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

by Donna Gephart

  When Mom laughs, too, I’m shocked. This isn’t funny!

  “Ever since I declared my intention to run,” Mom says, “I’ve received dozens a day. And the number really escalated after I won the Iowa caucuses and the New Hampshire primary.”

  “I know what you mean,” says Governor Schwarzenegger. “I really get a kick out of the ones done in crayon. I have to tell you, a threat letter written in periwinkle is not very intimidating.”

  Mom bites her lower lip. “No, I guess it’s not.”

  Have I missed some important element of the conversation? How did a threatening letter become hilarious? “What’s so funny?” I barely peep. Of course, no one hears me, so I have to belt it out. “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, Nessa. These letters come in daily. They’re all forwarded to the Secret Service. Believe me, sweetheart, they pursue all credible threats.”

  “Credible threats?”

  “You know,” Mom says, “letters from people who might really carry out what’s in their letters.”

  I gasp.

  “Don’t worry, Nessa. That almost never happens. And I’ve got round-the-clock protection.”

  I’m worried.

  “And so do you,” she finishes. I know Mom is talking about Mr. Martinez and the other guards who are in the mansion every day. Mom nods toward Governor Schwarzenegger. “Now, since the governor flew all the way from California, do you mind if we finish our meeting?”

  “Meeting?” I still don’t get why this letter isn’t a bigger deal. The writer practically said he’s planning to shoot Mom.

  Mom gives me a look and checks her watch. “We’ll talk more about this at dinner.”

  “One more thing,” Governor Schwarzenegger says, and I’m absolutely sure he’s going to tell me some horrid story about a governor who received threatening letters and was then assassinated. “Come here, Vanessa.”

  My heart thumps.

  The governor grabs a pen from Mom’s desk and holds it over my cast. “May I?”

  Arnold Schwarzenegger wants to sign my cast! There are some perks to being the governor’s daughter. “Yes!”

  He writes, “To Vanessa, a courageous girl. Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  OHMYGOD! I will have to casually lay my cast across Reginald’s desk in school. He’ll think this is so cool. And Emma will absolutely flip.

  Someone clears her throat. It’s Mom. I realize I’ve been staring at my cast entirely too long.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Vanessa?” Mom says it more like a command than a question.

  I know she means it, so I back out of her office, curtsying all the way. Then I blurt with a thick accent: “I’ll be back!”

  “Vanessa!”

  “No I won’t.” I duck out and shut the heavy door. I can hear you-know-who laughing on the other side. I made Arnold Schwarzenegger laugh and I didn’t even trip.

  “Vanessa?”

  Ms. Purdy drums pudgy fingers on her desk.

  “Sorry about that, Ms. Purdy.” I half-bow, half-curtsy as I back out of her office. “Sorry.” I touch the place where Governor Schwarzenegger signed my cast, then run all the way back up to the Purple Palace.

  Once my heart stops pounding, I wonder why Mom and Governor Schwarzenegger weren’t panicked about that letter.

  I am.

  On Tuesday at lunch, Emma touches the place where Arnold Schwarzenegger signed my cast. “Vanessa,” she says, “you are so lucky. I wish I’d broken my arm. I mean…”

  We both laugh.

  She draws a perfect ladybug near the edge of my cast and signs, “Friends forever, Emma.”

  I wish I could draw like Emma.

  “Congrats, too, on winning the County Bee. I knew you would.”

  I duck my head. “Thanks. It was pretty cool.” I don’t tell Emma how sad I was that Mom wasn’t there.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Huh?” Can Emma read my thoughts?

  “You’ve only taken one bite of your sandwich and I’m nearly finished with mine.”

  Should I tell her what’s bothering me? “Emma, do you know what today is?”

  She swallows. “Tuesday. Right?”

  “Duh,” I say, nudging her shoulder. “But it’s also the day that primaries will be held in eight different states.”

  “Oh, of course,” Emma says as though she watches the news all day long. Then she tilts her head. “So?”

  “So, if my mom wins most of them, she might have a really good chance to run for president.”

  “And that’s fantastic, right? Do you think she’ll do well?”

  I let out a big breath. “Emma, I know this is really important to my mom and all, but…” I lower my head. “I kind of don’t want her to win her party’s nomination.”

  “What?” Emma says entirely too loudly. “Why not?”

  I look around to make sure no one is staring and I whisper, “I don’t know. She’ll be too busy”—I feel tears prick the corners of my eyes—“for me.”

  “Oh, Vanessa.” Emma puts her arm around my shoulders. “She’ll be here for you. Your mom is way cool. Remember that fifties party she threw for your birthday when you turned ten? And the time she took us on a weekend cruise because we both ended the school year with all As? Besides, whatever happens, I’m always here for you.” Emma gives my shoulders a squeeze.

  I sniff. “I know.”

  “Anyway,” she says, “think of all the cool benefits if your mom actually wins the nomination and then gets elected. You could have a sleepover party…at the White House. Not to mention staff to fulfill your every whim. Ice cream sundaes at midnight. A private screening of your favorite movie. Maybe with the actual movie star sitting right next to you. Great, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I hadn’t really thought about the good things that could happen if Mom won.

  “And you already get some pretty cool benefits just by being the governor’s daughter.” She taps my cast. “Like Arnold Schwarzenegger signing your cast.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I finish my sandwich and give Emma a hug before I go to my next class. But deep in the pit of my stomach, I’m still worried about the possibility of Mom doing really well in today’s primaries.

  After finishing my homework, studying vocabulary, and eating salad, baked salmon, and broccoli for dinner, I stay up late watching CNN. I bite the skin beside my thumbnail as the primary results come in. I raise my fist in triumph when Mom loses North Dakota. Unfortunately, that’s followed by a win in Delaware. Soon the results from all eight states are in.

  Grandma calls. “Isn’t it wonderful, dear?”

  I pretend to be excited. “It’s great.”

  “Vanessa, I’m so proud of your mother right now, I feel like I’m going to burst.”

  “Don’t do that, Grandma. You’ll make a mess all over your condo.”

  “Aren’t you funny? Vanessa, dear—”

  I hear a beep and ask Grandma to hold on. It’s Mom on the other line, so I hang up with Grandma.

  “Vanessa, are you watching the results?” Mom’s voice sounds hoarse, as though she’s been screaming and straining her vocal cords all day.

  “Yes,” I say, my heart sinking.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  For you.

  “I won five out of eight states. Couldn’t have hoped for anything better. The momentum’s really going now. Arnie says my numbers are through the roof.”

  “That’s great, Mom. When are you coming home?”

  Mom is quiet. “Vanessa, the schedule’s going to be pretty grueling. Super Tuesday is in less than thirty days. And you know that will pretty much determine whether I secure enough primaries to win the nomination.”

  “I know.”

  “So, like we talked about, I’ll be home for the big things, but not for tucking you in at night or most of your school events.”

  Or the County Bee. “I understand.” I just don’t like it.

  “All right, sweet
heart. I just wanted to share the great news with you. I’ve got to run.”

  I close my eyes. “Congrats, Mom.”

  “Thanks, Vanessa. That means a lot. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Wednesday morning, by the time I reach advisory, I’ve been congratulated by at least a dozen kids. I didn’t think the kids at my school paid attention to the news at all, much less to politics. Emma gives me a hug in the hall and asks if I’m okay. I nod, thinking about how lucky I am to have a friend like Emma to get me through this.

  In advisory, I draw a rhomboid around Governor Schwarzenegger’s words because my cast is filling up with signatures from students and teachers. Even Mrs. Foster signed it. I decide not to let Coach Conner near it, but that’s easy to do because I’m exempt (Exempt. E-X-E-M-P-T. Exempt.) from P.E. until the cast comes off.

  When I show Reginald what Governor Schwarzenegger wrote, he says that’s great, but he got Shaquille O’Neal’s signature on his basketball sneakers.

  Whoever that is!

  Friday morning, there’s an envelope in my locker with the familiar heart over the “a.” My own heart rate quickens. I don’t wait to open it, but turn my back to Mr. Martinez.

  Vanessa,

  Good luck at the Regional Bee.

  I know you’ll do great.

  I wonder if Mr. Martinez could run a fingerprint check for me. But I’m pretty sure I know who’s been dropping these notes in my locker.

  I’m feeling so good from the extra attention I’ve been getting all week that when I walk past Reginald’s desk in advisory, I take a chance. “Thanks,” I say, holding up the envelope.

  Reginald looks at the envelope. “Thanks for what?”

  “For the good wishes at the Regional Bee.”

  “Oh.” He looks away from me. “I didn’t give you that.”

  My brain scrambles. Is Reginald pretending not to have written the notes? Or—gasp!—maybe he isn’t the one who’s been dropping them into my locker. I rush to my seat, take out a textbook, and hide my face behind it. OHMYGOD! How could I be so stupid? But if Reginald isn’t dropping those notes into my locker, who is?

  I bob from foot to foot, spelling words in my head, like “terrified,” “panicked,” and “nauseated.” By the time I walk onstage with the other spellers at the Regional Bee, I’m shaking. Still yourself, Vanessa, I hear in my mind. Still yourself.

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  The boy next to me, Number 45, inches away.

  I take a deep breath and look at the audience. Sitting next to Grandma in the front row is Mom. I elbow Number 45. “My mom’s here. Right there.” I hold up my purple cast covered with signatures and wiggle my fingers.

  “That’s nice,” the boy says, rubbing the place on his arm where I elbowed him.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, then go back to paying attention to Mom. She’s sitting tall like she’s…proud. Of me! We’ll both make it to Washington, D.C. I’ll make it to the National Bee and you’ll make it to the White House. The White House? What am I thinking!

  When they call my number, 44, I keep my eyes focused on Mom as I walk to the front of the stage. Somehow, Mom’s grace travels through the air and seeps through my body, because I do not trip, stumble, or knock anything over.

  My word is “aggrandize.” I pronounce the word, spell it, and pronounce it again. No buzzer. Polite applause.

  After two hours of spelling and sweating, sweating and spelling, I’m one of eight spellers left. I chew right through the skin beside my thumbnail. When they call the boy before me, my heart hammers.

  The pronouncer says, “Your word is ‘impetigo.’”

  I snort. I don’t realize how loud the snort was until the other spellers and the judges glare at me. I can’t help it. I’m picturing me and Mom with impetigo—my idea for getting her to drop out of the race. I imagine the lesions on each of our faces. “Lucky,” I say into my palm. “Wish I’d gotten that word.”

  After the boy asks for the meaning and the origin, and for the word to be used in a sentence, I get a feeling he’s not as familiar with the word as I am. You can study a thousand, two thousand, ten thousand words, but if they give you one word you’re not familiar with, it’s all over. Just like what happened to that mother I met in the restaurant when I was out with Grandma. It takes only one unfamiliar word to obliterate (Obliterate. O-B-L-I-T-E-R-A-T-E. Obliterate.) months of study.

  The boy sways from side to side and slowly says: “I-m-pe-t-a-g-o.” I wince when he makes the mistake and again when the buzzer sounds. The boy is dazed. Someone leads him offstage. I hear him crying.

  When my number is called, I walk to the front of the stage, focus on Mom, and steel myself for my word.

  The pronouncer says my word. My mind races. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to picture the word on a page in one of my dictionaries or in one of my spelling notebooks. If I had this word in one of my notebooks, it would be in the one marked “Unusual Words,” but I’m positive the word is not in any of my notebooks.

  I open my eyes and scan the audience. They’re staring at me. I focus on Mom again. She’s biting her thumbnail. Grandma’s fist is pressed to her mouth. I hear someone in the audience whisper, “She doesn’t know it.”

  I pull my shoulders back. There’s still a chance. “May I have the definition, please?”

  “A cookie that has been flavored with ginger and spice, then dusted with powdered sugar.”

  I think of Mrs. Perez and her lemon squares. (L-E-M-O-N S-Q-U-A-R-E-S.) Why couldn’t she have made these cookies instead?

  Take your time. Stall. “May I have the origin of the word, please?”

  “German.”

  My stomach plunges. “Part of speech?”

  “Noun.”

  I concentrate so hard my head feels like it’s going to split. All I succeed in producing, though, is sweat, and it’s pouring from my pits and from above my upper lip. I look at Mom, pleading.

  She leans forward. Her eyes snap shut, and I know she’s willing the correct spelling into my mind.

  I close my eyes, ready to receive Mom’s mental message. But there’s too much interference. People are murmuring. Sweat drips down my body, and I feel the national bee slipping away.

  The pronouncer clears his throat. A bad sign.

  I clear my throat and say, “Pfeffernusse. F-e-f-f-e-r-n-u-s-s. Pfeffernusse.”

  When the buzzer sounds, I don’t hear it. I assume that by some miracle of God I spelled the word correctly, and I head back toward my seat. Another speller gasps. The buzzer sounds again. This time, I hear it but can’t make sense of it. I whirl around and look at the judges’ table. The judges sit immobile, silent. I turn farther around and see Mom. Her hand is over her mouth. Then I understand. I slap my own hand to my own mouth and run offstage.

  My head’s between my knees and I’m hyperventilating when Mom and Grandma rush in. I consider telling Mom to dial 911 because I can’t catch my breath and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die. At least I hope I will. How could I have blown the Regional Bee on a cookie?

  I look around the room. Kids are bent over with parents consoling them, too. “I worked so hard.” How did I end up in the losers’ room?

  “It’s okay, Vanessa,” Mom says, her arms around me.

  I nod, but can’t speak. Because I know it definitely is not okay. I glance up and see Mom’s entourage. (Entourage. E-N-T—Oh, for goodness’ sake!) I don’t feel like being surrounded by a gaggle of people right now. It’s embarrassing enough just to be me. If Mom’s press secretary dares to tell me what a good job I did, I’ll scream!

  Grandma squeezes my hand. “You did fantastic, sweetie. Absolutely fantastic.”

  Breathe, Vanessa. Breathe.

  “You did, Vanessa.” Mom’s arms tighten around me. “You should be very proud of yourself. Very—”

  Suddenly there’s a crush of reporters in the room. Mom stands in front of me and puts her hands up, but before she can say anything,
one of the reporters blurts, “Vanessa, sorry you lost. Looks like only your mom has a chance of going to Washington now.”

  Mom nods at Mr. Adams. That’s all. Just a nod.

  Mr. Adams escorts the reporter outside, and I know Mom will never call on him again at a press conference. Mr. Adams’s assistant clears the room of the rest of the reporters and their camera crews, promising a comment later.

  Mom stands and straightens her skirt. “You ready to go, baby?”

  My heart does a little flip when Mom says that, because “baby” is what Daddy used to call me. Mom’s eyes are wet, but she’s got on a brave smile. I look at my cast where Governor Schwarzenegger wrote that I’m courageous. I’m not courageous. Mom is. I’m afraid of everything.

  “Mom?”

  She looks me in the eyes. “Yes, Nessa?”

  “Now that the bee is over, I’ll have lots of extra time.”

  “You certainly will,” Mom says, brushing a tear off my cheek. “Won’t that be nice?”

  “I’d like to help with your campaign.”

  Mom reels back as if pushed. “Nessa? That’s a big change of heart.”

  Daddy always supported your campaigns. He would have wanted this for you. But since he’s not here…

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” Mom asks.

  I nod.

  “Because it could get time-consuming, and you might be exposed to some negative things.”

  I think of Mom and Dad prepping me for the bad publicity Mom might receive when she ran for reelection as governor by acting out different scenarios at the dinner table. “I know what to expect.”

  “I’m not sure you do.” Mom ruffles my hair. “A presidential campaign is different from a gubernatorial one.” She kneels in front of me and squeezes my good hand. “But I appreciate this more than you know.” She stands and kisses my forehead. “I’ll talk to Mr. Adams about it. I’m sure he can find ways for you to help.”

  We walk out together, Mom with her shoulders back and Grandma with her head held high: Team Rothrock. We walk right past those nosy reporters and get into the car.