by Laura Wood
“OK,” Angelika grins. “I’ll save you a piece of chocolate cake.”
“Thanks,” I breathe, gratefully.
I take a moment in the quiet solitude of my cupboard office to look through my notes, and I feel a tingle of satisfaction at how official they look.
When I leave I close the door carefully behind me and then I turn to find myself confronting Matt Spader.
“Hello,” he says in his soft voice.
“Oh, hello,” I say briskly.
“I’m glad I bumped into you.” He waves a hand in the air. “I wanted to say sorry about the other day.”
“Oh?” I am thrown.
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “You were right about the recycling thing. It was a good idea.” The words coming out of his mouth are friendly enough but something seems off to me.
“I know it was a good idea,” I say suspiciously.
His smile widens even further. “Look,” he says, “I just think someone should tell you, in a nice way, that this campaign thing isn’t going to work out for you.”
“Right,” I grind out, my suspicions confirmed – this isn’t a friendly chat at all. “And why is that?”
“I’m not trying to be mean or anything,” he says earnestly. “It’s just that you’re wasting your time. Aaron’s definitely going to win. There’s nothing you can do about it, so you might as well stop now. I’m doing you a favour by saying this. You’re new and you don’t get how things work yet.” He gives a little laugh and that smile again. “I just don’t want you to look like an idiot.”
I stare at him for a second, my mouth hanging open. My brain is buzzing, full of white noise. I’m so surprised that I can’t even seem to grasp at a fitting retort.
“I’m just trying to be friendly,” Matt says in a very over the top kind voice.
“FRIENDLY?” I snap. “Telling me I’m making an idiot of myself? Why shouldn’t I run if I want to? Isn’t it for all the other students to decide if Aaron’s ‘DEFINITELY’ going to win or not?” I make exaggerated air quotes, just to really make it clear that I am not at all convinced by his rubbish argument.
Matt purses his lips, like he’s bitten into a lemon. “There’s no need to get hysterical about it,” he huffs. “I’m just trying to do the right thing. If you want to make yourself look stupid then that’s your business.”
“I am NOT hysterical,” I bite out. “I am ANGRY. And the only person who looks stupid right now is YOU because you’re completely underestimating me AND the rest of the students here.”
Matt sighs in a put-upon way and runs his hand through his golden locks. “Well, I’m sorry you feel like that,” he says. “You really don’t see that you haven’t got a chance, do you?” He shakes his head pityingly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And then he saunters off, leaving me behind, staring after him and thinking of a hundred clever things I could have said.
“And then he said he was trying to be FRIENDLY,”
I groan later, over a cup of tea at Iris’s kitchen table.
“WHAT A MORON,” Lennon howls.
“You’ve never been more right, Lennon,” I sigh.
“Sounds to me like Aaron’s worried you might actually be competition,” Iris says, looking at me over the top of her mug.
“Do you think?” I ask softly. I can’t shake the queasy butterfly feeling that’s been in my stomach since the encounter with Matt. “You don’t think…” I trail off. “You don’t think…” I try again.
“Spit it out,” Iris demands.
“You don’t think he might be right, do you?” I ask finally, and my voice is hardly more than a whisper. “What if I am just making a fool of myself?” I sink into my chair.
Iris eyes me beadily. There’s not a trace of sympathy in her face. “Standing up for what you believe in is never foolish,” is all she says.
I sigh. I know she’s right, but I can’t help hearing Matt’s voice again in my head. I hate that he’s made me doubt myself.
“You know, Effie,” Iris says finally, “I can see a lot of myself in you.”
“Can you?” I ask, surprised.
“Oh yes.” Iris nods. “But of course you have opportunities that I could only have dreamed of. It’s exactly the sort of thing the rest of us have been fighting for all these years. So that young girls like you can dream of growing up to be prime minister.” Iris gestures crossly towards a pile of papers on the table. “These days all I can do is write letters to people, but back in the day I used to march and protest with the best of them.” She lifts her chin, proudly, her pink hair gleaming in the afternoon sunlight filtering through the window.
“Really?” I ask, immediately intrigued. “What was it like? What did you march for?”
A grin spreads across Iris’s face, scrunching it up and making her look much younger than usual. “Oh yes,” she says. “It was wonderful. You’ve got to try and make your voice heard… no good sitting on your hands and not mucking in. Nothing will ever change that way. If I could still get around like I used to I’d be out there pounding the pavements and making some noise, I can tell you.” She reaches for a biscuit. “Actually, my mother marched in the Peace Pilgrimage when she was pregnant with me, in the summer of 1926, so I didn’t really have a choice; protesting was in my blood.”
“1926,” I goggle. That is a seriously long time ago. I do the maths in my head. Iris must be over ninety, which is even older than I thought. I think about all the things she’s seen and how much has changed since then.
She takes a slurp of her tea. “Yes,” she says now. “Women from all over Britain marched miles and miles to London, carrying flags and chanting to try and get the government to talk about peace instead of getting themselves ready for war… Well –” she grimaces into her cup “– we all know how that turned out. But I consider that my very first protest.”
I take this in for a second. If I close my eyes I can almost imagine all the women marching together. It’s amazing to think that Iris’s mum saw all these things. I know it’s going to sound a bit dim, but I never really think of old people having lived through actual HISTORY, you know? It’s like the stuff we learn about at school is so far in the past, it’s hard to remember that there are people, literally living next door to us, who were actually there.
“That’s seriously cool,” I say.
“Yes,” Iris agrees, looking closely at my face. “It really is.” She turns in her chair. “That big box over there,” she says. “Go and grab it.” She points to a large cardboard box in the corner of the kitchen.
I go over and heave the box on to the big kitchen table. It’s bulky but it’s not too heavy.
Iris reaches over and pulls the lid off the top with a flourish. Inside the box are lots of bits of paper. Newspaper clippings and magazine articles mostly. There are other things too, leaflets and posters. Lots of them feel old and fragile. I pull a piece of paper out. It is slightly yellow now and covered in bold writing. It says “Women’s Weekend Programme” at the top, and it is a list of events with titles like “Women and the Economy” and “Women and Revolution”.
“That is from the Women’s Liberation Movement conference,” Iris says, her fingers stretching out to brush the piece of paper. “It was a long time ago now, in 1970 … almost fifty years, but it feels like yesterday.”
“What was it?” I ask.
“It was a great big meeting where women came together to talk about equality,” Iris says. “They hoped they might get up to three hundred women attending but there were almost six hundred of us there in Oxford, and we had big discussions about all sorts of things affecting women – education, job opportunities, equal pay, women in prisons, women in poverty. Oh, such important things.” Iris’s eyes are shining now. “It was wonderful, Effie, all those women in one place, thinking and talking. It felt like being part of something so big and important.”
I feel a shiver running through me. I try and imagine what it must have been like for Iris. I think I k
now what she means … at least a little bit. I want to run for student council so that I can make a difference, and when we had our meeting today and everyone got all enthusiastic and we were laughing and sharing ideas it started to feel like something better than just me by myself, like I was a piece in a jigsaw puzzle, fitting in perfectly, making something bigger. It’s a good feeling and I’m not about to give it up … not for Matt Spader, not for Aaron Davis, not for anyone.
PART TWO
The Campaign
CHAPTER Fourteen
“Are you sure about this?” I ask Angelika again, tugging at the strap on my shoulder.
“It’s going to be great,” Angelika replies firmly.
It’s the start of a new school week and we are standing outside the front gates to the school, preparing for the launch of the EFFIE KOSTAS FOR PRESIDENT campaign. In the end we decided to appeal to students the old-fashioned way – through their stomachs. So we are handing out cookies while wearing sandwich boards. At first I hadn’t known what Angelika meant by sandwich boards, but they’re just two big pieces of cardboard tied together by string that hang over your shoulders so you have one board on your front and one on your back … making you the middle of the sandwich, I guess. In the pictures that Iris showed me of her mum and her fellow suffragists they actually used them a lot. The grainy pictures show women in long dresses wearing big signs that say VOTES FOR WOMEN. My own campaign team have gone for some slightly more … creative slogans.
My board is keeping things pretty simple. Lil helped me make it and it is very bright and sparkly, with VOTE FOR EFFIE written on each side.
Angelika’s board says CAPTAIN AMERICA WOULD VOTE FOR EFFIE and is covered in a collage of pictures of Chris Evans looking brave and handsome. It must have taken her a long time to collect SO many pictures, but I decide not to question this. If Angelika has a shoebox full of pictures of Chris Evans’s head, then that’s her business.
Jess’s board says IF YOU VOTE FOR EFFIE THEN YOU INCREASE HER CHANCE OF WINNING BY A SMALL PERCENTAGE. Jess is, after all, a pretty literal person, and she said she was nervous of making false promises to the voters. She values honesty, and I respect that.
Ruby’s board says BIG HAIR, SHOWS SHE CARES! VOTE FOR EFFIE! And then on the back it says OR OTHERWISE YOU’LL HAVE ME TO DEAL WITH. I’m not sure that threatening people is the way to go, but Ruby just laughs and winks at me knowingly. “Sure thing, boss,” she says to me as though we are in the mafia. “We’re definitely NOT going to threaten anyone. Definitely NOT.” I feel a little alarmed and make a mental note to keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t start saying things about people sleeping with the fishes.
Kevin’s board says NOT JUST PEANUTS. I have to admit that I find this one a bit confusing, but he tells me that he looked up successful campaign slogans online and that this one won Jimmy Carter the American presidency, so if it’s good enough for him I guess it’s good enough for me. “Although,” Kevin says thoughtfully, “I think he might have been a peanut farmer so that would make more sense.” He thinks this over for a moment. “But if anyone asks, you could just say that you really like peanuts.”
Zo doesn’t have a board, but she’s here, still buried deep inside her Puffa jacket, and that’s something. Zo sometimes reminds me of our old neighbour’s cat who disappeared for a couple of weeks and came back all thin and nervous and jumpy. She hasn’t said a word in the last week, but she’s turned up to every meeting so she must think it’s a worthwhile cause.
The cookies that Kevin has brought with him are a bit of a funny colour and they don’t exactly look the most appetizing, but we’re committed to the plan so I plaster on a big smile and stride forward to approach my first target, a rather startled-looking year seven. “Hi!” I cry, brightly. “I’m Effie Kostas and I hope you’ll consider voting for me for junior class president! Would you like a biscuit?” I rattle the tin under her nose. All I earn in response is a rather rabbity squeak of terror as she dodges past me.
“What was wrong with that?” I frown.
“I think your smile was maybe a bit … axe-murdery,” Jess says.
Ruby nods in agreement. “Yeah,” she says. “Just try and be a bit more casual. Like this.” She turns and spies a boy I recognize from a few of my classes.
“OI!” Ruby bellows. “YOU!” The boy almost drops his PE kit. “You’re going to vote for Effie, right?”
“Oh,” the boy stutters. “Er, well, I … I actually thought maybe Aaron, but, um, maybe … I…” He trails off helplessly.
Ruby glares at him in silence.
“Gnnnaaarrr.” The boy makes a curious, strangled noise. I take pity on him.
“You should vote for whoever you like,” I say. “But I hope you’ll keep an open mind and listen to all the candidates before you decide. Would you like a biscuit?” I offer him the tin and he accepts gratefully, pulling out a biscuit and stuffing it into his mouth. His face takes on a strange expression, and he struggles to swallow, his eyes wide and his nose scrunched up.
“Guuuh, thanks,” he gasps, finally, backing swiftly away and casting a look of alarm at the biscuit tin. Weird.
“Looks like it’s going really well,” a familiar voice says from behind me, and I spin around to find myself looking into the handsome, smirky face of Aaron Davis.
“Yes, it’s going great, thanks,” I say quickly. “Would you like a biscuit?” I am determined to be poised and gracious.
Aaron peers into the tin and then grimaces. “I think I’ll give them a miss. They look like someone threw up on them.”
Seems like I’m the only one who is trying to keep things polite.
“Well, that’s up to you, I suppose,” I say sweetly. “How is your campaign going?”
Aaron bares his teeth in a smile. “It’s going really great,” he says. “Watch.”
He turns and catches the arm of a boy who is rushing past. “All right, mate,” he says, and the two do a complicated handshake that involves a high five and a fist bump and several sound effects. “Got your vote for the student council thing, right?”
“Yeah, course,” the boy says.
Aaron shrugs. “See you at Taylor’s house on Thursday?” he asks.
“Yeah, man. See you there,” the boy calls over his shoulder.
Aaron turns to me. “Well, that was pretty tough.”
My mouth is hanging open. “The. Student. Council. Thing?” I repeat dangerously, and my voice is getting quite squeaky.
“Calm down, Kostas,” Aaron says, sticking his fingers in his ears. “You’re going to burst someone’s eardrum if you carry on at a pitch only dogs can hear.”
“You don’t even care!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air. “Why are you running at all?”
“Well.” Aaron purses his lips thoughtfully. “That lunch pass is pretty handy.”
“Gahhh!” I splutter, wordlessly. Aaron’s grin stretches wider and wider, showing off so many teeth that he looks like a shark. I recover a bit of dignity and draw myself up in front of him. “Well,” I say finally, “we’ll see how that argument goes down at the student debate, won’t we?”
For the first time Aaron looks a bit confused. “What debate?” he asks.
“Ohhhh,” I exhale. “You haven’t looked up the rules of the election yet, have you?”
Aaron doesn’t reply but his silence says it all.
“Well, you and I are going to have a debate,” I say gleefully. “A real one. And then you’re going to look like an idiot if you haven’t got anything to say about the issues that matter.”
Something flickers in his eyes, just for a second. It might be anger or worry, I can’t tell. “You’re the one who’s going to look like an idiot,” is all he says. “It’ll be five minutes of saying how great the school is and it’s all over. No one wants to hear your boring speeches.”
My mouth is hanging open again. “But that’s ridiculous!” I exclaim. “That’s not a proper debate!”
Aa
ron gives another shrug. “Anyway, good luck with your little campaign.” He moves his fingers in air quotes around the word.
I look over at my team, who are enthusiastically pouncing on incoming students, pressing biscuits on them and singing my praises. I feel something glowing in my chest that makes me lift my chin stubbornly.
“Good luck to you,” I say firmly. “You’re going to need it.”
Aaron treats me to another smirk and strides off into the school.
I chat with another three or four students, offering biscuits and trying not to smile like an axe murderer, then I find myself face-to-face with our head teacher, Ms Shaarawi.
“Hello, Effie,” she says.
“Hello, miss,” I beam, surprised that she knows my name. Word of my excellent campaigning must be spreading like wildfire already. “Would you like a biscuit?”
“No, I won’t, thank you,” Ms Shaarawi says. “And I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stop giving biscuits out to the other students.”
“Oh.” I am puzzled. “Why?” I can feel my cheeks turning pink as the feeling that I’m in trouble for something creeps in.
“We can’t give out food to students like this because many of them have allergies and we can’t be sure exactly what’s in these.” She gestures to the tin in my hand.
“Oh, there’s no need to worry, miss,” Kevin cuts in, brightly. “My mum’s really into health food at the moment so the biscuits don’t have any sugar or dairy or gluten in them.”
I look down at the tin, aghast. Suddenly their peculiar appearance makes a lot more sense. “What IS in them, Kevin?” I ask weakly.
He tips his head to one side. “Um, I can’t remember.” He squints thoughtfully. “Avocado, I think. And maybe some chickpeas. Are chickpeas gluten-free?”
Ms Shaarawi is eyeing the biscuits with a queasy look. “Right, well, that’s very thoughtful, Kevin, but I still think we might be better off calling a halt to the biscuit distribution.”
“So do I!” Jess yells loudly. “They sound absolutely gross!”