are young – we can change things for the better, Angelika doesn’t roll her eyes at me like some people do. She gets to her feet and cheers. She makes me feel ten feet tall. I guess that’s the sign of a good friend.

  So it’s no surprise that she accompanies me during morning break to sign up for junior class president. In fact, she pulls out her mobile phone – even though we’re not supposed to have them on during school hours – and plays “The Story of Tonight” from Hamilton at the loudest possible volume on its tinny speaker as I solemnly scrawl my name on the sheet. It feels momentous. I dot the “I” in Effie with a star. Angelika takes a picture of the sheet so that one day we can put it in my
biography.

  I am the first person to put my name on the list, but I know that won’t be the case for long. I wonder if anyone else will run apart from Aaron? As I feel the familiar stirrings of panic in my chest I take a deep breath and try to think about what Iris said. Just taking things one step at a time. The next logical step, of course, is that we need somewhere to hold our first official campaign meeting. Now that we know the rules of campaigning we need to get started on strategizing properly. I raise the issue with Angelika.

  “I suppose we could ask a teacher if we could use their classroom during lunchtimes and things?” Angelika crinkles her nose.

  “Hmm,” I murmur, not really convinced. “It would be better if we had a real space … a proper campaign office that we could call our own.”

  “Yeah,” Angelika agrees, immediately grasping my vision. “The room where it happens.”

  “Exactly,” I say. I mull this over for a second. “Maybe we should ask Miss Sardana if she has any ideas.”

  “Good plan.” Angelika nods. “Let’s go and find her.”

  CHAPTER Nine

  “A campaign office?” Miss Sardana’s brow creases. She still looks very worn out and I’m beginning to think the frown is a permanent facial feature.

  “Yes.” I nod eagerly. “Somewhere to strategize, hold meetings, work on the issues … you know, normal campaign stuff.”

  “Well, Effie, we don’t usually give students offices to run their campaign for junior class president… It’s not exactly…” Miss Sardana trails off here, and I employ my special, wide-eyed pleading face. It’s been working pretty well for me, ever since the successful dance mat gift acquisition of my fifth birthday. Mum and Dad never stood a chance.

  “But, miss,” Angelika chips in here, “that’s because people haven’t taken it properly seriously before. That’s one of the things Effie wants to change.”

  “Exactly,” I agree, making a mental note that should she change her mind about being a surgeon, Angelika will make a very valuable head of communications when I am prime minister.

  “I just don’t know where we would find the space, girls.” Miss Sardana shrugs wearily, spreading her fingers in a gesture to convey that the situation is out of her hands.

  “There must be somewhere,” I press, because if I am about to fall at the very first hurdle, then I truly don’t deserve to call myself junior class president of Highworth Grange Secondary School. “Just somewhere really small. It doesn’t have to be fancy, just private … a space we can use.” I’m speaking softly now, trying to hypnotize her with my words. My eyes are getting wider and wider and I imagine the pupils spinning around in a rather mesmerizing fashion. To be honest, all this pleading is starting to make my head hurt, and I blink rapidly.

  Miss Sardana gives me a slightly puzzled look and then seems to realize that the fastest way to get rid of us is to help us get what we need. “Does it have to have windows?” she asks finally, her voice reluctantly squeezed out of her.

  “Windows?” I jump on her words, sensing weakness. “No! Windows, yuck! Who needs them? All that sunlight with its blinding rays. So distracting. We need something that’s more private and secret, like a bunker.”

  Actually, I can see it all now … the secret service officers standing, silent but deeply respectful, outside the door as I use my palm print and retina scan to gain access to the dimly lit room. There, world leaders wait on-screen to congratulate me on my plan for world peace. “It was no more than my duty,” I say humbly, a rueful smile on my lips. “Though I would of course like to thank my dear friends Malala and Michelle Obama for their support and encouragement. I know that I stand upon the shoulders of giants, for truly we are a nation…”

  “Effie?” Miss Sardana’s voice drags me from my daydream.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say quickly, “could you just repeat that for me?”

  Miss Sardana sighs. “I said, we haven’t got a bunker, but I might be able to help you.”

  Angelika squeezes my arm.

  “It really might not be what you have in mind.” Miss Sardana raises a finger in warning.

  “That would be very gracious of you,” I say in a deeply presidential tone. “Please, lead the way.”

  Miss Sardana guides us out of her classroom and stops in front of a brown door. She turns the handle and pulls the door open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. Stepping inside, she fumbles to locate a light switch and a flickering bulb hums to life overhead.

  We are standing in what can only be described as a cupboard.

  It is pretty big for a cupboard, don’t get me wrong, I could easily lie down stretched out on the floor in both directions if I chose to do so, but there is no getting around the fact that there are no windows and it is definitely, undeniably, a cupboard.

  “It’s a cupboard,” Angelika says, once more giving voice to my own innermost thoughts.

  Miss Sardana nods. “Yes,” she agrees. “But it’s an empty cupboard. Well, almost.” Here she gestures to a load of old but perfectly usable sports equipment that is piled up, gathering dust. “All this needs chucking out now that the football team have bought new equipment.” Obviously these are the Aaron Davis rejects, I think, fuming. “This stuff is all rather in the way,” Miss Sardana concludes glumly, as if moving some bags of balls and cones and hurdles is a simply insurmountable task.

  “Not for long,” I cry, turning to face them both. “It’s perfect. Look, we can fit a table in … a small one anyway, and put some cushions on the floor. Our meetings will be cool and informal. We’ll be like an artsy design company drinking green tea and mind-mapping great ideas. We can cover the walls in posters. We can lock ourselves away and talk for hours about the issues that matter and about how we’re going to make the school a better place for everyone, not just a few popular kids.” My eyes are shining and as I look around the cupboard I can see the transformation unfolding in my mind. “It’s not an empty cupboard any more,” I sigh happily. “It’s the campaign headquarters for Effie Kostas. And I am running for junior class president.” My voice goes up at the end, and I pump my fist in the air, dramatically. Angelika bursts into spontaneous applause and I think even Miss Sardana looks quite moved.

  “Thanks, miss,” I say seriously. “This is the first step in a very important journey.”

  “It’s fine, Effie.” Miss Sardana shrugs, already backing away as though she’s relieved to have us out of her hair. “Good luck with your campaign.”

  We are interrupted by the ringing of the bell and so Angelika and I rush off to our maths lesson, but my head is still jangling with the image of the Kostas Campaign HQ and I can’t wait for lunchtime to roll around so that we can get back in there.

  During the lunch break we drag Jess along to our first official team meeting. She immediately agrees to be part of the campaign team, and admires our new office with some enthusiasm.

  “I’ve got some big purple cushions in my room that will be great for sitting on, I can bring them in,” Jess offers.

  “Look at all these shelves!” Angelika exclaims, eyeing up the wall of built-in shelving on one side. “We can keep all our supplies in here – stuff for making posters and leaflets and things.”

  I nod, pleased that they have both immediately seen the potential for the space.

  “Are you any good at art, Effie?” Jess asks. “Because I know for a fact that Angelika is rubbish. And I’m not much better. I like maths. Numbers behave themselves much better than words and pictures do.”

  “No,” I say, sadly. “I’m not much good at art either.”

  “Well then, it’s clear – the first thing we need to do is recruit a couple more people for the team,” Angelika says.

  “Do you think we need more than us three?” I ask doubtfully.

  “Definitely.” Angelika nods. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, and not a lot of time to do it. We need to build up your following, get your name out there, so we need someone else who’s outgoing and persuas
ive. And we DEFINITELY need an artist. We’re the organizers but we need to make sure we can represent the whole junior school … that means getting as many people as possible.”

  “We aren’t going to fit many more people in here,” Jess points out. She’s right, it’s already a bit of a squeeze with three.

  “Well, at least a couple more,” Angelika says firmly. “We need some people outside of our group. I’ve got an idea about recruiting the artist –” she taps her cheek thoughtfully “– but we should try and get the word out to other people who are interested in taking down Aaron. There must be lots of us!”

  We all agree and we spend the rest of lunch making posters. They look like this:

  We leave our cupboard HQ so that we can run around sticking the posters up in the halls. I am carefully pinning one to a noticeboard when I hear a clunking noise beside me. I turn to look and there’s an empty plastic water bottle rolling along the floor where it has completely missed the bin. I twirl around to see a boy walking on, his hands in his pockets.

  “Oi!” I exclaim. “You’ve dropped your rubbish on the floor.”

  The boy turns around to look at me. He has golden curly hair and big blue eyes. He’s not much taller than me, but somehow he is giving the impression that he is looking down his nose at me. It’s the boy who wouldn’t move his backpack in the hall. My blood immediately starts to simmer. “Are you talking to me?” he says, and his voice is quite soft.

  “You missed the bin,” I reply, pointing to the water bottle. The boy stands beside me and looks down at the bottle with an air of bemusement, as though he’s never seen the bottle, the bin or, indeed, this corridor before.

  Just then someone else appears around the corner, and I groan under my breath.

  “All right, Matt?” Aaron says with a nod. Of course these two equally awful people know each other.

  “Yeah, man,” the golden boy – Matt – replies.

  “Is Kostas giving you trouble?” Aaron asks.