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

by Donna Gephart

  It’s bad enough that last night, when Grandma called to see how I was doing, I almost blurted the entire thing to her. Luckily I slammed my finger in a drawer just as I was about to spill the beans. And I was in entirely too much pain to say anything to Grandma other than “Ouch!” and “Love you” and “Good night.”

  The following day, the envelope is still in my backpack and I’m biting the skin beside my thumbnail, thinking about who would be the best person to ask to mail it for me.

  Emma runs up to my locker, breathless. She puts her hands on my shoulders, and Mr. Martinez closes in. Emma steps back. “Guess who called me last night?” she whispers.

  I tilt my head and think, Reginald? “No way.”

  Emma nods her head so hard I think it’s going to fall off. “Yes. Reginald Trumball the Third called me last night. Me!”

  “No!” I say again, shoving her. “Did he—ohmygod!—ask you out?”

  “Better,” she says, pulling her shoulders back.

  “What’s better than that?” Inside, I’m a mix of anger and jealousy. Reginald is not a very nice person and Emma shouldn’t go out with him. On the other hand, why didn’t he ask me out?

  Emma waves her hand at me. On her finger she’s got this gorgeous gold ring with a little diamond on it.

  Now I’m totally confused. “Reginald gave you that?”

  Again, Emma nods furiously.

  “Why would he—?”

  Emma whispers hard in my ear, “Because he asked me to marry him.”

  “What? You’re only in seventh grade.”

  “Well, I know. Not now.” The corners of Emma’s mouth turn up a little. “Later. You know, when we’re older.” The corners of her mouth turn up a lot. “And he wants to have at least seventeen children with me, too.” She suddenly laughs so hard she spits on my forehead.

  I wipe it off, take a big breath, and say, “It’s April Fools’ Day, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah!” Emma says, shoving me so hard I fall back into my locker.

  Mr. Martinez steps forward and says in a deep voice, “Please don’t do that.”

  Emma’s face turns fifteen shades of red. She mouths the word “Sorry.”

  “Sorry,” I echo her, embarrassed. Eager to change the subject, I ask, “So, where did you get that ring, anyway?”

  Emma twists it off her finger and puts it in my palm. “My little brother won it at Chuck E. Cheese’s. You can have it.”

  “Thanks.” I shake my head. “I am so gullible.”

  “Yup.”

  “Reginald didn’t really call you last night, right?”

  Emma shakes her head at me. “What am I going to do with you, Vanessa Rothrock?”

  “Uh—”

  The bell rings.

  “Happy April Fools’ Day,” Emma says.

  “Yeah, right,” I say, and head to Mr. Applebaum’s room.

  In advisory, I pass the envelope to Michael Dumas and ask him to put it in his mailbox for me when he gets home.

  “Sure,” he says, glancing at the address. “My sister Marigold loves this magazine. Did you write a story for them or something, Vanessa?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Cool.” Michael carefully slides the envelope into his backpack.

  “Just make sure to mail it,” I say before he can ask me why I don’t mail it myself.

  “I will,” Michael says.

  I glance up to make sure Mr. Applebaum isn’t looking at us. He’s bent over at his desk, scribbling something or other, completely oblivious to what I’m about to do to my mother. I get a pang in my chest. Then I remember that I’m doing it for her.

  “Thanks, Michael.” I open a book on my desk, then turn back to Michael. “Make sure you mail it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Today.”

  He raises an eyebrow and his eyelid doesn’t twitch even once. Michael has been dressing much better, too, since he got his contact lenses. “Vanessa,” he says, “I promise I’ll mail it as soon as I get home. Okay?”

  “Thanks. That’s great, Michael.” Is it?

  “Teen Scene Magazine?”

  It’s been two months since I gave Michael the envelope to mail. To be honest, with all the craziness of the campaign and worrying about the stalker who gave me those letters and talking Emma out of telling Reginald that she adores him and studying for final exams, I hadn’t thought much about the questionnaire I had sent to Teen Scene.

  As the last wisps of my dream slip away, Mom’s voice comes through loud and clear. “The damned Teen Scene, Vanessa! With a circulation of two and a half million.”

  I pull the comforter from my face, open one eye, and peer over Carter’s donkey ears. I see Mom and my heart soars. She said she’d be home Saturday and she is. But she’s clutching a rolled-up magazine and her cheeks are bright red.

  I sit up and open the other eye, squeezing Carter to me. “Mom?”

  “Why, Vanessa?” Mom smacks the magazine into her palm, and I get the feeling she wishes she were smacking me.

  “Why?”

  Why what? OHMYGOD! “Mom,” I say, my voice gravelly, “I just answered the questions they asked and sent it in.”

  Mom smirks. “Then you did do this! I was hoping it was a mistake. I was hoping—”

  “Mom, I didn’t—”

  “No, Vanessa! You didn’t mean to do anything wrong, but you didn’t send your answers through the press secretary’s office like you were supposed to.” She smacks the rolled-up magazine into her palm again so hard I’m sure it stings. “Standard procedure and you know it! Do you have any idea—?”

  “But…” I was trying to save you.

  “But nothing. You wrote something I sent you in a private e-mail, something that was intended for your eyes only, and unfortunately they had no compunction about printing it!”

  Compunction. C-o-m-p-u—

  “Vanessa, are you listening to me?”

  “I’m sorry.” n-c-t-i-o-n. Compunction. “Yes, of course I’m listening.”

  “‘Sorry’ isn’t going to cut it this time.”

  I did this for you. To keep you safe.

  “You really outdid yourself.”

  I did it for you, Mom!

  “The opposition is going to have a field day with this one.” Mom paces, then gets so close to my face I can smell coffee on her breath. “Are you happy now, Vanessa? You’ll finally get your wish. They’ll bury me with this.”

  Bury you? “Stop!”

  “Stop? You want me to stop, Vanessa?” I feel Mom’s warm breath on my cheek, but I don’t move. “Do you have any idea what you did by sending that unapproved response in? If you thought you were being funny—”

  “Funny?”

  “Yes, did you think it was funny to write that I thought ‘NRA’ really stood for ‘Nuts Running Amuck’?”

  “You did e-mail that to me,” I say quietly.

  “What did you say?” Mom snaps.

  “Nothing!” I saved your life. Even if I did ruin your chances of becoming president.

  Mom hurls the magazine to the floor. “Your little stunt has probably cost me the election.” Hands on hips, she turns her back to me.

  I’m so mad, I fling Carter at her. He misses and hits the door. “I was trying to help. Don’t you get that? I was trying to help!”

  “Help?” Mom shrieks, and whirls around toward me.

  “Help? You call that helping? Oh, I’d hate to see what you’d do if you were trying to hurt me, Vanessa.”

  I make a fist with my right hand and scream, “You just don’t get it!”

  Mom points at me. “No, Vanessa. You don’t get it. YOU don’t get it. Because of what you did, I’ll have to work even longer hours trying to repair the damage you’ve done. I’ll have to meet with high-ranking members of the NRA and apologize again and again and again.” Mom takes a breath through gritted teeth. “I’ll be away from you even more often. Now do you get it?”

  I push past her, rush into
my bathroom, slam the door, and scream, “Yeah, I get it!” Then I lock the door and lean my back against it. Security be damned!

  Mom spends days on the road counteracting what her opponents have dubbed Nutgate. She apologizes to the president of the NRA, but he doesn’t buy it. On TV and in newspapers, she has to assure everyone that she does believe in the Constitution and the right to bear arms. It’s painful to watch.

  A week after Nutgate breaks, Emma pulls me into the girls’ bathroom. We go into the last stall and whisper to each other so that Mr. Martinez can’t hear what we’re saying.

  “It’s terrible,” I say to Emma.

  “I know.”

  “I’m totally embarrassed all the time.”

  “Me too.”

  I look up at Emma. Her eyes and nose are red. I can’t imagine why she’s that upset about my problems with my mother. “Are we talking about the same thing? About me sending in that awful questionnaire to Teen Scene and totally ruining my mom’s life?”

  Emma shakes her head no and peeps, “Worse.”

  “Worse?” I can’t imagine what could be worse than your own mother hating you and everyone on her staff glaring at you every time you walk by because of all the extra hours they have to put in for “damage control.”

  “It’s about Reginald,” Emma says.

  I squeeze my eyes closed, then look at Emma. “You didn’t?”

  She nods.

  “When?”

  “Just now. Before lunch.”

  Tears drip down Emma’s freckled cheeks, and I hug her. “What happened?”

  Emma pulls back and wipes her nose with a square of toilet paper. “I got up my courage.”

  “Yes?”

  “And I went to Reginald at his locker.”

  “Yes?”

  “And I—” Emma bursts into a fresh round of tears. I give her a length of toilet paper and wait till she’s ready. “And I said, ‘Reginald, I was wondering if you’d like to go out to the movies with me this weekend.’” Emma’s shoulders bob up and down.

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  I step back and bang into the stall door. “Ouch. You mean you poured your heart and soul out to that boy and he said absolutely nothing?”

  Emma sniffs. “He laughed.”

  “What!” I feel blood rush up my neck and heat my face to a boiling point. “He laughed!”

  Emma nods. “He laughed, then he walked away.”

  “Oh, Emma.” I hug her again. “You are way too good for that boy.”

  We wait until the last possible moment, when Emma’s face is nearly back to its normal color, to leave the bathroom and head to our classes. Mr. Martinez only called in to check on us twice. And, I suppose, he kept other girls from coming in and using the bathroom while we were in there. So there are some advantages to having a security guard.

  Between Emma’s disaster with Reginald—that boy is just plain mean—and my debacle with Mom, I can’t concentrate and totally bomb on my English exam. My last final exam of my seventh-grade year and I blow it. I hope someday Mrs. Durlofsky will forgive me.

  On one hand, I’m glad to get home and be done with school for the day—my penultimate (Penultimate. P-E-NU-L-T-I-M-A-T-E. Penultimate.) day, the next-to-last day of the school year. On the other hand, I’d rather not face being home, because Mom comes back from wherever she was today, and I still haven’t said I’m sorry. I know I had a really good reason for doing what I did, but Mom’s life has been miserable ever since Teen Scene printed her comment about the NRA.

  I guess, all things considered, I shouldn’t have done it, because Mom didn’t drop out of the race. And as far as I know, they still haven’t caught the person who dropped those threatening letters into my locker and backpack.

  As I walk into the kitchen, I sigh, and I wonder how my life got so complicated. At least school will be over tomorrow and that’s one less thing to worry about, but unfortunately, that also brings me one day closer to dealing with July. I keep hoping they’ll catch that lunatic before the convention.

  I’m happy to see a lemon square on a plate. The sweet and sour scents make me feel a little better, and I enjoy one warm, chewy bite before I notice the note.

  Nessa,

  Welcome home. Enjoy your snack, then come to my office as soon as you’re done.

  Mom

  Is she still furious with me? I can’t tell from the note. She didn’t write “Love, Mom.” But she did write “Welcome home.” My stomach gets tense, and I can’t eat any more of my lemon square. Everyone in Mom’s office must hate me, especially her secretary, Ms. Purdy. I spend a full five minutes stewing about this before I walk to Mom’s office.

  “Hello, Vanessa. Nice to see you.”

  “Hi,” I say cautiously. Why is Ms. Purdy being nice to me?

  “And how are we today?” she asks.

  You might be fine, Ms. Purdy, but I’m pretty sure Mom still hates me and I have no idea why she called me down here. There’s a crazy person planning to kill me or Mom next month! Oh, and the Boob Fairy has snubbed me entirely. “Fine, Ms. Purdy. And you?”

  “Thank you for asking,” she says, pulling a photo from her drawer and passing it across the desk to me. “Next week my granddaughter is going to spend a week with me. I’m taking her to Disney.”

  “She’s adorable.”

  “Isn’t she, though?” She looks up. “Your mother said tomorrow is your last day of school.”

  Mom remembered? “Yes, it is.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ms. Purdy glances at the clock on her desk, then makes a phone call. “Your mother will see you now.”

  As soon as I walk into her office, Mom nods at the chair across from her, and I slide in silently. I’m sitting in the same chair that Governor Schwarzenegger sat in.

  Mom links her fingers. “The good news?”

  There’s good news? “Yes?”

  “My numbers are up seven to ten points, depending on which poll you look at.”

  “That’s great news. Right?”

  “The bad news?”

  There’s bad news? I swallow and whisper, “Yes?”

  “Because of Nutgate, as the press so glibly dubbed it, my numbers had originally dropped over fifteen points.”

  “Oh. Mom, I’m sorry.” Even though I feel really bad, finally apologizing to Mom makes me feel lighter somehow. “I’m really sorry.” You have no idea how sorry. It seems like ever since that happened everyone has been glaring at me, even Mr. Applebaum.

  Mom leans back in her chair. “I know you’re sorry, baby.”

  I smile because Mom used Daddy’s nickname for me.

  “There is something you can do to help.”

  I lean forward. “You want me? To help? You?” I realize I sound like Cro-Magnon Woman.

  Mom nods, and the door to her office opens. “Right on time,” she says.

  I twist around and see Mr. Adams and his assistant, Ms. Wright. I cannot look at them. I know they hate me for sending in that awful interview sheet without getting their approval.

  “Vanessa?” Mr. Adams says.

  I force myself to look at him. “Yes, sir?”

  “We have work to do.”

  I look at Mom.

  “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet,” she says.

  Mr. Adams says, “That’s okay. I’ll—”

  “Mr. Adams,” I blurt, “before we start, I just want to say…” I feel everyone’s eyes boring holes through me. “I just want to say I’m sorry I sent in that questionnaire without giving it to you first.” I look at my lap. “Really sorry.”

  “Vanessa.” He leans toward me. “You might need to apologize to my wife and kids. They haven’t seen much of me these last couple of weeks while I’ve been doing damage control for your mother.”

  “I will.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “I’m kidding.” He runs his fingers through his short gray h
air. “Sort of. But let’s move past that and on to the next thing. Always look forward.” He glances at Mom, and she nods. “The Democratic National Convention is next month, Vanessa.”

  I wince, and Mom gives me one of those don’t-start-that-again looks.

  “Yes,” I say to Mr. Adams. I’m trying to control the panic rising in my throat.

  “And we need to start rehearsing your part.”

  I choke on my own saliva. “My…part?”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking,” Mom says. “No speeches or anything.”

  “Speeches?”

  “But it’s still important,” Mr. Adams says. “You’re going up onstage after your mother’s speech. She’ll raise your arm in victory. Then you’ll smile and wave with your other hand.” He demonstrates.

  I feel blood drain from my face. “Smile. Wave.”

  “It’s not quite as easy as it sounds,” Mr. Adams says. “But we can’t mess this up, Vanessa. There’s no room for…”

  Tripping?

  “…error.”

  Ms. Wright leans forward and talks fast. “You can’t walk up too early. Or late. We’ll have a signal. A phrase your mother will say. And you must smile, Vanessa. Smile as though it’s the best moment of your life.”

  “What if—?”

  “Smiling is very important,” Ms. Wright says. “Crucial, really. We’ll have your teeth whitened right before the convention and—”

  “What if I trip?”

  Mom gasps. She must not have thought of that.

  Mr. Adams puts up his hands. “You won’t, Vanessa. It’s as simple as that. We’ll meet with you. You’ll practice, practice, practice and you will not trip.”

  Ms. Wright continues, “Someone will choose your attire.”

  “My attire?”

  “Of course, Vanessa. Don’t worry about a thing. The staff will make sure you’re fully prepared.”

  Prepared for what? As Ms. Wright drones on, all I can think about is the last line of that note: July seems like a nice month to die.

  Emma and I meet at my locker and exchange yearbooks. I turn to the blank back page and write:

  Dear Emma,

  It’s been great. Thank you for being such an awesome friend. Next year, at the spelling bee, wouldn’t it be cool if we could both go all the way?