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

by Donna Gephart

  And even though I just lost the Regional Spelling Bee because of a cookie, I feel surprisingly good.

  After a radio interview during which I trip, fall on my cast, and scream on the air, Mr. Adams decides print media might be the best means for me to help with Mom’s campaign.

  I answer interview questions for teen magazines. When I complete a questionnaire, I return it to Mr. Adams for his staff to review before mailing it back to the magazine. I also answer lots of fan mail, some from adults. And I help stuff envelopes for mailings when I’m not too busy with schoolwork.

  I take a short break from working on Mom’s campaign to obsess with Emma about Valentine’s Day.

  “What chance is there,” Emma asks at lunch, “that Reginald will give either of us a Valentine’s Day card tomorrow?”

  I wipe my mouth. “Um, zero?”

  “No, seriously,” Emma says.

  “I am serious.” I take another bite of my egg salad sandwich. “He likes Holly Stevens now. It’s all over school.”

  “Yeah, I heard, but I also heard that she thinks he’s totally immature.”

  We giggle.

  “But where does that leave us?” Emma asks.

  I take a swig of chocolate milk and think about it. “Remember when we were little and had to give every kid in class a Valentine’s Day card?”

  “Yeah,” Emma says, twirling her hair around her finger. “Why don’t we do that anymore? I liked those little cards. Remember the extra one in the package for the teacher?”

  “Yeah. They were cool, and no one ever felt left out then.”

  Emma sips from her water bottle. “Those were the days.”

  “I know. Now it’s all complicated.”

  Emma pushes me. “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s you and me give each other cards tomorrow. That way, if no one else gives us any, we still have the ones from each other.” She tilts her head. “Deal?”

  I extend my right hand, and we shake on it. “Deal.”

  When the bell rings, I stuff the rest of my sandwich, my empty milk carton, and my napkin into a bag and walk to the trash can. I notice Reginald leaving his trash on the table and walking away with his friends. On his way out of the cafeteria, he shoves Michael Dumas.

  I shake my head and dump my garbage.

  As I walk Emma to her class, I say, “I’m not even sure I want a Valentine’s Day card from Reginald.”

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yes you do.”

  “Okay, I do. But really, I’m not sure.”

  “Whatever.” Emma ducks into class, and I rush off to language arts class. We’re finishing reading Romeo and Juliet out loud today. Guess who is reading the part of Romeo? Reginald. And guess who is not reading the part of Juliet? Me, thank goodness. I read the part of the nurse. Carilynn Winser, who is supposed to read Juliet’s lines, is absent today so Mrs. Durlofsky reads her part. Every time Reginald has to say Romeo’s lines to Mrs. Durlofsky, he squirms in his seat and mumbles. It’s great. Everyone laughs, especially during the death scene.

  At home after school, I realize Emma didn’t say whether we should buy Valentine’s Day cards for each other or make them, so I get out colored paper, a pair of scissors, a glue stick, and purple markers in three different shades. Cutting and gluing make me feel like a little kid again. Even though it’s challenging because of the cast on my left arm, I have a good time.

  I put on some music and work until dinnertime. When I’m finished, I’ve made cards for Mom, Grandma, and Mrs. Perez, and a big one for Emma. I sign Emma’s card “BFF, Vanessa,” put it in a big envelope, and draw purple hearts all over the outside.

  There is definitely excitement in the air at school because it’s Valentine’s Day. The girls giggle with their friends at their lockers and the guys stand around, trying to act cool. I bet the boys secretly hope to get Valentine’s Day cards, too.

  I stop at my locker to drop off some books, then meet Emma at her locker before advisory just as we’d planned.

  I pull the card I made Emma from my backpack and give it to her.

  “Oh,” she says after she opens the envelope, “you made it. I should have made the one for you.” She reads the card and hugs me. “Thanks. I love it. Now here’s the one I got you.” She hands me a medium-sized pink envelope.

  The card has a teddy bear on the front, and it reminds me of the birthday card Daddy gave me on my eighth birthday. I get a pang in my stomach and quickly read Emma’s card out loud to keep from thinking about Daddy. “I’m bear-y glad we’re friends.” I open it and read the words on the inside. “Happy Valentine’s Day. Here’s a big bear hug for you.”

  “Thanks.” I give Emma a squeeze.

  Emma looks up at Mr. Martinez, then takes a step away and leans into my ear. “Guess which boy gave me a Valentine’s Day card today?”

  My heart beats fast and I look around at the kids in the hall, wondering which boy gave Emma a card. “Who?” I practically shout.

  She lets out a big breath. “My little brother.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders sag.

  “And I know my mom really bought the card and signed his name. Real exciting Valentine’s Day, huh?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “But you still might get a card from someone today. You never know.” I poke her in the arm.

  “Yeah, maybe. Did you get any cards beside mine so far today?”

  I tell Emma about the Valentine’s Day card Grandma sent me with twenty dollars inside. I tell Emma about the gigantic card from Mom that was at my place at the kitchen table this morning along with a set of purple pens, pencils, and erasers. I do not tell Emma about the card that was inside my locker this morning, the one I quickly read and shoved into my backpack.

  The handwriting inside that card said:

  Dear Vanessa,

  I hope you have a fantastic Valentine’s Day. You deserve it.

  Signed,

  Your Secret Admirer

  Just thinking of the card gives me goose bumps and I really want to tell Emma about it. Together, we might be able to figure out who my secret admirer is, but I don’t want to make her feel bad.

  “See you at lunch,” Emma says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe by then you’ll have gotten a card.” And then I can share the one I got with you.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  I don’t get any more cards the rest of the day. And no one comes up and tells me he is my secret admirer. I hope it’s not a mean joke.

  By the time I get home, there is a huge pile of fan letters I need to reply to, along with a questionnaire from a magazine. I get so busy, I don’t have time to think about Valentine’s Day anymore, or my secret admirer, or even whether I remembered to eat dinner or not. (I didn’t, unless a lemon square and a glass of milk count as dinner.)

  I stay extremely busy helping with Mom’s campaign until early March, when ten states hold their primaries on the same day. That’s why I feel like I made a huge difference in Mom’s winning six of the ten states on Super Tuesday. Six out of ten is really good, Mom tells me. Yay, us!

  The morning after Super Tuesday, I do twice as many exercises as usual in the shower and say a really long prayer to the Boob Fairy. If Mom wins her party’s nomination and becomes president, I want to make sure I’m wearing at least a B cup to the inauguration.

  Mom takes a short break from campaigning to spend time on Florida business and on being with me.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, like we have breakfast together every morning.

  She looks up from her coffee and newspapers, a big grin on her face. “Hey yourself.”

  “Mom, you’re absolutely glowing from winning so many primaries.”

  “Still more work to do,” she says, taking her mug to the sink. “‘Miles to go before I sleep.’ But I think I’m pretty safe now in considering a running mate.”

  “A running mate? You? Mom! You think it’s too much exercise when you get a run in your pantyhose.”


  Mom laughs so hard she actually spits on me. Why do I have to be so funny?

  “Nessa, I’m talking about choosing a vice presidential candidate to run on the ticket with me.”

  My cheeks heat up. “I knew that.” I so didn’t know that.

  Mom gives me a kiss on the forehead and checks her watch. “You’d better grab something to eat and get to school.” She pats me on the behind, turns back to her newspaper, and mutters, “Run in my pantyhose. Good one.”

  On the ride to school, I think about how happy Mom looked. She hasn’t looked this happy since before Daddy died. Campaigning agrees with her.

  At my locker, I’m still beaming from Mom’s good mood when I see Michael Dumas coming toward me.

  “Hi, Vanessa,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say, raising my left arm, surprised at how light it feels without the cast. The skin where the cast was is pale and blotchy, so I put my arm down right away.

  “You got your cast off.”

  “Yes.” I wait for Michael to leave, but he doesn’t. “It was kind of scary when the orthopedist pulled out his little round saw. But just like he told me, it didn’t hurt. Just vibrated.”

  “That’s good. ‘Good Vibrations.’ Get it?”

  I most certainly do not.

  Michael clears his throat. “Anyway, I’m glad it didn’t hurt, Vanessa. You going to be excused from doing stuff in P.E. the rest of the year?”

  I wish! Michael’s eyelid begins to quiver, and I want to leave before it escalates into a full-blown twitch, but instead I look more closely at his eyes. Something is different. “Michael?”

  He pulls his shoulders back. “Contacts. You like?”

  “They’re…” I knew Michael had nice green eyes, but without his glasses in the way, I can see they are absolutely…gorgeous. “They’re—they’re nice,” I stammer.

  “Mom and Dad got contacts for me as a birthday gift.”

  “You look good without glasses.” OHMYGOD! Did I just tell Michael Dumas he looks good without glasses?

  “Thanks, Vanessa.”

  I nod like I’ve seen the cool kids do.

  “Hey, Vanessa, would you like to—”

  “Ms. Rothrock.” Mr. Martinez is next to me, tapping his watch. “You really should be getting to class.”

  Sometimes I forget there’s a security guard standing within inches, ready to embarrass me at a moment’s notice. I nod at Mr. Martinez, whisper “Sorry” to Michael, and turn my attention to the combination on my locker.

  Michael walks off.

  What was he going to ask me?

  Inside my locker, an envelope rests on top of my textbooks. I grab it along with two textbooks and rush to advisory—trailed, of course, by the sound of Mr. Martinez’s shoes tap-tapping on the linoleum behind me.

  While Mr. Applebaum sits behind his desk at the front of the room, I examine the envelope. There’s no heart over the “a” in my name. In fact, there’s no name at all. Was this meant for me?

  I open the envelope, read the letter, and think: This can’t be meant for me. That’s why there was no name on the envelope. But then I read the words again and I know it is.

  I raise my hand. Mr. Applebaum doesn’t look up from his desk. I clear my throat and wave my hand. He still doesn’t look up. I drop my math textbook flat on the floor. He looks at me. So does the rest of the class.

  I’m not sure how I manage to speak, but I do. “May I please be excused?”

  Mr. Applebaum nods at the hall pass hanging by the door, grunts, and goes back to whatever he’s working on.

  With the envelope clutched in my hand, I rush from the classroom. Slow, Vanessa. Calm down. I turn to Mr. Martinez as I’m walking. “Bathroom,” I say in explanation. He nods and continues to follow. Should I give him the envelope? Of course I should, but I can’t!

  In the bathroom stall, I pull the letter from the envelope again. I can’t catch my breath. Mom and Governor Schwarzenegger were wrong. Threatening letters aren’t remotely funny.

  I take a deep breath and read the letter again.

  Vanessa,

  If you think losing the regional spelling bee was bad, wait till you see what I’m going to do if your mommy doesn’t drop out of the race. You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll think of something to convince her to drop out. Because if you don’t…

  I’m keeping an eye on things. A close eye! So don’t even think about telling your security guard about this letter. Or anyone else, for that matter. If you tell anyone, I will find out. And you and your mommy will be very, very sorry!

  How will he find out? Is it even a he? I fan myself—not to cool off, but to give my shaking hands something to do. How does this person know about the Regional Bee? Why would someone do this to me? A joke. It must be a joke. But jokes are supposed to be funny.

  Trembling, I shred the letter into tiny pieces, throw them into the toilet, and flush. I splash cool water on my face at the sink, fix my hair, and walk back to class as though nothing has changed.

  But really, everything has.

  Now, when I walk through the halls at school or sit in the lunchroom with Emma, I look around wondering who wrote that note and put it into my locker. The custodian? The lunch lady? Coach Conner? He never liked me…or Mom. Or maybe it’s the same person who’s my secret admirer. The thought makes me shiver.

  I tell no one about the letter, even though I want more than anything in the world to tell Mom. I mean, how can someone find out if I whisper it to Mom in her bedroom late at night? Could the person have spies or have planted bugs? It seems unlikely, but I can’t take that chance.

  Mom’s in real danger and I have to help. But the only way to save her is to ask her to drop out of the race. How can I do that? In a few days, four more states will hold their primaries, and Mom’s expected to win three of them. How can I ask her to quit now? But then again, how can I not? Why is this happening to me?

  I carry all my textbooks with me all the time so I don’t have to go to my locker anymore. They don’t all fit in my backpack, and Mr. Martinez tells me he’s sorry he can’t help me hold them, but he’s supposed to keep his hands free so he can do his job effectively.

  I tell him it’s okay. I don’t tell him I’m glad he’s nearby. But I am.

  One day, Mrs. Durlofsky returns my diorama of Romeo and Juliet—the scene I created has Romeo on one knee pledging his love to Juliet, and Juliet tripping. There’s no way I can carry all my textbooks and the diorama. I consider throwing out the diorama, but I want to bring it home and show Mom I do have a modicum (Modicum. M-O-D-I-CU-M. Modicum.) of artistic ability. Besides, it will probably make her laugh.

  Since I have no choice, I put my books on the floor, cradle my diorama in one arm, and face my locker. It’s been so long that it takes me a while to remember the last number of my combination, but I do and the locker door swings open.

  There is nothing inside…except for one white envelope lying at the bottom. I hold my breath and hope to see that familiar heart over the “a” in my name. Maybe the other letter never really happened. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe…

  There are two words scrawled in red on the front of the envelope: “Final Notice.” I drop my diorama. Mr. Martinez rushes over. We both bend to pick it up and we knock heads. I rub my head and apologize profusely. And when I pick up my diorama, Juliet is broken.

  “Great!”

  While Mr. Martinez fumbles to fix Juliet for me, I grab the envelope from my locker and shove it between two textbooks. Then I throw my broken diorama into the trash can, grab my stuff, and run to my next class.

  I keep the envelope pressed between my books until I get home.

  Alone in my bedroom, I touch the envelope, but draw my hand back as though it’s hot. “Final Notice.” What does that mean? And why does touching the envelope give me such a creepy feeling?

  I leave the envelope on my bed and go into my closet, reaching all the way to the back. I rub my fingers over the smooth wood
of the box I keep there. It’s heavy, weighted with memories. I press my nose to the wood and inhale. Sadly, the pine scent has diminished. I hug the box to my chest and whisper, “Daddy.”

  On my bed, I open the box and feelings flood through me. Happy feelings. Sad feelings. All mixed together inside this box.

  I pull out my “Happy Bear-thday 8 Year Old!” card. It’s just like the Valentine’s Day card Emma gave me. Emma, how I wish I could tell you what’s going on! I blink back tears and open the card from Daddy. Inside, it says in thick black letters: “I love you BEAR-y much!” Did I realize how corny that sounds when I was eight? In handwriting is: “So proud of you, Nessa. Love, Mom.” And, in a sloppier, more relaxed script, “You’re my big girl now. Love you, Nessy. Daddy.”

  I’d forgotten that my parents each signed my birthday cards. I kiss Daddy’s signature, then put the card back in the box. Then I pull out the newspaper clipping about the plane and touch the black-and-white photo of the…I can’t look at it. I push the article back into the box, grab the horrible envelope with “Final Notice” written on it, and shove that in, too. Then I slam the lid and push the box far back in the closet.

  There’s an ache in my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s because I miss Dad or because I really wish Mom were here. Of course, she’s off campaigning somewhere.

  I sit at my desk in front of the computer. My hands shake as I compose the following e-mail:

  Subject: Important Question

  Hi, Mom,

  I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. I know it’s important for you to become president. I know you’ve wanted it since you were ten. But why? Why is it so important?

  Vanessa

  Later, Mom replies:

  School assignment?

  I e-mail:

  No. Just for me. I want to know.

  I need to know.

  Mom sends the following e-mail:

  Top Ten Reasons I Think I’ll Make a Good President:

  10. I’ll work to protect and preserve the environment—water, air, and land. Somebody’s got to get mercury out of our water!