In my bedcover blue-lit editing cave, I keep working to create a video that shows our school as it really is, in the voices of its students, so I can talk about my ideas for moving us toward where we want it to be. Maybe if we hear ourselves articulating the vision, one day we’ll get there.
When Dad comes to wake me up at five thirty in the morning to work on my video, he finds me under the covers with my head on the keyboard.
“You might be facing time in the stockade for insubordination, young lady,” he says. “But first—I’ll go put on the coffee. Looks to me like you’re going to need a few cups of battery acid to get you through the day at school.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I groan. I can barely crack my eyelids open, but I finished. I have no idea what time it was, but when I watched the final edit under the covers last night, I was proud of the interviews my friends and I had done. It made all the hours I’d spent editing them worth it.
The other night I asked Rob what I should do, because I trusted him to give me a practical answer. He’s close enough to having graduated high school that he still remembers how it is.
He told me that whatever choice I make, I have to be prepared to live with the consequences—like if I win or if I lose—but most important, that I have to feel okay about it when I look myself in the mirror. With this video, I can. I feel better than okay.
I don’t know if all the hard work we’ve done will be enough to change people’s minds. I don’t know if it will be enough to help me win the election for junior class president. But one thing I’m sure of—it’ll make people think. Like Mom said, in the end, maybe that’s the best we can do.
Rob gives me a ride to school.
“You look nice,” he says when I get in the car. “What’s the occasion?”
“Wow, I bet you do really well with girls,” I say. I love my brother, but he can be a real dork sometimes.
He laughs, but I notice that he’s blushing, which is weird.
“Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
“Duh, I hope not.”
“I’ll have to Google some ‘how to give compliments to girls’ videos to brush up on my technique,” he says.
“That could get weird really fast,” I warn him. “I’ll give you advice for free. Just leave off the ‘what’s the occasion’ part, which makes it sound like I don’t usually look nice.”
“That’s not how I meant it, but anyway … why are you so dressed up?”
“Junior class assembly. I have to make a speech before the election.”
“Ah … so did you come to a decision on what we talked about?”
“Yeah. Once I did, I couldn’t believe I ever had to ask myself the question.”
“And survey says … ?”
“I edited it as honestly as I could, showing as many voices as possible,” I explain. “Which means it’s not as guaranteed a vote getter as promising soft toilet paper and ice cream on Fridays, or as vague as saying I’m going to ‘Make Argleton High Awesome’ without saying how, exactly.”
I look over at him. “Whatever happens, I’m sure I’ve made the right decision. Or at least as sure as I can be.”
Rob just keeps driving, his leg bouncing up and down.
“Listen, you don’t have to say it out loud for me to know that the real reason you’re afraid of losing is because of me,” he says.
He’s not wrong. But still …
“Whether I win or lose, I’ve learned something just by running,” I tell him. “And maybe one of the most important things I learned is from you—that I can’t be afraid to step up and fight for what is right. Although I’ll definitely stop short of breaking noses to convince people to vote for me.”
Rob laughs. “A very wise decision,” he says. “Learn from my mistakes.”
We lapse into silence. The lack of sound makes my brain train stop at all the stations of worry.
What if I lose? What if the video doesn’t work? What if I sound like an idiot?
At the next red light, Rob turns to me.
“I hope your classmates are smart enough to see that they’d be lucky to have someone like you at their six,” he says. “I know I am.”
Maybe my brother isn’t so awful at compliments after all, because that makes me feel so good it puts the brakes on the anxiety train for a little while.
Luckily, the assembly is first thing in the morning, which means I don’t have to stress about it all day. I don’t know if it’s because of Dad’s superstrong coffee or nerves, but my stomach feels like it’s being nibbled away by an army of ants as I sit on stage with Chris Abbott and Amy Sarducci and all the candidates for the other offices, watching the junior class file into the auditorium. I haven’t had a chance to show the final edit to Farida, Ken, and Adam. None of them know what I’ve done. We’ve been a team, but yesterday that team fractured and now I’m sitting up here hoping that no one can tell how nervous I am, and that I won’t let everyone down after the hard work they’ve put in. Most of all, I hope my indecision yesterday hasn’t broken our friendship.
I sneak out my phone to text Farida.
ME: I’m really sorry about yesterday. I messed up. AGAIN.
ME: Please. Trust me. I listened. I couldn’t have done this without you.
She doesn’t reply. More than anyone, her opinion on this matters. I’m as tired of letting her down as she’s tired of me letting her down. I want to get it right from now on.
Then I text Ken.
ME: I’m really sorry about yesterday. I hope you like the final video, which I finished at some ungodly hour. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.
He doesn’t reply, either.
Finally, I text Adam.
ME: Do you think anyone will vote for me if I throw up onstage?
ADAM: It depends on how theatrically you do it.
ADAM: Maybe if you throw up ON Principal Hart?
ME: OMG can you imagine how the news would spin that? “Terrorist-loving femme fatale spews plutonium puke on principal!”
ADAM: LOL, okay, no vomit. Just be you.
ME: Have you seen Farida or Ken?
ADAM: Saw Ken earlier—haven’t seen Farida yet.
ME: Tell them to trust me.
ADAM: ? Okay.
Principal Hart tells us that the candidates for class president will speak after all the other class officer candidates, and that we’ll speak by alphabetical order within each office, which means that I am going to be the last one to give a speech. Pros: I get to listen to what Chris and Amy say and adapt the brief remarks I plan to make after showing the video to rebut them if necessary. Cons: There’s more time for the ant army to eat away at my stomach.
Most of the speeches for vice president, secretary, and treasurer are a series of jokes with a moment or two of seriousness about the job. The ants gnaw harder. Maybe I’ve gone about this wrong. Maybe I’ve taken the whole thing too seriously. Maybe instead of gathering so many interviews of people to get their thoughts about the school and spending so many hours editing the video, I should have been practicing stand-up comedy to make myself more likable. I knew this was a popularity contest, but I let myself get carried away thinking it really could be about the issues.
Who was I kidding?
I’ve worked myself into a vortex of self-doubt by the time we get to the class president candidates. I search for my friends in the audience, but I can’t find them, and that makes me feel even more uncertain.
Chris “A is for Abbott” steps up to the podium. He’s wearing a blue blazer with an American flag tie and a flag pin, just like the one his dad wears on TV. When he’s introduced, loud cheers erupt from some sections of the auditorium and polite clapping from the rest of it. The ants nibble faster as I wonder how the applause-o-meter translates into election votes. Will all our work be for nothing if I lose? Or even if the video makes just one person in this auditorium feel heard, should that be enough?
The thought of coming in third after toil
et paper and ice cream that has no realistic chance of happening kills me.
Chris’s speech is remarkably similar in theme to the Win at All Costs video. Argleton High School is generally awesome, except for the losers who don’t go to games to support the teams because they lack sufficient school spirit.
“All of us Argleton Astros should come together to support the blue and white,” Chris concludes. “And if you elect me as junior class president, I promise to work to Make Argleton High Awesome.”
The applause is louder and more uniform after his speech. I scribble a sentence onto my notes and hope that I can read what I wrote when it’s my turn to speak.
There’s no doubt who registers highest in popularity according to the applause-o-meter when Amy is introduced. She’s got the double advantage of being well liked socially and running on a platform everyone loves, even if it has zero possibility of happening.
But if running for class president has taught me anything, it’s that reality and logic don’t seem to matter the way I was brought up to think they did. Amy Sarducci has the entire auditorium eating out of her hand.
“Softer toilet paper is something we can all get behind,” she says, with emphasis on the word behind.
Everyone cracks up. Need. More. Jokes. Quick, Stella, think of something funny!
My mind is a humor blank.
Amy, however is on a roll. A toilet roll. HA, HA, HA, HA. Maybe I can be funny after all.
“Junior year is totally stressful. We’re starting to think about graduation and what we’re going to do next. There are all these tests to take. So we deserve to chill out”—she winks as she says this—“with ice cream once a week, don’t you agree?”
Who wouldn’t agree with that? Her question is answered by wild cheering from the entire auditorium.
I am definitely going to come in last.
When Principal Hart calls my name, I’m so nervous that my ears can’t register the applause to judge how it stacks up.
I hold on to the podium to still my trembling fingers and center myself.
“When I decided to run for class president, I asked members of different school clubs to go out and talk to you guys about what you thought makes someone a good member of the Argleton High community,” I say. “Here’s a short video of your answers.”
I press PLAY on the computer, and Ricky up in the AV booth dims the lights.
I’ve included short clips of the difficult questions raised in our interviews. Instead of creatively editing the problems people raised, the video highlights them, and it ends with JUSTICE ISN’T FOR JUST US!—Vote STELLA WALKER—the Smart Solution for Junior Class President.
I debated leaving off Walker, because even though I love my family and I’m proud to be a Walker, our name’s been all over the news. But I realized I can’t run from who I am, and I don’t want to. I’m proud that my brother was willing to stand up for another person. He shouldn’t have punched Wade. He shouldn’t have broken his nose. But he was right to intervene. I’m not ashamed of him for doing that. It was the right thing to do.
Apparently, my name wasn’t a problem, because even though there are a few boos, there’s a lot of cheering going on in this auditorium right now, much to my dazed, overtired, amazement.
Ricky turns up the lights and I go back to the mic.
“Thank you. I want to add a few quick things to think about when you’re casting your vote. The first is that as much as I would love softer toilet paper, when our teachers have to go on DonorsChoose to get classroom supplies, let’s face it, anyone promising you’re going to get that is selling you a bum deal. And as much as I, too, would love to chill out with ice cream every week, same deal.”
What had been cheering and applause after the video turns into groaning and even some booing, until Principal Hart reminds everyone that they are supposed to be civil. One thing is for sure—telling people the boring, undeniable truth doesn’t go down nearly as well as telling them a complete fiction that they want to hear.
“I’ll finish by saying that Argleton High is already pretty awesome, but there’s always room for improvement, right? Together we can make it awesome for everyone. If you vote for me, I’ll do my best to make that happen. Thank you.”
Pretty good applause, I think. At least they weren’t groaning, and now that the speech is over, the ants have stopped feasting on my insides. I look for Farida’s face in the crowd. When I finally spot her, to my relief, she gives me a small smile.
“Nice job, everyone,” Principal Hart says. “Good luck with tomorrow’s vote. May the best candidate win.”
Ken texts me. I still think the other one would have clinched it, but you done good.
ME: Thanks.
Then I get a text from Farida to meet her in the girls’ bathroom nearest the auditorium. She’s there before me, sitting on the radiator.
“So … what did you think?” I ask.
“You were right. I should have trusted you,” she says.
“Well, you were right, too,” I tell her. “Because I was tempted to use the other version so I’d have a better chance of winning. Even though I knew deep down it was the wrong thing to do.”
“So why didn’t you?” she asks, meeting my gaze in the mirror.
“Because I’m lucky enough to have a best friend who isn’t afraid to tell me when I’m about to do something really stupid,” I say as I hop up next to her on the radiator.
“I’m lucky to have a bestie who isn’t afraid to listen to me when she’s about to do something really stupid,” she says.
We laugh, and I lean into her.
“It was scary getting up there and speaking,” I say.
“You didn’t look scared,” she says.
“Well, I was. A great big mass of quivering scaredy-catness.” I look down at our dangling feet, my black boots next to her identical ones, and get warm fuzzies realizing that she wore her BFF boots today, too, even though we hadn’t talked about it and she was mad at me. “Do you think I’ve got the slightest chance at all of pulling this off? Honestly?”
“I do,” she says, swinging her feet, heels thumping gently against the radiator. “I mean, the stuff with your brother has definitely complicated things, but I think you’ve got a chance.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” I say.
“Yup,” she replies. “By the end of school tomorrow. Come on, we’re going to be late for class.”
She hops off the radiator, pulling me along with her.
When we meet to go to lunch, things are still kind of awkward between Ken and Farida.
“I’ve been hearing great comments about the video,” Ken says.
“See, it was right not to use the other one,” Farida says.
“Yeah,” Ken says. “If Stella wins, that is.”
I can see another fight brewing and I want to try to end it before it starts.
“‘You can’t fight in here! This is the War Room!’” I say, deploying one of my favorite lines from Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.
Ken and Farida look at me and then at each other.
“Ouch. She Strangeloved us,” Ken says. “She’s using the heavy artillery.”
“I know,” Farida says. “But I guess it’s fair. We should call a truce. I mean, Stella had to speak in front of the entire junior class this morning.”
“And she did a good job,” Ken says.
“Um, hello? Could you stop talking about me like I’m not here?” I suggest.
Adam finds all this highly amusing.
“See, being a coach potato and watching old movies comes in handy,” I tell him. “You can’t learn useful quotes from brumating snakes. Or even worse, from not brumating snakes.”
“So I’m discovering,” he says, smiling.
That dimple should come with a hazard warning. It’s way too cute for safety.
As we head to the cafeteria, people keep stopping us in the hall to say how much they liked the vi
deo. By the time we get there, I’m starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance I won’t come in last place. Farida and Adam are even more optimistic.
“I think you could win,” Adam says. “I wasn’t sure before, but now I think you’ve got a fighting chance.”
“You know what I think,” Farida says. “You definitely have a chance. That video slayed.”
Wade, who has been walking behind us, starts laughing.
I stop and turn to look at him, trying to avoid staring at his nose, which has healed crookedly. Rumor is that he’s going to have to have a nose job but has to wait six months before they can do it.
“You think she can win? Dream on.”
“We don’t have to dream,” Farida replies, lifting her chin. “We can just vote tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Ken says.
“Chris’s dad is right,” Jed says, looking straight at Farida. “We should send you people back to where you came from.”
“You people? What does that even mean?” I say, glaring. “Farida is American.”
“You’re just an American by accident of birth,” she adds. “My parents chose to become US citizens.”
Chris walks up to where we’re standing, and I say this for his benefit as much as I do Wade’s and Jed’s.
“Jed, do you really think about the things you say, or do you just repeat whatever you hear on TV?”
“Says the sister of a psycho traitor,” Jed says, and in that instant, even though I’ll never be able to prove it, I’m certain that he was one of the people who spray-painted our house.
“Yo, Jed, chill,” Chris says.
“What do you mean, chill?” Jed asks, turning to him, even though the meaning seems pretty obvious to me.
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