Don't Vote for Me

by Krista Van Dolzer

  I crinkled my nose. “Ouch.”

  Mom nodded absently. “Three strikes, and you’re out—or in, as the case may be. Hector didn’t stand a chance.” She looked down at her lap again. “Somewhere along the way, he decided that he wanted out.”

  “Out of prison?” I replied.

  Mom shook her head. “Out of his gang. I don’t know how he did it, but when he walked out of state prison, he rounded up his kids and grandkids and somehow made a run for it. Luckily, his friends never caught up.” She half chuckled, half sighed. “I guess he’d had a lot of time to plan.”

  I tried to imagine sneaking out in the middle of the night, constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if Granddad’s friends or enemies were going to knife me while I slept. But the image wouldn’t settle. That was a movie, not real life.

  But it had been Hector’s real life once.

  “One day,” Mom went on, “I got a call out of the blue. It was Hector, of course. He wanted—needed—a safe place where he could watch his grandkids grow, and I immediately thought of Shepherd’s Vale. They moved in a few months later.” She glanced at me across the cup holders. “You probably don’t remember that, do you?”

  I wanted to tell her that I did, that I remembered Hector’s first day at school, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie, not about something this important. Carefully, I shook my head.

  Mom considered that, then shrugged. “I always wondered if you two would get along, but I guess you don’t have a lot in common.” She tilted her head to the side. “Does Hector have friends of his own?”

  Instead of answering, I nodded. He had more friends than he could count. But what I’d never considered was that I could have been one of them.

  Thanks to our little chat, I was ten minutes late to school (or at least ten minutes later than I’d expected to be). My trumpet case banged against my knees as I galloped down the hall. It occurred to me that my legs might get tangled up with my trumpet case just before they did just that.

  I grunted when I hit the ground, but I was more annoyed than hurt. The hall was mostly empty—a few art kids were hanging out around Mr. Nelson’s room, but I didn’t think they’d noticed me—so at least I hadn’t made a scene. Still, I stayed down for a second so I had time to catch my breath, but what I ended up catching were the haunting strains of a piano. They started soft and low, but then the notes slowly crescendoed until they filled the whole south hall. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

  I scrambled to my feet and followed the notes down the south hall. It was only when I reached the door to Mr. Ashton’s room that I realized what I was hearing.

  The room was empty except for her. She was playing without music, and the only light was seeping through the still-closed blinds. Her eyes were closed, and she was swaying like a piece of barely anchored seaweed. Okay, maybe not like seaweed, since seaweed was kind of gross, but like something light and free.

  She went on for a while, until I couldn’t have said how long I’d been standing there, five minutes or five years. Then the music stopped abruptly. When I opened my eyes—I hadn’t noticed that I’d closed them—it felt like I’d just woken up from a deep, untroubled sleep.

  “You stopped,” was all I said.

  “I didn’t think anyone was listening.”

  “What was that?” I replied, scrubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

  “‘Nocturne in E Flat Major.’” She shoved the bench out of the way. It screeched on the linoleum, dispelling the last traces of magic. “It was written by Frédéric Chopin.”

  I motioned toward the piano. “Why don’t you just play that?”

  “It doesn’t have a trumpet part,” she said.

  I waved that away. “Who cares? You can play it by yourself.”

  “I can’t play something by myself,” she said.

  I crinkled my nose. “Why not?”

  “Because my parents wouldn’t get it. They think music is a waste. It can’t dig a ditch or make a casserole or book someone else’s five-star cruise.” She kicked the back of the piano. “It’s only good for idiots who want to go to schools like Lietz House.”

  Thanks to Mr. Ashton, I’d heard of Lietz House before. He might have been unreasonably obsessed with pastries, but he knew a lot about music, so it was probably a decent school. Why wouldn’t they want her to attend?

  “My dad moved to Shepherd’s Vale halfway through his senior year,” she said. “His last name was Pratt, so he ended up in Mom’s homeroom—in the desk in front of hers, in fact. She flirted with him like she cared, and he fell for her so hard that he actually proposed on the day they graduated.” She glanced down at her toes. “By the time he figured out that she flirted with everyone, she was already pregnant.”

  I had no idea what to say or how to say it, so I didn’t say a word.

  She must not have known what to say, either, because she grabbed her messenger and made a beeline for the door. “Out of my way,” she growled.

  Obediently, I got out of her way.

  “If Mr. Ashton ever gets here, let him know I couldn’t stay.”

  I looked around the room. “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t let someone catch me hanging out around the band room.” She glanced at me over her shoulder. “I don’t want anyone to talk.”

  It was less of a statement than a warning. She was the queen bee of the populars, but she was an imposter—and I was the only one who knew. For some reason, she’d decided to let me in on her secrets, so if anyone found out, it would be my fault. That was a heavy load to bear alone.

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder, but before she could get away, I asked, “If your parents don’t like music, where did you get the piano?”

  She’d been about to turn the corner, but my question made her stop. “I stole it,” she replied.

  My eyes bulged. “You did what?”

  “I stole it,” she said again, but this time, she smiled wickedly. “From that old lady down the street. You remember her place, don’t you?”

  I managed a weak nod. Radcliff had been involved in petty crime, but the most that he and Michael had ever managed to get away with was a pair of pink flamingos from Mr. Seltzer’s yard (and those flamingos hardly counted, since Mr. Seltzer was mostly blind).

  “I’d tell you how I did it,” she went on, “but that information’s classified.” With one last grin, she added, “I hope you have a nice day.”

  Fifteen

  I spent the rest of the day wondering about that darn piano. I should have asked a million questions: How did you know that it was there? Why did you turn to common thievery? How did you get in—and more importantly, how did you get out? Pianos weren’t exactly portable.

  By the time that I got home, my head was crammed with questions, but my parents were too busy tangoing to take the time to answer them. There were several problems with this picture, but the biggest one was that my parents didn’t know how to tango. Dad looked like a scarecrow with his gangly arms and legs, but Mom didn’t seem to care. She was giggling like a schoolgirl and letting Dad drag her around. Not even the grease under his nails seemed to bug her in the least.

  They tended to forget that they still had a kid at home whose reputation, such as it was, would be ruined forever if anyone from school ever caught a glimpse of them.

  I cowered behind the Challenger, trying to decide how to cut in (or if I even wanted to). But before I could make my mind up, Mom caught a glimpse of me.

  “Well, hello, David,” she said as Dad tipped her over backward. “Did you have a nice time in detention?”

  She’d been flaming mad when she found out (which was just as I’d predicted), so this was probably her way of making me feel like a dolt.

  If she was waiting for me to collapse, she was going to be disappointed. “It was fantastic,” I replied with as muc
h excitement as I could muster. Actually, we’d spent the whole time stapling packets, so it had been as dull as a PBS documentary.

  She and Dad swooped past his tool chest, narrowly missing the screwdriver that hadn’t quite been put away, but when he tried to twirl her, she twirled herself away.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, tucking some hair behind my ear.

  I motioned toward Dad’s stereo. “Do either of you know Frédéric Chopin’s ‘Nocturne in E Flat Major’?”

  “Do I know it?” Dad replied, tossing his rag onto his workbench. It was like he’d just been waiting for me to mention good old Frédéric. “That’s like asking Albert Einstein if he knows quantum physics!”

  I dug my toe into a crack. Though I’d heard of Albert Einstein, my education hadn’t covered any of the stuff he’d actually done. “Does that mean you’ve heard of it?”

  Instead of answering, Dad pulled the remote out of his coveralls and aimed it at the stereo. It didn’t take long for the notes to sound familiar. The pianist on the recording easily could have been Veronica.

  Dad slipped the remote back into his coveralls. Whether they had pockets or just really deep folds, I couldn’t have said. “Where did you hear it?” he asked. “I didn’t think he wrote for bands.”

  “He didn’t,” I replied. “I heard about him from Veronica. Or I heard her play his piece.”

  Dad nodded knowingly. “And how did it sound?” he asked.

  “It sounded great,” I said, remembering how the notes had scratched an itch I hadn’t even known I’d had. “I mean, it sounded kind of sad, but it was a really pretty sad.” The recording hit those thirty-second notes, and I couldn’t help but sigh. “But when I suggested that she play it instead of ‘La Vie en rose,’ she just blew me off.”

  Now it was Mom’s turn to nod knowingly. “Why do you think she did that?”

  I considered that, then shrugged. “She said her parents don’t like music, but who doesn’t like music?” I squinted up at them. “And why wouldn’t they want her to go to Lietz House?”

  Mom and Dad exchanged a weighty look. It could mean all kinds of things, but in this case, it probably meant, Do we think he’s old enough to discuss big, scary things like music schools? I was really sick of being the only minor in the family.

  Finally, Mom patted my back. “It would be great if she could play it, but maybe now isn’t the time.”

  “When will it be the time?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, David. Maybe never.” She patted my back again. “But even if the time is never right, you can always be her friend.”

  I made a face. “But she’s a popular. We’re as different as PB and bananas.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “I think you and Veronica have a lot more in common than you think.”

  “Like what?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Like Trash to Treasure,” Mom replied.

  Dad nudged my trumpet case toward me. “And don’t forget ‘La Vie en rose.’”

  I retreated to my room so I could sort everything out, and the more I thought about it, the more I decided that Mom and Dad were right (again). No one else from school ever went to Trash to Treasure, and Veronica and I were probably the only two kids on the planet who’d ever heard of Edith Piaf. Then it occurred to me that Veronica might have thought I’d told her to play the nocturne because I didn’t want to play “La Vie en rose,” but that wasn’t it at all.

  If I’d kept these thoughts to myself, I probably would have been all right, but when I made the mistake of sharing some of them with Mom, she completely freaked out. Instead of asking me questions like a normal human being, she stuffed my trumpet case and me into the back of the minivan (since I still didn’t weigh enough to sit in the passenger seat). I tried to convince her to let me call Veronica instead, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Apparently, there were some apologies that you had to make in person.

  We took a few wrong turns past the train tracks, but when I spotted the old Beetle hanging out on the corner, I knew we’d found the right street. The minivan’s new tires crunched over the sun-choked weeds as we pulled into her driveway. I’d always wished that Mom and Dad had splurged on a Lamborghini (or at least a Cadillac), but for once, I was grateful that they drove a beat-up Honda Odyssey. Compared to the Beetle, the Odyssey was the height of luxury.

  Mom checked the address, then announced, “Well, it looks like this is it.”

  I didn’t bother to confirm it, just tightened my grip on my trumpet case.

  Mom nipped me on the nose (which, for once, I didn’t mind), then threw the gearshift into reverse. “Call me when you’re finished.”

  I felt my pulse speed up. “I thought you were gonna wait.”

  “Not this time,” Mom replied. “Some things you have to do alone.”

  I glanced up and down the street. Just like the last time I’d been here, there was no one to be seen, but the dry weeds shivering in the wind seemed like an especially bad omen. “But what if something happens?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” she replied, then cupped my cheek and smiled sadly. “This isn’t East Los Angeles.”

  I drew a bracing breath. If Hector could leave everything he’d ever known behind, then I could get out of this car. I grabbed hold of the latch, then gently popped open the door. For some reason, it seemed hotter than it had last week.

  “Call me!” Mom said again. When she started to pull away, I had no choice but to close the door.

  I waited until the minivan disappeared, then forced myself to climb the steps. That second-story window still had a baseball-shaped hole, and the sagging porch still looked like it was about to collapse. I didn’t have a chance to knock before someone yanked the door open—and the someone wasn’t Veronica.

  Mr. Pratt ducked under the lintel to get a better look at me. “What is it?” he demanded, propping his arm against the door.

  I caught a whiff of dirt and sweat, but I forced myself to hold my ground. He might have been intimidating, but it was probably going to be worse if he thought I was a wimp.

  I snuck a peek under his arm. “Is Veronica around?”

  “Why do you want to know?” he asked, squinting at me through red-rimmed eyes. “And who are you, anyway?”

  I thought about sticking out my hand, then changed my mind at the last second. “My name is David Grainger. I think we met at Trash to Treasure.”

  His frown morphed into a scowl. “Oh, yeah, I remember you. You’re Mr. Basketball.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Can you believe that, Ronny? This kid thought I could play!”

  I kept my eyes trained on his work boots (which were coated with fresh mud). “Only because you’re tall,” I said. “I mean, what are you, seven feet? You must have eaten a lot of broccoli—unless those broccoli rumors are a lie. I’ve always thought they were. Adults will say just about anything to get kids to eat their vegetables.”

  Mr. Pratt wrinkled his nose. “Do you always talk this much?”

  “Only when I think someone might pound me through the pavement.”

  No sooner had the words “pound me through the pavement” left my lips than I knew that I’d said the wrong thing. The next ten seconds of silence were the longest of my life. I fully expected Mr. Pratt to pull out his trusty mallet and make good on my threat, but he clapped me on the back instead.

  “I think I like you, kid,” he said (though his grip said quite the opposite). “Why don’t you come inside?”

  He dragged me into the living room by the scruff of the Ford T-shirt I’d inherited from Owen, then kicked the door shut on my heels. One of the seams on my shirt ripped, but Mr. Pratt didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. At least he set me down again before it split completely open.

  “You’ve got company,” he told Veronica. “And I think he’s here to make some noise.”<
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  She didn’t get up from the couch. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  I tapped my trumpet case (though I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eyes). “I just thought it would be nice if we could give our song a spin.”

  “Your song?” Mr. Pratt replied, glaring lasers at Veronica. “You and this boy have a song?”

  “It isn’t like that,” she replied, her eyes as wide as two fried eggs.

  “That’s right,” I said, nodding ferociously. “It’s not our song at all.”

  “Then whose song is it?” he demanded.

  We didn’t have a chance to answer before the door flew open again and admitted Ms. Pritchard. Her hair was sticking out at crazy angles, and her pink lipstick was smeared.

  “Is there a party going on?” she asked as she glanced around the room. When she got to me, she stopped—and smiled. “Well, hello again.”

  Veronica’s cheeks turned the same color as Ms. Pritchard’s glossy lipstick. “We’re kind of busy, Mom,” she said.

  “Oh, right.” Ms. Pritchard winked. As she staggered down the hall, she shouted, “Have a good time, Ronny!”

  Mr. Pratt gritted his teeth, but Ms. Pritchard didn’t seem to notice. She disappeared without a backward glance, completely oblivious to what was going down in the middle of her living room. Mom never would have walked away from anything that looked like a fight.

  Mr. Pratt glared at Veronica. “Your mother might not care about what’s going on out here, but that doesn’t mean I don’t, so you’d better come clean now.”

  Veronica held up her hands. “It’s really nothing,” she replied. “We just got asked to play this song.”

  Mr. Pratt’s eyes narrowed. “Play a song for what?” he asked.

  Veronica looked down at her toes. “For the spring recital,” she admitted.

  Most parents would have offered Mr. Ashton all the bear claws he could eat if he would let their kid play a song, but Mr. Pratt wasn’t most parents. I could tell that he was furious from the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. Veronica had never come to school with bruises, but I’d never really paid attention.