I thought about that. One art classroom wasn’t going to cut it. Nor was gym, where everyone except two jock girls spent the whole period trying to get out of whatever the gym teacher was trying to make us do that day. The only people I kind of knew were down here with me or possibly the younger siblings of Nick’s loser crowd.
Although, losers were still matriculated.…
After school I made Michaela come with me to get names, so she could call 911 if I got shanked under the bleachers.
“Yo, bruh, why am I signing this shit now?”
I was arguing with a guy who was totally stoned and seemed to have been that way for the last fifteen years. He was a friend of a friend of a little brother to a friend of Nick.
“You know Student Government?” I said again.
“No, what is that?”
“We have kids who do stuff at the school. Likes dances and things.”
“This is for a dance?”
“No,” I said.
(Was this what Nick was like at the end? Did I repress this?)
“You have thoughts,” I said. “You have feelings. You want a person who cares about you doing this thing that I explained to you like five times. Just sign the damn paper.”
“Okay, fine. But only cause you’re cute,” he said.
I shuddered, but let it go because the dude signed the paper. This was the underside of politics. He had surprisingly beautiful penmanship. Michaela looked disgusted. I gave her a grateful smile.
Since the stoner guy signed, the other kids behind the bleachers signed, too. And because they signed, the guys having a smoke outside of the auto body classroom signed. And because I got auto body, the wood shop people signed. And because the wood shop people signed, the AV kids signed. Not the ones who ran the tiny radio station or the morning video announcements, mind you. But still the ones who ran the flat-screens and SMART Boards and shit to classrooms. And because I got all of them, I got some of the kids in the teen-parent trailer and some girls in the home ec cohort. And one of those girls was a cheerleader and she got half the squad who had stayed around for assisted stretching. They got some basketball players, even though two of them were Honors. They just agreed with my cause. And once you get basketball, you get anyone else who was left standing around waiting for a bus.
Some people signed because they agreed with my cause, Rachel.
Anyway, that was why, at 3:39 p.m., I found Mr. Maynard putting on his coat in the office, flailing my petitions at him. He looked a little alarmed as I rushed toward him, but he didn’t try to hide behind the copier.
“Mr. Maynard,” I gasped. “I have”—gasp—“the signatures.” I thrust the names at him. All one hundred and eight of them.
He looked over my sheets. “Impressive, Ms. Harper. Very impressive. I had heard you might run. I’m pleased to see that you are. Ah. Yes. I know many of these names well.” He chuckled darkly. “No detention without representation, I suppose.”
I cocked my head at him.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Good work.” He flipped open his really nice man bag and tucked them inside.
Michaela was waiting for me outside the office.
“I’m starving,” I said to her.
Michaela laughed. “Me too. Canvassing is hard work.”
“Is that what we were doing?”
“Yes, I think so. I have a feeling there will be more of it, if I stick with the likes of you.” She poked me in my side.
“Ugh. Let’s not think about that at the moment. One election at a time. Let’s get cheese fries instead.”
“That has my vote,” she said.
I’d like to think you would be impressed, Rachel. This is only the beginning. Hopefully I’m doing my part for liberty and justice for all.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Date:
January 15
Subject:
Applied Communications
Dear Rachel Maddow,
Now that I was officially in the race against Adam, the next step was to make a commercial. Sarah didn’t need one, Justin didn’t need one, the sophomore running for secretary didn’t need one. Just the presidential candidates. Years ago a company had donated a slew of televisions for every classroom in the building. They were all wired to a central location so each homeroom could watch the company’s show. I think it was a news program. It’s a shame that ended before I got to ninth grade.
Now the TVs were used for announcements and the occasional shitshow Student Government campaign ads.
Mr. Grimm, citing something about applied pragmatism, gave over his class time to the new cause of Take Adam Down. This meant that Sarah and Justin came during their study hall to talk campaign commercial strategy.
“Wow,” said Sarah, walking into the blue room. “I thought the boiler room was down here.”
“I didn’t know you were a comedian,” I said, though she looked like she was serious.
“So what do we do?” asked Sarah and Justin in unison. Bianca, Riley, Greg, and Lance sat huddled in the corner, whispering behind their hands. I wished Michaela were there as a reinforcement, but she was out of school for the morning because of a dentist appointment.
“I have been researching political strategy,” said Lacey, wheeling over.
“God, yes,” Justin kind of half moaned.
I punched him in the arm because it felt like the right thing to do.
“We need to get people’s attention. Because to most people Student Government is just the kids against trays in the cafeteria and the jerks who got rid of snacks at the dances,” said Lacey.
“It is not SGA’s fault we had to get rid of the food at the dances. People were flushing bags of pretzels down the toilets. We were told we had to solve the problem,” Sarah said.
Lacey shrugged. “Whatever. I’m just saying we need to make an impact here. I have some ideas, but I want to hear you brainstorm.”
Mr. Grimm, who watched us from the desk at the front of the room, unfolded himself from the chair and moved the rolling whiteboard over to us. He handed me a dry-erase marker and winked.
“Okay. Go,” Lacey said. We all stood there and looked at her.
“You should frame the commercial with an offer to donate a dollar to charity every time someone trips Adam in the cafeteria,” chimed in Bianca.
It wasn’t a bad idea. I wrote it on the board. “Harm Adam = $$.” I grinned at Lacey.
“Encouraging assault is likely not the way to win the presidency, although I appreciate your creativity, Bee.” Lacey sighed. “Also it’s not unprecedented,” she added. “What else?”
“We should make a zombie thriller staring Brynn,” said Justin. “People love zombies.”
“Zombie Brynn,” I wrote on the board.
After an hour, we had the outline for a pretty offensive rap song about Adam, a fake debate with beagle puppies, me in my own soap opera, bribes to get people to vote, and blackmail.
“People,” Lacey said. “You are not taking this seriously.”
“We are!” I said. “I’m still rooting for the zombie movie. Put that sucker on the school televisions and website, let me go viral, and watch the votes roll in.”
“Okay, fine. You are the candidate. If that’s what you want, that’s what you get.”
Justin spoke up. “I know AV people. I got this, Lacey. Trust me.”
“Fine,” Lacey said. She did not look convinced. She rolled over to me. “Brynn.”
“Uh-oh.”
“No, listen.” She wheeled as close to me as she could get. “We need polls in the field.”
“What the ever living hell does that mean?” I played dumb.
Confession, Rachel: Of course I know what that shit means. There are like a zillion people running for stuff all of the time, and you are all over the po
lls with your bar graphs and shit.
“Knock it off, Brynn. You know what I mean. You are going to the people to find out their issues.”
“Why me? Don’t people usually have staffers to do this sort of thing? Make Justin do it. He’s going to be in charge of the money. Make him earn it.”
“You are the vox populi embodied.”
“What does that even … oh, you know what? Forget it. Contextual clues.” I shook my head as Mr. Grimm laughed from his desk. “Fine, give me a damn clipboard and I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Sarah suddenly.
My head snapped up.
“I’m running, too,” she said. “I should know the issues.”
Lacey raised her eyebrows. “Fine,” she said after a particularly long pause. “I’ll give you the list of questions I think you should ask. Please return all the data to me because I have a three-page reflection due this Saturday for class.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine,” said Sarah.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Date:
January 18
Subject:
Under where?
Dear Rachel Maddow,
I worked the register today at Aerie. I usually got out of that, as it was practically a full-time job keeping the freaking drawers and displays from looking like mythic groundhogs had burrowed through them for comfortable homes. The reg is boring, as hours pass with click, click, that’ll be 39.99, click, click, have a nice day.
I had spent some time on this slow night staring at what appeared to be a lipstick stain on the counter. I was torn between bleaching the whole thing—because how the fuck did it get there?—or pretending that it didn’t exist because ew. I was just about to search for some bleach wipes but someone approached.
“Sarah,” I said, surprised.
“Brynn,” she said, sounding equally surprised.
“Can I, uh, help you?” I said.
“No. Um. I wasn’t shopping. I mean, I was. Not here. Not that I wouldn’t shop here. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” She blushed. “I saw you in here the last time I was at the mall.”
So she had seen me a few months ago. Universe, just kill me now.
“Oh. Okay.” I stared at her.
“So.” She cleared her throat again. “How have you been? Bikinis still on sale?”
“Uh. I’m fine. I guess. And suits aren’t on sale, but I think we still have the ones you’d like in your size.”
“I wasn’t picked for Model UN camp in Pittsburgh.”
“Oh?” I said. This was the first I’d heard of Sarah’s interest in Model UN.
“Yeah. I have other choices, I guess. It just sucks because I really wanted it. They award two full scholarships to the state school of your choice. I could be a counselor at my summer camp. But it’s not the same.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That sucks.”
“Brynn,” she said after a few moments. “I think I made a mistake. With us.”
I just stared at her.
“And I just wondered … you know … if we…”
Here is where I wondered if I were dreaming, Rachel. Here was Sarah, wanting me back? Or maybe just needing comfort from good old Brynnie, who sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere. Sarah looked so sad and dejected.
“What about Nancy?” I said.
“Oh, man. Well, you know, she turned eighteen in October. And she didn’t even vote. And I found out that she helped her mom canvass in the last presidential election. She went door to door. For the Republican candidate.”
“That’s horrible,” I sympathized.
Sarah smiled. “Listen, you don’t have to say anything now. Just think about it.”
Oh, I do have to say something now. I do I do I do I do. Because Michaela would not be pleased with this. And what? What was even happening with Sarah right now?
“Okay,” my mouth answered for me. “Do you want to see the one I thought you’d like? You’ll need one for summer camp.” My brain slapped my tongue so hard I flinched.
“Okay.” She smiled bigger.
I was right. She loved the stupid two-piece, sexy-as-hell crap so much that she squeezed my arm just like she used to. I rang her out with my discount.
“Who was that?” Erin asked after Sarah left. “Is that your girlfriend who you keep talking about?”
“Not exactly,” I said. I ran away from her before she could ask more questions.
I wanted to hide under the counter and maybe curl up and die, but there appeared to be lipstick on the floor.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Date:
January 23
Subject:
In the Field
Dear Rachel Maddow,
Bless you for talking to people for a living. People suck.
“Listen, I’m trying to help you,” I said to a guy whose face was completely covered by his hair.
“You don’t know me. I don’t need help,” he said.
Goth and Emo married and birthed this dude.
I was under the bleachers again, this time vox populi–ing.
“Elections affect us all!” I tried again. “Even the small ones. Just answer the fucking question!”
“Um,” said Sarah, holding the clipboard.
“Shut it,” I told her. She was out of her element. This was my constituency. “Motherfucker, just tell me how you feel about the food in the cafeteria.”
“It sucks,” said Gothmo.
“But why?” I said.
“They are always out of ketchup. And the peas are gray.”
“Gray peas. No ketchup. Got it. See? These are concrete examples of things that can be addressed. Don’t you want a student body president who will bring these concerns to the administration? Vote for me! Say no to gray peas!”
“What’s your name again?” he said.
“Oh, Jesus. Just take the sticker.” I slapped a newly Justin-designed zombie Brynn on the guy’s weathered black collar. “There will be nachos at the polls. March 19. Bring your student ID. For the love of holy fuckballs, vote, okay?”
“Nachos. Cool,” he said.
I banged my head on my clipboard as I walked away.
“Um…” Sarah said again.
I glared at her.
“I was just going to say good job,” she said, raising her hands and laughing.
“You were not. I know that look. You were going to tell me to be nicer.”
“Maybe. That doesn’t change the fact that you are doing a good job.” She smiled. We’d been doing this together for three days. I made sure to text Michaela for a solid hour each night to tell her every last thing that happened (maybe omitting how much time I’d been spending with Sarah). Also though, completely by accident, I still hadn’t told Sarah no way were we ever going to be a couple again, which I knew I should have. I was hoping she’d realize I was the same person, same drama, and give up the idea herself. I wasn’t usually so averse to confrontation, but she’d been wearing her skinny jeans and have I mentioned I’m only human?
We marched across the field to the pep band. We’d had a week of weather in the fifty-degree range and the snow was basically gone. The band, which won way more titles than the football team, enthused all over the damp grass.
“Excuse me,” I called to the drummers. They seemed the most likely to get me. “I need to talk to you about issues!”
Sarah trailed behind, recording their answers.
“We practice in a bathroom. In a literal bathroom. There are urinals,” said a band kid.
“Shut up,” I said.
“De
ad serious. It’s under the stage where you would wait before going up to perform. But I sit next to a urinal.” She wrinkled her nose.
“At least you aren’t back with the toxic mold!” yelled a trombone.
“Don’t get me started about the leaking tiles,” said a trumpet.
“And we need new instruments,” said a flute.
I dutifully spoke with each band member. They were way more receptive than the bleacher crowd, though similarly concerned with no ketchup and gray peas. I handed out Brynn zombie stickers. “Be sure to vote,” I said. “Nachos! March 19! Bring your student ID! Vote for Brynn! Band kids are good in bed!” I yelled.
That got a cheer from them and an eye roll from Sarah.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Date:
January 25
Subject:
Moves and Countermoves
Dear Rachel Maddow,
Nick was a chess player. He tried to teach me, and there was a point that I got pretty good even though I was ten. But I went to a vicious place in my mind to win, and it freaked me the fuck out. He lost interest (or the brain cells), so I hadn’t played in years. But it felt very much like I was a rook in my own life. Someone would move me forward, someone else would advance his piece, I would retreat unbidden, picked up and set down by an unseen hand. If only Nick were here to give me a refresher course, because I don’t remember what direction to send all the other pieces if I want to win.
Dear Rachel Maddow Page 14