I see Meghan and Bree at the edge of the crowd. Meghan’s eyes meet mine and I look away. “This isn’t love or war,” I shoot back at Ben. “It’s a campaign.”
“Yes,” he responds. “And if it’s one you want to win, you have to think BIG.”
I glance at the Bob’s Burritos truck behind me. It isn’t big. It’s ENORMOUS!
Then I see Principal Ferguson marching toward the food truck. He doesn’t look like a man who has fluffy eggs wrapped in warm tortillas on his mind.
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Ben mumbles under his breath.
Only, I’m not so sure about that. Principal Ferguson is a big guy. Not food truck big. But not far off. His eyes flash with a fury that makes him look like an angry bear.
“Adams, Ball, in my office immediately!” he barks.
What happens next is a blur. The kids surrounding the food truck are sent to their homerooms. Uncle Bob is told to move his food truck—away from the school. Then Ben, Meghan, Bree, Frankie Chang, Annalise Robey, and I all end up in Principal Ferguson’s office waiting for him to show. My head is spinning with LOTS and LOTS of questions.
My first one is for Annalise. “What are you doing here?” I ask, unsure what she has in common with the rest of the group.
Annalise shifts from one foot to the other. “When I told my mom that you asked me to run with you, she said it would be good for me. But you’d already picked Ben, so I asked Frankie if he was looking for a veep. And he was.”
I frown. “I thought you said your mom would never let you run.”
Annalise shrugs. “I was wrong.”
My attention shifts to Ben. The rest of my questions are for him. But I can’t ask them out loud. What was he thinking, bringing a food truck to school with our names all over it? And why didn’t he tell me about it before he did it? I mean seriously! It’s our campaign. Not just his. And because of what he did, we’re all sitting in the principal’s office.
“Just trying to help the cause,” Ben says, like he can read my mind.
Meghan and Bree shoot each other a look I can’t quite interpret. Probably they are thinking that with Ben’s help they’ll win the election sans problèmes. That’s French for winning this election will be a piece of cake. Or, in their case, a few pink sprinkle-covered donuts.
Principal Ferguson storms into his office, sits down behind his desk, and glares at the six of us. He’s wearing a blue tie with red rulers and yellow pencils on it. I glance at Meghan. His school-themed ties are something we both find hilarious.
Our eyes meet instantly and we both press our lips shut so neither of us bursts out laughing. For a split second it’s like we’re still best friends and not opponents; then Principal Ferguson starts talking. Bree pokes Meghan and the moment is gone.
“You were all given the rules that govern this election. One of those rules was that no food may be distributed as part of the campaign.”
Frankie and Annalise are busy writing down every word Principal Ferguson says, even though neither has broken that rule (and don’t seem the type who would break any rule).
Meghan shifts uncomfortably in her chair, and Bree’s lips curl up into a smug smile.
Ben raises his hand and speaks before Principal Ferguson calls on him. “To be clear, no food was distributed. Only coupons for food.” He points a finger at Meghan and Bree. “Unlike their campaign, which distributed over ten dozen donuts last week.”
“Eight,” corrects Bree.
Meghan elbows her in the ribs. It’s a shush elbow, and I’ve felt it in my rib cage more times than I can count. “We gave out donuts before we got the rule sheet,” Meghan says. “Bree and I promise not to do it again. We wouldn’t have done it the first time if we’d known it wasn’t allowed.”
“And now that we know food trucks and coupons to be redeemed at food trucks aren’t allowed either, Amanda and I promise the same,” says Ben.
The bell signaling students to go to their first period sounds, and Principal Ferguson’s face turns redder than the rulers on his tie. “Students, I expect each one of you to follow the rules of this election. One more infraction and you’re disqualified. Understand?”
We all acknowledge that we do, and Principal Ferguson sends us to our first-period classes. Everyone hurries out of his office, but I hang back and wait for Ben. There’s something I need to say to him maintenant. In French, that means right this very second!
“Ben,” I say as we walk down the hallway.
He holds up a hand, traffic-cop style. “I’m sorry, Adams. I really am. I should have asked you about the food truck before I did it.”
“Yeah,” I say, somewhat disarmed by his quick apology.
“After what happened at Target, I…” Ben stops talking, like he’s suddenly not sure how to finish his sentence. When he starts again, his voice is uncharacteristically soft. “Truth is, I felt bad about the whole Meghan thing, and I wanted to do something nice for you.”
Huh? Is this class clown Ben Ball talking?
“You probably didn’t peg me as the nice type,” Ben says. “But I have my moments.”
“Seriously, thanks,” I say, touched by his gesture.
Then I continue. “But we’re on the same ticket.” That’s a phrase Mom and Dad use with the same frequency most parents say “brush your teeth” or “drink your milk,” and I need to be sure Ben understands what it means.
“We’re a team,” I say. “That means making all decisions together.”
“You’re right,” says Ben. “But you’ve got to admit the burritos were a nice touch.”
My stomach rumbles at the idea of warm eggs, cheese, and salsa. “Not bad,” I admit.
Ben grins, then raises his hand oath-style and vows that from here on out we’ll work as a team. He adds, “But what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Get it, Adams?”
I roll my eyes. I’m not the one who didn’t work as a team, but I raise my hand anyway and vow to do so. Then I remind Ben that tomorrow morning we can put up the posters and start handing out the stickers we spent all weekend making.
“Let’s meet outside the cafeteria early so we can get a head start on Meghan and Frankie,” I suggest.
“Adams and Ball. In it to win it,” Ben says so loudly that a few of the kids still straggling into their first-period classes turn to look in our direction.
He raises a militant fist into the air, and I’m filled with a surge of hope.
“Adams and Ball. In it to win it!” I say as I round the corner to Mr. Corbett’s classroom.
For the first time, I feel like a team with Ben. We worked hard all weekend on our campaign materials. I know Meghan and Bree worked hard as well, and I’m sure Frankie and Annalise did, too, but I can’t wait to show the rest of my grade who Ben and I are as candidates.
This time tomorrow, we’ll be doing just that.
Chapter Eleven
WANNABES AND GONNABES
The sun is barely up. The parking lot is still empty. There’s not a school bus in sight, yet Ben and I are here, ready to unleash our campaign on Liberty Middle School. Or, at least on the seventh grade. “Thanks, Dad,” I say as Ben and I gather up our supplies.
“The early bird gets the worm,” Dad says (for the fourth time since we picked up Ben). Then he gives each of us fist bumps as we get out of the backseat of his car.
“Ben, let’s do this,” I say, my heart beating faster (maybe from excitement, nerves, or both). When I walk inside the school doors, my fingers tighten around the roll of masking tape in my hand, and I stare at the giant pink arrow pointing in the direction of the cafeteria. I don’t know what it’s pointing to, but instinctively I know I’m not going to like it.
“Um, why do I feel like this is bad?” I mumble to Ben, who is carrying our posters.
“Now, now,” he says. “Keep walking.”
We move toward the cafeteria, the hub of life at Liberty Middle School, and the place where Ben and I are plan
ning to put up two of our six posters.
On the way, we pass Al Reed and Zavier Spencer, two candidates for eighth-grade class officers who also happen to be the best players on the basketball team and shoo-ins to win their class election. They’re putting up their posters outside the science lab.
When he sees us, Zavier grins, then flashes us an “L” sign with his hand.
“Ignore him,” instructs Ben.
We pass two of the sixth-grade candidates hanging their posters by the band room. But when we get to the cafeteria, my jaw falls. There, outside the entrance to the cafeteria, are Meghan, Bree, and the J’s hanging all six of their hot pink posters cut into the shape of one big heart. Written in huge glitter letters are the words VOTE HART AND SIMON FOR THE SEVENTH GRADE.
Ben breathes out one word. “Wow!”
Wow is right. Their posters are one giant billboard for their campaign, and the effect is dazzling. Not a word I’ve ever used, but there’s no other word that fits. Their poster is so good that if I weren’t running against Meghan and Bree, I’d vote for them. If I had to compare our six small, hundred-dollar-bill posters with the one big heart poster Meghan and Bree put up, I’d give ours a zero on the effectiveness scale and theirs a ten (or higher).
“I bet our stickers are better,” Ben mumbles.
Something tells me they’re not. FDR’s famous words roll around in my brain: The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. He faced a lot of big obstacles—disease, the Great Depression, war—and none of that scared him.
I can’t let some poster scare me.
I walk over to Meghan. “Nice poster,” I say. I don’t want her to think I’m the tiniest bit scared by the Hart-Simon campaign. Even though I kinda am.
Meghan gives me a small smile. “It’s just a campaign,” she says, like she almost feels bad because she knows her poster is that good.
I just stand there, looking at her, because I’m not sure what to say next. And neither does she. We’re having a silent conversation. What I’m saying: I still can’t believe we’re running against each other. Part of me thinks that’s what she’s saying, too. Part of me isn’t sure.
Then Ben elbows me in the ribs. “C’mon, Adams,” he says. “We have posters to put up and stickers to hand out.”
And just like that my silent conversation with Meghan is over.
Ben and I start putting up our posters. We hand out stickers to any seventh grader we pass. The more we hand out, the better I feel. Meghan and Bree might wanna be president and vice president of our class, but Ben and I are gonna be.
Wannabes and Gonnabes. Two distinctly different groups. Ben and I belong in the second group. I’m sure about it.
But by the time the end of the school day rolls around, I’m not so sure about it. Everywhere I looked, seventh graders were wearing hot pink, heart-shaped stickers that read VOTE HART AND SIMON. Ben is waiting on the bench outside the gym where we agreed to meet before soccer practice, and I rush over to him. “Today was a disaster,” I say.
Ben passes me a bag of chips and I pop one into my mouth. He pulls a clipboard from his backpack and delivers the bad news.
“My unofficial polls show that the Hart-Simon ticket has the support of girls’ basketball, boys’ football and basketball, the whole cross country team, the drama club, choir, mean girls, cool girls, cheerleaders, fashionistas, and social media influencers.”
I rub the space between my brows. “I didn’t know influencers were actually a group.”
“They are. Six strong.” Ben chugs from a bottle of blue Gatorade before continuing. “Chang-Robey have the honor society, band, orchestra, robotics team, math league, and an assortment of geeks, gamers, intellects, and book nerds on lockdown.”
I frown. “So who does that leave for us? The foreign exchange students?”
Ben looks down at his clipboard. “Yep, both of them promised to vote for us. As did my fellow comedians. Don’t laugh,” he says.
I smirk. Nothing about this feels funny to me.
“Lighten up, Adams,” chuckles Ben. “There are more kids than you’d think who believe that the school day goes more quickly when you find humor in it.” I don’t ask Ben how many kids that is exactly. Or if they’re voting for us.
He keeps talking. “I hope we’ll get the support of the boys’ soccer team, which hasn’t said which candidate they’re backing. And we’ll get votes from the guys in my band.”
My brows shoot up. “You’re in a band?”
“Was.” Ben shrugs. “I got kicked out at our first practice. Something about not being good on vocals or any instruments. Anyway, the guys owe me one.”
I shake my head. This race is turning into a who-likes-whom campaign, not who would do the best job. Though no one will have any way of knowing who that person might be until next week when all of the candidates are interviewed and make their speeches.
“Ben,” I groan. “We need more supporters.”
“Yep,” says Ben. “And I have a plan to get some. We’re going to target two groups. The first are what I call the unaffiliateds, Liberty Middle School seventh graders who don’t play a sport or an instrument, aren’t in any clubs, and can’t be categorized.”
I shake my head at Ben. Just about everyone I know does some kind of activity besides just going to class. “How many unaffiliateds are there?” I ask.
“Lots,” says Ben. He jabs a finger at a list of names on his clipboard. “I’m going to call every name on this list personally and ask for their support.” Ben takes out his phone and laptop from his backpack. “While I’m doing that, you need to get our second group on board.”
I raise a brow at Ben.
“Every member of the girls’ soccer team is still uncommitted,” he says.
Just hearing that makes my heart race. Even though my teammates said they didn’t want me to run, at least they haven’t pledged their support for anyone else. That counts for something.
“I’m on it,” I say, grabbing my backpack and heading to the field. I have a lot more to do at practice today than just making sure practice balls don’t go flying into the net.
Chapter Twelve
ASK NOT WHAT YOUR TEAM CAN DO FOR YOU; ASK WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR TEAM
Coach Newton blows her whistle and everyone on my team sprints to huddle around her.
It’s time for our post-practice, pregame pep talk. Coach Newton spends a few minutes doing a final review of some of our key plays, then says, “Girls, I know I don’t have to tell you how important the game is tomorrow. This year we’re going to beat Brookside!”
When Coach Newton says the name of Liberty’s archrival, twenty-three fists are raised high into the air, and there’s a long, loud chorus of boos and hisses.
“Brookside is the enemy,” grunts Julie Jacobs, left midfielder and eighth-grade captain of our team. “They might have beaten us for the past three years, but we’re not letting it happen again. Not us. Not this team. Let’s send ’em back on their team bus crying like the whiny little babies that they are. GO LIBERTY!” she shouts, and the rest of the team starts chanting.
“GO LIBERTY! GO LIBERTY! GO LIBERTY!” Our words rise up like a battle cry.
Coach Newton motions for everyone to settle down. It takes a few minutes for the boos and hisses to stop, but when they finally do, she gives us all a serious look. “Girls, I want to share something I think is important and fitting for where we are as a team.”
I zone out and think about the last talk I had with my teammates. When I brought up my campaign, none of them wanted to be my running mate.
Even worse, they didn’t even want me to run. But if I’m going to win this election, I need their support. My soccer girls might not think I can block goals and run a campaign, but the time has come to convince them that that is NOT true. I refocus my attention on Coach Newton.
“Girls, President John F. Kennedy once said, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.’” She giv
es us a hard look. “Tomorrow at the game, I want you to ask yourselves not what your team can do for you, but what you can do for your team.”
Funny how presidential wisdom is showing up in places other than my notebook.
Coach Newton lets her words sink in before continuing. “All I ask is that each one of you gives it your all in the game against Brookside tomorrow. Help each other. Work together. Can you do that?”
Our loud clapping and cheering is all the answer Coach needs. As my team starts to disperse, I fall into place beside Callie, Emily, Blake, and Zoey. The time has come for my talk.
“What’s up?” Blake asks, like she can tell there’s something on my mind.
Best to get straight to the point. “So, the last time I brought up the whole election thing, none of you were really that into it.” All four of my teammates stop walking and look at me, so I continue. “I really need your support. This election is super important to me. And I promise you it won’t get in the way of me playing good soccer.”
Zoey shoots a look at the other girls. When they nod, she begins talking like she’s the designated spokesperson. “Amanda, we get it. The election is important to you. But tomorrow’s game is important to all of us.”
I put my hands on my hips. It’s so not fair to think the game isn’t important to me just because the election is important, too. I take a deep breath. I don’t want to sound mad when I respond. “The game is important to me, too,” I say slowly. “Brookside is our biggest rival.”
Callie and Emily exchange a look.
“Sorry if we’re being kind of tough,” says Emily. “Of course you want to win, too.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I do. A lot.”
Other seventh graders on the team are now clustered around us, and Callie picks up where Emily left off. “You know how much we all want to win tomorrow. And you play the most important position of anyone on our team. Brookside has a super strong offense, and it’s up to you to stop them from making goals.” She gives me a long, hard look. “We just want to be sure you’ll be focused on the game tomorrow and not all of this election stuff.”
The Campaign Page 7