That’s all I wanted to hear. “What do you think, Gabriel?”
“I think,” he said, his eyes bright, “that I’ll have to sign up in the office today.”
“Awesome!” Cassilyn squealed, then kissed Gabe on the cheek. “See you guys at lunch.”
Gabe waited until they had rounded the corner before he took me by the shoulders and dropped his act. “Please tell me you’re not just asking me to do this because you want to beat Toile.”
“Well,” I said, unable to lie to my friend, “I’m not just doing it for that reason. But seriously, Gabe, if you don’t want to do this, tell me.”
He paused for a moment, as if contemplating all the factors, then smiled. “No, you’re right. I would be good at this job. Like really good.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Like zoopa?”
“Exactly.” He scanned the foyer, which was already dotted with flyers and banners touting a full range of candidates. “What about campaigning?”
The first warning bell rang, signaling that we had ten minutes until first period. “I’ll come up with a plan,” I said. It’s what I did best, after all. “We’ll meet at Spencer’s after school. And make magic.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“OKAY, I SIGNED up for the election,” Gabe said the instant he burst through the door of Spencer’s studio after school. He dropped onto the sofa, crossed his right leg over his left, and folded his hands over his knee, which was a totally in-character pose even though he was just hanging out with us. “Let the fabulousness begin.”
Kurt hesitated in the doorway, a soda cup in his hand. He must have driven Gabe over from school and wasn’t sure whether or not he was welcome.
I bowed at the waist, ushering him in. “Welcome to Spencer Preuss-Katt’s magical clubhouse.”
“Shit, Bea,” Spencer said. “Leave that Trixie crap at school, okay?”
“I did,” I said, glaring at him.
He lowered his chin. “‘Magical clubhouse’?”
I guess Spencer was right, but it hadn’t felt like part of my Trixie routine while I was doing it. “Can’t I just be naturally whimsical sometimes?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “can you?”
“So, do you even know what you’re supposed to do as ASB president?” Kurt asked, pausing between sips.
“I do.” Gabe pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his bag. “I’d run weekly meetings of the executive board, read the daily announcements, and—this is my favorite—I would be the face of the Fullerton Hills student body.” He dropped the page to his lap. “Isn’t that absolutely, positively perfect for me?”
Spencer laughed. “Sounds like an extrovert’s paradise.”
“It’s more than just the spotlight,” I said, feeling like Spencer was chiding Gabe. “Gabe could make some huge changes at our school.”
“Exactly,” Gabe said, leaning against me. “Tolerance, understanding. I can squash the culture of elitism and bullying, and really make Fullerton Hills a place where everyone feels safe.”
“Amen,” I said.
“If you can get elected,” Kurt said, musing into his straw.
“Good point.” Gabe turned to me. “What’s the campaign plan? Most of the good advertising spots around school are already taken. Hallways, stairwells, cafeteria.”
“And the theater, library, and gym are booked for rallies tomorrow and Wednesday,” Kurt added.
“I really want to make an impression with this campaign,” Gabe continued. “All eyes on me, you know?”
I snorted. “Oh, we know.”
“I mean for the article,” he said, wagging his chin at me.
“Mmhm.”
He ignored me. “How are we supposed to get any traction?”
“I’m going to give you the same advice I gave Bea,” Spencer said. “Face tattoo.”
Gabe gazed at him coolly. “I’m so totally drawing on your face with a Sharpie the next time you fall asleep.”
“What’s your plan, Bea?” Spencer said, getting us back on track. “Since you convinced Gabe to do this.”
“I’m not five,” Gabe said, his forehead wrinkled in frustration. “No one convinced me to do anything. I want to be ASB president.”
Kurt stole a glimpse at him. “You’d be really good at it too. I mean, of everyone running, I feel like you could actually bring the student body together.”
Gabe flushed pink. “Thank you.”
“The Formula hasn’t failed us yet,” I said, pushing myself forward on the sofa. “So I say we stick with it.” As I pulled a pen and notebook out of my bag, I caught Spencer mouthing the Formula while he wrinkled his nose as if the toilet had backed up. I poised my pen over the page and turned to Gabe. “How many days until the election?”
“Speeches are Thursday at lunch,” Gabe said. “I’ve already got the perfect outfit planned.”
“Outfit,” I said, not entirely sure how that would help his campaign. “Check.”
“And voting is open online from then until nine o’clock that night. Which is perfect timing because Mr. Poston wants me to submit the article on Friday.”
I nodded. “Plenty of time.”
“Two days is plenty of time?” Kurt asked.
I did a few quick calculations, weighing the benefits of various campaign strategies. The traditional high school model consisted of:
(a) in-school advertising, in the form of banners, flyers, and handouts;
(b) virtual advertising, utilizing photos, text, and video, on various social media platforms;
(c) traditional glad-handing.
As far as I could tell, everyone followed the same model, trying to come up with a “new” way to get their name bigger, brighter, and more memorable than anyone else’s on election day, but always utilizing these same strategies.
Because that’s what got people elected in high school: name recognition. That needed to be our focus.
I drew a quick graph, plotting the traditional buzz arc over time. “Here’s what I think,” I said, hastily inking a bell curve to connect my plot points. “Candidates start strong, unleashing their campaigns on day one and then doubling down on their tactics as they get closer to the election. Using this method, they see a sharp spike in name recognition during the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, then fall off sharply.”
“It’s true,” Gabe said. “Polls we did at the Herald last year showed that early leads faded by the election.”
“The average American teenager has an attention span of approximately seven seconds,” I said. “I think it’s actually to your advantage that you haven’t started campaigning yet.”
“How?” Spencer asked.
The boy had no vision. I pulled a red pen out of my bag and drew another curve on top of the first one. It started later in the timeline, but peaked right at Thursday’s election, and almost twice as high as the original. “By delaying your ‘launch,’ we’re beginning your ascent later, when the initial noise of the other candidates has died down.”
It was a brilliant strategy, if I did say so myself, and I pictured the final triumphant conclusion of my scholarship submission: Gabe elected ASB president, Spencer with a portrait exhibition, and me beating Toile to get Jesse back. Early admission, here I come!
“Won’t Gabe just get lost in the rallies and giveaways?” Kurt pressed. “By tomorrow, half the school will be wearing buttons and swag from other candidates.”
“Not if we make a game out of it,” I said.
Gabe tilted his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Who else have you told that you’re running for student body president?” I asked.
“Just you guys, plus Cassilyn, Esmeralda, and the stepsisters.”
I wasn’t worried about the girls, who’d probably forgotten about Gabe’s candidacy twenty seconds after they learned of it. “Perfect. So here’s what we’re going to do: tease a secret candidate.”
Gabe bit his lip. “Is that ethical?”
I shrugged. “Sure. Why wo
uldn’t it be?”
“Journalists strive to be accountable and transparent. It’s one of our statutes.”
“Which we’re not violating. This is simply a campaign strategy. We’re not lying to anyone.”
“I guess you’re right,” Gabe said.
“And when we finally reveal your name,” I said, “we’ll do it with a bang.”
Gabe’s eyes grew wide. “Oh yeah?” I knew he’d like that idea.
Spencer looked skeptical. “So you campaign without using his name at all, then wait until the speeches to out him?” He held his fist out to Gabe. “No offense, dude.”
“None taken.” Gabe returned the bump.
“Exactly,” I said. “A huge unveiling of the secret candidate in front of the entire student body. A captive audience, forced to pay attention. They won’t even remember the other candidates after you walk out onto that stage. That’s a ninety percent efficiency rating on your campaign.”
“Okay, I can see how that might work,” Kurt said. “But how do we spread the word about a candidate if we can’t even use Gabe’s name?”
“I’ll design a flyer.” I made a few notches on my bell curve, marking off campaign milestones. “Which we shove in every single locker tomorrow before school. Drop a clue, then promise more. It’ll be like a giant scavenger hunt. Significantly more effective than banners and posters with Gabe’s name, which have a max efficiency rating of thirty-three percent.”
“You know what?” A smile spread across Gabe’s face. “This could work. We might actually pull it—”
A knock on the door startled us. Spencer shot to his feet.
“Who’s that?” I asked, noting the flush in his cheeks.
“Client. I mean, it’s Cassilyn.”
Gabe waited until Spencer was at the door before he beckoned Kurt and me to lean in. “I’ve got gossip.”
My head snapped up. “Yeah?”
“Thad is pissed off that Cassilyn won’t go to the dance with him,” Gabe whispered. “She told Esmeralda she wasn’t interested in dating jocks anymore. Said she wants someone more artistic, and everybody knew exactly who she meant.”
Suddenly, Gabe’s intimacy with the A-list wasn’t so appealing. I didn’t really want to hear that Cassilyn was telling everyone she was interested in Spencer.
“So Esmeralda immediately told Thad,” Gabe continued, “right before she asked him to the dance. He said yes, of course, but then he told me that he really only agreed to go with her because he wants to make Cassilyn jealous.”
“Thanks for inviting me over again,” Cassilyn said. The word “again” jabbed at me, as if she’d laid special emphasis on it.
“Do you think Spence’s really interested in her?” I swallowed, feeling a strange lump in my throat. Going to the dance together was one thing. A long-term relationship was something else entirely.
Gabe shrugged. “Who wouldn’t want to date the hottest girl in school?”
Kurt tilted his head to the side. “But I thought you said Spencer was in love with—”
“Cassilyn!” Gabe rocketed to his feet. “Darling, how are you?”
“Gabriel!” She floated across the room and kissed him on both cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
“Campaign stuff,” he said. “Remember? I’m running for ASB president.”
“Duh, of course! You’re going to be my favorite prez ever.”
I gritted my teeth. Anything new was her favorite thing ever.
“Can you believe I’m getting my portrait painted by a real artist?” she continued.
Spencer’s face, still pink from the initial flush of Cassilyn’s arrival, deepened to an unbecoming shade of fuchsia. “Oh, I’m not a real artist. I mean, I don’t actually sell anything. It’s just a hobby.”
“Bullshit!” I blurted out. I know it wasn’t very Trixie-like, but I couldn’t help it. I hated the way he discounted his talent in front of other people. Why was he always trying to pretend that his art wasn’t the most important thing in his universe?
“Trix . . . ,” Spencer said, his eyes pleading with me to stop. But Spencer wasn’t that scrawny kid getting picked on in gym class anymore. There was no reason for him to hide what he loved.
“Art is not your hobby,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. Then I turned to Cassilyn. “He’s had interest from a half dozen galleries in LA.” I wasn’t even lying. His moms had submitted a few of his acrylic and plaster pieces to their gallery friends downtown, who had offered to see a full range of pieces for a possible showing as soon as he had a larger body of work.
Cassilyn’s gaze lingered on Spencer’s face as I spoke, then gradually trailed to me. “You and Spencer are good friends, right?”
She’d asked me that same question just last week. Was she seriously that airheaded or was her forgetfulness intentional? “Yes.”
“Just friends?”
So that was it. She was fishing to see if Spencer was single. “We’re . . .”
Just as I was about to confirm Spencer’s bachelorhood, I paused. An image popped into my head: Spencer and Cassilyn getting hot and heavy on that very sofa. That’s where it was headed, if it hadn’t happened already, and the thought momentarily paralyzed me.
“We’re just friends.” Only the words didn’t come out of my mouth. Spencer had said it, his voice so concretely dismissive it startled me.
“Right,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just friends.”
TWENTY-FIVE
GABE, KURT, SPENCER, and I showed up early for school the next morning with a half dozen boxes of flyers. The plan was simple: shove one in each locker and then post the extras wherever we could find the space.
The task was slow and involved a variety of paper cuts and wonky creases before I discovered a folding and stuffing system that didn’t leave me with bloody fingertips. We split up and worked in silence, focused on the job at hand. Fold and stuff, fold and stuff. Each flyer had the identical message:
WHO WILL BE YOUR NEXT ASB PRESIDENT?
IT’S A ZOOPA SECRET!
FIND OUT THURSDAY!
YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS THIS!
By waiting until the general assembly to announce Gabe to a captive audience of the entire student body, there was a 91 percent chance that his would be the only name people would remember when the polls opened. Jesse would lose the election, then lose interest in Toile, and I would win.
You mean you’ll get Jesse back.
Yes, of course, Brain. That’s what I meant. I’d “win” Jesse back. That was the whole reason I was doing this. It wasn’t a competition with Toile: this was just about my relationship with Jesse.
I was lost in thought, finishing up the last row of lockers upstairs at the end of the math-and-sciences floor, when one of the locker doors flew open. I screamed, dropping my box of flyers, as Michael Torres squeezed his skinny frame out of the tight metal interior.
“Beatrice Giovannini,” he said, his voice slimy.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” I panted, my heart in my throat.
“It’s my locker.”
As if that made it better. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I told you,” he said, his nostrils flared. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”
“You’re stalking me an hour before school starts from the interior of your locker?”
“Maybe I am and maybe I’m not,” he said with a grin that he probably thought looked enigmatic but came off as super creepy. “Maybe I’m doing something so amazing you can’t even imagine its scope. Maybe I’ll—”
I cut off his rant. “Boldly go where no man has gone before.”
Michael Torres gasped, horrified. “How dare you quote Star Trek to me? You don’t get to do that. I quote Star Trek to you.”
We were getting nowhere. There was only a 3 percent chance Michael Torres could have known that I would be at school that early, less than 1 percent that I’d be in the hallway with his locker, but I kinda didn’t want to kn
ow what he was actually doing in there.
“What do you want, Michael Torres? I have work to do.”
“I see.” He crouched down and picked up one of the scattered flyers. “Secret candidate, eh? So that’s what this Trixie business is all about. You’re running for ASB president.”
The last thing I needed was Michael Torres ruining Gabe’s campaign. “No, I’m just—”
He stepped forward, his eyes locked onto mine. “Well, I’m going to tell everyone what you’re up to. Totally going to blow your secret. At first I thought those notes your friend Gabe is always scribbling in his book had something to do with it, but now I know better. If you think you’re going to beat me by using information theory to get elected to school office, you’re wrong.”
I froze. Information theory? What did that have to do with the election? Unless . . .
“You read about the scholarship in MIT News Magazine.” Coeditor of the school paper. Why hadn’t I realized it before? Michael Torres was going to use the Herald as his information theory project.
Which was a good idea, but not nearly as good as the Formula.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth across my face. He was a horrible liar.
“Mmhm.”
So we were both going after the same scholarship and he thought I was going to use the election as my research. Clearly, he had no idea about the Formula. And I planned to keep it that way.
“You caught me,” I said. “Red-handed. That’s exactly what I’m up to.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
I nodded enthusiastically as I gathered up my remaining flyers. “Trixie, the campaign—it’s all part of my plan to get that scholarship for myself.”
Michael Torres looked confused, as if his concept of reality had just exploded in his face. “Oh. Okay.”
“But you were just too smart for me, so now I’ll have to think of something else.” I hugged the mostly empty box of flyers to my chest and hurried down the hall toward the stairs. As long as he continued to believe he’d figured out my plan, he might stop spying on me.
Might.
“Good job, Michael Torres. Ciao, ta-ta, and adieu!”
I'm Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl Page 13