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

by Donna Gephart

  “…the woman who will surely become the next president of the United States of America.” Then the senator shouts: “Elyssa. Victoria. Rothrock!”

  The room erupts as though a rock star’s name had just been announced. There’s a hurricane of cheering and clapping and stomping, and my chest swells with pride. How could I ever have wanted Mom to drop out of the race? Grandma yanks my elbow, and we’re standing and clapping and stomping, too. I’d put my fingers in my mouth and whistle for Mom if I weren’t afraid Grandma would pinch me again. That hurt.

  As Mom strides across the stage, she’s all smiles and self-confidence. Talk about grace under pressure! She hugs the senator, nods, and steps up to the podium. On the giant screen behind her, Mom’s face is two stories high. Thank God that woman has good pores.

  I look at Grandma. She’s beaming and clapping so hard I’m sure her hands will still be sore in the morning.

  Up on the stage, Mom speaks. “Thank you. I’m—” She waits, grinning. “I can’t tell you how much—” She has to start half a dozen times because the applause doesn’t stop. People are on their feet, screaming and whistling and waving signs. I feel my chest vibrate from the noise.

  Amazed, I look around at the mass of people again. Toward the center, several rows back, I notice one man sitting, hunched over. Why is he sitting when everyone else is standing and clapping? I squint, but all I can see is the top of his dark hair. Even from that view, he looks vaguely familiar. I face forward and continue smiling and clapping for Mom, but a nervous feeling runs through me. Police are stationed a few feet apart in front of the stage, facing the audience. Stop worrying, Vanessa.

  Stop worrying? Even if everything goes exactly as planned, as soon as Mom finishes her speech, I have to get onstage. I’ll be on that giant screen!

  In an effort to stop thinking about it, I focus on what Mom’s saying.

  “Let’s look toward the future with hope. Let’s look toward the future with optimism. Let’s do these things for our children and our children’s children.”

  Even though a lot of people have taken their seats now, applause breaks out again. If people keep interrupting Mom’s speech with applause, it will take hours for her to finish. Good. I really don’t want to get up on that stage.

  I glance toward the guy several rows back who was sitting when everyone else was standing. I’m shocked to see he’s staring directly at me. And he’s wearing…a…a…bow tie! Mr. Applebaum? What is my math teacher doing at the Democratic National Convention?

  My heart thunders and I feel my cheeks heat up. He’s probably just a fan of Mom’s, although he never mentioned it in class. Even if he is a fan, why would he fly all the way to Philadelphia when he could just watch her on TV? Maybe he’s a delegate for Florida and he’s supposed to be here. Maybe—

  “My vision for America is one of hope and prosperity. My vision for America is one of compassion.”

  Maybe it isn’t Mr. Applebaum at all. I mean, what are the chances that my math teacher flew all the way to the convention just to see Mom in person? If it’s not my math teacher, then why, despite the fact that I applied deodorant seven times this morning, are my pits drenched with sweat?

  “My vision is one in which all people from every walk of life can believe once again in the dream of America. In the promise that America holds for each citizen.”

  I force myself to turn my head and look at the person who I think is Mr. Applebaum. It is him! What if…? I dig my fingernails into my palms and shiver. What if Mr. Applebaum was the person who wrote those threatening notes? What if…? There are two policemen and someone from the Secret Service within feet of me. All I have to do is…But Mom was adamant that I wasn’t to do anything to disrupt the convention. I was to sit in my seat beside Grandma until it was time to come onstage.

  But if Mr. Applebaum wrote those notes…? It makes sense. He had access to my backpack and could have easily slipped something into my locker. He knew how I did in the regional spelling bee. And he might have found out if I told Mr. Martinez about the threatening notes. Now that I think of it, Mr. Applebaum had been acting strangely for several months—always hunched over his desk, scribbling…NOTES! And once, after Mom won a primary, he squeezed my shoulder really hard. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but…

  Mom would want me to tell somebody if she’s in danger. My stomach coils into a knot. I look at Grandma, hoping she’ll see me, see the panic in my eyes. But her eyes are riveted on Mom at the podium.

  Calm down, Vanessa. You’re probably making something out of nothing. Mr. Applebaum is a nice guy. He’s just a little strange because he’s a…math teacher. Besides, he’s surely here because he’s a big fan of Mom’s or a Florida delegate. There can’t be any other reason. That would be crazy. All those times he was hunched over his desk, scribbling, he was probably just grading homework or quizzes.

  I need to focus on Mom, but can’t. I have a really bad feeling in my stomach. Maybe if I whisper to Grandma that my math teacher is in the audience, she’ll…she’ll…she’ll say “So what?” and tell me to be quiet while Mom’s giving her speech. What else would she say?

  I tug on Grandma’s hand. She looks down at me. I tilt my head toward where Mr. Applebaum is sitting and very quietly say, “That’s my math teacher over there.”

  She looks in his direction.

  Mr. Applebaum smiles and waves at Grandma.

  She nods and turns back to Mom. “That’s nice, dear, but pay attention to your mother. You’ll have to go onstage soon.”

  My stomach feels like I just crested the top hill of a roller coaster and started the plunge downward. I can’t get up on that stage. The entire nation will see the enormous zit on the side of my nose. And besides, what if I trip?

  I decide to look at Mr. Applebaum one last time, to give him a quick smile to show him that I’m glad he’s here to support Mom. Then I’ll focus on what I should be focusing on—Mom’s speech.

  But when I glance over at Mr. Applebaum, he’s not watching Mom give her speech. He’s glaring at me, a twisted half-grin on his lips. Then he pats his right hip. What’s THAT supposed to mean? And winks!

  I look straight ahead at Mom, and the creepiest feeling rushes along my spine. What if Mr. Applebaum is the guy who wrote those notes after all? What if he really is planning to do something horrible? I try to convince myself I have an overactive imagination. I tell myself that Mom will be done soon, I’ll get on the stage for a few smiles and waves, and it will all be over. It will all be over! Sweat trickles from my armpits.

  I glance over again. Mr. Applebaum raises his eyebrows and pats his right hip again. Is that a bulge I see at his waistband?

  OHMYGOD! Somebody? I tug on my ear like crazy, as though Michael could send help all the way from North Carolina. I’m about to stand and point out Mr. Applebaum to the policewoman closest to me.

  Then I hear Mom’s preconvention instructions in my head: Vanessa, don’t do anything to embarrass me. This is too important. Just stay in your seat and—

  But Mom would want me to tell someone if her life is in danger.

  My whole body is shaking. If I’m wrong about Mr. Applebaum and I make a commotion, Mom will never forgive me. But if I’m right, I will never forgive myself. I want to run onstage and wrap my arms around Mom and tell her my teacher is in the front row and is patting a bulge at his waistband. I want to be back in our house before any of this started. Before Daddy—

  “Let’s all work together to make America great once again.”

  OHMYGOD! Mom’s almost done. It’s nearly time for me to go onstage. I can’t stand up there in front of Mr. Applebaum. I can’t—

  I force myself to look at him one more time. He’s staring intensely at Mom. Too intensely. Then, like he knows I’m looking at him, he glances over at me and puts his finger to his lips, like he’s signaling me to be quiet.

  I want to tell Grandma what Mr. Applebaum just did, but I’m so scared I can’t move. He’s not
signaling me to be quiet—he’s signaling me not to tell on him! Mom said that anytime someone says I shouldn’t tell on him, that’s exactly when I should.

  “Let’s work together to make America a land of golden opportunity for everyone, not just the privileged. Let’s…”

  Oh, no! She’s almost up to the part where I have to go onstage. After she says “God bless the United States of America,” I’m supposed to count to fifty and then go up there and smile and wave like it’s the greatest day of my life. I can’t smile and wave now!

  I turn to Mr. Applebaum. He grins at me; then his hand moves toward his waistband. He’s probably just reaching for his pocket to get a tissue, Vanessa. Don’t jump to any crazy conclusions. This man is, um, was your math teacher, for goodness’ sake. His nose must be running or he’s sweating or—

  Mr. Applebaum reaches inside his waistband and pulls something out. My heart hammers so hard I can hear it pounding in my ears. I squint to see what Mr. Applebaum is holding. It’s something silver and shiny.

  “God bless the United States of America.”

  And he’s pointing it at Mom!

  I leap from my chair, barely feeling Grandma clutch the back of my skirt. I charge up the steps to the stage and pull free when someone grabs my ankle. “Mom!” The podium seems so far away.

  When Mom looks at me, her face contorts. “Vanessa?”

  I hear footsteps behind me. I wish the staff hadn’t made me wear heels today.

  When I almost reach Mom, the two things I feared most in the world happen at exactly the same time.

  Mom stares at me, openmouthed, as my size gigantic shoe catches on a cord. I pitch forward at the same moment I hear an explosion. It feels like someone punches me in the derriere, and I’m thrown facedown onto the stage.

  I feel someone throw himself on top of my back. Mr. Applebaum? I struggle, but can’t move under the weight. The man’s aftershave smells like Daddy’s. “Giraffe is secure,” the man whispers. “Giraffe is secure.” Giraffe? That’s the Secret Service’s nickname for me.

  A woman shrieks, and I strain to turn my head toward the crowd, but can’t. OHMYGOD! Where’s Applebaum? I’m able to turn my head toward the giant screen. On the screen, I see the podium and me lying in front of it with a Secret Service agent lying on top of me. Very attractive! There’s one thing I don’t see.

  “Mom!” I scream, but only a croak comes out. “Mommy!” I’m bawling now, unable to catch my breath with the agent’s weight pressed on me. Get off! “Mommy! Where are you?”

  As I’m being lifted from the stage, I barely hear the words “I’m here, baby.”

  The sickly sweet smell of flowers fills my room. But it’s better than the way hospital rooms usually smell—like overcooked spinach and old pee. Flower arrangements sit on every surface: one on the rolling table by my bed, three on the windowsill, dozens on the floor. There are teddy bears lined up, too. And balloons and giant baskets of fruit.

  “Who are they from?” I ask Mom. I’m still groggy from the pain medication they’ve been giving me.

  She leans over and kisses my forehead. I notice that the rims under her eyes are red. “Well, Nessa”—it sounds so good to hear Mom say my name—“they’re from people who care about you.” Mom squeezes my head to her chest and sniffs. “Baby, you have no idea how grateful I am that bullet only grazed your…your…”

  “Butt, Mom. The bullet grazed my butt. B-u-t-t. Butt.” Even though I made Mom explain what happened to me a dozen times, I still can’t believe I was actually shot. Well, grazed by Mr. Applebaum’s bullet before Secret Service and police tackled him.

  “I was going to say ‘derriere,’ Nessa. I know it only grazed your derriere, but it could have—” Mom’s shoulders bob up and down. “Oh, Nessa, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I—” She chokes on her words.

  I’ve seen Mom cry only once before. And that was the night of Dad’s funeral. At home. When she thought she was alone in her bedroom. I’m glad the Secret Service agent in the room with us now has the courtesy to turn his back.

  Mom gently touches my hand. It reminds me of Michael’s butterfly touch when I broke my wrist. “Vanessa,” Mom says, “I promise I won’t let anything like that happen to you again.”

  “Happen to me? Mom!” I sit forward, but the pressure on my injury hurts, so I lean back against the pillow. “Mr. Applebaum was pointing that gun at YOU! He was trying to hurt you. I just happened to get in the way when I tripped.” Thank God I’m clumsy.

  Mom bites her lower lip. “Nessa, it’s my job to keep you safe. I failed. It’s that simple. And I will not let it happen again.”

  I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

  My cell phone rings. It’s on the table beside my bed. Mom answers it. “She’s right here, Emma.”

  Emma’s voice sounds so good, even though it’s filled with panic. “Vanessa, when my mom told me…I couldn’t believe…Are you okay?”

  “Other than a really sore”—I glance at Mom—“derriere, I’m feeling pretty good.”

  “I can’t believe it, Vanessa. I can’t—”

  “Honey.” Mom taps her watch.

  I scooch down in my bed and whisper. “Listen, Em, I’ve got to go, but I’ll call as soon as I get home. Okay?”

  “Sure. And when I get back from camp, we’ll get together for a sleepover.”

  “Sounds great. I can show you my butt.”

  We both giggle.

  “Vanessa?”

  “Yeah, Em?”

  “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

  I let out a big breath. “Me too.”

  As soon as I hang up and start to talk to Mom, my cell rings again. Mom raises her eyebrow.

  I mouth the word “sorry” and answer the phone.

  “Hi, Michael.”

  “Oh, Vanessa.”

  “I’m okay, Michael. The bullet barely grazed my…my…derriere.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” Michael doesn’t give me time to answer. “I watched you fall, Vanessa. I saw it on TV…. I mean, before they switched to a commercial. I was so scared. I thought…” Michael sniffs. “Did you get the flowers and teddy bear I sent? Well, that my mom sent?”

  I glance at the rows of flowers and teddy bears. “I did get them, Michael. Thank you so much.” I catch Mom peeking at her watch. “Look Michael, I’m getting out later today. The doctor said I’m doing great and can leave. Can I call you when I get home?”

  “Absolutely. Vanessa?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please take care of yourself.”

  My whole body tingles. “I will, Michael. Bye.”

  “A friend from Lawndale?” Mom asks.

  I nod, and for some reason think of Reginald. “It was Michael Dumas. Probably the nicest boy at Lawndale Academy.”

  “That was sweet of him to call.” Mom puts her warm hand on mine. “Speaking of Lawndale”—she pulls a giant card from behind my bed—“this is from Mrs. Foster and the staff. It arrived by special delivery. How she got them to sign this during the summer, I have no idea.” Mom opens the card, and I see lots of signatures. The biggest one is from Coach Conner. He wrote: “You’re one tough girl, Vanessa. Hang in there and get well soon. Looking forward to seeing you at school next year.”

  As if! I’m not looking forward to seeing you! “Mom, what school will I go to when you become president?”

  Mom’s eyes widen. “Honey—”

  “Isn’t Sidwell Friends the one Chelsea Clinton went to? Can we tour that school soon?”

  “Nessa—”

  “I know. I know. You haven’t been elected yet. But, Mom, I’ve got a good feeling about this. I really think you will be. And we ought to start making plans. Right?”

  “Vanessa.”

  “I mean, I’ll need to find out if I can compete in the spelling bee when—”

  “Vanessa!”

  The agent in the room turns his back again.

  Mom takes my hand. “Vanessa, Mr. Appleb
aum shot you!” She looks at me like she’s expecting something.

  “I know, Mom, but he’s gone now. They caught him and he’s in custody.” The thing I was most worried about happened and we survived! “We don’t have to be scared of him anymore.”

  Mom takes a deep breath. “Vanessa, there are a lot of Mr. Applebaums out there.”

  “There are?”

  “I mean people like him. People who would hurt you or me.”

  “But, Mom—”

  “And I simply can’t take that chance.”

  “But, Mom…” You said that even if we are afraid, we should do what’s right anyway. “I’m really not scared anymore.”

  “Well, I am.” Mom leans close and whispers. “Vanessa, I gave this a lot of thought while you were in”—the word catches in her throat—“surgery.” She lets go of my hand to wipe her eyes with a tissue. “Nessa, my number one job is to keep you safe. And I’ve let this campaign get in the way of that. I’m sorry.” She bows her head, then looks at me again. Her nose is red. “I know…I’m sure…your dad would want…” Mom takes a deep, wobbly breath. “I’ve called a press conference for later today.” Mom glances at the agent, then whispers in my ear: “I’m going to announce that I’m dropping out of the race.”

  “Mom!” I sit up, and wince from the pain in my derierre. “You…you…can’t”—I whisper the next word—“quit! Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”

  “No, I thought you deserved to hear it first.”

  “Thank God.” I fall back on my pillow.

  “Vanessa, I thought you’d be thrilled. Isn’t this what you wanted?

  “Mom.” My voice is cracked and gravelly; my throat feels sore. I nod at the apple juice on the table beside my bed. Mom puts the straw to my lips and I drain the carton. “I did want that. I did. It’s all I wanted before…I mean…”

  Mom puts her palm on my forehead. “Shhh. It’s okay, Nessa. You don’t have to say anything.”

  I lean forward and take Mom’s hand in my sweaty palms. “Yes, I do have to say something. Mom, I did want you to drop out. But now I don’t.”