by Robin Palmer
As the crowd began to clap loudly, I slunk down in my chair and gave a louder sigh. It wasn’t like they could hear me over the applause.
If this was how the election was going to go, I was in big trouble.
chapter 6
Dear Dr. Maude,
Okay, so here’s a question for you. Why is it that SOME people—i.e., Cristina Pollock—have lives where everything seems to go right for them? Like they have really long shiny hair? And their forehead barely ever breaks out? And they’re constantly number one in the Who Will Win the Seventh-Grade Class President Race? poll that Dinshaw Saigal set up on his blog and updates every hour because he’s really good with computers and has figured out a way to do that?
And then there are OTHER people—i.e., me—who have lives where it’s not just enough that they have to deal with ONE horrible thing (like constantly being number two on Dinshaw’s poll, which translates to last, since there are only two people running) but a BUNCH of horrible things. Like, say, a frister who talks to her only through her cat. And a father who is obsessed with babies who aren’t even here yet. And boobs that just keep growing. (The other night at dinner, Mom put down her fork and, in front of Alan, said, “Lucy, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it looks like you’ve outgrown your new bra that we just got you a month ago!”)
Anyway, the reason I’m writing is because I have a favor to ask. Even though we’ve never met, I hope that you know me well enough to believe that I’d make an awesome class president. And because we’ve now gotten to the video portion of Operation Election, I thought maybe one day after school, we could come down to your apartment with a video camera and tape a little interview between you and me.
Like we could talk about the problem of Mean People–ism, and I could tell you how I plan to stop it and you could say stuff like “Lucy, those are all fantastic ideas, and if I were a seventh grader at the Center for Creative Learning, you’d definitely have MY vote!” (BTW, you don’t have to worry about memorizing any of that. We have a ton of poster board, so Malia’s going to write it all down in really big letters on cue cards for you because she’s got the best handwriting of all of us. Well, Laurel’s is even better than Malia’s, but because we’re not talking because she hates me, I can’t really ask her.)
If you’d be willing to do this, I’d be so so so SO grateful! Obviously, I can’t pay you for your time because Alan, who’s a lawyer, says it’s illegal to pay people to have them say that they’d vote for you. But I’d be happy to give you some extra buttons. For free. And obviously, if I am elected, I will make sure to give you a huge shout-out in my acceptance speech.
Let me know.
yours truly,
Lucy B. Parker
Luckily, after the speech, things started to turn around. Not everything—not with Laurel, or with Dad—but with the campaign. Spending lunch periods walking around to the different tables in the cafeteria so I could introduce myself to the kids I didn’t know well (which, for someone who sat in Alaska, was about 90 percent of them), I discovered that the two things they wanted more than anything were longer summer vacations and no report cards. Those seemed like real long shots, but I promised them I’d do my best. And with the Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Lucy B. Parker ... But Were Afraid to Ask page on LucyB4Prez.com (we had finally decided on a multicolored polka-dot background), they were getting to know me. Like, say, the fact that I loved color. And could touch my nose with my tongue. (For some reason that one was really impressive to people.)
But I think it was Malia’s brilliant idea that really turned things around. After snapping a bunch of photos of kids around the school, she put together a collage. On one side of the poster board were the “Haves”—they were the ones sitting at the more popular tables toward the middle of the cafeteria, laughing and having a good time, with cool clothes and minimal zittage. And on the other side were the “Have-Nots”—and they were looking a little sad and a bit lonely, like the pets waiting to be adopted at Petco. At the bottom of the poster in bubble letters done by Alice (not as bubbly as Laurel’s but bubbly enough) it said “Lucy B. Parker: Committed to Turning the Have-Nots into Haves!”
Beatrice’s suggestion to put it up right outside the cafeteria so that everyone would see it was genius. Suddenly, I started getting notes from kids—both signed and anonymous—about how grateful they were that someone finally had the guts to acknowledge in public how totally unfair it was that the popular kids were the ones who got to be popular. Now that the speeches were over and kids didn’t have to worry about acting cool in front of Cristina, they weren’t as scared to start backing me. According to Dinshaw, my numbers were rising every day. Cristina was still in the lead—especially after announcing on her website that any girl who voted for her and could prove it would get to sit next to her for twenty minutes at lunch—but suddenly the idea that maybe I had a shot at winning went from “absolutely positively no way” to “probably no way.” Which, as far as I was concerned, was a huge improvement.
But Alice’s videotaping skills? Not so much improvement there.
“Alice, how did you manage to push the Mute button?” I sighed as Team Have-Not watched the video she had just shot of Pete in the lobby of the Conran. This time we were using my camera. According to Pete, his Puerto Rican heritage makes him emotional and passionate. Which is why when he talked about what a great person I was and how in less than a year I had already become one of the best-liked people in the building because I always made sure to hold the elevator for people, it was very moving.
Well, at least it was the first time. Alice somehow erased the first take, and then somehow managed to put her hand in front of the lens the second time. So by the third time he sounded like a very fake radio announcer. Not that it mattered, because of the Mute button thing.
“Since this video thing doesn’t look like it’s gonna work, if you want, I could come to your school on my day off,” Pete offered. “You know, do a Q&A about you. Like whatchamacallit—Show and Tell, but with a real live person.”
“Thanks, Pete,” I replied. “But I think a video would be better.” As much as I loved him, once he started talking it was hard to shut him up.
“Let me just try one more time,” Alice said, grabbing for the camera.
“No. It’s okay,” I said, trying to hold on to it.
“I’ll be more careful this time,” she said, trying to yank it away from me.
As I yanked back, it went flying through the air and landed with a big thud. Followed by a cracking noise.
“Whoops,” she said.
I picked it up to find the lens full of spiderweblooking cracks, and sighed. “I think the whole video thing might be a waste of time anyway,” I said. “Maybe we can just keep focusing on posters.”
Beatrice looked up from her laptop. “Uh-oh,” she said.
“What?” I asked, panicked. I knew Beatrice well enough to know the difference in her Uh-oh’s, and this was definitely on the this-is-not-good end of the scale.
“Dinshaw just updated his site. Your numbers are down a ton.”
“What? Why?” I cried as I ran over to see for myself. She was right. That morning I had been at 32 percent, but now I was down to 20 percent. “Scroll down to the Day in Review part,” I said. Dinshaw had recently added a section to the site where he recapped the election news of the day with stuff like “Today, Lucy B. Parker distributed Hershey Kisses to the voters, which didn’t go over as well as M&M’s and Skittles that Cristina handed out. But the word jumble Lucy distributed after lunch was pretty cool and gave students something to do for the rest of the afternoon. Which, because it was Pizza Tuesday, was helpful because everyone knows that that post-pizza coma makes it hard to concentrate in class.”
“Rumor has it that one of the candidates is going to set up a Make-Your-Own-Sundae bar in the next few days,” Beatrice read out loud. “Hint: it’s not the candidate with a middle initial of B.”
“Ooh really?” A
lice gasped. “Does it say when?”
Beatrice gave her a look. “Not only that,” she continued reading, “but my sources tell me that there may be some swag bags floating around the school soon.”
“Swag bags?” I cried. “That’s so not fair!” We didn’t have them back in Northampton, but swag bags were very big in New York. Basically they were super-fancy loot bags, but instead of candy and fake tattoos, they were filled with stuff like watches and makeup and gift certificates for free facials and massages. Laurel always got them at the events she went to. And then, lots of times, she would give them to me. But that was back when we were friends, so I doubted I’d be getting them anymore.
“Does it say how someone goes about getting one?” Alice asked.
“Alice, do you not realize we’re talking about the enemy here?” Beatrice asked.
She shrugged. “I know, but I bet they’re really awesome because of her mom.” Voted “Number One Party Planner” by New York magazine that year, Cristina’s mom had tons of connections.
“Okay, this is not good,” Beatrice said. “Not only do we need a video, but it’s got to be awesome.” She sighed. “I really hate that I have to do this, but I think the time has come.”
“To do what?” I asked.
“To force my brother to make the video for us. He was president of the AV club at his school last year, so you can’t get better than that.”
I felt my hands get all clammy. I had seen Beatrice’s brother Blair only a few times in passing since he came back from camp, so I still wasn’t sure whether I wanted him to be my local crush. I guess some people would say that having to spend time together on a video would be the perfect opportunity to find out, but I knew myself, and I knew it would make me even more nervous. “Um, I don’t know about that,” I said anxiously.
Beatrice looked me. “Look, Lucy, buttons and Hershey Kisses and word jumbles may cut it in Northampton elections, but this is Manhattan,” she said. “We have to pull out the big guns. Even if they are completely obnoxious and annoying.”
“Or we could just go back to my idea about offering voters a walk-on on Laurel’s show,” Alice said.
“Okay. Fine. He can do the video.” Anything was better than asking Laurel for help. Even though, by this point, she probably wouldn’t help me anyway. “But let me be the one to ask him. I don’t want him to think I’m one of those candidates who just makes people run around doing things for her all the time,” I blurted.
Oh no, what had I just done? Now I had to actually talk to Blair?
“Okay,” Beatrice shrugged. “But you need to do it soon. We only have a week of campaigning left.”
Maybe Malia was right. Maybe there was a bright side to all this drama. Because if anything would bring on my period, having to be around Blair Lerner-Moskovitz for huge chunks of time would probably do it.
After dinner, when Beatrice texted me that Blair had just gotten home from his guitar lesson, I went down to their apartment on the tenth floor to ask him. Well, I went down after changing out of my powder-blue Hello Kitty T-shirt and into my purple butterfly one because it made my boobs look smaller. And after applying a bunch of Dr Pepper Lip Smacker before wiping it off and putting on some Starburst Mango Melon instead. And after practicing what I was going to say five times in front of my mirror.
And getting busted by Laurel in the process.
“Miss Piggy, can you please tell Lucy that she might want to lose the part where she tells Blair she can’t find anyone else in Manhattan who knows how to use a video camera, which is the only reason she’s asking him,” I heard her say through my door to the cat, who was trying to reach her tail but, because she was so fat, kept rolling over on her side. “If that was in a script that was given to me, I’d definitely have a talk with the director about it. I mean, it doesn’t really ring true.”
I turned bright red. Obviously, I hadn’t closed my door all the way. I turned around and glared at her. “Miss Piggy, can you please tell Laurel that she might want to stop SPYING on people? And that while she may get to boss around the writers on her show, this particular scene has nothing to do with her.” That being said, maybe the idea that I couldn’t find anyone else who knew how to work a video camera was pushing it. Laurel’s face got all crinkly, like the time when she read that article in one of the gossip magazines that said she was an alien who had been sent here to spy on humans. “I don’t boss anyone around!” she cried.
I snorted. “Oh yeah? Then what do you call what you were doing with my campaign?” I demanded. “Before I had even decided I wanted to run.”
“I told you! I was just trying to help.”
“There’s a difference between helping, and giving a person a five-page to-do list,” I replied. “That is bossing around!”
“I didn’t realize it was such a crime to be a little organized!” she snapped.
I snorted again. “A little organized?”
She waved her hand around my room. “Oh. Excuse me. I forgot who I was talking to. Obviously they don’t believe in organization back in Massachusetts.”
Wait a minute. It was one thing to get on me about the fact that I tended to keep things a teensy bit—okay, fine, a lot—on the messy side. It was another to bring an entire state into it. That was totally unfair. “Yeah, well, sometimes I wish I was still there!” I yelled. I didn’t really. What I wished for was that things were like they had been before Laurel and I had started fighting, when she actually liked having me around.
“If that’s how you feel, maybe you should go back there!” she yelled back.
So I was right! Laurel didn’t want me here. All that my-house-is-your-house stuff she had always been talking about? Just one big giant lie. It only sounded true because she was an actress and was paid a lot of money to be able to make people believe things that weren’t true.
“Yeah, well, maybe I will!” I shouted before slamming the door in her face.
Except even if I wanted to go back to Northampton (and I didn’t), I couldn’t. Not unless I wanted to sleep on a sofa bed and be ignored.
When I got down to the Lerner-Moskovitz’s door, my arm somehow became paralyzed, making it impossible to raise it and knock. I was, however, able to walk into the stairwell to practice my little speech again.
“You can do this,” I said aloud when I was done. “He’s just a boy. And not even a particularly cute one at that. In fact, most girls might think—”
“Um, what are you doing?” a voice asked a second later.
I turned around to see Blair standing there holding a bag of garbage. His brown hair was all hat-head-y, his glasses were crooked, and he had a few stains on his Star Wars T-shirt. But other than that he looked good.
“What did you hear?” I demanded.
“Nothing. But what are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said, as if it was perfectly normal for me to be sitting in the stairwell near the garbage chute. “I was just ... hanging out ... meditating.” Please don’t start bloversharing, I thought. “My parents are Buddhists, so they do that a lot,” I babbled. This was so unfair. It was like instead of restless leg syndrome, which was this disease that Beatrice had been sure she had last week after reading about it on the Internet, I had restless lips syndrome. “Actually, my dad a lot more than my mom,” I went on. “ ’Cause she’s got adult-onset ADHD. And Sarah—that’s my dad’s girlfriend—she meditates a lot, too. Even though she’s pregnant and ginormous because she’s eating so much that it’s hard for her to sit crosslegged on the floor nowadays.”
Blair was looking at me like I was crazy. Maybe because I WAS. Why oh why couldn’t I stop talking?
“Anyway, I find stairwells a really good place to meditate,” I continued. “Because they’re so ... relaxing.” I hauled myself to my feet. “But funny I should run into you because I was actually coming to see you.”
“You were? Why?” he asked, all suspicious.
“Because I’m running for class president,�
� I replied. “And according to your sister, if there’s any chance of me winning, I have to have a really awesome video.” I held up the camera. “Except now my camera is broken. And no one I know really knows how to use it anyway.”
“Let me see it.”
I handed it to him. He went to turn it on, but all that happened was the motor made this really sad whompwhomp-whomp noise. “Wow. You really managed to screw this up,” he said.
I sighed. “Tell me about it.”
“So if I did it ... what’s in it for me?”
I thought about it. “You like cupcakes?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Cupcakes? Do I look like a girl?”
Obviously he didn’t. But with his belly that looked to be on the squishy side, he also didn’t look like the kind of person who ever said no to dessert. “Okay. Fine. Name your favorite dessert, then.”
“Fried Oreos,” he said smugly.
Wow. I loved those, too. That being said, it wasn’t a fair answer. Everyone knew those were almost as difficult to track down as Coca-Cola cake. With the Oreos, it was basically street fairs or bust. “Fine. I’ll get you some of those.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“You will?”
He nodded.
“Omigod—that’s awesome!”
“It’s not about being nice,” he grumbled. “It’s about fried Oreos. And the fact that I get a stomachache when I think about the idea of completely unqualified people abusing innocent electronic equipment.” He started to walk back toward the hall. “We can start tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve got guitar at ten, Upper West Side Chess Club at noon, PSAT prep at two, and the Gamers of the Upper West Side Awards at eight, but I could fit you in at four.”
Jeez—all that on a Saturday? The only plans I had were to figure out a way to avoid cleaning my room. “Okay,” I said. “I think I can fit that in.”