The Campaign

by Elizabeth Karre

  Text copyright © 2013 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  Cover and interior photographs © iStockphoto.com/andipantz (girl);

  © iStockphoto.com/Jordan McCullough (title texture).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for The Campaign is on file at the Library of Congress.

  ISBN: 978–1–4677–1374–0 (LB)

  ISBN: 978–1–4677–1677–2 (EB)

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/13

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-1677-2 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3330-4 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3329-8 (mobi)

  In order to succeed, your desire for success should be greater than your fear of failure.

  —Bill Cosby

  Dear Ms. Davis,

  What a perfect name you have for the news you are about to get—today your destiny probably is changing. I say “probably” because it will depend on you, as I believe most things do in life. That’s the first thing to know about me.

  The second is that I’m offering you a well-paid summer internship with my media group, Chatter. Specifically, you’d be working on our political blog, Polichat, with my stepson Chaz.

  You came to my attention, Destiny Davis, when I read your articles in the Clinton High newspaper about the missing school supplies. I heard about you again when the Washington City Paper picked up your story and blew open the whole mess around corruption and supplies across the school district.

  The little story about toilet paper and markers that went big. But more than that, it showed you, as a reporter, have cunning, determination, and you’re good at finding things out—especially when you smell a rat.

  I could use those talents at Polichat right now, Destiny, so I’m hoping you’ll accept my offer. Bosley will discuss the details with you.

  In admiration,

  Harmon Holt

  ONE

  I looked up from the letter and stared at the boring-looking man in front of me.

  “I’m sure, Ms. Davis, that you realize what an honor it is to be chosen for one of the Holt internships,” he said.

  I just stared at him. I was so confused. How did anyone else know that I wrote that article? The Clinton High newspaper hadn’t used my name.

  And Harmon Holt? Like, the Harmon Holt? Like, Holt Entertainment. Holt Airlines. Holt Enterprises. The Holt name was everywhere. But Holt, like the other donors to Clinton High, had always seemed like a made-up person. Rich people donated things, like the new seats in the auditorium. But you never met them. Or got personal letters from them.

  “But,” I said, rubbing my forehead, “Harmon Holt reads the Clinton High School newspaper?”

  I had to figure out how Harmon Holt even knew my name. I felt like I was five steps behind in this conversation.

  “Mr. Holt is an alumnus of Clinton High,” Ms. Williams, my guidance counselor, said quickly. “You know that, Destiny. We talk about it at the donor appreciation assembly every year.”

  Guess I should be paying more attention in assemblies instead of sleeping or talking to my girls. And Ms. Williams didn’t exactly answer my question. But I had more questions.

  “Okay, it says internship in this letter. But I didn’t apply for an internship, so I think there’s a mistake,” I said, trying to be polite. In my head I was saying BIG MISTAKE because anyone who knows me knows I am not the kind of kid who gets picked for this kind of stuff. Even if I had applied for it. Which I didn’t and wouldn’t.

  “Mr. Holt has his methods for selecting internship recipients at Clinton High,” Bosley smiled thinly. “He takes staff recommendations into consideration, but in the end, he looks at the needs of his business interests and what he knows about various Clinton students. Actually, he pays close attention to everything he’s connected to. Not much gets by him.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. What was he talking about? Was he getting smart? I could hardly tell. I looked at Ms. Williams. She didn’t recommend me, did she?

  Ms. Williams shrugged and gave me the eye at the same time. Behave yourself.

  “And you work for him or something?” I asked, still trying to catch up.

  “Mr. Bosley is Mr. Holt’s …” Ms. Williams trailed off.

  “Right-hand man,” the Bosley guy laughed, but not like it was funny.

  “And this … blog thing—where is it? I kind of already had a summer job and—”

  Bosley cut me off.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said, trying to seem nice. (But I could see he was thinking I was irky.) “Polichat is based here in DC, but it will be a more than full-time job. Your compensation will almost certainly be more than your current job. Not to mention what a Holt internship can get you. But if you’re not interested …” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Here are the terms of employment,” he said, handing me a stapled packet. The number on the front page jumped out at me right away. It was five times more than what I usually made in a summer working fast food. I only can work part-time because I got to babysit my brother. Most of the money I make goes to my mom, so I’m always hard up. I really couldn’t see anything on the paper except that long number.

  “I’ll do it,” I said quickly.

  “Then sign here,” he said, handing me a pen and pointing to another paper.

  After I signed, I said, “Maybe I should talk to my—”

  But Bosley was already sticking the paper in his briefcase and standing up.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Davis. Report to work the Monday after school gets out. Here’s Chaz’s card if you have any questions. Polichat’s address is on there too. Have a good day.”

  He walked fast out of the guidance counselor’s office.

  “Well,” said Ms. Williams, the guidance counselor. “This is a great opportunity for you, Destiny.” Don’t screw it up, I could tell she was saying. “What are you going to wear the first day at the big job?”

  TWO

  “And where the heck are we going to get the money to buy you the kind of clothes you need for something like this?” Mom asked, glaring at me.

  “Why are you yelling at me?” I screamed at her. “I thought you’d be happy. I’ll make a crapload of money. Isn’t that all you care about?”

  “Don’t you give that mouth to me,” she said, getting closer like she was thinking about hitting me.

  She hadn’t hit me since I got spanked last when I was ten and we had a huge fight. But I could tell she still itched to.

  “All I think about is keeping this family together and from going under. But if you don’t like it, you are welcome to leave,” she huffed. Which is what she always said.

  She lit a cigarette. I waited for the nicotine to calm her down. Seemed like a bad time to bring up how expensive smoking is. Not that I’d ever had great timing with my mom, starting with my birth when she was eighteen.

  “This will help me get into college, get a scholarship. Remember? How I gotta do everything different than you, starting with going to college?” I said, sweetly.

  She sucked her teeth and rolled her
eyes. “Stop being smart and be useful. I know you want to do it, Destiny, but how’s this gonna work, for real? What am I going to do with Darius if you’re working all the time?”

  We both looked at my little brother eating Froot Loops and watching cartoons. He didn’t seem like he was listening, but I knew he was.

  I felt sad and angry. Why were all her problems always my problems too? I bet Harmon Holt didn’t make his kids figure everything out for him. But his life had nothing to do with mine. Until today.

  I shrugged. She sighed. Darius stared at the TV.

  “Maybe we can do our hours so it’ll work … He’s nine—can’t he be on his own part of the day? I can’t know until I start what times I need to be there,” I said.

  Mom sighed again. “I’ll talk to Denise and see if she got some clothes you can borrow for a while, till you get paid.”

  The thought of my Auntie Denise and going through her closet made me feel a little better. Maybe she’d even take me with her to have my hair done once she heard I did something good by getting this internship. Like my mom liked to say, Denise had the money to spend if she ever felt like sharing it.

  I didn’t know why I was fighting for this job—so far it had brought me nothing but grief, and I hadn’t even asked for it.

  THREE

  “Don’t you have any shoes that don’t make you look like a hooker?” asked my auntie. “I swear, you are not going to work for Harmon Holt and embarrass me.”

  She acted like she knew Harmon Holt personally instead of just having seen him on Oprah’s show about the top ten black businesspeople.

  “Just my school shoes,” I answered, pulling off my mom’s spike heel boots. “You’ve got some boots that look just like these.”

  Denise snorted. “They may look the same to you, but believe me there is a world of difference.”

  Denise can be so irky, but I was looking sweet as pie when she turned around. I wanted to look like Denise when I went to this internship, not my mom.

  Denise fussed around with a million different tops, skirts, and pants. She didn’t listen at all when I told her which ones I liked. Finally, she had a pile on the bed.

  Then Denise whipped out her sewing machine and fixed a couple of skirts—for “your skinny little butt,” she said.

  The whole time she was telling me what to wear together.

  “And don’t take the jacket off when you wear this skirt. Else this fix I’m making will show and you will look like a charity case,” she said, pins in her mouth. “Be useful, Destiny—fold up that stuff careful and pack it in that case there. I’m not having my stuff messed up on the bus.”

  I didn’t point out that I’d be wearing her clothes on the bus when I went to work. I packed everything up in one of her flight attendant rolly suitcases.

  She handed me the last skirt to try on and grabbed a pair of shoes.

  “What’s your shoe size?” she asked.

  I told her. She stuffed some tissue in the toes of her shoes.

  “Try them on and walk.”

  She shook her head watching me. “Girl, you better practice that before you go in public. And don’t scuff them, or you’ll be paying me back.”

  When I was on my way out the door pulling her suitcase behind me, Denise put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m going to Atlanta the day you start, but I’ll be back by Thursday. Call me, okay? And remember—this is more important than babysitting for Lil D. You let your mom figure that out.”

  She squeezed my shoulder. “Go get ’em, baby.”

  FOUR

  Riding the bus home, hanging onto Denise’s case like someone might take it, I thought about the stuff I wrote for the school paper that had got me here.

  It really started because Mrs. West, the principal, was such a b. Everyone at school agreed about that. I stay out of trouble because Mom’s been saying “Don’t be like me, don’t be like me, dontbelikeme,” my whole frickin’ life, but I didn’t like Mrs. West any more than anyone else.

  I didn’t even ever really write for the school paper. My English teacher told me I should, but it sounded kind of dumb.

  What happened is that I saw Mrs. West coming out of a door I’d barely noticed before. But she looked guilty, so I noticed. I was on a bathroom pass. I tried the door after she left, but it was locked.

  Was she smoking up in there? I wondered, laughing to myself. Naw, then she wouldn’t be such a b if she was high! I crack myself up so bad sometimes. I said it to Kendra too when I got back to class, and the teacher told us to hush up.

  What also happened is that I’m nosy, and I like to listen in on conversations I’m not supposed to hear.

  Some days after school I hang in Mr. Robinson’s room. He lets us play music on his stereo and decorate his board. Playing around in there, sometimes I feel like a little kid again and it’s nice.

  Ms. Jeannie, my English teacher, came by a lot to talk to Mr. R and us kids. We think Jeannie and Mr. R are going out, but they have to hide it at school. We talk about them all the time.

  I had my math open, but Kendra was doing my hair and we were singing our favorite song from choir.

  Ms. Jeannie waved from the door, and Mr. R went over. It looked to me like she was crying. Mr. R stepped out and pulled the door mostly shut.

  Kendra jumped up to write Ms. Jeannie’s name in heart letters on the board to tease Mr. R.

  Carefully, so they wouldn’t see me, I slid over to the other side of the door.

  “—want to do what’s best for the students, but it’s only November! How am I supposed to buy all my own supplies for the rest of the year?” I heard Jeannie say. “It’s not just the money. I mean, toilet paper! Is she kidding me?”

  Mr. R swore. “She said we have to buy toilet paper?”

  “I complained to the custodian that the staff restroom upstairs was always out. She also said I’ve used up my allotment of paper for copies for the year!”

  “Wait, how are we supposed to know—”

  “And remember how last spring she said the school was buying LCD projectors? I went to check one out, and she said there aren’t any.”

  “Let’s go somewhere to talk … let me get rid of the girls and grab my stuff. Meet you outside, okay?”

  I jumped away from the door. Kendra turned around, frowning.

  Mr. R barely looked at us as he started to shove his grading in his backpack.

  “Gotta go, girls,” he said. “Sorry.” Then he noticed the board. He shook his head and erased Jeannie’s name in one eraser sweep.

  Kendra squeaked.

  “And put the caps on the markers,” he said as he turned out the lights. “We can’t waste them.”

  FIVE

  Because of that, I started paying attention to the teachers and school supplies. The picture in my head of Jeannie carrying her own toilet paper to the bathroom was pretty funny, until I saw another teacher actually doing it. Then it seemed messed up.

  In some classes we didn’t get any more copies. We had to write down stuff from the board or overhead. Or sometimes we shared copies of worksheets that were all wrinkled and with doodles and crap written on the sides. Then we had to turn them in so the next hour could use them.

  Teachers were a lot meaner about giving you a pencil or paper if you forgot yours. Everybody’s whiteboard markers were drying up, but they kept using them.

  Ms. Jeannie had one of those fancy projectors, however. She showed us some It Gets Better videos, ones without swearing and stuff.

  “Want me to take the projector cart back for you?” I asked her after class, all innocent. “I got lunch next anyway.”

  “That’s sweet, Destiny,” she said, looking grim. “But this is my projector, not the school’s. And my laptop. And my—”

  I really thought she was going to drop an f-bomb! “My … cart. Early Christmas presents,” she said. “But if you’d push it in the corner, that would be great.”

  Hmmm, I thought.

  A
week later, I saw Mr. Brown coming out of the locked room. I always jiggled the handle when I went by so I knew it was always locked. He was pushing a cart with a projector and a laptop.

  “Is that Ms. Jeannie’s?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about?” he growled. “Get to class!”

  “So-orry,” I said. My friends laughed.

  Now I was really curious. Something was going on, and I wanted to know what.

  I saw Jeannie stomping toward the office after school so I followed her in. She went into Mrs. West’s office.

  The secretary asked what I wanted. I stalled, trying to listen, while she gave me the eye.

  “Can I use the phone?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you all have your own phones?”

  “No, ma’am, I forgot it,” I mumbled.

  I messed around with the office phone, hunching over it.

  “—YOUR mismanagement of school supplies if we are already out of basic things. Toilet paper! Copy paper! Markers! I’m going to ask the donors for the things I need to teach my students!” Jeannie was really yelling.

  The secretary looked up and was about to tell me to leave when Jeannie came flying out of Ms. West’s office.

  I went to Mr. R’s room.

  “Umm, I think Ms. Jeannie wants you,” I said. “She’s pretty upset.”

  I followed him as he hurried down the hall. He glanced over his shoulder before going into her room, but I was playing with a locker combination even though it wasn’t mine.

  See, it’s so easy to snoop if people expect you to be there anyway. It’s a school, so of course there are kids around. Teachers see you, but they just assume you aren’t paying attention to them.

  SIX

  I pressed against Jeannie’s door to listen. Here’s what I found out.

  Ms. West had told Jeannie and some other teachers that there wasn’t any paper or markers or stuff left for the rest of the school year. But Jeannie said some teachers weren’t running short. And that she’d seen Mr. Brown with that projector too, after West told her the school couldn’t afford one.