Don't Vote for Me

by Krista Van Dolzer

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  Copyright © 2015 by Krista Van Dolzer

  Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover illustrations © Chris Cocozza

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Van Dolzer, Krista.

  Don't vote for me / Krista Van Dolzer.

  pages cm

  Summary: Roped into running for class president against the most popular girl in school, sixth-grader David discovers another side to his opponent when they are also paired up for the spring musical recital.

  (13 : alk. paper) [1. Elections--Fiction. 2. Popularity--Fiction. 3. Middle schools--Fiction. 4. Schools--Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Do not vote for me.

  PZ7.V2737Do 2015

  [Fic]--dc23

  2014046574

  Source of Production: Worzalla, Stevens Point, Wisconsin, USA

  Date of Production: July 2015

  Run Number: 5004113

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Kate,

  who never quit

  One

  There were three kinds of kids at Shepherd’s Vale Middle School: the populars, the unpopulars, and Riley and me. It wasn’t that we were disliked; it was that we were invisible. We could have dressed up like Martian pirates—the costumes were two Halloweens old, but we hadn’t grown much—and no one would have noticed.

  So when I saw that sign-up sheet, I didn’t stop to think about what I was going to say, just caught Riley’s eye and flicked a thumb over my shoulder. “Looks like it’s time for the Pritchard-Pratt’s annual coronation.”

  This year’s sign-up sheet was especially optimistic: ARE YOU THE NEXT CLASS PRESIDENT? it asked in big, exciting letters. Unless your name was Veronica Pritchard-Pratt, my guess was probably not. Still, it encouraged you to SIGN UP BY MAY 2ND!

  Veronica’s name was the only one on the list.

  Riley dragged a hand under his nose. “I don’t know why they bother.” His nose ran all the time, but when he came into contact with mice, ragweed, or populars, it ran even worse. “Might as well save the tree.”

  Not that my man Riley believed in saving trees. He was an actual writer, so he spent more time writing stories than he spent playing Batman and sleeping combined. He scribbled them down in his notebook, and no one—and I mean, no one—was allowed to come near it.

  I turned my thumb toward my chest. “They bother because they know I come from a long line of litigators, so they know I’d sue their butts off if they tried anything funny!”

  My parents were the litigators (well, former litigators, which was the fancy way of saying they used to sue their clients’ competitors for sneezing in their presence), and the truth was, they’d be appalled if they knew I was threatening to take someone to court. Riley didn’t seem thrilled, either. He glanced nervously around the commons, but Ms. Quintero, the principal, was nowhere in sight.

  “But what they don’t know,” I went on, “is that making false claims is also grounds for a lawsuit. Do they really think we’re dumb enough to think we could win? The Pritchard-Pratt hasn’t lost a race in the last three years.”

  I’d dug terms like “false claims” and “grounds” out of Mom and Dad’s old law books. I liked the way they made me sound like I knew what I was talking about.

  “But why should we have to settle for the Pritchard-Pratt?” I demanded. “Does she represent our views, our opinions?”

  The words poured out of me like water from a backed-up toilet. I’d been gaining volume, and now most of the kids scattered around the commons were staring up—or down—at me. Their attention made me want to keep talking, talking, talking.

  “No!” I said, raising my fist. “So I say it’s time we fight!”

  Stronger words hadn’t been spoken since that Patrick Henry guy had said, Give me liberty, or give me death! The other kids responded by raising their fists, too, and whispering urgently to their neighbors. Hope bloomed in my chest like a helium balloon. For the first time in my life, someone was paying attention.

  At least my man Riley kept my feet on the ground. “You talk too much,” he mumbled.

  “Maybe you don’t talk enough.”

  It was clearly a challenge, but he didn’t take the bait. “Let’s get out of here,” he said instead, brushing his hair into his eyes. When it came time for fight or flight, Riley always chose the latter.

  I probably would have stayed, but Riley had been my best bro since my real bros had moved out, so I couldn’t ditch him. Besides, I’d said my piece. They could take it or leave it (and judging the future by the past, I could guess which one they’d pick).

  But I would guess wrong.

  By the start of second period, the whispers from the commons had taken over the band room, and they were getting louder. The other band geeks, or BGs, nudged me as they passed or caught my eye and winked. I tried to play it cool—I’d never realized how awkward it could get when people noticed you—and I could have pulled it off if it hadn’t been for her.

  I was already in my seat, warming up my mouthpiece, when Veronica appeared. She didn’t come in right away, just stood outside the door while Hector and Samantha did their usual sweep. They acted like the Secret Service on the prowl for glitter bombs. The other, lesser populars, whose names I’d never learned, lingered in the hall and tried not to breathe our air.

  Once Hector and Samantha deemed the room fit for her presence, Veronica nodded to her sidekicks, then pecked Brady on the lips.

  It was only a peck, but I still looked away. Why they were the populars while Riley and I were barely clinging to the sixth grade’s social ladder’s lowest rungs, I couldn’t have said. They should have been absent more often,
since they seemed so fond of swapping bacteria.

  As soon as she stepped through the door, the whispers died down to a hum. The other BGs were obviously waiting for a shoot-out (or maybe a plastic lightsaber duel), but I had no interest in being a floor show. I pretended not to notice, but as the moments stretched to seconds, then to almost a minute, I couldn’t help but sneak a peek. At least Brady and the Terrible Twins had finally wandered off. She was pulling her music out of her bright-green messenger, which looked as out of place in the band room as my bulky black backpack would have looked at a student council meeting.

  I tried to focus on my music as she picked her way through the BGs, who were scurrying around her ankles like busy worker ants. That was a slight exaggeration—they might have come up to her waist—but she was a giantess. Rumor had it that her dad had played for the Utah Jazz back when they were good, but since YouTube hadn’t been around in the Stone Age, no one could confirm it.

  No sooner had she reached the risers than I lowered my gaze. If she thought I’d been staring, I might die of shame. I tried to practice my buzzing, but when I caught a whiff of watermelon, I couldn’t help but draw a deep breath.

  The piano was right next to the trumpets, so I couldn’t ignore her without looking like I was trying to ignore her. “You made my mouth water,” I said, then realized how that must have sounded. “I mean, your perfume made my mouth water. Because it smells like watermelon.” I shook my head. “I’m gonna stop talking now.”

  “You should have done that sooner.”

  The bell spared me the embarrassment of sticking my other foot in my mouth. I said a silent prayer to the bell gods—they probably didn’t get very many—as Mr. Ashton, our teacher, finally breezed into the room.

  Mr. Ashton took more bathroom breaks than Granny Grainger, and he was always the last teacher to roll into the parking lot on Monday mornings. But he had a degree in choral conducting and a diploma from Lietz House, the most prestigious music magnet in the greater Salt Lake area, so Ms. Quintero had no choice but to put up with his quirks.

  “Good morning!” Mr. Ashton boomed. His voice shook the ceiling tiles. “We’ll pick up right where we left off—with ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’!”

  I attached my mouthpiece to my trumpet, but before I could take a breath, a voice behind me growled, “Quit acting like you think you’re friends.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  Mr. Ashton rapped his music stand with his crooked baton (which was actually the wand he’d bought on his last trip to Orlando, but if you tried to call it that, he would poke you in the stomach and deduct ten points from Slytherin). “David, your attention!”

  Scowling, I raised my trumpet. Mr. Ashton thumped out four beats so we could find our rhythm, but just before the music swelled, the voice behind me hissed, “You said she was the enemy.”

  The air rushed out of my lungs, forcing a squeal out of my trumpet, but the other squeals and squeaks covered up my ugly note. I glanced over my shoulder again, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever the voice belonged to, but everyone looked guilty. When you had to blow into a mouthpiece to butcher a classic, you couldn’t help but get red-faced.

  As I twisted around, I managed to force out a B flat that only sounded slightly sharp, but that wasn’t what made me wince. Though Veronica had been playing a few seconds ago, she wasn’t playing now. She was staring straight ahead, her fingers frozen on the keys. She could have been lost inside the melody, but somehow, I knew she wasn’t.

  Somehow, I knew she’d heard.

  Guilt wriggled in my stomach like a ball of un-chewed worms—I hadn’t even wondered what she might think of my rant—but before I had a chance to do something about it, Mr. Ashton waved us off.

  “No, no!” he said angrily as he bashed his music stand. “‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’ needs more life, more oomph, than that! Let’s take it from the top, and this time, try to emote!”

  I was more concerned about the voice than these stupid stars and stripes, and as it turned out, I had a reason to be. While Mr. Ashton rearranged his music, the voice behind me asked, “What do you say, Grainger? Are you gonna take her on?”

  The guilt was so strong that I leaped out of my seat. “That’s it!” I said indignantly. “If you have something to say to me, then say it to my face!”

  “The Stars and Stripes Forever” cut off with one last wheeze from the tubas. It was like a giant spotlight was suddenly shining down on me, glinting off my uncombed hair and the angry purple pimple I’d discovered on my nose that morning. I felt my cheeks get hot, but I didn’t sit down. That would only make it worse.

  Mr. Ashton cleared his throat. “David, a word,” he said so softly that the ceiling tiles didn’t tremble.

  I drew a nervous breath, then set my trumpet back down. I couldn’t look at Veronica. I couldn’t look at anyone.

  Mr. Ashton marched into the hall, and I had no choice but to follow. As soon as I caught up, he pulled the door shut on my heels. I stared at the industrial-grade carpet, and Mr. Ashton stared at me. We stared for a long time.

  “Believe it or not,” he finally said, “I think I understand you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And I know just what you need.”

  I glanced up at him. “You do?” Mom had already tried several dozen interventions, but so far, they hadn’t worked.

  Mr. Ashton nodded knowingly. “You’ve got a restless spirit, David—a sensitive muse, if you will. I suspect that crushing it will only lead to more flare-ups.” He pretended to tie a knot with an imaginary rope. “We need to harness it instead.”

  I didn’t like the way that he’d tied that knot. It made me think of a noose. “Thanks, Mr. Ashton,” I replied as I tugged at my collar. Was it my imagination, or did it suddenly seem tighter? “But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’d rather forget it. I’ve never been much of a spirit harnesser.”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but I held up my hands.

  “I know what you’re gonna say,” I said, “and I’m sorry for wigging out. It won’t happen again. Well, I guess it might happen again, but I’ll do my very best.”

  I reached behind my back and tried to grab hold of the handle, but Mr. Ashton wasn’t done. Either he was very bad at interpreting social cues, or he was very good at listening to himself talk.

  “I appreciate that promise, but I meant what I said. I want to help you, David, and I really think I can.”

  “Okay, Mr. Ashton.” I’d discovered that the quickest way to get rid of a pest was to agree with him. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go back in now.”

  This time, I didn’t wait for him to cut off my escape, just grabbed hold of the handle and pushed open the door. If Mr. Ashton was like me, he’d get sick of this idea within a day or two. I just had to wait him out.

  Two

  By the time lunch rolled around, everyone in the sixth grade had heard about my little speech (not to mention my meltdown). When I walked into the lunchroom, conversation suddenly ceased. Eyes zipped back and forth between Veronica and me, but it didn’t look like she’d noticed. She was eating her usual bagel while she pretended to be riveted by the dark-haired popular who was sitting beside her. They were the only two people who hadn’t reacted.

  I tightened my grip on my lunch box and waited for her to turn around, but she just sat there listening. Maybe the dark-haired popular really was riveting, or maybe she was just going out of her way to ignore me completely. It dawned on the other kids that she wasn’t going to make a scene at the same time it dawned on me. A deep breath whooshed out of the room (or maybe that was just my lungs), and everyone went back to whatever they’d been doing.

  I hadn’t been doing anything, so I plopped down on the bench across from Riley and Spencer (who still hadn’t moved a muscle). Though Riley and I had been best bros for as long as we cou
ld talk, Spencer hadn’t joined our group until the start of the third grade. His family had just moved to Shepherd’s Vale (or SV, as I called it), so he hadn’t had time to make any new friends. Our teacher had assigned us to sit with him at lunch, and after getting us to laugh by squirting milk out of his nose, then letting it drip back into the carton so he could squirt it out again, Spencer had become the third in our unfinished quartet.

  But he wasn’t laughing now. Neither was Riley. I pretended not to notice as I unpacked my lunch. Most kids didn’t think that lunch boxes were cool anymore, but I strongly disagreed. I’d collected them since preschool, and though I only had a few, the Tick’s was my favorite. He wasn’t the fiercest-looking dude, but since he could get away with wearing spandex without getting beat up, I figured he was worth admiring.

  I managed to unwrap my sandwich—PB and bananas, my favorite—before either of them could get a word out. “Did you come here to sit, or did you come here to eat?”

  At least that snapped them out of it. “You know they know,” Spencer said, revealing a wad of partially chewed French fry.

  I decided to play dumb at the last second. “Know what?” I replied.

  Spencer stuck his chin out. “What you said about Veronica.”

  I scrambled to come up with an answer that didn’t make me look like an idiot, but that answer didn’t exist. “I guess I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I was there, too,” Riley mumbled, “so don’t even try to lie to us.”

  “Yeah,” Spencer replied. “I got the scoop from Arthur Dibbs, and you know if Arthur knows, then the whole school knows, too.” He massaged one of his temples with the end of a French fry. “For Newton’s sake, what were you thinking?”

  Spencer wasn’t scientific, but he didn’t want his parents, who’d gotten degrees in biochemistry from one of those Ivy League schools, to think he was a dumbhead, so he Googled famous scientists and threw their names around like he’d heard of them before. The only problem was, he hadn’t.

  “I don’t remember,” I replied, taking a bite of my sandwich. “I wasn’t thinking, just…talking.”