Love,
Vanessa
OHMYGOD! Did I really just write that in my best friend’s yearbook? It’s not like I can erase it or cross it out.
We switch back.
“Mine’s stupid,” I say.
“Mine’s stupid,” Emma says, and we both laugh.
I turn to the back page to read what she wrote.
Dear Vanessa,
It’s been great knowing you over the years. I don’t know what I would have done without you this year. You know what I mean.
Thanks for everything.
BFF,
Emma
And she drew her best picture of a ladybug ever.
We hug and talk about all the things we’ll do together over the summer no matter how busy Mom’s schedule is. Emma says anytime I want I can sleep over her house to get away from it all.
All I can think is That sounds great, but we’d better squeeze all that stuff in before July. I don’t tell Emma about that, though. I’ve already caused enough trouble for Mom.
Emma and I make a plan to meet later, and she heads toward her class.
I check to make sure my locker is completely empty and happily slam it closed for the last time this school year. I’m squeezing my yearbook to my puny chest and thinking about who else I want to sign it when I hear a whimper.
Mr. Martinez holds up a hand and peers around the corner.
I tiptoe behind him.
Another whimper comes from someone being blocked by the gargantuan security guard who watches my locker. The guard’s back is to us.
I gasp and drop my yearbook. It makes a loud thud on the floor, but the security guard doesn’t turn toward the sound. Have they caught the guy? Can I finally stop worrying? I can’t see who the guard has pressed against the wall because his hulking frame completely blocks my view of the other person.
“Give it to me,” the guard barks.
Again, the whimpering, like a puppy whose paw has been stepped on.
Mr. Martinez turns to me. “Agent Lansky’s got this covered. Let’s get you to class.”
I see a foot peek out from behind the guard. Whose sneaker is that?
“I…I…don’t need to get to class,” I say. Technically not a lie, since it is the last day of school. I strain to get closer, but Mr. Martinez blocks the way.
“What’s going on?”
I reel around. “Reginald. It’s…it’s…” I point to the guard. “He has someone.”
“Cool,” Reginald says, craning his neck. “Who is it? What’d he do?”
Reginald’s voice annoys me. I think of what he did to Emma, and I want to stomp on his foot. More kids gather behind us. I ignore Reginald and turn back to the situation.
The guard steps back. “Listen, kid—”
“Ohmygod!”
Michael Dumas, shivering, is pressed against the wall, one arm behind his back.
“It’s nothing. It’s nothing,” Michael says in a voice much too high-pitched for a guy his age.
Mr. Martinez grips my shoulder. “Ms. Rothrock, we really must—”
“One minute.” I don’t budge.
“Give me the letter, kid,” the guard growls.
Michael shakes his head.
“Now!”
I flinch.
Michael’s eyelid twitches, but he looks at the guard. “No. It’s mine.”
Go, Michael!
“Then why were you slipping it into Ms. Rothrock’s locker?”
I gasp. Michael isn’t…He couldn’t be…
Michael squeezes his eyelids closed. I don’t know if he’s trying to stop the twitch or if he wishes he could disappear.
“We’d better go,” Mr. Martinez whispers in my ear. “You don’t need to see this.”
I think of Michael’s butterfly touch on my hand the day I broke my wrist. I remember him offering me his hand when I fell off the rope in P.E. “Please, Mr. Martinez,” I whisper. “Please.”
Mr. Martinez lets out a breath and shakes his head. “Okay. Stand next to me. Don’t move any closer to the situation.”
Thank you. I nod. It can’t be Michael who wrote those horrible letters. It can’t be.
“This is your last chance, kid,” barks the guard.
“No,” Michael says, his lips pressed tight.
“You tell him, Dumb Ass!”
I whirl around and face Reginald. There are dozens of kids around us now. I glimpse Emma at the back of the crowd, trying to push her way forward.
“What?” Reginald asks me, laughing. “What’d I do?”
I remember how I felt when Reginald read my list of deficiencies. I think of all the times he teased Michael about his name. I remember how he laughed when Emma asked him to go to the movies.
Then I hear Michael whimper again, and my chest fills with rage. “Reginald Trumball, you are a nasty and despicable person.”
Reginald grins and touches his hand to his chest as if to say, “Who, me?”
“Yes, you!” I shove him.
He stumbles backward.
“Watch out!” Holly Stevens squeals, pushing him away.
“New shoes here!”
I feel Mr. Martinez squeeze my shoulder, and I shrug his hand off. “Look, Reginald,” I say, painfully aware that kids are staring, “it’s pronounced Doo-MAH.”
“Huh?” He rakes a hand through his wavy hair.
“Let me spell it out for you: Michael’s last name is Doo-MAH. D-u-m-a-s.” I’m breathing hard. “And that’s what you’re going to call him from now on.”
“Go, Vanessa!” someone yells. I think it’s Emma.
“That’s what I said.” Reginald looks at the kids surrounding us and smirks. “Dumb Ass!”
I get in Reginald’s face, not even caring that I ate onions in my omelet this morning, and yell. “You’re the dumb ass, Reginald!”
Kids laugh and hoot, and I feel pretty good until, suddenly, everyone falls silent. I hear only one voice.
“Ms. Rothrock!”
OHMYGOD! I squeeze my eyelids. When I open them, Mrs. Foster is standing in front of me with her hands on her hips. “Young lady?”
I look toward Mr. Martinez, but he just stands there. Thanks for nothing.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Foster. It’s—it’s just—” I stammer.
“NO!” Michael screams.
I turn in time to see the hulking guard pluck an envelope from Michael’s fingers.
My hand flies to my mouth. It was Michael!
“Oh, what now?” Mrs. Foster snaps. “Rothrock, don’t move.”
How could Michael do such a thing? How could he?
“There’s nothing to see here,” Mrs. Foster says to the crowd of kids and a few teachers. “Go to your classes.”
No one moves.
She claps three times. “Now.”
Still, no one moves.
Mrs. Foster screeches, “I don’t care if it is the last day of school. Go to your classes now or each one of you will stay after school for a three-hour detention. With me!”
They scatter.
Mrs. Foster didn’t need to tell me not to move. My feet are granite. But my legs feel like the soft part of Mrs. Perez’s lemon squares, and I’m not sure they’re going to support me.
The guard holds the envelope with one hand while pressing Michael to the wall with his other.
“Give it back,” Michael says, reaching feebly.
“I’ll take that, sir!” Mrs. Foster says, plucking the envelope from the guard’s fingers.
He lets go of Michael, who looks like he might crumble.
“Ma’am!” the guard says. “I need that. It’s evidence.” He reaches for the envelope, but Mrs. Foster holds her arm high so he can’t reach it.
“That’s one tough lady,” Mr. Martinez mutters.
“Ma’am,” the guard says again. “This is official government business. I insist that you hand that envelope to me.” He reaches for it again.
Mrs. Foster steps back and keeps it
just out of his reach. “Young man, this boy is a student in my school. My school. And if he’s doing something inappropriate in my school, I, not you, will be the first to know.” She pulls her shoulders back and faces Michael. “Mr. Dumas, please tell me what this is about.”
Michael’s mouth moves but no words come out.
“Well, I’ll find out for myself, won’t I?” And in one swift motion, Mrs. Foster rips open the envelope.
“Ma’am!” the guard says.
“Ohhh!” Michael moans.
Mrs. Foster turns her back to the guard, holds the card far in front of her face, and reads in a clear, strong voice: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
“No,” Michael whispers. “Please. No.”
Mrs. Foster looks at Michael and smiles, but he can’t see this because his eyes are closed and he’s shaking his head.
“Why,” she says, “this is from Shakespeare.” She glares at the guard. “A student quoting from Shakespeare doesn’t sound very troubling to me.”
That’s when Michael opens his eyes. I’ve never seen his eyelid twitch this much. His lower jaw is dangling and he’s shaking his head as Mrs. Foster flips open the card.
She clears her throat and reads, “Vanessa, thou art hot!” Her lips twist and she mumbles the rest to herself.
The first sound I hear is Mr. Martinez stifling a laugh.
The second sound is a strange gurgling from Michael.
Mrs. Foster grabs Michael’s elbow. “Michael Dumas, what on earth were you thinking? Do you not know that Ms. Rothrock is the governor’s…the governor’s…Wait until your parents hear about this!”
Michael moans.
As Mrs. Foster drags Michael past us, he looks in my eyes and mouths the words “I’m sorry.”
You’re sorry? Oh, Michael.
I glare at the guard who had been pinning him against the wall, grab my yearbook from the floor, turn, and walk to class. Mr. Martinez follows. I know I should feel bad about what’s going to happen to Michael in Mrs. Foster’s office. I know I should feel totally relieved that Michael is not the person who wrote those horrible, threatening letters. I should probably even feel a little proud of myself for what I finally said to Reginald. But what’s really on my mind is that Michael Dumas is my heart-above-the-“a,” sweet-poems-in-my-locker, not-so-secret admirer.
And the best part—just thinking about it makes the skin on my neck tingle—Michael Dumas thinks I’m hot!
“Michael?” I press the phone to my ear and push Carter down into the side of my suitcase.
“Vanessa?”
Michael sounds surprised. He’s sounded surprised each time I’ve called since school ended. It makes me feel good.
“What’s up, Michael?”
“Nothing much. What are you doing?”
I lay my purple pajamas in the suitcase. “Packing.”
“You leave tomorrow, right?”
I sigh and sit on my bed. “Actually, I’m leaving today. Grandma is taking me sightseeing before the convention.” The word “convention” sends goose pimples along my neck and arms. “She said if I’m the daughter of the soon-to-be president, I must visit the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and the National Constitution Center.”
“We did that. My parents took us all around Philadelphia last summer,” Michael says. “It’s a cool city. Except it’s a hot city in July.”
As though I don’t have enough to worry about. Now my hair’s going to frizz from the heat!
“You ready for your part, Vanessa? Smile. Wave. Smile. Wave.”
I hunch over. “Michael, to tell the truth I’m a little scared.” A lot scared. But not just about getting on the stage.
“Oh, Vanessa, you’ll do great. You’ll be the best smiler and waver that convention ever saw. I wish I were going with you. I mean…” Michael coughs.
“Me too.” Did I just say that?
“You do?”
“Sure, Michael. We could check out all those historic places together.”
“Yeah, that would be fun. But I’m going to be in North Carolina with my parents, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Are you going to be able to watch the convention on TV?” I hit myself in the forehead with the heel of my hand. As if a normal kid would actually watch all that political stuff on TV while he’s on vacation and there are other perfectly good shows to watch.
“I’ll watch the whole thing,” Michael says, “especially the part when you’ll be onstage.”
I blush so hard, I grab Carter from my suitcase and fan my face with him. “I’ll tug my ear.”
“You’ll tug your beard?”
“My ear. That will be our secret signal. It will mean I’m saying hello to you.”
“That’s nice. And Vanessa?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks again for sticking up for me that day in the hall. You know, with Reginald and all. I heard what you said to him.”
Reginald! I can’t believe I ever liked that boy. He’s got a nice-looking package, but there’s nothing inside. “You’re welcome. Thank you for”—I think of the sweet poems dropped in my locker—“um, everything.”
“I can’t believe that card I wrote you. It was so…”
Sweet. Flattering.
“…embarrassing! I’m sorry again about that.”
I’m not.
“It was really dumb. I’m just glad it was the last day of school or Foster probably would have suspended me for a week. It was bad enough when she called my mom and I had to read her what I wrote.”
“Hey, if anyone knows about being embarrassed, Michael, it’s me. I’m the Queen of Embarrassment!”
“You?”
“Definitely. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“Vanessa, you’re like the most perfect person I know.”
My face gets so hot my ears tingle. “Um, thanks.”
“Coming, Mom!” Michael yells. “Sorry, Vanessa, I’ve got to go. They’re ready to leave.”
“Tell Marigold I wish her luck at her academic camp. And have fun in North Carolina.”
“Yeah, sure. Vanessa?”
“Umm?”
“Have fun at the convention. Good luck onstage and all. Break a leg.”
I gulp.
“Just not a wrist. Ha ha.”
I try to laugh, but all that comes out is a weird gurgle.
“You all right, Vanessa?”
July seems like nice month to… “Yeah, Michael. I’m fine.”
“Well, have a great time in Philadelphia. You’re so lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Be right there, Mom!” Michael yells. Then, more quietly: “I promise I’ll watch you on TV. Hey, maybe we can go bowling or something when you get back.”
If I get back. “Sure, Michael. That would be nice.”
My chair is less comfortable than I had imagined it would be. I shift from butt cheek to butt cheek, trying to keep either side from falling asleep. “It’s loud in here,” I shout to Grandma, who’s seated to my right.
“Shush, Vanessa,” she says, not looking at me. Her hands are in her lap, and she’s totally focused on the speaker at the podium.
I shush, but no one could have heard me anyway, it’s so noisy in the gigantic hall. Even though a United States senator is giving a passionate speech onstage, most people continue their personal conversations as though he isn’t even speaking. How rude! They’d better pipe down when Mom is introduced. She’s been practicing her acceptance speech for weeks.
Mom’s running mate, vice presidential candidate Senator Miller, gave his speech last night. He looked very, um, vice presidential. And between sightseeing excursions in Philadelphia—it is a cool city—these past few days, Grandma and I listened to some of the other speakers: governors, senators, and a former president. It’s pretty cool that with all those famous people giving speeches, Mom’s speech tonight is the main attraction. Mom!
I look around for suspicious people. All I see, though, are po
licemen and policewomen and lots of people in dark suits who must be Secret Service agents. Mom’s right. She is protected better than Fort Knox. I allow my shoulders to relax a little, and I give my ear a tug in case Michael is watching on TV.
Grandma yanks my arm. “Hands in lap. Pay attention, dear. The senator is speaking.”
I’m fully aware that the senator is speaking because I’m looking at his face on a giant screen behind him. I mean, the screen is so enormous that just one of his teeth is the size of the Oxford English Dictionary.
Soon he’ll finish his speech and introduce Mom. Then, when she’s done, Grandma and I will join her onstage. Smile. Wave. Smile. Wave. Don’t trip. Smile. Wave. Smile. Wave.
OHMYGOD! I can’t go onstage after Mom’s speech because then I’ll appear on that giant screen, too. If I have a pimple—which I do, on the side of my nose!—it will look like Mount Vesuvius. “I can’t do this.”
“Shhh,” Grandma whispers.
I shrink down in my rock-hard chair, only to have Grandma poke me and demonstrate how to sit tall. I pull my shoulders back the way Ms. Wright showed me about a million times; then I turn toward the delegates in the audience. Someone waves a sign that reads: “Texas for Rothrock.” Another person holds one that reads: “AFL/CIO for Rothrock.” Then I see someone dancing around with a bumper sticker—the same one I put on my bed and my computer and my closet door. It reads: Rothrock and Miller—Hope for a Better America.”
It’s so cool that all these people love Mom. Daddy should be here. He would have loved this. Just thinking of Daddy fills me with peace. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about. I look at the police officers and Secret Service agents again. I mean, it’s not like anyone could possibly get to me or Mom with all these people here to protect us.
I wish Emma were sitting beside me. She’d love all this excitement, but she’s at an equestrian (Equestrian. E-Q-U-E-S-T-R-I-A-N. Equestrian.) camp in Connecticut this week. It would be cool if Michael had been allowed to come with us instead of having to go with his family to North Carolina. Michael! I haven’t tugged on my ear in at least three minutes. Tug. Tug. Hello, Michael. Tug. Tug.
“Vanes—”
“It is my great privilege to introduce to you…”
Grandma pinches my arm so hard tears spring to my eyes. I nod and put my hands in my lap.
As If Being 12 3/4 Isn't Bad Enough, My Mother Is Running for President! Page 13