As If Being 12 3/4 Isn't Bad Enough, My Mother Is Running for President!

by Donna Gephart

  I hear pulleys and watch the curtains part. I crane my neck to see around the head of the person in front of me and squint.

  We are announced. The audience applauds.

  When my number is called, I make it to the front of the stage without tripping. There are a sea of people in the audience, way more than at the school bee. And they’re all staring at me! Even though I don’t move, my heart feels like it’s going to fly from my chest. This must be how Mom feels when she’s about to give a speech.

  When I spot Grandma, I raise my cast slightly. I squint and notice strangers on either side of her. My shoulders sag.

  “Number eighty-eight!”

  I look around.

  “Ahem. Number eighty-eight.”

  “Oh, that’s me,” I mumble into the microphone. “Sorry.”

  “Your word is ‘atrophy.’”

  Easy word, I think. The audience bubbles with laughter, and I realize I did more than think it. My face heats up. “Sorry,” I say again. I want nothing more than to scamper back to my seat and hide behind the heads of the other spellers. “Atrophy,” the pronouncer repeats.

  “Atrophy,” I say, my heart hammering. In my head, I think a trophy, a trophy, a trophy. “A…t-r-o-p-h-y. Atrophy.” I linger a moment and hear no buzzer. I raise my fist in triumph and knock the microphone stand over. I bend to pick it up and horrible screeches come from the speakers. Some lady rushes over, takes the microphone stand from me, and pats my shoulder. I slink back to my seat and hunch low. I’m too embarrassed to look, but I’m sure that backstage, Mr. Martinez is stifling laughter.

  I should be thinking about what a fool I made of myself. Or of the word I might get next. I should definitely be listening to the other spellers. But all I can think about is Mom. I look at my cast and feel sorry for myself. Why isn’t she here? She promised. And I’ve got the fax to prove it. Maybe she is here, but couldn’t get a seat next to Grandma. Maybe she’s late and she’ll be here by my second word. Maybe…A buzzer drills through my thoughts. Another speller down.

  As each round progresses, I watch kids disappear from the stage. Soon, even though I’m near the back, there’s no one directly in front of me. The judges ask the remaining dozen of us to move to the front row of chairs. I’ve got a good view of the audience and I still don’t see Mom.

  I spell “ennui” and “tempeh” and “bouillon” and almost don’t realize it when the fifth speller messes up on the word “chiropractor” by substituting an e for the last o. When I hear the error and then the buzzer, I wince.

  The auditorium is quiet and then erupts in applause. I think I hear Grandma give a loud whoop. The announcer says a few things as I absorb the fact that I’m one of four spellers left. Me. Vanessa big-feet, no-boobs, incurably clumsy, great-at-spelling Rothrock. I’m going to the Regionals. I pump my fist in the air, but feel it hit something.

  “Ouch!”

  I turn to see a woman rubbing her shoulder and glaring at me.

  “Sorry.” At least I didn’t hit you with my cast.

  Grandma is in front of me now, gripping my good hand. “You did it, Vanessa. You did it!” She hugs me so hard I can’t breathe.

  Watch my cast.

  “I knew you could,” she says. “I knew it!”

  “You helped.”

  “Oh, pshaw!” Grandma waves her hand. “You did this all yourself. You should be very proud.”

  I am proud, but mostly I’m worried. I look beyond Grandma and see the other winners surrounded by their parents. “Where’s Mom?”

  The look on Grandma’s face provides my answer. “Your mother called, dear, right before the bee. She couldn’t—”

  I don’t hear the rest because I’m running. I’m off the stage and in the empty room where the girl was spelling “epidural” just a couple of hours ago. I rip my number off and hurl it. Then I run again, past people in the lobby, and push open the glass doors. Cool air feels good on my hot cheeks. I sit on the stone wall next to the stairs and catch a glimpse of Mr. Martinez only a few feet away. I will not cry. I will not cry. I cover my face. And cry. How could she not come?

  Just as I’m pulling Mom’s fax out of my purse to shred, I hear: “Vanessa?” I glance up, thinking it must be Mr. Martinez.

  “Are you okay?”

  I blink twice. Michael Dumas is standing in front of me. I almost don’t recognize him because he’s wearing a suit and tie. But then his eyelid starts twitching behind his glasses, and I know it’s him.

  I brush off my wet cheeks. “I’m fine.” How did you get here? Are you stalking me or something? “What are you doing here?”

  He points to the girl who was spelling “epidural.” “My sister,” he says. “She goes to Emerald Lakes Middle?”

  I tilt my head. You have a sister?

  “She wanted to go to public school.” He leans in closer. “She thinks Lawndale Academy is elitist.” Michael shrugs.

  “Oh,” I say, wishing Michael would go away. His eyelid is twitching like crazy.

  “You sure you’re okay, Vanessa?”

  Why is Michael Dumas being so nice? This makes me want to cry more. A woman and a man, who must be Michael’s mother and father, walk over. Mr. Martinez takes a step closer. Great! Maybe the whole world can watch me cry. Let’s get a few reporters in here, too. I swipe at my eyes and wish everyone would go away and leave me alone.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Really. I guess it was just too much. The bee and everything.” I don’t tell him that “everything” means worrying about Mom.

  Michael’s mother nods. She touches my knee and I jerk back, nearly falling off the stone wall.

  “Oh!” Michael’s father reaches for me, but I manage to right myself.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “Just nerves.”

  “Where is your, um…”

  Grandma walks through the glass doors, spots me, and hurries over. “There you are, dear. I was looking all over for you.”

  “Grandma, this is Michael Dumas and his mother and father and epi—um, sister.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Grandma says, reaching for their hands, one after the other.

  Hey, maybe she should run for president. Then Mom could stay home with me.

  “Vanessa,” Grandma says, “we really must get back now.”

  Good.

  Michael nudges his mother. She nods at him and says to Grandma, “We’re taking the kids out to celebrate Marigold’s making it to the County Bee.”

  Marigold? Michael’s sister’s name is Marigold? Did they want another “M” name and thought “Megan” and “Madison” were too plain? Maybe Michael’s mother was under a heavy dose of epidural when she named her. At least my mom didn’t name me after a flower, a bush, or a tree. I feel a tear slip out. Mom. Didn’t you know how much this meant to me?

  Michael’s mother continues: “And we’d love it if you’d join us.”

  I hold my breath. The last thing on earth I’d like to do is go out for ice cream with Michael Dumas and his twitching eyelid, not to mention his parents and his sister, the flower.

  “Well…,” Grandma says, stealing a glance at me. I know she’s thinking about sinking her dentures into a nice cold bowl of ice cream.

  No, Grandma! I think as hard as I can. Don’t do it! Just say no!

  Grandma must read my mind, because she says, “I’m sorry. We really must get back.”

  Michael’s mouth turns down and his shoulders slump.

  “We understand,” says his father in this cool French accent. I wonder why Michael doesn’t have a French accent.

  “Maybe another time,” says his mother. “And Vanessa?”

  “Yes?”

  “Congratulations on making it to the Regional Bee. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

  I stop myself from spelling “accomplishment.” “Thank you.” Then I look at Michael and shrug. “Sorry, Michael. Maybe some other time.”

  He nods and turns away.

  Grandma scoots next to me in the
back of the car, and Mr. Martinez drives away.

  “Miss your mother?” Grandma asks, patting my knee.

  “No,” I say. Liar.

  “Well, I’m sure she feels terrible about not being able to be here.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Vanessa?”

  “It’s just that I seem to come last on her list of priorities.”

  “Honey, your mother is running for president. There are a slew of primaries tomorrow. Do you know what that means?”

  I turn my head and look out the window. I know exactly what that means. “That she can’t ever come to watch me in spelling bees anymore.”

  “Vanessa!”

  “Well, she can’t. She probably won’t even be there when I get to the Nationals.”

  Grandma touches my shoulder, but I pull away.

  “Vanessa, what your mother is doing is important to her. To the country. To the world.” Grandma takes my chin in her hand so I have to look at her. “We all have to make sacrifices so she can do this.”

  “Why do I have to make sacrifices?” I ask. “I’m not running for president. I didn’t ask for”—I nod toward Mr. Martinez in the front seat—“any of this.”

  Grandma takes a deep breath. “Vanessa, there are some things greater than ourselves, some things worth sacrificing for.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, “but I’m the only one who seems to be sacrificing around here.” I lay my cast on the armrest and look out the window.

  Grandma heaves a big sigh, but I don’t look at her.

  We ride back to the mansion in silence.

  I’m on the edge of my bed, my back to Mom. I’d fold my arms across my chest, but my cast gets in the way.

  Mom comes around and kneels in front of me. “Nessa?”

  I whip my head in the other direction.

  “Please look at me.”

  Why should I?

  “Vanessa!”

  I pretend to look at Mom, but really I stare at the place just above her eyebrows. Her forehead is wrinkled.

  “Vanessa.” Her breath smells like coffee and breath mints. “The mayor wanted to meet with me. There was no other time. I had to push my flight back—”

  “And miss my bee! You promised you’d be there.” I pull out the rumpled fax with her words: “I’ll bee there.”

  She puts her hand on my knee.

  I turn away. “Are you going to treat your campaign promises the same way? Only fulfill them when it’s convenient?”

  Mom stands. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

  I press my lips together. Then don’t talk to me.

  Mom smoothes her skirt and says quietly, “I have a very important meeting this afternoon. If you want to talk, I’ll be available at dinner.”

  Available at dinner? Who does she think she is? President of the United States? I gulp. Almost.

  When Mom leaves, I pace. It does nothing to dissipate (Dissipate. D-I-S-S-I-P-A-T-E. Dissipate.) my anger. Is it so wrong to want Mom to myself? At least some of the time? I open one of my spelling notebooks, but can’t focus. I pace more. Why can’t she wait until I’m in college to do this? I deserve at least one parent at home, don’t I? I think of Dad, then shake my head.

  I grab a pile of letters from my desk. There seems to be more fan mail than ever. I decide to read through the letters, since there’s nothing else to do. Besides, reading those letters always cheers me up.

  Dear Vanessa Rothrock,

  I wish my mom were more like yours. I see her on TV all the time talking about education and reading with kids and stuff. My mom says I’d better learn to work with my hands and stop worrying about books.

  But I love to read. I spend every lunch period at the school library.

  Do you love to read? If you do, what do you love to read?

  Sincerely,

  Robert Martin

  I sigh and pick up my purple pen.

  Dear Robert,

  Thank you for your letter. I think it’s wonderful that you love to read. Books can take you many places.

  I love reading, too. When I’m studying for spelling bees, I read mostly dictionaries and word lists. But when the bees are over, I enjoy reading historical fiction and biographies.

  Robert, every year on my birthday, my mom takes me to the bookstore and allows me to buy any book I want. I think you should get to do this, too.

  Happy reading,

  Vanessa Rothrock

  I reach into the purple pouch in my jewelry box and pull out a twenty-dollar bill. I paper-clip the money to the letter and write a note to go with it:

  Mr. Adams,

  Please include a gift certificate to a bookstore near this boy’s home. The money is from my allowance.

  Thank you,

  Vanessa

  I already feel a little better by the time I pull out the next letter in my pile.

  There is a yellow sticky note on the outside of the envelope: “S.S.” I try to figure out what “S.S.” stands for as I reach into the open envelope. Silly Stuff or Sophisticated Selection or Spectacularly Stupid. I snort as I pull out the letter.

  Governor Rothrock,

  Don’t think you’ll get away with trying to keep guns from people who want them. I’ve got the NRA behind me. And all you’ve got is your liberal, lefty views.

  I don’t care if you’re a woman. I’ll put you in your place if you try to mess with gun owners. I have a right to bear arms. It says so in the constitutional declarational.

  You won’t ever get my gun, but my gun might get you!

  Signed,

  NOT your biggest fan!

  “Ohmygod!”

  I realize the letter could be laced with anthrax or something and fling it to the floor. It looks menacing against the purple carpet. I thump my forehead, suddenly understanding what the “S.S.” stands for. This letter was supposed to go to the Secret Service. It must have gotten mixed into my pile of letters by mistake. Does Mom know about this? I’ve got to show it to her, tell her she’s in danger.

  I find my tweezers and pick the letter up with them. My hand shakes, making it hard to hang on to the letter, but I do. I rush down the stairs holding the letter out in front. I trip on the last step, breaking my fall with my right hand. It hurts, but I don’t care. I pick up the letter again—Mom!—and rush toward her office.

  Ms. Purdy, Mom’s assistant, sits at her big oak desk as usual. Mom and I call her the Gatekeeper because it’s her job to keep people out of Mom’s office unless they have an appointment.

  “Ms. Purdy,” I gasp. “I have…to see…my mom. It’s…an emergency.”

  Ms. Purdy eyes the letter I’m holding way in front of me.

  I whip it behind my back.

  “I’m sure it is, Vanessa. But your mother is in an important meeting until”—she looks at the clock on her desk—“five. She asked not to be disturbed.”

  I have to show Mom the letter. She’s in danger. What could she be meeting about that’s so important? What color to paint the State Dining Room?

  “As soon as she comes out of the meeting, I’ll tell her you need to talk to her.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Purdy.” I feel my shoulders sink. Thanks, Ms. Purdy? Mom’s life is in danger here. She’d rescue me. Wouldn’t she? “Uh, Ms. Purdy?”

  “Yes?”

  I don’t answer. I bolt toward Mom’s office door. Unfortunately, I have to turn the brass handle with the hand that’s casted, since I’m holding the tweezers in my right hand. I manage to open the door just as Ms. Purdy’s pudgy fingers plunge into my shoulder.

  “Mom!”

  Mom looks up from behind her huge desk. Her eyes widen.

  The man in the big leather chair facing Mom turns to see what’s going on. I drop my tweezers.

  “I’m so sorry, Governors,” Ms. Purdy says. “I tried to tell her—”

  Mom holds up a hand. “Thank you, Ms. Purdy. Vanessa, come here, please.”

  I pick up the letter with my tweezers and walk towa
rd Mom’s desk. As I pass her guest I curtsy—OHMYGOD!—and say, “Hello, Governor Schwarzenegger. I’m so sorry—”

  Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger stands. I look up and realize that this man has the squarest head I’ve ever seen. It’s a perfect rhomboid. He offers me his massive hand. I drop the letter and tweezers on Mom’s desk and offer him my right hand, afraid he’s going to crush all twenty-seven bones in it. But he barely squeezes and says, “No problem.” He turns to Mom. “I assume this is your lovely daughter.”

  Mom sighs. “It is. Governor Schwarzenegger, this is Vanessa. Vanessa”—she sweeps her arm—“Governor Schwarzenegger.”

  I curtsy again. Strike me dead before I embarrass myself further.

  “Please don’t worry,” he says, his Austrian accent thick.

  “I’ve got four of my own at home.”

  Yeah, and Maria Shriver is home taking care of them. I shake the thought from my mind. “Mom. Governor Schwarzenegger…” I curtsy again. Somebody shoot me. The letter! “It’s an emergency or I wouldn’t have barged in. You have to read this letter. Now.”

  “Vanessa, we’re—”

  “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Mom picks up the letter and I want to tell her to use the tweezers—just in case—but I don’t. Suddenly her mouth opens.

  I knew it. I knew it was really scary. Now she’ll pull out of the campaign. Maybe she’ll even stop being governor.

  “How did you…where did you…get this?”

  “It was mixed in with my mail.”

  Mom slams her palm on the desk. “That’s unacceptable. I’m going to talk with Mr. Adams. You should never have seen this. They need to be more careful.”

  But I did see it.

  Then that deep voice I remember loving in Twins says, “What is it, Elyssa? May I?”

  Governor Schwarzenegger reads the letter. Then the most surprising sound comes from him. Laughter. “Oh, this one isn’t so bad,” he says, covering his mouth. “You should have seen the ones I got during the budget crunch. I think half the state wanted to pummel me to death with oranges.”