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

by Donna Gephart

  She fixes me with a stare. “Tell me everything Vanessa.”

  It’s frightening when she does that. “This”—I swallow hard—“is the second letter.”

  “What?” Mom says.

  I knew I shouldn’t have told her everything.

  “Vanessa! You have to show me these things right away. Do you understand? This is very…serious.”

  “But the letter said—”

  “I don’t care what the letter said. We’ve talked about this.” Mom rubs the back of her neck. “You could have put yourself in terrible jeopardy by keeping this from me. When someone tells you not to tell, that’s exactly when you should tell. Mr. Martinez is always with you at school. You should have—”

  My sniffles stop Mom’s tirade. She pulls me into her arms. “I’m sorry, Nessa. Don’t cry. You must have been very scared by this.”

  I nod into her chest. You have no idea how scared!

  She pulls back from me and wipes a tear from my cheek. “Nessa, it took a lot of courage for you to finally show me this letter. Thank you.”

  I nod again and wipe my nose with my sleeve.

  Mom hands me a tissue. “Now, every detail you remember will be important for the Secret Service’s investigation.”

  I gulp. “I don’t know much. I…” A lump forms in my throat. Mom’s going to drop out of the race now. She’d never do anything that would put me in danger. And I feel awful about it. “After I read the first letter, I got scared.” Mom stares at me with such intensity I have to look away. “So I ripped it up”—I peek at Mom and whisper—“and flushed it down the toilet.”

  Mom closes her eyes. “Nessa.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sorry for disappointing you. Sorry for messing up your dream. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry!

  Tears stream down my cheeks, and Mom puts her arm around my shoulders. I feel her warm, damp breath on my ear and it tickles. “I’m so sorry for putting you in this situation,” she says. “You’ll be okay. This isn’t your fault.”

  It is my fault, Mom. It’s my fault you’re going to drop out of the race now. And not because of those creepy letters. It’s my fault because…I wished for it. First, I wanted you all to myself. Then I just wanted you to be safe. But either way, it’s my fault.

  “Nessa, there’s only one thing we can do now,” Mom says, squeezing my shoulders.

  Why does she have to be so nice right before she tells me she’s going to drop out of the race? “Mom—”

  Mom’s determined voice surprises me. “We’re going to have to beef up security at your school.”

  I cough. “We’re what?”

  Mom stands and paces as she ticks off items on her fingers. “We’ll have one security person stationed at your locker at all times. That way a note can be intercepted immediately, and we can catch this lunatic.”

  Aren’t you dropping out of the race? My life is in jeopardy here. Not to mention your life. “Someone will be at my locker at all times?”

  “Of course.” Mom waves her hand. “And Mr. Martinez or other security personnel will be inside your classroom with you. Inside, not outside the door anymore. You will never be alone.”

  “Never be—?”

  “The administration at your school has already been informed and, of course, as I said, the Secret Service will be working on this at their end.”

  “Mom?”

  She stops and touches her finger to her chin. “And maybe we can—”

  “Mom!”

  She pulls her gaze away from the wall and focuses on me. “Yes, Vanessa?”

  “Does this mean you’re…you’re not going to…”

  “Not going to what? What more could I possibly do? If you’ve got any ideas, I’d love to hear them.”

  Drop out of the race. “Nothing.”

  As though I weren’t enough of a dweeb at school! Now Mr. Martinez follows me inside every classroom. And there is a security guard stationed at my locker throughout the day. What was Mom thinking?

  At least now I can go to my locker again. No one will drop anything in there with the Incredible Hulk standing nearby. The guard near my locker has forearms bigger than my thighs. He even scares me, and I’m supposed to be at my locker. Note to self: Talk to Mom about the possibility of home-schooling.

  On the positive side, I no longer have to be humiliated that the Boob Fairy hasn’t visited because I’m not allowed to change in the girls’ locker room before or after P.E. anymore. If that’s not a good thing, I don’t know what is! I change in a stall in the girls’ bathroom (after Mr. Martinez scopes it out), then leave my stuff in Coach Conner’s office during P.E. This also makes me late for class, which is wonderful because any minute not spent near Coach Conner is a minute well spent.

  All the security makes me feel a little safer, albeit less approachable. Even Emma seems a little freaked out at lunch when Mr. Martinez stands right next to me instead of off to one side of the cafeteria. She’s quieter than usual while we eat, but I don’t feel much like talking anyway. Because, to tell the truth, even with all the security around me, I’m always alert, always paranoid that someone might try to do something horrible to me.

  And no one on the staff at Lawndale Academy makes me more nervous than Coach Conner. Unfortunately, his class is mandatory.

  “Rothrock, you need to work on upper-body strength,” he shouts through a megaphone.

  I’m a few yards off the floor, hanging on to a fat rope suspended from the ceiling. Sweat drips from my face, and my palms are raw. I look over and see Michael Dumas inch to the top of his rope, touch the beam near the ceiling, and shinny back down. I am shocked. Maybe that boy’s not the complete and total weakling he appears to be. Maybe—

  “Come on, Vanessa!” someone shouts from below. “We need our turns, too.”

  I hate P.E. I close my eyes and strain, but obviously, even without large mammary glands, my body’s far too heavy to be supported by my scrawny biceps. (Biceps. B-I-C-E-P-S. Biceps.) I imagine the entire class staring up at my derriere and laughing. P.E. should be outlawed as cruel and unusual punishment! My arms shake and my left wrist aches. I consider letting go, but figure I’ll miss the mat entirely and break my other wrist or smash my head and die instantly. I can almost see the headline in tomorrow’s Democrat: GOVERNOR’S WEAKLING DAUGHTER DIES IN P.E. CLASS. FLORIDA ASHAMED!

  “Upper-body strength, Rothrock!” Coach Conner shouts through his megaphone as though public humiliation will motivate me to try harder. “Upper-body!”

  Upper-body? OHMYGOD! I’d cover my puny chest if my arms weren’t busy with the rope. I’m entirely too embarrassed to come down now. I decide to hang on to the rope until class ends, but my uncooperative arms tremble so much that I shinny down, giving myself rope burns on unmentionable parts of my anatomy.

  When I’m a couple of feet from the mat, I let go, stumble, and fall. As if I weren’t already humiliated beyond belief! Guess who’s standing there?

  “You okay, Vanessa?” Michael Dumas holds his hand out to me. “You didn’t hurt your wrist or anything, did you?”

  When I take Michael’s hand, my heart speeds up. “I’m okay. It’s just—”

  That’s when I hear it. Murmurs from the other kids. “Dumb Ass.” “Dumb Ass.” “Dumb Ass.”

  I glare at Coach Conner. Do something, you Neanderthal! Coach actually grins. I hate that man! I make such tight fists that my fingernails bite into my palms. Turn around, Vanessa. Tell them to shut up. Tell them it’s pronounced “Doo-MAH,” just the way Michael does. I let Michael’s hand drop and scurry to the back of the girls’ line.

  I can’t face Michael the rest of the period.

  I’m still thinking about him and what a coward I am when I grab my backpack and clothes from Coach Conner’s office. As I walk to the girls’ bathroom, with Mr. Martinez a few feet behind, I thump myself in the forehead. I should have stuck up for Michael.

  At the doorway to the bathroom, I stop and Mr. Martinez calls, “Anybody in there?” After a
quick search, he nods and says, “All yours, Ms. Rothrock.”

  I choose the stall farthest from the door. After wiping my pits with my T-shirt, I slip into my regular clothes and bunch up my P.E. clothes to shove into my backpack. I notice an envelope sticking out from between my geometry textbook and my language arts textbook.

  Mr. Martinez? I pluck the envelope out and open it. Please let it be a love note. Or a note from one of my teachers. Or— There are two sentences on the slip of paper.

  Vanessa,

  You can run, but you cannot hide.

  July seems like a nice month to die.

  “Ohmygod!” I scream.

  “Ms. Rothrock?”

  I hear Mr. Martinez’s shoes pound into the bathroom. The door to my stall flings open. I’m crouched there, shaking, the letter between my fingers.

  “Are you hurt?”

  I shake my head and hand him the letter.

  He uses a piece of toilet paper to take it from me. “How…?” he says, more to himself than to me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clear plastic bag and drops the letter into it. He turns his head and says something into his shoulder.

  “Mr. Martinez.” My voice wobbles. “How did…?”

  He offers me his large hand, and I grab it, thinking of Michael offering me his skinny hand in P.E. “I don’t know, Ms. Rothrock. But believe me, we will get to the bottom of this. Don’t you worry.”

  I pick up my backpack and realize that only one person had access to it during P.E. It was lying exposed in his office. And the note said I can “run.” Could it be…

  “Ms. Rothrock, every avenue will be checked. Believe me, every individual will be investigated.”

  Coach Conner?

  “Nessa, I told you,” Mom says. “They did a complete background check on Coach Conner.”

  I press the phone to my ear and chew on the skin beside my thumbnail.

  “You may not like him, but he has no record of any wrongdoing.”

  “That doesn’t mean he didn’t do this.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Mom sounds exhausted. “Nonetheless, you’re exempt from taking P.E. for the rest of the school year.”

  “Really?” I’m so excited, I squeeze Carter. I can’t believe that all it took to get me out of P.E. was having my life threatened. Too bad there’s only two and a half months left of school to enjoy that!

  “You’ll spend the period reading or doing homework in the library. Mrs. Foster suggested that.”

  “Okay.” Thank you, Mrs. Foster.

  “Nessa, I’ve got a lot of people working on this, but would you feel better staying out of school tomorrow?”

  Did Mom just ask if I’d like to stay out of school tomorrow? “Well, I’d like to, but I have a math test and a language arts paper due.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sure. Mom?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?” Her words are nice, but she sounds tired and edgy.

  “That note said July is a nice month to die. What’s in July?”

  Mom doesn’t answer right away. Bad sign. “It’s nothing, Nessa.”

  I run everything through my mind—Grandma’s birthday, Fourth of July, possibly a dignitary coming to town—but I come up blank. “Mom, I deserve to know.”

  She sighs. “The convention.”

  “What convention?”

  “The Democratic National Convention takes place in July, Vanessa. That’s where I’ll officially be nominated to run for president.”

  “Oh.” I should have known that. I’ve got to start paying more attention to Mom’s campaign.

  “It’s one of the three biggest moments in a candidate’s life. The first is the initial announcement, and the last consists of debates between the nominees of the offering parties. The convention is important.”

  “But you can’t go,” I say. “You’ll just have to tell them you can’t make it.”

  Mom laughs. “Not go? Vanessa, I’m going to be the headliner. The main attraction. And you’re going to be there, too.”

  “Me?” I gulp. “I’m busy that day. When in July is it?”

  “Vanessa, listen to me. I’ll be there. You’ll be there. Grandma will be there. It will be fine. In fact, it will be one of the greatest experiences of our lives.”

  My heart hammers “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind.”

  “You must have courage, Vanessa. Do you know what courage is?”

  I roll my eyes and think of what Governor Schwarzenegger wrote on my cast. “It’s when you’re not afraid.”

  “Wrong. Courage is when you are afraid.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, it’s when you’re afraid, but you have the conviction to do what’s right anyway.”

  “Mom, I think not putting yourself in harm’s way is right.”

  “Not always.”

  “Huh?”

  “Vanessa, what about a firefighter who runs into a burning building—Oh, for Pete’s sake, Arnie, I’ll be right there.” Mom talks faster. “That firefighter puts himself in harm’s way to rescue the baby.”

  “What baby?”

  “The one in the burning building.”

  “There’s a baby in a burning building?”

  Mom clucks her tongue. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, courage is the conviction to do what’s right even though you’re afraid.”

  I suddenly remember something. “Ohmygod!” I slap my hand to my mouth.

  “What?”

  “Mom: July.”

  “July? Honey, I told you not to worry. I need to go. Arnie looks like he’s going to explode if I don’t hang up.”

  “Mom, the note said, ‘July seems like a nice month to die.’”

  “Sweetheart, stop obsessing about that note. I told you the Secret Service is all over it.”

  “I know they are, but Mom…”

  “Yes, Vanessa? What is it?”

  “Daddy died in July.”

  I go online and look up the Democratic National Convention. Mom’s right; it will be held in July, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. But Mom’s wrong about her being the main attraction. Somebody else is going to have to do it. Because she’s not going to be there. And neither am I.

  None of us can go, as long as that creepy letter-writer is still out there. Right this very minute, he could be making plans to do something horrible to me and Mom at the convention. And I won’t let that happen. I won’t! If security can’t keep someone from dropping a note into my backpack at school, how can they possibly keep some lunatic from hurting us at a giant venue like the Pennsylvania Convention Center in Philadelphia with thousands of people there? I’ve got to keep Mom—and me!—from going to that convention.

  I reach for my desk calendar and flip past the pages for April, May, and June. When I see “July,” I gasp. Why is this happening to us? I rip out the page for July 1 and crumple it. I wish I could rip out all the pages for July and skip the month entirely. I tear out the pages for July 2 and 3, too. When I toss the crumpled pages into the trash can, I knock a pile of envelopes off my desk.

  I lean forward to gather the envelopes, some of which have fallen under my desk. When I sit up, I bash the back of my head on the underside of my desk. Could this day get any more painful? As I rub the back of my head, I notice the interview request from Teen Scene Magazine. I pull out the page of questions and my heartbeat quickens. “Circulation of two and a half million.” That should be enough.

  I think I know exactly how to keep Mom from going to the convention in July. But I’ll have to hurt her to do it. My shoulders slump. I put the page of questions on my desk and pull out a purple pen. I take a deep breath, but I can’t make my fingers move. How can I do this to Mom?

  I push the page out of the way and lay my head on my hands. “Oh, God, what should I do?” If I had a problem when I was younger, Mom was often in a meeting or away on business, so I went to Daddy. And anytime I told him I needed to ta
lk, he closed the folders he was looking at and listened. He always said just the right thing and gave me a big hug after we were done talking.

  I wish Daddy were here now, so much that my chest aches. I look around the Purple Palace, and my eyes settle on the closet door.

  Even with Carter in the crook of my arm, my hand shakes as I reach into the back of the closet and pull out my Dad box. I carry it to my bed. This time, I open the lid, take a deep breath, and read the entire article. “…killed in a plane crash…just outside Pennsylvania. He left behind a daughter…” I run my fingers over the photo. I’m what he left behind. Me. Vanessa Rothrock. I read the date on the article: July 5. “Don’t worry, Daddy.” I kiss the photo. “I’ll protect her.”

  I leave Carter on the bed, put away my Dad box, and read the Teen Scene interview questions. I think carefully about my answers, especially the last one. I scroll through my e-mails and copy part of one so that I’ll get the answer just right.

  I glare at Carter as I address a large envelope to the magazine’s editor in chief. “I know I’m supposed to get this approved by the press secretary,” I tell him. “But this is an emergency.” I throw a dictionary at Carter. “Stop staring at me like that!”

  I hang on to that envelope for nearly a week before I get up the courage to give it to someone to mail for me. I can’t mail it myself because a staff member or security person might see me and intercept it. I get absolutely no privacy anymore. And if anyone from here reads it before it gets to the magazine, they’ll tell Mom and my entire plan will be ruined.

  On the last day of March, during lunch, I reach into my backpack to give Emma the envelope. But Mr. Martinez is standing right next to me. I can’t take a chance he’ll take it from me. Besides, I can’t give the envelope to Emma. It says “Teen Scene Magazine” right on the front. Emma loves Teen Scene; she cuts out photos of the gorgeous guys from every issue and tapes them inside her locker door. I can’t deal with Emma’s questions about what I’m sending to Teen Scene. She’ll probably want to see what I’m sending. And I can’t let people know what I’m doing or they’ll try to stop me.