Don't Vote for Me

Home > Other > Don't Vote for Me > Page 9
Don't Vote for Me Page 9

by Krista Van Dolzer


  A shiver skittered down my spine—somehow, I knew where this was headed—but before I could react, Esther actually squealed.

  “About what?” she demanded.

  “Well,” Spencer said slowly, obviously enjoying the attention, “word on the street is that Veronica suggested that they integrate at the last student council meeting. She thought more ‘geeks and dorks’”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“should get a chance to hold a spot.”

  I shifted uneasily. The only reason they were rumors instead of verified facts was because no one had talked to me.

  “And then,” Spencer went on, “she dumped Brady in a fit of rage when he wouldn’t back her up.”

  I shook my head. “She didn’t dump him.”

  Three pairs of eyes zoomed in on me, and I realized what I’d just said. I would have smacked my forehead if it wouldn’t have made me look guiltier.

  “Well,” I said, backpedaling, “I meant that she couldn’t have dumped him. We saw them on Saturday, remember?”

  Esther shook her head. “Just because they were together doesn’t mean they’re still together.”

  “Oh,” was all I said.

  While Spencer and Esther went on speculating about Brady and Veronica’s relationship, I went back to my lunch. Why had I opened my big mouth? It never turned out very well.

  I was halfway through my sandwich—PB and bananas for the win—when someone tapped me on the shoulder. “David Grainger?” a voice asked.

  Hesitantly, I turned around. A perfect-looking girl was standing right behind me.

  “Are you David?” she asked again.

  Instead of answering, I nodded.

  The girl didn’t seem surprised. “The principal would like to see you.”

  I hugged my lunch box to my chest. “Right now?” I’d never had to go to the principal’s before.

  The girl half nodded, half frowned. “I’m afraid so,” was all she said.

  I could have made a run for it, but something told me that this girl, with her long legs and killer ponytail, would have run me down in a second. Grudgingly, I rose to my feet, but before I could climb over the bench, Spencer grabbed me by the arm.

  “David can’t come right now,” he said, biting off a chunk of Milky Way. “We’re kind of busy at the moment.”

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said (though she didn’t sound very sorry), “but Ms. Quintero said it couldn’t wait.”

  I wriggled out of Spencer’s grip. “What is this about?” I asked.

  “Your campaign,” the girl said, blinking.

  Spencer stuck himself between us. “Then you have to take me, too. I’m his campaign manager, you know.”

  The girl shrugged. “I don’t care. Just as long as David comes.” And with that, she spun around, obviously expecting to be followed.

  Even though the girl had made it sound like Ms. Quintero would be waiting for us, she made us sit in a pair of plastic chairs for another hour, give or take. When the MMM finally waved us in, I could barely stand up straight (though that might have had something do with my wildly trembling knees). My pudding cup clunked around my lunch box, a grim reminder that I hadn’t finished. I probably could have eaten it, but I’d been too wound up to swallow.

  Spencer and I paused on the threshold of Ms. Quintero’s office. She was spraying down her desk with a fine mist of disinfecting spray while she talked to Ms. Clementi (who was shamelessly pinching her nose). It made the whole place smell like soapy lemons, but I guess that smell was better than whatever twelve-year-olds smelled like.

  They’d been deep in conversation, but as soon as they spotted us, they stopped and waved us in. I tried to act casual, but my toe caught on the strip that divided the industrial-grade carpet from the slightly less worn-out linoleum, pitching me into her office like a badly thrown baseball. At least I managed to land in one of the chairs in front of her desk.

  “Have a seat,” Ms. Quintero said. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed that I was already sitting. “We’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “What are we waiting for?” I asked at the same time a familiar voice piped up, “What does this have to do with me?”

  I couldn’t help but wonder what it had to do with Veronica, too. Now not only did I get to have my very first nervous breakdown, but I got to have it in front of her. I guess class presidents weren’t forced to wait in plastic chairs.

  “Quite a bit, unfortunately,” Ms. Quintero said.

  Veronica sank into the seat that was closest to the door.

  Spencer sat down in the other one. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Ms. Quintero didn’t answer until she’d wiped off the disinfecting spray and pulled a paper from her desk. “It has come to my attention that an unauthorized school function was held on Saturday, May seventh. I’ve also been informed that you surpassed the spending limit set forth in the school constitution and that you handed out T-shirts in violation of the rules.”

  No sooner had the word “violation” left her mouth than Spencer leaned across my lap to glare malevolently at her. “Did you tell them?” he demanded.

  Veronica’s eyes glinted. “Of course I didn’t,” she replied, but then she set her sights on me. “Seriously, David, I didn’t tell them.”

  If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought that my opinion mattered.

  Ms. Quintero raised a hand. “Mr. Chen, please let me finish.”

  “No, you let me finish,” he said. “We didn’t give those shirts away, we only let kids borrow them. And Esther promised us she didn’t spend more than fifty bucks.”

  Ms. Quintero sighed. “Does that mean that you’re admitting you held an unauthorized school function?”

  It wasn’t like we could deny it. Though it had been more than two days, we were still covered with the evidence.

  Luckily, Spencer didn’t try to. “We didn’t mean to,” he replied. “That’s got to count for something, right?”

  Ms. Quintero didn’t answer, just turned her attention to me. “Well, Mr. Grainger?” she demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Instead of answering, I swallowed, hard. It felt like I’d just eaten a dozen PB and banana sandwiches and couldn’t get my mouth unstuck. And even though the weatherman hadn’t said a word about the pollen count, my eyes were suddenly watering. What was happening to me?

  Ms. Clementi had been strangely silent, but my sudden-onset hay fever must have made her take pity on me. “It’s all right, David,” she said. “If you confess your crimes right now, we’ll only duct-tape you to the dodgeball mats for the next twenty-four hours.”

  Or maybe it hadn’t.

  Ms. Quintero gasped. “Cara!”

  Ms. Clementi waited, then threw her head back and cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West. “Hyperbole!” she said.

  Veronica and I didn’t react, but Spencer choked on his own spit.

  Ms. Quintero cleared her throat. “I think what she’s trying to say is that the consequences of your actions will be infinitely less severe if you don’t try to drag this out.” She folded her arms across her desk and fixed me with her Care Bear Glare.

  I looked back and forth between them, wiping tears out of my ears. Ms. Clementi was still giggling, but Ms. Quintero looked especially grim. She claimed she didn’t like to punish us—she only did it for our own good—and for once, I almost believed her.

  I snuck a peek at Spencer (who was trying to melt into the floor), then let my gaze slide to Veronica (who was inspecting a hangnail). If she was trying to ignore me, she was doing a first-rate job. But when I looked away, she glanced at me, and when I glanced at her, she looked away. For some reason, that gave me the courage to say what I needed to say.

  I drew a shaky breath. “What Spencer said is true. We didn’t mean to break the rules. The other kids don’t get
the T-shirts, they only get to borrow them. And the paint and everything only cost forty-seven eighty-three. Our art director—her name’s Esther—said she kept all her receipts, but more than that, she doesn’t lie.”

  The words were pouring out of me even more quickly than usual, but instead of spiraling out of control, they fit together like a puzzle. For the first time in my life, my mouth was actually working with my brain.

  “As for the experience of a lifetime”—I wiped my hands off on my jeans—“we didn’t think that it would count as an unauthorized school function. Esther only thought it would be a cool way to make the shirts.”

  Ms. Quintero arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying that Ms. Lambert is responsible for these violations?”

  “No!” I said, then cleared my throat. “I mean, no, Ms. Quintero. I’m not trying to blame anyone.” I glanced down at my toes to give myself more time to think. “I’m the one running for class president, so I should be the one who accepts responsibility.”

  Ms. Quintero sighed, then dragged herself out of her seat. “You’ll have to give us a few minutes.”

  While she and Ms. Clementi deliberated in the hall, I tried not to hyperventilate. Mom was going to kill me when she found out that I’d been summoned to Ms. Quintero’s office (or, worse, she’d just enroll me in those miserable piano lessons).

  I was still working on my breathing when Ms. Quintero came back in. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Grainger, and I especially appreciate your willingness to accept responsibility. I’m inclined to believe that your campaign didn’t violate the spending limit, and I’m even willing to go along with the revolving distribution of these T-shirts.” She pressed her lips into a line. “Nevertheless, the fact remains that you hosted a school function without obtaining anyone’s permission, and I’m afraid the penalty for that is a week’s worth of detention.” She dropped her gaze, then added, “And no student serving detention is allowed to run for a class office.”

  “WHAT?” Spencer replied.

  Ms. Quintero managed to ignore him. “I’m assigning you and your associates one week’s worth of detention and officially suspending your campaign.” She smiled sadly at Veronica. “I guess that makes you next year’s seventh-grade class president. Congratulations, Ms. Pritchard-Pratt.” She motioned toward the door. “You’re welcome to go back to class.”

  More tears pricked my eyes, but I managed not to let my hay fever get the better of me. I’d take this news like a man if I had to bite my lip until it bled.

  But Spencer wasn’t so determined.

  “You can’t do that!” he replied, gripping both edges of his seat. “You can’t just take it away!”

  “I’m pretty sure she can,” I mumbled. “And I’m pretty sure she just did.”

  Saying it out loud like that made it feel real for the first time, and with the realness came discouragement. I’d been wishy-washy from the start, but I guess a part of me had gotten into it, had finally started to believe.

  “But it can’t be over,” Spencer peeped, dragging a hand under his nose. Either he’d caught a cold, or Riley was rubbing off on him.

  I didn’t have a chance to comfort him before Veronica raised her hand. “Excuse me,” she replied, “but don’t I have a say in this?”

  Ms. Quintero blinked. “I guess you do.”

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “As far as I’m concerned, David and his paint brigade can serve detention for a year.” She looked at me, then looked away. “But whatever you do, please don’t make him quit the race.”

  Fourteen

  I dug my fists into my ears. I must have misunderstood her. There was no other explanation.

  “I’m sorry,” Ms. Quintero said, “but I don’t think I heard you right. Did you really say you don’t want me to make Mr. Grainger quit?”

  Veronica nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  Ms. Quintero shrugged. “If you really feel that strongly, I suppose an exception could be made. Mr. Grainger has already shown that he can be quite honest when he wants to be.” She started to pull out her disinfecting spray, then realized what she was doing and promptly closed her desk again. “That will be all for now, children. Ms. Clementi will arrange the details of your detention.”

  “Come along!” Ms. Clementi said as she herded us out of the room.

  After Ms. Clementi made us swear that we’d show up for detention on pain of ripping out our nose hairs, Spencer released a held-in breath. “Well, that could have gone much better, but it also could have gone much worse.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I guess this means I’ll see you later?”

  I nodded tiredly. “Right after seventh period.”

  Spencer motioned toward Veronica, who’d just moseyed out behind us, apparently not in any hurry. “Don’t let her give you any crap.”

  After Spencer wandered off, I sent her a sideways glance. “Are you following me?” I asked.

  “Well, of course I am,” she said. “There’s only one way out of the office.”

  I felt my cheeks get hot. “Oh, right.”

  “But since you’re here,” she hurried on, “I was thinking we could show Mr. Ashton what we’ve got.”

  I honestly hadn’t seen this coming. I hadn’t thought about “La Vie en rose” for what felt like forever. “Yeah, sure,” I said uncertainly. “You can talk to Mr. Ashton.”

  “I already did,” she said. “He’s expecting us to be here at seven thirty in the morning.”

  I swallowed, hard. “All right.” I hadn’t thought that it would be so soon, but I could make it work. “I guess I’ll see you then.”

  Veronica nodded toward my shirt. “It turned out all right, don’t you think?”

  I glanced down at my chest. I’d forgotten I was wearing my YOUR PAINT, YOUR VOTE T-shirt. When Esther had handed me this one—the one Veronica had tagged—I hadn’t bothered to object. Ending up with this T-shirt had seemed like a foregone conclusion.

  “I guess,” I said, rubbing my chest. I didn’t see a reason to reveal how much I secretly liked it. “If you don’t mind all the bruises.”

  “It didn’t hurt that bad,” she said.

  “And how would you know?” I replied.

  “Because I’ve played paintball before.”

  I opened my mouth to answer, then snapped it shut again. I was surprised that she’d played paintball (but I guess that would explain how she’d shot me so efficiently).

  “Besides,” Veronica continued, flicking a piece of lint off her shoulder, “paintball guns are child’s play.”

  I knotted my arms across my chest. “Does that mean you’ve shot something more powerful?” I seriously doubted it.

  “No, but Hector has.”

  That took me by surprise. “Does his family hunt or something?”

  She paused, then shook her head. “He’s from East Los Angeles, you know.”

  What that had to do with anything, I couldn’t have said. “So why’d he move?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to ask him that,” she said.

  I crinkled my nose. “Like that’s ever gonna happen.”

  “All right, then, ask your mom.”

  “My mom?” I asked, surprised. “What does this have to do with her?”

  Veronica didn’t reply, just shook her head again and headed off the other way.

  * * *

  The next morning, Mom drove me to school for my meeting with Veronica. She’d been driving me a lot lately, and the truth was, I liked it. Most moms were dull or awkward, but mine was easy to talk to.

  Except when I couldn’t decide whether or not I wanted to talk.

  Unfortunately, nothing got past Mom. After making a right turn, she casually motioned toward my legs. “Do you have ants in your pants?”

  “No,” I said. “Well, yes.” But that probably wasn’t true. I quick
ly checked under my legs. “Well, not literally, I guess.”

  She pinched me on the cheek and tucked some hair behind my ear. This might have been a safety hazard if we’d been doing more than twenty-six. She never drove fast anymore—she said she was cashing in the minutes she’d banked from living life in the fast lane—but I had a hard time believing that she’d ever cracked thirty.

  I leaned against the window. “It’s just something someone said.” I sent her a sideways glance. “Have you ever heard of Hector Villalobos?”

  Mom accidentally punched the gas pedal. “Maybe,” she admitted after we’d slowed back down to twenty-two. “What have you heard about Hector?”

  “Just that you knew him,” I replied.

  When we got to the next stop sign, she shifted the gearshift into park. She’d always been a careful driver, but this was too careful, if you asked me. “I don’t know Hector,” she replied, “but I do know of him. He has the same name as his granddad, who I knew in California.”

  “You knew his granddad?” I replied.

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” she said, smiling, “your dad and I are older than most of your friends’ parents.”

  I’d never thought about it quite like that, but I guess it was true enough. Riley’s parents were as old as Elias and his wife.

  I tried to connect the dots. “So Hector lived in California?” When she nodded, I muttered, “He was probably in a gang.”

  “That’s an awful thing to say,” Mom said, then glanced down at her lap. “But in this case, you’d be right.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “You have to understand that this was years ago,” she said before I could interrupt. “I’d just passed the bar exam, so I hadn’t accepted the position with McGrath and Moody yet. For those first few years, I worked for the Central District Court, and in the first month, they appointed me as Hector’s granddad’s counsel.”

  I knew that Mom had been a lawyer, but it was weird to hear these details. She’d never mentioned any of this stuff (but then, I’d never asked).

  “I did my best,” she said, “but I was green, and he was Mexican. The trial was over almost as soon as it began. They found him guilty of three counts of possession and another two counts of assault—one of which was aggravated—which came to twenty years in prison.”

 

‹ Prev