5
MIKE THE UNUSUAL
“Have you ever noticed,” Holly Herman said, pacing in front of the classroom, “that our school mascot is the Tree Whisperer?”
“Um, yeah?” said Hannah Greer in the front row. Hannah plays the school mascot.
“If I’m elected president, I’ll get to the bottom of why we’re the Tree Whisperers,” said Holly. “What does it mean? Why are the trees whispering? What are they saying?”
“Here we go,” muttered Thalia Jung behind me.
When Holly went on one of her rants, it was hard to stop her. Especially when she was nominating herself for seventh-grade class president.
Holly Herman thought cafeteria workers sprinkled ground-up chewable vitamins on all the food to make the students grow extra big. One weakness of Holly’s argument was that she was extremely short, and she ate more cafeteria food than anyone I knew.
But I didn’t mind if Holly kept talking all day. It just meant more time for me to shuffle under my desk, out of sight of Mr. Ishizawar, my homeroom teacher. Shuffling is peaceful like meditation—that thwap sound when the cards hit my lap, their breeze as they settle into a perfect stack. And since Holly was talking, nobody could hear any of it. She was the perfect misdirection.
“And have you noticed the bugs in the trees?” Holly asked.
“Those nasty tree roaches?” asked Jake Tripoli. “One jumped in my backpack.”
“They’re not just tree roaches,” Holly said. “They’re spy bugs. The bugs are bugged. By Poplar Prep. They’re spying on our debate team.”
Mr. Ishizawar, coach of the Poplar Middle School Debate Team, looked up from his lesson plan.
“I’ll also focus on environmental issues,” Holly said. “Have you noticed how hot it is in here? The school’s atmosphere is changing. And it’s all your fault.” She pointed at everyone in the classroom.
“Thank you, Holly,” Mr. Ishizawar said. “Would anyone else like to throw their hat in the ring?”
Peter Gronkowski raised his hand.
“I want to issue a statement. I’m not running for office,” Peter said. “I know this is disappointing. But as you all know, I’m a successful businessman. Who can forget Star Maps of Poplar Lane? Peter’s Pickled Peppers? But I digress. Quite simply, a businessman should not be a politician. It’s a conflict of interest. You understand.”
“Thanks for that, ah, important announcement, Peter,” said Mr. Ishizawar. “Anyone who does want to run? Or nominate themselves? Just Holly? Come on, folks. Democracy isn’t a spectator sport. You’ve got to get in the game.”
“I’ll run,” said Thalia. “This school is messed up.”
“You want to be president?” snickered Jake. “You already got in-school suspension, and it’s only the first week. Why did you bring a frog to school, anyway?”
“He was stuck in a drain, man!” Thalia said. “What was I supposed to do, leave him there?”
“You didn’t have to put him on Ms. Templeton’s desk,” Jake pointed out.
Thalia shrugged. “I couldn’t put him in the desk. Frogs need air.”
“I’m afraid Jake has a point, Thalia,” Mr. Ishizawar said. “Students who’ve had a recent in-school suspension are not allowed to run for office. But maybe next year.”
“Whatever,” Thalia mumbled, picking at her nails. “I never even wanted to be president.”
“Demetrius?” Mr. Ishizawar asked.
Demetrius Doran shifted in his seat. “I don’t do speeches,” he said.
Demetrius is the only other black kid in homeroom. Our dads are on the same fantasy football league together. Dad really wants us to be friends, but Demetrius already has his own friends.
“Eliza?” Mr. Ishizawar asked.
Eliza Crabtree shook her head. “I can’t do anything that’s after school,” she said. “I have to watch my little brother.”
Peter raised his hand again.
“Change your mind, Peter?” Mr. Ishizawar asked.
“I’d like to nominate Michael Strange for class president.”
Huh?
“Who?” said Jake Tripoli.
“Correction,” Peter said. “Mike the Unusual.”
Thwap. Splat.
My cards spilled to the floor. As I picked them up, I felt everyone’s eyes on me.
What was Peter doing?
“Any reason why you’d like to nominate Mike, Peter?” Mr. Ishizawar asked.
Good question, I thought.
“I work with Mike closely as his mentor,” Peter said. “He’s loyal and fair. Even if he is uncoordinated. We’re working on that. I think he’ll do what’s best for our school.” He looked directly at me. “As your mentor, I feel politics is a natural progression for you.”
It was?
“Mike, do you accept the nomination?” Mr. Ishizawar asked.
“Uh,” I said.
Mr. Ishizawar said democracy wasn’t a spectator sport. I wasn’t so good at sports. But Dad might be happy if I did something that was kind of like a sport. And being president would look great on my magic camp scholarship application.
I nodded.
“Okay, class,” said Mr. Ishizawar. “Mike or Holly. You decide.”
He made everyone close their eyes for the vote. It felt weird to vote for myself since I’d never run for anything before. How could you know who would make a good president? At least Holly cared, no matter how many wacky ideas she had. Thalia might have done a good job, but she was always talking back.
I knew I’d won as soon as Holly said, “It’s a conspiracy!” Then I felt a pat on my back. It was Peter.
“By one vote, Mike wins our homeroom nomination for seventh-grade class president!” Mr. Ishizawar said. “Congratulations. Who would you like to name as your campaign manager?”
Peter cleared his throat and tapped his foot behind me.
“Peter,” I said. I didn’t know what I was doing anyway. And it seemed like the right thing to do since he was my mentor and he nominated me.
The homeroom bell rang.
“Mike,” said Peter, extending his hand. I shook it. I have a pretty firm grip because of all my card shuffling, but even my grip isn’t as firm as Peter’s. “I know you’re a friend of the free market. Together we’ll launch a complete overhaul of the Poplar Middle School store. Take the reins on homework reform. With my fundraising know-how and your, ah, other skills, consider yourself a winner.”
I nodded, though I didn’t know anything about homework reform. I didn’t even know we had a school store. Still, with Peter’s help, maybe I could pull off my biggest magic trick yet. Mike the Unusual: Seventh-Grade Class President.
POPLAR MIDDLE SCHOOL
ELECTION INTEGRITY CONTRACT
During my campaign I agree to the following rules and guidelines:
I will use only standard-sized posters and painter’s tape.
I will not attack my opponent or participate in negative campaigning against him or her.
I will not make unrealistic campaign promises.
I will not deface or remove another candidate’s campaign materials.
I will behave with kindness and dignity toward my opponent.
I will strive to be honest at all times.
I will accept the results of the election with maturity and respect.
Clover O’Reilly
MIKE THE UNUSUAL
(ALSO KNOWN AS MIKE STRANGE)
FROM
WARTY MORTY’S TREATISE ON MAGIC
Copyright 1973
C Is for “CONFIDENCE TRICK”
Confidence is groovy, man. For magicians, it’s a job requirement.
But confidence has a flip side.
The words “con” and “con artist” come fr
om magic. Less-than-honest magicians would swindle an unsuspecting Joe or Josephine in three-card monte or a shell game. These were called “confidence games” or “confidence tricks.”
A confidence trick manipulates the confidence, or trust, of a victim. Then the swindler swoops in for the cheat.
What’s the difference between a magic trick and a confidence trick?
A magician, in many ways, uses the same technique as the con artist, just without the unhappy ending.
A magic trick is a willing con. Folks are in on the game. In a confidence trick, the audience has no clue they’re being played for fools.
6
MIKE THE UNUSUAL
It’s hard to keep a magic mindset in the Cone Zone. The bright lights, pounding music, shrieking kids, creepy animatronic ice cream cones . . . it’s too much. Also, the birthday parties.
I used to have my birthday parties here. Every kid did. Except one year, only one person came. It was Peter, and he had to leave early to scout out a new location for a “business venture” (I still don’t know what that means). My birthday’s in February, when everybody gets sick. That’s why people didn’t come. At least that’s what Granberry told me. It might have been true, or she might have been lying to make me feel better.
So I was dreading my Cone Zone meeting with Peter. But he was my campaign manager, and the election was in seven days. I figured I should do what he said if I was going to win.
But Peter wasn’t alone. He was sitting with Scott MacGregor and a new girl I’d seen around school.
“Greetings, Mike,” said Peter. He shook my hand. “Meet your dream team.” He leaned in and whispered, “As your mentor, I’d advise you to remove your headphones during introductions.”
I sometimes forget I’m even wearing them. I took them off. Suddenly I felt exposed. The Cone Zone lights and sounds pulsed through me.
I sat down, putting my palms flat on the table. Focus. “I thought you were my campaign manager,” I said to Peter.
“The key word is ‘manager,’” Peter said. His fingertips touched to make a tent. “Business tip: every great manager knows how to build a team.”
The girl waved. “Hi, Mike,” she said. “I’m Amelia.”
“I brought Amelia on because she did a terrific job as my tutoring associate,” Peter said.
“I just helped him in pre-algebra today,” Amelia said. She smiled at me. “When I heard you were running, I asked Peter if I could help with your campaign,” she said. “I’m kind of a wonk.”
“Don’t say that,” said Scott. “Everyone is, um, beautiful in their own way.”
“No,” Amelia said. “A wonk is someone really interested in politics. It’s my passion.”
“What’s your job?” I asked Scott. “I didn’t know you cared about politics.”
Scott slipped on his sunglasses. “I’m Secret Service. That’s not politics. It’s just cool.”
“Do I need a Secret Service agent?” I asked.
“I hope not,” Scott said very seriously. “But I pledge to protect you. To stand in the line of fire against milkshake or French fry attacks in the cafe-teria.”
“Let’s get started,” Peter said, opening a file folder. “I’ve done some research on elections. First, the person who gets the most votes wins.”
“Deep political analysis, dude,” said Scott.
Peter shot him a look. “Secret Service agents aren’t supposed to talk,” he said.
“Oh,” said Scott. “Are they like those palace guards in London who can’t change their expressions? I can do that, too.” He went stone-faced.
“Second,” Peter said, “the candidate who spends the most money almost always wins.”
“What do they spend the money on?” I asked.
Peter thought. “Posters. Markers. Consultants. We need donors with deep pockets to cover all the expenses.” He checked his folder. “Speaking of consultants, I have a lead on a potential consultant for the campaign.” He paused. “Rafael X.”
Amelia oohed. Even Scott nodded, impressed.
“Who?” I asked.
Peter sniffed. “Only the most sought-after style consultant at Poplar Middle School. He does all the big dances, Valentine’s Day, back-to-school makeovers. He’s even styled high schoolers.”
Scott gasped.
“But he’s not cheap,” Peter said. “And he’s so busy he’s only available via SkyTime video phone chat. So we’ve got to raise money from donors to hire him.”
Amelia cleared her throat. “I’ve got a few ideas, too,” she said.
I nodded. She took a deep breath.
“Peter’s thing is raising money. Scott’s is, um, security. I’m concerned with something else.”
“What?” I asked.
Amelia wiggled in her seat. “My mom’s a travel nurse, so we move around a lot,” she said. “I went to five different elementary schools, and this is my second middle school. Why am I telling you this?”
“I don’t know,” said Scott.
Peter shot him another warning look.
Amelia went on. “It’s because I’m an expert in the social order.”
“What’s that?” asked Scott.
“The social order is how people deal with each other.” She made a triangle shape with her hands. “It’s a pyramid. There’s the top—those are the popular people. And then there’s everyone else, in different categories, below them. And when you’re always the new kid like me, you get good at figuring out where everyone fits. It’s basically survival.”
Survival? That sounded more serious than magic camp.
“Wow,” said Scott. “You really are wonky.”
“What’s the social order at our school?” I asked.
“Great question, Mike,” Amelia said brightly. “We have some real work ahead of us. Let’s start with voters. Voters come in three categories: your base, your opponent’s base, and undecided voters.”
“What’s a base?” I asked.
“Foundation,” said Peter. “It’s makeup. I learned that on Rafael X’s online makeup tutorial.”
“The guy is a master,” said Scott.
“Not that kind of base,” Amelia said. “A voting base is people who are loyal to you. People who like you.” She checked her notebook. “Judging by my research, Mike, you don’t have a very strong base.”
Ouch.
“Burn,” said Scott MacGregor.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia said, frowning. She really did look sorry. “We’re dealing with a fundamental problem: Clover O’Reilly is popular. And you’re not. I mean, you’re not unpopular. You’re just not as . . . electable.”
Instinctively, I reached for my headphones. I felt like I was hearing Dad talk about me through the vents all over again. Maybe running for president wasn’t worth hearing more bad stuff about myself.
Amelia tapped the table. “But you have a unique strength.”
“He doesn’t even work out,” Scott said.
“What do you mean?” Peter asked Amelia.
“Think about it,” Amelia said to me. “There are more of you—of us—than there are of them.”
“Who is this ‘us’ you speak of?” Scott asked.
“Okay,” Amelia said. It was like she couldn’t stop wiggling. “Remember the social pyramid? It’s smallest at the top. Popular people are the minority. That means the not-populars are the majority. So all we have to do is get out the vote.”
“Get it out of where?” Peter asked.
Amelia sighed. “What I mean is, we have to motivate the not-popular people to vote. For Mike.”
“I thought everyone had to vote anyway,” I said.
“Everyone has to turn in a ballot,” said Amelia. “But not everyone votes for a particular candidate, on purpose. Some people just write in a funny name
.”
Scott snorted. “Yeah, like Anita Tinkle.”
“So electing Mike would be a disruption in the market,” said Peter.
“In the social market, yeah,” Amelia said.
“Terrific,” Peter said.
“Why do you want Mike to win so much?” Scott asked Amelia. “Is it because Clover beat you in the homeroom election? Are you out for revenge?”
Amelia glared. “No. Not everything is about girls not liking each other. Clover picked Rachel, that’s all.” She looked at me. “At my old schools, I was either coming or going. I never stayed in the same place long enough to make friends or run for anything myself.” She stared at her hands. “My parents say this time we’re staying. So I want to be part of . . . something.”
I nodded. I’d lived here my whole life, but I still didn’t really feel like a part of much besides magic, and that was just Granberry and me.
“Also,” Amelia said with a smile, “I want to see the underdog win.”
“I thought underdogs always won,” said Scott. “They do in the movies.”
“This isn’t the movies,” Amelia said. “It’s middle school. People want to be at the top of the pyramid. That’s why everyone votes for popular people. They think popularity is contagious, like it’s going to rub off on them.”
“What do we do?” I asked.
Amelia stared at me. “We make you popular.”
“Hold on,” Scott said. “Then he won’t be the underdog.”
“It’s complicated,” Amelia said. “Mike starts off as the underdog. Then people relate to him, then they like him, then they vote for him.”
Peter clucked his tongue. His eyes moved around like he was doing algebra in his head.
Amelia made winning the election sound like something you could control—like a science experiment. But I was the experiment. It didn’t feel so good. Still, I needed to win, to “achieve the impossible” for my magic camp essay, and to make Dad proud. And I needed my team to do it.
President of Poplar Lane Page 4