“I was wondering . . . who . . . is on the Election Board this year?” Lena smiled. It was a good question.
“Well, of course, I am the chairman. And the two faculty positions this year are held by Mr. Platt and Mrs. Dornbusch.” He smiled in the direction of the teachers on the stage, and Maggie could tell by the grimace on Mrs. Dornbusch’s face that she had not volunteered for the honor. “Now, back to your classrooms. No idling. No misbehavior. No talking.”
“But Mr. Shute,” said Lena. “Is . . . I mean, has . . .” She looked again at Maggie. Maggie tried to will herself to come up with a question, but the only thing that popped into her head was, What This Country Needs Is Plenty of Moxie. Useless!
Lena stumbled on. “Have there . . . I know! Have there always been three people on the Election Board?”
Mr. Shute gave her a strange look. “I would think so, though, of course, this is my first year here at Odawahaka Middle School, as well. Perhaps Mrs. Dornbusch, as the oldest member of our staff, could answer that question.” There was more than a hint of a sneer in his voice.
Mrs. Dornbusch refused to meet his gaze. “I don’t know,” she said offhandedly. “And honestly I don’t care.”
“Three is the number in the handbook, in any case,” said Mr. Shute hurriedly. “So that’s how it will be conducted under my chairmanship.”
“But!” shouted Maggie, leaping to her feet. “Doesn’t it also say that there will be two student members on the board?” She had actually read the Official Odawahaka Middle School Handbook for Student Elections back in fifth grade, being the kind of girl who likes to know the rules before she breaks them.
“Well, by the book, yes,” said Mr. Shute, stuffing the handbook into the breast pocket of his jacket, “but my understanding is there haven’t been student members for years due to a general lack of interest from the students themselves.”
“But it’s the rule,” said Maggie, keeping her eyes on Principal Shute. How much time had gone by? How much time did they still need?
Timers! said her father in disgust. Fallible. Unreliable. Impossible to predict.
“Very well!” snapped Mr. Shute, his exasperation evident. “Two student volunteers. Anyone?”
Not one student raised a hand. Who would want to be on a committee with Principal Shute and the B-1 Bomber? It was enough to make any sixth grader crawl under the nearest rock.
“We’ll do it!” said Lena. “Maggie and I!”
“Fine,” said Mr. Shute. “And now, as I said, back to your classes.”
“Wait!” said Lena. “One picture, Principal Shute! For the bulletin board. Smile!”
And that’s when it happened. Two thousand Ping-Pong balls fell from the ceiling of the stage, pouring down on the podium, showering Principal Shute in a hailstorm of bouncing balls.
“What the H-E-?” sputtered the astonished principal.
A cry rose up from the students. It was like seeing an unexpected fireworks display, or suddenly finding yourself at Knoebels Amusement Park when your parents had said you were going to visit your boring aunt Irma.
Mrs. Dornbusch nearly fell out of her seat laughing. She laughed so hard she had to remove her glasses and wipe the tears from her face. Mrs. Matlaw, however, was desperately concerned that the students were going to slip. She rushed forward to rescue them and promptly fell on her own rear end. Mr. Platt scuttled quickly to help her up.
“Look!” said Becky, holding up one of the white Ping-Pong balls. “It says ‘ROAR!’”
“The Mouse is in the house!” shouted Max, and the others joined in. “The Mouse is in the house! The Mouse is in the House!” Students began to throw the Ping-Pong balls at each other, which added to the absurd mayhem.
“Silence!” shouted Mr. Shute, and even though the students quieted down, the balls continued to roll aimlessly across the floor, making a gentle sound, like the rustling of dry leaves, which calmed everybody down. A hush fell, as if they were in church and the service was about to begin.
“You will stay and pick up every single one of these balls,” barked Mr. Shute. One of the boys snickered.
“These balls are not a joke!” shouted the principal. Several more students began to laugh, unable to hold it in.
“Balls are not a laughing matter!” By this time, the entire sixth grade had dissolved into uncontrollable giggles.
Lena and Maggie gave each other a secret low-five, tickling fingers rather than slapping so as not to draw attention to themselves.
“This shall forever be known as the Epic Balls-on-Shute Hack,” said Lena.
“And no matter what,” said Maggie, “it will not be forgotten.”
NINETEEN
LATER, IN THE CAFETERIA, THE CONVERSATION at Table 10 kept bouncing back and forth between the elections and the Mouse. Eventually Lyle, slowly munching on the cafeteria’s infamous Crispy Fish Sandwich, said, “The Mouse should run for class president.”
There was a moment of silence before everyone (except Kayla) burst out laughing.
“I would totally vote for the Mouse!” shouted Max.
“So would I,” said Tyler. Jenna nodded in agreement.
“The Mouse can’t be president,” said Kayla, “because the Mouse doesn’t exist!” She tossed her hair, as if that ended the discussion.
“The Mouse exists,” said Lyle. “We just don’t know who it is.”
“Is it YOU?” shouted Tyler dramatically, pointing a celery stick at Becky, who was at the next table over. “Or YOU?” as he turned the vegetable on Grace. Both girls giggled, which Maggie found really annoying.
“Sometimes I feel like the Mouse is all of us,” said Jenna quietly. Her voice faltered. “I don’t know . . .”
“Jenna is right!” said Lena. “The Mouse is every one of us. Standing up to injustice. Battling the forces of evil. Giving a voice to the silent, the downtrodden, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” She stood up and held her carton of milk aloft.
“Eating garbage!” said Lyle, standing and holding his sandwich high.
“Avoiding mousetraps,” said Maggie, standing and holding up her half-eaten chocolate chip cookie.
“Leaving mouse poop everywhere!” added Tyler, standing and brandishing his sandwich bun as if he were waving a battle flag.
“Young scholars!” said Mr. Esposito mildly, approaching with his arms outstretched. “Perhaps a little less volume from your table.”
“We’re starting a revolution, Mr. Esposito,” said Lena cheerfully.
“Ah, imperium in imperio,” said Mr. Esposito, smiling broadly. “An empire within an empire. Well, finish your lunch first. You can’t fight the good fight on an empty stomach.”
“Mr. Esposito?” said Lena. “How do you say, ‘I am the Mouse’ in Latin?”
Mr. Esposito’s smile grew. “That would be Sum mus, both spelled with a single u but pronounced as if a double o. Soom moose. Or, if you wanted to add some emphasis, you could say, Mus, sum, that is, ‘The Mouse, I am!’” Here, he raised his hand in a regal flourish such as one that Caesar might have made as he crossed the Rubicon with his army.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, though, the smile dropped from his lips. “I, ah, wouldn’t go around saying that today, though. No, no.” He quickly looked around him as he began to fiddle with his tie. “I, ah, wouldn’t think it wise. No, no. Not wise. Vox populi, vox nihili, you know.” He hurried off, shaking his head as if he regretted that Caesarian salute.
“The Mouse cannot be class president, because the Mouse is not a person,” hissed Kayla, angry enough to spit nails. “It’s just a stupid joke, and Principal Shute is going to figure out who is behind it, and when he does, that person will be expelled.” She picked up her tray and walked away from the table.
“What’s got her so worked up?” asked Colt.
Lyle nibbled on his napkin like a rabbit nibbling on a leaf of lettuce. “She knows she’s only got one real challenger in the campaign. And it’s imaginary.�
�� He paused for a moment. “And has a tail.”
Maggie was beginning to see that Lena liked to push things. Ideas. Boundaries. People. Maggie in particular.
“I get it,” Maggie said, holding up her hands in defense against Lena’s onslaught. They were walking home after school, and Lena wouldn’t let go of the idea of a Mouse campaign. “It’s an interesting question: How do you get a candidate elected that doesn’t even exist? And it would be challenging to try to figure out the answer. I just don’t see how we’re going to get past step one.”
Lena persisted. “How hard can it be to stick a name in an envelope? Mrs. I.D.C., remember?”
“It’s Kayla I’m worried about. She’s going to keep her eye on that nomination envelope like a heat-seeking missile locked on a target. And even if we slip it past her—so what? Mr. Shute will just tear it up.”
“But we’re on the Election Board. And so is Mr. Platt. Mr. Shute can’t just tear up a name on his own. If he does . . . there’ll be an uprising!”
“An uprising? Where do you come from? This is Odawahaka. People don’t just rise up. Unless Weis runs out of Cocoa Puffs.”
“C’mon,” said Lena. “Let’s give it a try. Just to see what happens.”
They were at the top of 3rd Street. Grandpop was on the front porch. It was colder than yesterday, and he had an old plaid blanket thrown over his lap. Maggie was surprised to see him outside. Waiting. Waiting for them.
She was embarrassed to admit, even to herself, how nice it felt to have someone waiting at the top of the hill.
Inside every large problem . . . , whispered her father.
Oh, shush, thought Maggie, but she smiled.
“You’re smiling,” said Lena, dancing in a circle around her. “That’s your ‘I’m working on a problem’ smile.”
“It is not,” argued Maggie. But it was, and she wondered at the fact that Lena had learned such a thing about her, in just a few short weeks.
TWENTY
“WE WILL MAKE THIS QUICK, AS I have an extremely important meeting off-site in less than an hour.” Principal Shute stood at the door of the school’s conference room, his cell phone in his hand and a look of disinterest on his face.
Mrs. Dornbusch had commandeered the chair at the foot of the table, which allowed her some extra legroom and the chance to distance herself from the proceedings.
“This is exciting, huh?” asked Mr. Platt, as eager as a puppy before his food bowl is filled. “My first election! I wonder who the candidates will be. I’ve gathered the envelopes from the other teachers. Mrs. Dornbusch, did you bring yours?”
Without a word, Mrs. Dornbusch slapped down the envelope that had been tacked to her bulletin board for the past three days, then gave it a shove so that it skidded to a stop in front of Mr. Platt. It was clear she hadn’t bothered to look inside.
“How do we do this?” asked Mr. Platt. “Is there a protocol?”
“Just read the names,” said Mr. Shute, glancing at his phone. “Our student members can take notes, and then I’ll have the list typed up by Mrs. McDermott for tomorrow’s morning announcements. Excuse me,” he said, standing up. “This is a call I need to take.” Without looking back, he walked out of the room.
“Exciting!” said Mr. Platt again.
“I’ve got a notebook,” said Maggie. “I’ll write down the names.”
“And I’ll take a picture of each slip of paper,” said Lena. “As an official record. Evidence that everything was done fairly.”
Mr. Platt chuckled. “I don’t think we need to worry about anything underhanded going on here.” He looked at Mrs. Dornbusch and said, “Underhanded: an eleven-letter word for devious.” There was a bit of a crow in his voice. Jelly beans were piling up in his office. “But record away!” he said to Lena. “Let posterity know that the Election Board cannot be corrupted!”
“Oh, cool your jets, Paul,” said Mrs. Dornbusch, retying her sneaker on the edge of the table. “There’s probably just one name submitted. Oda M isn’t exactly a beehive of student involvement.” She snapped the end of her shoelace to show her irritation with the energetic math teacher.
But it turned out there were three names in the first envelope alone. And then one in the next, and one in the third. The fourth envelope had two more names, so that by the time Mr. Platt opened Mrs. Dornbusch’s envelope—the fifth and final one—there were already seven candidates, which was seven times the number of nominations last year.
“This is so great!” exclaimed Mr. Platt. “Just the kind of school I’d always hoped to teach at! Energy! Activism! Let’s see who’s throwing their hat into the ring from Mrs. Dornbusch’s class.” He pulled out three folded slips of paper.
Maggie knew two of them, but she had no idea who the third belonged to. She couldn’t have been more surprised when Mr. Platt read out loud, “Colt DuPrey.”
Colt? The boy who spent more time reading books about kids battling mythological gods than actually talking to kids in real life? That Colt DuPrey?
“Why would Colt want to run for class president?” Maggie asked, the question escaping her lips before she realized she was talking out loud.
Bad habit, whispered her father.
But Lena smiled and mouthed the word ROAR.
Maggie wrote the name down on the list, and Lena photographed it for the official record.
Mr. Shute reappeared, tucking his cell phone into his pocket with an enigmatic smile on his face. Mr. Platt pulled out the second slip of paper and read it out loud: “Kayla Gold.” He held up the slip of paper for Lena to photograph.
“And . . .” Mr. Platt unfolded the final slip of paper, then stopped, frozen, as if frightened in a way that teachers should never be. Mr. Shute stared at his newest teacher, and a vision popped into Maggie’s head of a hawk that has sighted a hairless, blind, utterly helpless, newborn mouse.
In that instant, Maggie saw the flaw in the design of this hack. She had missed this possibility: that a teacher could be vulnerable, too.
This is where things fall apart.
Mr. Platt took a deep breath. “The Mouse,” he said evenly, and held up the slip of paper for Lena to photograph.
Click.
“Got it!” said Lena exuberantly.
Maggie’s pen quickly scribbled the name at the end of the list of candidates. She ripped the page from her notebook and stood up. “I’ll give the list to Mrs. McDermott.”
“Stop!” shouted Mr. Shute (which was in fact what Mrs. Dornbusch called him: Principal Shout). “Let me see that slip of paper,” he said to Mr. Platt. He scrutinized the writing, then carefully folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. “Scratch that last name from the list, Maggie, and give the list to Mrs. McDermott.”
“But the name was submitted,” said Maggie. “Like all the others.”
“The Mouse is not a student at Odawahaka Middle School.”
Mrs. Dornbusch snorted. “Do you think it’s a teacher? We’re a shifty bunch. Just the kind that would try to crash a student election.”
Mr. Platt turned to Mr. Shute. “I think what Mrs. Dornbusch is trying to say—”
“I know what I’m trying to say,” snapped Mrs. Dornbusch. “Don’t be a suck-up, Paul.”
“—is that perhaps one of the students at the school is trying to find a way to participate more fully in the activities and social flow, but hasn’t quite found a way to do that without a ‘persona’ of some kind. It’s actually very common at this age. Alter Egos in the Development of the Adolescent Psyche. It was my master’s thesis—”
Mr. Shute held up a hand to silence his math teacher. “Don’t care. No mouse,” he said, glancing again at his phone. “Decision. Done. Final.”
“But that isn’t democracy,” said Lena.
Mr. Shute smiled, then chuckled. Then he began to laugh.
Maggie was furious. She knew that democracy had no place in middle school, but Lena still believed. And Maggie wasn’t about to let a blockhead like Mr. Shute
ruin her friend’s dreams of a better world. “Are you afraid the Mouse will win?” asked Maggie, staring straight at the principal.
His laughter ended abruptly. “Afraid of a rodent?” Mr. Shute narrowed his eyes at Maggie. “I’ve seen men die in combat. I’m not afraid of a mouse.” His phone rang again. He glanced at the screen and took the call, turning his back on the others.
“Then let’s put it to a vote,” said Mr. Platt. “Those in favor of allowing all the names to be on the ballot, raise your hand.” Maggie, Lena, and Mr. Platt raised their hands. “All opposed?” Mr. Shute waved his hand over his head.
“I don’t care,” said Mrs. Dornbusch. “I just want to go home.” She stood and started to walk to the door.
“The ayes carry the day,” said Mr. Platt. “The complete list goes to Mrs. McDermott.”
Maggie hurried past Principal Shute, who was still talking on the phone. Even so, he managed to snap the list out of her hand and said, “I will give the list to Mrs. McDermott,” before returning to his conversation.
As Mrs. Dornbusch exited, Maggie heard her mutter to Mr. Platt, “You’re such a fool.”
On Monday morning during homeroom, Mrs. Dornbusch was shopping online for socks. At one point, she called Maggie and Lena over to her desk. “Lena and . . .” She paused, stumped. “Not Madeleine. Not Mandy. Not Marissa.”
“My name is—”
“Stop,” interrupted the Barn Stormer. “I have something more important to discuss.” Her eyes remained glued to her computer screen. “Principal Shute is going to begin the morning announcements in less than a minute. You are both young. Which means you are stupid. Don’t do anything stupid. That’s all I have to say.” She waved them away and continued with her online shopping.
Maggie bridled at the accusation of stupidity. “What do you care if we do something stupid?” she challenged.
Mrs. Dornbusch still didn’t look up from her screen. “Because it will require more meetings of that hideous Election Board.” She pointed at the blackboard, where her chalk countdown number read 150. “Take my advice. Just. Give. Up.”
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