by Dee Romito
“She was the most amazing,” I say.
chapter seven
As I’m walking to book club the next day after school, Ashia calls down the hall.
“Kenzie, wait up!” she shouts.
She’s been talking about our campaign every time we’re together, but I’m still not convinced I should run. I mean, it would be beyond awesome to win it, but I can’t stop thinking that I won’t be here to be vice president.
“We totally need to get buttons,” she says, catching up to me.
“Buttons?” I ask. We stop in front of the library entrance, and she hands me a piece of paper. A flyer. Our election flyer, apparently.
“Madison Yencer did the design. What do you think?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “So we can take the logo with our names and put it on buttons and get them around the school to start drumming up support. But we have to hurry; otherwise, rush processing will cost a fortune.”
I stand there, stunned.
“I’ll take that as your okay.” She takes the flyer back and puts it inside a folder labeled OFFICIAL CAMPAIGN INFO. “Oh, I need a picture of us for promotional purposes.” She takes out her phone and squeezes in next to me for a selfie. “Smile.”
Imagining our election flyers all over the school snaps me out of my trance. “Ashia, I can’t.”
“Sure you can. Now smile!” I do as she asks to at least get past this hurdle. “Perfect,” she says.
I repeat my resistance to her plan. “I really can’t do it. I should have told you before, but I won’t be here.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Is that seriously your excuse for getting out of everything?”
It’s time to tell her. This is getting out of control. Spit it out, Kenzie.
“It’s the truth: I won’t be around to be your vice president.” But apparently I’m not clear enough.
“Listen, Kenzie,” she says. “I know you and your dad go on your weekend jaunts or whatever, but all your official duties will be during the week. A Friday night here and there, but it won’t be a problem. I’m the one who needs to be here for all the events. I’m telling you, we can totally win this thing.”
I stop and take in her words. She thinks we can win. I guess there really is only one way to find out. But am I up for it?
“Okay,” I say.
Ashia pumps her fist with a silent yes!
At that moment, Bren sticks his head into the hallway. “Kenzie, you coming to book club or what?”
“I’ll be right there,” I say. As he’s about to duck back into the library, I grab his purple sleeve. “Hey, why are we wearing purple?”
His eyebrows go up, and his face practically glows. “Matches the book cover. Genius, right? Totally my idea.”
When he disappears, I shake my head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone like that boy.”
“Definitely not,” says Ashia. And before I even turn to head into the library, she’s off down the hall. “I’ll see you later. I need to order the buttons!”
* * *
On Thursday morning, Ashia signs up to run for president and I submit my name to Mrs. Pilchard for seventh-grade vice president. Thursday night, Ashia’s mom takes us shopping for the perfect Election Day outfits.
After school on Friday, I finish up an assignment and decide to check my e-mail. Not that there’s ever anything there, but I cross my fingers as I click on the inbox.
And there it is—an e-mail from Erin and Caitlin. I didn’t realize how much I missed them until I finally stopped and let the world spin around me without me spinning along with it.
I e-mail them back and type their numbers in my phone. I know kids these days text, but I plan on calling them next week instead. Because it dawns on me that I don’t even remember what their voices sound like.
And just as I’m deciding against texts, I get one from Ashia inviting me to stay over and work on election stuff.
I’m thrilled when Dad says I can sleep over at Ashia’s. I quickly pack a few changes of clothes for our “photo shoot.” You’d think I wouldn’t want to sleep anywhere else now that I have one place to have my things and my very own bed. But the thought of a sleepover makes my insides feel like they’re at a New Year’s Eve party.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this, Dad?” I ask. “You won’t be lonely?”
Dad laughs and pulls me in for a hug. “Kenzie, you are quite possibly the sweetest preteen on the planet, you know that? I’ll be fine. You go have fun.”
I smile and lift the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” says Dad.
Ashia’s mom pulls into the driveway, and I give Dad another hug before I head out the door.
“Don’t stay up too late!” he shouts from the doorway. “Kidding. Stay up as late as you want.”
Maybe it’s not Dad I’m worried about. Maybe I’m the one who isn’t sure how to spend a night away from him. The days I’m used to, but I always have Dad to let me know everything’s okay every night before I go to bed—no matter where we are.
“Helloooo.” Ashia is waving her hand in front of my face. I shake my head to get out of my trance as we pull into their driveway.
“We’re here already?” I ask.
“I only live a few blocks from you, silly girl,” says Ashia.
We go straight to the kitchen for all the goodies Mrs. Boyce has ready for us. There’s chocolate-covered something-or-others (does it matter?), popcorn, and all kinds of fruit I can’t even identify. Star fruit? Guava, maybe? Isn’t there something called dragon fruit?
We each make a plate of food; then we head into the living room and sit on the floor, using the coffee table as both our snack table and our desk. Ashia already has all the election info out.
“We need some really standout photos for the posters to catch everyone’s attention,” she says. “We should think outside the box and be different.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes, except for the crunching of popcorn.
“Maybe we could come up with something fun to do at school,” I say. “Like things you can do to be part of the group.” A chance to be part of a group is definitely something I’d notice.
“Yeah, I like where you’re going with this,” says Ashia, popping a grape in her mouth.
“We could have an ice-skating get-together with hot chocolate after and call it ‘Breaking the Ice,’ so kids who don’t know each other can meet up and chat.” It’s possible I’m channeling my need to do these things, but I figure I can’t be the only one who feels that way, even if my circumstances are pretty different.
“That’s a great idea!” Ashia writes it down on her list.
“And we could have a day each month where students get to do their favorite things,” I continue. “Like wearing pajamas to school and having pizza for lunch.”
“Pizza and pj’s,” says Ashia. “I love it! See, I totally need you for this.”
Although, if anything, I’d only make it to one Pizza and Pj’s Day.
“Do you think Mr. Kumar would even allow that?” I ask.
“Sure. We’ve done silly things like that before. But we can make it a regular thing,” she says. “Now if we can get him to let us do a Use Your Cell Phone Day, we’d win this thing no contest.” She winks, although I think it’s a fantastic idea.
We spend the next two hours brainstorming and then have her mom take pictures of us: in our cutest pj’s (okay, so mine are actually Ashia’s that she let me borrow) holding a pizza box, dressed up in winter coats and hats and ice skates (she has an old pair in my size), one in patriotic colors, and, for what will possibly be our most popular idea, texting on our phones.
When we’re sufficiently wiped out, we crash on Ashia’s bed.
“Thanks for inviting me over,” I say.
“Of course.” Ashia kicks off her slippers. “That’s what friends are for.”
That one little statement makes me happier than I’ve been
in a long time.
“I haven’t had a sleepover in forever,” I say. “What’s next?”
Ashia sits up and counts each item on her fingers. “Well, for starters, we need to do each other’s hair and nails. And it is not officially a sleepover if you don’t gossip about boys, so there’s that. We can watch a movie, and of course hop on social media.”
I laugh, thinking how Ashia is like a sleepover concierge, arranging activities for her guests.
“We better get started, then.” I grab a brush out of my bag. “Who goes first?”
“Oh, Kenzie,” she says. “You can’t brush my hair with that kind of brush.”
“No?” I ask, clueless.
“I would be a frizzy mess,” she answers. “So I guess the first thing we’re doing is a lesson on curly-girl hair.”
Her stance with her hand on her hip makes me giggle. See, this is the kind of stuff I don’t learn on the road.
chapter eight
I love these pictures,” says Ashia.
Bren looks over her shoulder at the photo on my phone and narrates its description. “Kenzie Rhines and Ashia Boyce, hanging out in their pajamas and eating—” Bren pauses. “Ooh, what kind of pizza is that?”
“Veggie,” says Ashia. “My mom insists I get my veggies with each meal.”
“Doesn’t the tomato sauce count?” asks Bren.
“Nope,” answers Ashia. “Because it’s still under debate whether a tomato is a vegetable or a fruit.”
We all nod, like it’s the most interesting thing we’ve heard all day. Actually, it probably is.
“I can tell you where the best pizza is,” I say. “I’ve tried a ton of them. Although it depends if you like deep-dish like Chicago or thin-crust like New York City. But my personal favorites are San Francisco, Philly, Buffalo, and San Diego.”
Ashia smiles because she knows I’ve been all over, but Bren is staring at me like I’m an alien.
“You’ve had pizza in all those places?” he asks.
Words form in my mind, but I can’t seem to get the right sentences together to explain it without giving anything away.
“She travels with her dad on the weekends for work,” says Ashia.
I’m trying desperately to let school be a place where no one knows about my VIP status, but I’m not doing such a great job. “Yeah, for work” is all I say.
As I take the phone back from Ashia, someone else is looking over my shoulder.
“Hey, Dorothy,” says Tate. “Can I talk to you?”
Annoying Bren makes a kissy face at me, and I shoot my best don’t mess with me look back at him.
I walk out to the hall with Tate, wondering if he saw the picture.
“Listen, I expect competition for president, but I’m kind of surprised to see that it’s you and Ashia,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear.
“Why is that?” I ask. He’d better not say it’s because we’re girls.
“It’s just that I’m really looking forward to getting to know you,” he says. “And maybe competing against each other isn’t the best thing right now.”
What he’s saying is ridiculous, I know this. But those eyes are staring at me like they’re smiling and dancing and shooting out rainbows all at the same time. Get it together, Kenzie.
“You’d be a great secretary,” he says, knocking me out of his stare trance.
I square my shoulders and stand tall. “I’d also be a great vice president,” I say back.
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he says, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m just saying that if I was president and you were secretary or treasurer, we’d get to work together. We’d be spending a lot of time with each other between that and the musical. Wouldn’t that be awesome?” He smiles and quite possibly lights up the hallway.
OMG, he’s so freaking adorable that I am almost tempted to agree with him. Luckily, my bold and brave side takes over.
“You want us to work together?” I ask.
“It would be so great.” He takes a step closer and puts a hand on my shoulder.
When the tingles shoot through me, I move my shoulder enough to make his hand drop. “Then I suggest you run for secretary,” I say. “See you at rehearsal.”
Based on his shocked expression, I’m guessing most girls give in to his charms.
But I am definitely not most girls.
* * *
When Dad gets home, I want to tell him all about rehearsal. How I stood onstage in front of everyone and recited my lines. I even want to tell him about Tate—the cute boy who both makes my heart beat faster and makes me wonder what the heck I’m thinking. I want to tell him about the election and the posters and even the buttons. But I can’t.
So when he asks what I’ve been up to at school, I casually mention helping with the musical and focus more on what we’re reading for book club.
“That sounds fun,” he says from his end of the dinner table. “It’s not a problem that we’re leaving in a month?”
I shove a big bite of pizza in my mouth so I have time to think about my answer. I shake my head and change the topic as I mentally add Las Vegas pizza to my favorites. Yum.
“I was thinking that since we’re in one place for a bit, I could try some new things,” I say, picking a piece of pineapple off the pizza and popping it in my mouth. “And maybe work on getting better at some things I haven’t done in a while.”
“Like what?” asks Dad.
“Like ice-skating.”
Dad looks down at the table for only a second, and I know what he’s thinking.
“Ashia said she’d take me. You don’t have to.” I grab my plate and move over to sit beside him. It’s moments like these that are both extra hard and smile-worthy at the same time, because without a doubt, we’re both picturing Mom gliding around the ice. “And also photography. I’d like to take a class or something and join the photography club at school.”
Dad puts his hand on mine. “That all sounds great, Kenzie. Let me know what you need.”
My phone beeps, letting me know I have a text. Probably Ashia with a button update.
Hey there. Sorry about earlier. Forgive me?
I don’t recognize the number, but I see that it’s a Las Vegas area code.
Forgive you for what? Also, who is this?
The little dots on my screen let me know the mystery texter is writing something.
Tate
Oh. Well, at least in a text I don’t have to look at him and get distracted. I write back.
Have you decided to concede? ;)
As soon as I send it, I regret going the playful route. I should be giving this kid the wrath of an angry middle-school girl.
No way. I look forward to running against such strong opponents.
Oh man, why’d he have to go and be all charming again? I answer with a thumbs-up emoticon, and as soon as I send it, my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Bren.”
“Oh, I didn’t think kids actually called each other anymore,” I say. “How’d you get my phone number?” And on that note, how did Tate get my number?
“They don’t, but it’s a lost art,” says Bren.
I totally agree, and make myself a note to make those phone calls to Erin and Caitlin this week.
“Are you free tomorrow after school?” asks Bren.
I have no idea what’s going on right now. Tate sort of apologized (wait, that wasn’t technically an apology, was it?) and now Bren is . . . He’s not asking me out, is he?
“You still there, Kenzie?” he asks.
“Oh yeah, I—I’m here,” I stutter out. “Why, what’s going on tomorrow?” I ask.
“Well, like it or not, Ashia has deemed me your campaign manager.”
“You’re our campaign manager?” I ask, with maybe a little too much sarcasm.
“As I said, like it or not.”
“Okay, no, this is good,” I say. “I’m sure you’re very organize
d and have a lot of good ideas.” Look on the bright side, right?
“Nope. I am neither organized nor full of ideas,” he says. “But I do know how to win you guys this position.”
I have to admit, I’m curious. “And how are you going to do that?” I ask.
“You know, we could have been off the phone ages ago if you’d answered my first question,” he says. “Are you free tomorrow? I’ll explain everything then.”
“Ages ago? We’ve been on for two minutes,” I say. “And yes, I’m free. There’s no musical rehearsal until Thursday.”
“Good. See you in school tomorrow, and we can meet up in the library at dismissal,” he says. “Bren out.”
I’m shaking my head when I hear the call disconnect. Did he really say “Bren out” and hang up?
Hotel employees are so much more pleasant than middle-school boys.
chapter nine
When I get to the library after school, Bren and Ashia are already there. Unfortunately, so is Shelby, and she’s standing in the doorway with a gaggle of chatty friends.
“Oh hey, Kenzie,” she says with what I’m convinced is an evil cackle. “Looks like you’re going all out, huh? The lead in the musical and class vice president? You think you can handle it?”
This girl gets under my skin like no one ever has, but at the same time, I feel sorry for her. She has no clue what it means to be a decent human being.
“Don’t forget book club. I do that, too.” I squeeze past her and tell myself not to look back. Although I’m hoping the expression on her face is an extremely annoyed one.
The table in front of Bren and Ashia is covered with papers, including mock-ups of election posters.
“Madison put these together for us, and we’re trying to narrow it down to two,” says Ashia, pushing the small versions of the posters in front of me.
I take a minute to study them, still not fully able to believe I’m doing this. “This one.” I point to one of me and Ashia all decked out in red, white, and blue that Madison added a White House background to. “And this one.” Because we have to promote our pizza and pj’s idea.
“My favorites as well,” says Bren. “It appears we have much more in common than you’d think,” he says with a smile.