by Josh Lieb
I lick my palms and smear some saliva under my eyes so Mom will think I’ve been crying, too. Perversely, that seems to cheer her up a little. It’s important to her that I care about the balloon.
“Oh, Ollie,” she moans, as she crushes me to her bosom. “It was our big surprise! We worked so hard!”
“It was supposed to win you the stupid election,” says Liz, who is kicking the tires of Mom’s car. I’ve never seen Liz look this sad before. I didn’t know she was capable of emotion this deep.
“I’ll still win,” I say, and Liz smiles a little. Maybe I won’t die after all.
“But that was such a funny lightning bolt,” says Mom. “I never saw a lightning bolt that was black before.”
“With fins,” says Logan.
“Yeah,” says Tati. “That was one craaaazy lightning bolt.” She holds her sides to keep from breaking a rib while she laughs.
She was the one who worried me, in the aftermath. I didn’t know what she would say to the FBI when they interviewed her. She was certainly close enough to know it wasn’t a lightning bolt that ruined my surprise, and, unlike the others, she’s too hardheaded to be convinced otherwise.
I shouldn’t have worried. I’d forgotten about her compulsive hatred for authority figures.
Agent Silveri said to her, “Tell me what you saw, little girl.”
And she said, “Go climb a tree, G-Man.”
So then he said, “What’s your name?”
And she said, “Your mother.”
He gave up after that. I suspect she does know it was a missile. And I suspect she doesn’t care. I think she likes a world that’s dark and dangerous and doesn’t make any sense. It’s like she was raised by vampires.
Right now Mom is shooting Tati a dirty look. “How can you be laughing? We worked so hard, and now it’s all for nothing!”
Time for Tubby to save the day.
I push myself away from Mom so she can see the rapturous smile I’ve constructed on my face. I want her to know I’m happy. “It was the bestest fireworks I ever saw,” I exclaim. “Better than the Fourth of July!”
And now “Mom” is happy, too, and hugging me again. “Oh, Sugarplum,” she says. “You make everything beautiful!”
“You tell ’em, Sugarplump!” shouts Tati.
“You’re the best Sugarplum ever,” says Liz, who is suddenly hugging me, too, from behind. Now Logan has squeezed in to hug me, too—tough to do for such a large girl. Somehow they’re all crying again.
If I ever manage to breathe, I just might get a chance to give my speech.
Chapter 38:
THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR
And here we are. A school auditorium, throbbing with the voices of a thousand students saving each other seats, tripping over each other’s feet, sharing pieces of bubble gum they keep expertly hidden from the eyes of teachers.
And here I am, sitting onstage next to Randy Sparks (again), who’s wearing a new blue blazer that actually looks kind of sharp. He’s smiling like he’s relaxed—Verna must’ve taught him that—but I notice he has to hold his knees together to keep them from knocking. He turns to me and whispers, “I’m nervous, Ollie.”
“Please don’t hit me, Randy,” I reply. “Not in front of everybody. Do it when we’re alone. It’s too embarrassing.”
I figure it can’t hurt to confuse him one last time, just before he speaks.
But it doesn’t work. He opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it. He nods, almost wisely. It’s like he’s learning something about me (or himself) while I watch him. He turns away from me and studies his speech.
There’s Tatiana, in the fifth row, writing dirty words on Logan’s arm.
There’s Megan Polanski, the ex-Most Popular Girl in School, staring daggers at her ex-best friends Shiri O’Doul and Rashida Grant, who are busy ignoring her. They decided yesterday that she “wasn’t cool.” Rashida’s the new Most Popular Girl in School. We’ll see how long she lasts.
There’s Josh Marcil, his fleshy freckled fingers smeared with chocolate, telling anyone who’ll listen that he found a toilet that’s full of malted milk balls. He must’ve crawled through the gap under the door.
There’s Jack Chapman, a few seats over, who should, by all rights, be sitting up here in my place. No matter who gets elected today, he’ll always be Jack Chapman. If anything, he’s become more impressive and all-American since he pulled out of the race. His shoulders seem wider, his eyes seem clearer—he seems to have grown up overnight. The only weird thing is the handkerchief he carries these days, and the way he’s always blowing his nose. Well, every great man has his eccentricities.
There’s Alan Pitt, whose acne had been clearing up until he called me “Sir Eats-a-Lot” three days ago.115 Now he scratches miserably at his face, which looks like he’s been making out with a slice of pizza.
I don’t see Mom, though I know she’s here, somewhere, to witness my moment of triumph. But there’s Moorhead, patting the seat next to him, which he’s saved for La Sokolova. She smiles at him from the aisle and pushes her way past Lanny Monkson (who is legally blind) to get to the proffered seat.
Agents Jablon and Silveri stand in the back of the room, glowering importantly. A few feet from me, Mr. Pinckney sweats at the podium, looking like he picked the wrong time to take an extra-strength laxative. “Thank you all for coming,” he says, “to what I think is the most important day on the school calendar. . . .”
I tune him out by turning up the sound on my earbud. It’s playing my new favorite song, Captain Beefheart’s “Yellow Brick Road.” I am wearing my favorite jeans and my lucky striped shirt, the shirt I wore when I fixed the Kentucky Derby.116
And so the speeches begin. The rising seventh graders start, from lowest offices to highest. Those ambitious souls who want desperately to be seventh-grade treasurer (even though the seventh grade has no money) stutter out their nervous little paragraphs and scurry back to their chairs. The audience pretends to be interested at first, but they soon look like they all wish they had earbuds of their own.
Sheldrake’s voice interrupts the song. “Sorry to intrude like this, Oliver, but I wanted to wish you good luck. Though I’m sure you don’t need any. I know this is important to you, and even if I don’t quite understand why, I’m glad you’re getting what you want.”
“I also want to tell you how grateful I am.” I scowl impo tently—he knows I can’t tell him to shut up. “I’m almost ready to come down now, and I really want to thank you for giving me this opportunity to get my head together.”
Get my head together—that’s Daddy language. I’ll have to give Lionel a stern talking-to when he lands. There will be no hippie talk in my organization.
“Anyway, break a leg and all that. I’m rooting for you from up here.” And the Captain resumes playing.
The rising seventh graders finish their turn, and Penny Trimble is at the lectern now, giving her pitch for why she should be eighth-grade class secretary. I tune down the earbud to hear what she’s saying. “. . . and, if elected, I promise to put pop117 in the water fountains. . . .” She laughs lamely. The audience laughs not at all, which leads me to suspect she’s not the first person to make that particular ancient joke today.
I’m laughing, but only because I’m polite.
I’m distracted by a rustling in the audience. Ms. Sokolov is out of her seat and desperately forcing her way out to the aisle, not even bothering to whisper “excuse me” as she pushes past Lanny Monkson (whose glasses are sent flying). Moorhead watches her go, cheeks flushed, mouth agape, eyes wide with terror. His face could be the international sign language symbol for “What did I say?”
What did he say? And then I remember that my last message to him had been rather rudely interrupted: TELL HER YOU LOVEHER—
I didn’t get to finish that one. I was distracted by the giant balloon, and the missile, and the huge ball of fire, and the humanity, and I forgot to correct the dictation. Well. Th
at must have been a pretty freaky thing to hear in a crowded school assembly. He must have sounded like a stalker. I guess that’s one budding romance thwarted. Which is too bad, because I thought Sokolov had a real shot at ruining Moorhead’s life.
Actually, by the look on his face now, I suspect she might have done it anyway. My lucky shirt strikes again!
Dylan Berger (a boy) makes his speech for eighth-grade vice president, and Dylan Krakowski (a girl) makes hers. And suddenly, it’s time for the main event.
“The office of eighth-grade president is the highest elected position we have here at Gale Sayers Middle School,” opines Pinckney, “and the two boys you see in front of you have waged a spirited campaign.” His eyes shift nervously for a second over to the Federal Agents standing in the back. “And neither of them have broken any laws . . . that I know of. So, you know, it’s really just a normal student-council election. Except for the mercenary battle in the parking lot, and that really didn’t have anything to do with anyone here. I mean, what connection could there possibly be?” He laughs nervously, then seems to realize it was perhaps unwise for him to stray from his written remarks. “Uh, anyway, they’ll be speaking in alphabetical order. Up first, Randy Sparks.”
Tepid applause from the crowd. Randy’s legs don’t work for a second; then he grits his teeth and wills himself out of his seat. He walks—not confidently, but purposefully, like he has to consciously think his way through every step—to the lectern. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His lips curl into a simpleminded grin.
Someone stage-whispers, “Go ahead,” from the audience, and then I see Verna, beaming at Randy from ten rows back, with a smile of pure faith on her face. Scott Sparks sits next to her, holding her hand, and he gives his son a thumbs-up.
It does the trick. Randy’s smile takes on the semblance of some intelligence. He begins: “I was eating a big sausage pizza at La Casa last night, talking to my dad about how it was time for me to buy a new pair of pajamas . . .”
Verna is good. Without even completing a sentence, Randy has just negated both of the rumors I started about him.
“. . . when Dad reminded me of something my uncle Dave, the fireman, said last Thanksgiving.”
Verna is very good. The weaker-minded of my classmates will believe that Uncle Dave can protect them from my fire-setting powers.
“Uncle Dave said that the most important thing he’d learned in life is that none of us is perfect, but that we should all strive to be the best person we can be.” He pauses self-consciously and glances down at the note cards in front of him. “I know I’m not perfect. . . .” he says, then he pauses and smiles, letting the audience know it’s all right to laugh. They do. “I know I’m not the most popular guy at school.
I’ve eaten so many lunches alone I’ve forgotten how to talk and chew food at the same time.”
He smiles again. The monkeys howl with laughter. It’s not that good a joke, but it’s charming. And it’s disarmed Randy’s greatest weakness—the fact that he used to be the Most Pathetic Boy in School. It’s not a liability if he can laugh about it.
Randy looks down at his notes and stops smiling. Verna has undoubtedly written look serious at this point in the speech. He makes a dignified face for the audience. “But this isn’t a popularity contest. It’s an election. And that means that even a guy like me has a chance.”
“I know sometimes it feels like we’re just kids, and we never get to do anything important. Well, what we’re doing today is important. We’re voting. We’re picking the people we want to lead us for the next year. And it’s not a joke. Our ancestors fought and died for the right to vote. That’s not a joke, either. Voting is what makes this country great. We were the first nation to say that all our citizens should get a say in how the government is run. Not a king. Not just some aristocrats or rich people. All of us. And when we vote, we’re saying, ‘Hey! What I think matters, too!’ When we vote, we make ourselves important.”
He looks like he believes it.
A quick glance at the crowd. The morons are eating it up.
This is dangerous. Belief is more contagious than chicken pox.
“We’re told that voting is a gift. That’s true. But it’s not just a gift that’s given to us. It’s a gift we give to our government. It’s our way of giving the government the benefit of our knowledge, of everything we’ve learned about the way things ought to be. It’s our way of showing we care about what happens to our school, our country, our world.
“When our parents vote, they’re not just saying, ‘I think this or that person should be president.’ They’re saying, ‘I love America.’
“And when we vote today, we’re not just saying, ‘I think Randy Sparks or whoever should be on student council.’ We’re saying, ‘I love Gale Sayers Middle School.’”
Applause. Deafening, resounding, sickening applause. It seems like everyone in the room is clapping except for Verna, who has her hands clasped to her breast and stares at Randy with shining, adoration-filled eyes.
Randy stares down at his cards long enough for the applause to die. Verna must have drilled this into him: “Give them time to settle. Let them hear your final words.”
Randy looks up as the last scattered claps come to rest around the room. “I could tell you I don’t care who you vote for, just as long as you vote. But that would be a lie. I want to be your class president. But whether you vote for me or my distinguished opponent”—a few unkind titters tinkle their way through the crowd—“I want you to know this: If elected, I will fight for you. For every single one of you. I will fight every day to make this school a better place. For all of us. That’s the duty of an elected official. And that’s my duty. By standing on this stage, I am starting the holiest journey of my life. The journey of democracy. And maybe I’m not the most popular kid in school, but I’ll tell you this . . .”
Pause. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .
“I love Gale Sayers Middle School!”
Applause. Ugly, resounding, redounding applause. Applause that bounces off the rafters, bangs against the walls, pounds against the stage like a wave. Applause and whistles and cheers and screams. The crowd is on its feet. On its feet! As Randy nods humbly and walks back to his seat, as he pauses for a hearty, heartfelt handshake from Mr. Pinckney. The crowd is on its feet! Cheering and stamping and clapping.
And there, amid the storm of that standing ovation, I finally see her. My poor mother, sitting in a dark black corner of the auditorium, looking confused and alone and dispirited. She’s the only one who isn’t cheering, bless her heart.
And my eyes slide over to Mom’s right. And I see somebody who isn’t supposed to be here.
Somebody who’d said he “wasn’t up to” coming to hear his son speak.
Somebody who is standing and clapping and stamping harder, louder, faster than anyone else in the room. Somebody whose face is alight with joy—who believes—who actually believes—every single insipid half-assed platitude that just came out of Randy Sparks’s weak little mouth.
Somebody who loves democracy. Somebody who believes in student government. Somebody who’s cheering for Randy.
And something inside me snaps.
Chapter 39:
MADNESS
There’s a buzzing in my ears.
It drowns out everything around me. I can’t hear Mr. Pinckney asking the crowd to resume their seats. I don’t hear him introducing me. But I see him nod in my direction and walk back to his chair. And I can feel the eyes of the whole room on me.
I am standing at the lectern. I don’t remember getting up or walking to it. I’m just here, suddenly, with this buzzing in my ears and all the eyes of the world on me.
I take out my speech. It is a heart-rending document of idiotic catchphrases, foolish thoughts, and appeals to sentiment. It was designed to make these people feel sorry for me.