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  Cooper “Gravy” Nixon just nailed me with a left hook to the shoulder.

  It knocked me back a step, but I regained my stance, my pink gloves on either side of my face. I needed to focus, but I kept thinking about tomorrow, when I’d become president of Angus Junior High.

  There’s nothing ordinary about thirteen-year-old Lucia Latham. She gets straight As, loves health food, and is a great boxer. Nothing is more fun than a good old sparring match with her best friend, Cooper, especially since she usually wins.

  What Lucia wants most, though, aside from a new job for her dad, is to work in the White House someday—and she’s on the right track. She’s been junior high class president for two years running, and as eighth grade starts she is about to be elected for the third year in a row, an occurrence she would like to point out is unprecedented. In short, there are few things Lucia tackles that don’t turn out exactly the way she wants them, and she has no reason to suspect that this year will be any different.

  But no sooner is she elected three-peat president than she’s nearly impeached! Also an unprecedented occurrence. What’s an ex-president to do—especially when it’s all her fault? Can Lucia rebuild her carefully constructed world in time to save not only her political reputation but also her own self-image?

  If you liked Total Knockout, then you’ll love Class Favorite.

  ALADDIN MIX Simon & Schuster, New York

  Cover designed by Jessica Sonkin

  Cover illustration copyright © 2008 by Bill Brown

  Ages 9–13 0908 www.SimonandSchuster.com

  TOTAL

  KNOCKOUT

  ALSO BY

  TAYLOR MORRIS

  Class Favorite

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN MIX

  Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2008 by Taylor Morris

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS, ALADDIN MIX, and related logo are registered

  trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Jessica Sonkin

  The text of this book was set in Bembo.

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition September 2008

  Library of Congress Control Number 2008929037

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-3599-5 (print)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4424-5929-8 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-3599-1

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  To the Lathams

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all the girls in my summer 2007 writing workshop who gave me brilliant advice and tons of encouragement, especially Sarah Deming, who is too smart and caring for words, and Bridie Harrington, who is as sweet as she is talented. Thank you Jeff Holland for the sports advice you gave that was crucial to the story. Finally, thanks once again to my editor Molly McGuire—New York will never be the same without you!

  Cooper “Gravy” Nixon just nailed me with a left hook to the shoulder.

  It knocked me back a step, but I regained my stance, my pink gloves on either side of my face. I jabbed right, narrowly missing his chin. He returned the punch, but I weaved around it, then went for an uppercut. Cooper dodged that, too, which frustrated me even more. I knew I was on the verge of losing control. We’d been knocking each other pretty steadily for three two-minute rounds, and we were both sweating and breathing heavily. I needed to focus, but I kept thinking about tomorrow, when I’d become president of Angus Junior High for the third year in a row, the first student to ever accomplish such a feat. Future generations of Angus Blue Jays would revere the name Lucia Latham.

  That’s me, by the way.

  I refocused my energy and upped my momentum, finally landing some solid body shots—and maybe even hitting my best friend a little harder than we normally allowed. But how could he blame me? I was all pumped up on the adrenaline of my final year at Angus Junior High and leaving my mark, my legacy, on our school. With each jab I saw my student council victory; with each hook I imagined my eighth-grade year a stunning success; with every uppercut, I envisioned my classmates cheering for my victory.

  I guess Cooper finally got frustrated at being smacked around—he is, frankly, stronger (although shorter) than me. He usually just dodges my punches or hits at half strength. I guess he’d had enough, because he pulled himself together and starting swinging back, landing one perfectly executed blow to my cheek. It barely hurt, thanks to the massive headgear our parents make us wear (which also protects our faces), but I still knew in those seconds right afterward that I needed a strategy.

  “Ow, Coop,” I cried, turning my back on him. “Shoot, that really stung.” I peeked over my shoulder. We’d been best friends since before we knew any better—you know, that it’s taboo or something for boys and girls to be just friends. By the time we figured it out, we were over it and thought everyone else should be too. Still, every so often someone decided to be oh-so-original and ask us when the wedding was.

  “You okay?” Cooper panted, taking a step toward me.

  “Man, you got me good,” I said. “Made me bite my tongue. I thought we said not in the face.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, resting his paw on my shoulder. “Does it hurt—”

  Turning quickly and deftly, I struck a solid punch into Cooper’s stomach. “Fooled you!” I pummeled his body as he twisted his torso, trying to block my ferocious punches. With each hit I silently chanted, win, win, win, win.

  “Cheater! That ain’t fair and you know it!” Cooper hollered as he blocked my punches.

  “And another one for bad grammar!” I yelled, jabbing him in the side.

  “Fine! I give! Stop it!”

  Seeing that he’d really had enough—his round cheeks had flushed a darker shade of red—I lowered my pink Everlast gloves (my prized possession) and wiped away the sweat trickling into my eyes with my shoulder. I extended my hands and said, “Good match, Coop.”

  He eyed me for a moment, sweat rushing down his own face. Finally, he lightly tapped my gloves back. “Yeah, you, too,” he sighed. “Even if you did cheat.”

  I pulled off my gloves and headgear and wiped my face with a towel that hung from a gray metal folding chair. The breeze from the open garage door of Cooper’s house instantly cooled my face. “Sorry about that. I’m just so pumped about the elections. Aren’t you?”

  Cooper grimaced. He was only running for secretary at my insistence. He knew how much this final year meant to me, and how much I needed him so that I didn’t have any opposition on the council. This way, with my two closest friends, Cooper and Melanie, by my si
de, I wouldn’t have any trouble making all the bold changes I had planned for this year—changes that wouldn’t just affect our school, but the entire school district. Besides, Copper was only nervous because he had to make a speech today. Even though he was running unopposed, Mrs. Peoria, the student council advisor, said he had to do it. The election rules clearly stated that everyone had to give a speech to showcase their abilities, so there was nothing I could do.

  “Well, I’m excited,” I continued when Cooper didn’t respond. “Starting high school next year will be like moving up in weight class. That means we have to really prepare ourselves for the next challenge. Now’s not the time to get soft.”

  “I guess,” Cooper said, obviously not convinced. He wiped his brow with the bottom of his shirt. I looked away from his exposed belly. “I just hope I don’t puke before I can get that speech out.”

  “It’s nothing, Coop. I’ll be right there beside you the whole time,” I assured him. But he didn’t look convinced.

  The first few moments when I got back from Cooper’s were always my favorite part of the morning. Our house was quiet, with everyone still asleep—we boxed at 6:30—and I always thought that maybe today would be the day Dad would announce that after two months, he’d finally found a job. Mom wouldn’t have to work until past dinner every night or nag so much, and things could go back to the way they used to be—easy, stress-free, and normal. Your everyday nuclear family.

  In those early-morning-light moments, I felt like anything could happen.

  But in two months, nothing much seemed to happen at all. Dad had taught me through boxing that being complacent meant imminent defeat. As soon as you stop moving, stop paying attention, that’s the moment you get popped.

  I put my gear in my bedroom closet, then headed for the shower. I loved the way boxing made me feel, during and especially afterward, when every muscle felt appreciated and worked, and my mind was cleared. I noticed in the last couple of months that I was developing some muscle on my arms and even my back, which I turned to the mirror to check out, flexing to get a better look. I always gave myself a good salt scrubbing, too, with this yummy stuff Mom got me that has eucalyptus and ginger in it. It was my personal reward for a match well done.

  After my shower, I dressed in my most respectable outfit for the student council speeches—navy pants and a bright red button-down. I’d assembled the outfit three days ago with special attention to colors. Red means power, strength, and passion, and blue represents trust, loyalty, and confidence—all things anyone would want in their leader. Plus, every politician I’ve ever seen on TV wore these same colors, especially during important debates. After combing through my short dark hair, inherited from Dad, I was ready.

  In the kitchen, I went to the cabinet for my bowl of organic bran flakes with spelt and flax but instead found something called Bran Bites—one of the few signs Mom was cutting back on expenses. Still, I poured a bowl and a glass of generic-looking orange juice (which did not taste as fresh or pulpy as our usual stuff) and sat down to read over my speech even though I had it memorized: When I am elected student council president, I will fight for your success, because I believe everyone here has the potential to be the best. Mom walked in, dressed in a turquoise top, slim black skirt, and black heels with a tiny peek-a-boo at the toe, and started the coffee. She was vice president of her company’s online division, and Dad used to like introducing her as the Web Master, which he thought was funny but she never seemed to.

  “Henry!” She yelled for my ten-year-old brother for about the millionth time before he finally shuffled in, wearing a black T-shirt with a big white peace sign on it. “You got your lunch money, Lucia?”

  I used to pack my own lunch—turkey on wheat, apple, tortilla chips, and water—but starting this year I decided to buy my lunch in the cafeteria. I thought it was important, as president, to show solidarity with the school.

  “Got it.” I scooped a spoonful of flakes, careful not to let the milk dribble down my chin. “What’s up with the cereal and juice?”

  “It’s the same as your other stuff.”

  “These Bran Bites taste like cardboard,” I mumbled as Henry popped a frozen waffle in the toaster.

  “You should skip that caf food,” Henry said, “and try my lunch someday. It’s probably more nutritious than that garbage they give you at school.”

  “Like I’d actually eat your Fluffernutter. Don’t the older kids make fun of you?” For someone who had skipped the second grade, you’d think he’d know better than to eat something with zero nutritional value. Our parents had always taught us about healthy food and how it nourished our brains and made us smarter. Since Henry and I were both somewhat overachievers, we usually bought it. Still, Henry was just a kid, and I guess some kids like that kind of “food.”

  “They don’t make fun of me. They want to be me.” He said this with utter seriousness.

  “For someone so smart, you sure are—”

  “Okay, you two,” Mom said, running a manicured hand lightly over the top of her hair. “Lucia, you ready for your big speech today?”

  Asking me if I was ready for my final junior high election would be like asking Pretty Boy Floyd if he was ready to fight Oscar de la Hoya—the guy had only been preparing for it his entire career.

  And guess how it paid off. Yeah. He won.

  But Mom wouldn’t understand or appreciate any boxing analogies—that was Dad’s department. She didn’t exactly like my boxing—she thought it was barbaric enough when Dad did it—so I tried to keep it under the radar, like boxing before she even got up.

  So in answer to her question about my being ready for the speech, I simply said, “Ready steady.”

  Mom tucked Henry’s completely nonnutritious sandwich into a Ziploc bag and muttered, “I wonder if your father plans on making an appearance at breakfast this morning.”

  Henry and I exchanged looks—we knew that when Mom referred to Dad as “your father,” it was best to keep our mouths shut.

  Mom deposited Henry’s lunch next to his toasted waffles. “William!” she screamed, walking back toward their bedroom. “Your daughter has a big speech today. The least you could do is get up and wish her luck.”

  It wasn’t Dad that I minded, or even Mom—it was the two of them together that wore me out. In the morning, you could count on the nagging and defending being heightened—usually because Mom had worked late and didn’t get enough sleep, and because lately Dad had a hard time starting his day.

  “I’m out of here,” I said to Henry, rinsing my dishes in the sink. “You’re on your own, kid.”

  “Take me with you!” he mock-pleaded.

  I grabbed my red plaid book bag, which I carried on special occasions when my rolling backpack looked too junky, and looked out the front window for Melanie. We always met on the corner to wait for the bus together. Cooper rode with his mom; their family Mexican restaurant, which they had opened last spring, was on the way to our school. She always offered to take me, too, but being president of my grade all these years, I felt it important to show that I was just like everyone else, and the school bus was good enough for me. Kind of like the cafeteria.

  “Hey, girl. You leave yet?” Dad called from the back of the house.

  “I gotta go, Dad,” I hollered as I opened the front door, carrying my book bag like a briefcase.

  “Well, hey. Good luck!” I saw him as I stepped out the door, standing in his boxers, his eyes still bleary from sleep. I waved before slamming the door and running down the street.

  It’s not that I didn’t want to see him. The truth is, it’s hard to see my dad like this, and I kept wondering when he was going to snap out of it. He used to run three miles almost every morning before we were even up, and he went to a boxing gym over in Weatherford several nights a week. He convinced Mom that I should learn the basics of boxing when I was eleven, not for violence or a workout, but for the life lessons it offered. She agreed only after he swore I wouldn�
�t spar in the ring with anyone, under any circumstances, but she still insisted I wear headgear and a mouthpiece, which made no sense because I wasn’t taking any punches. This past summer he promised to teach me how to work the speed bag, but then he lost his accounting job to some recent college grad, and his gloves have been hanging in the garage ever since.

  I waited for Melanie at the corner of my cul-de-sac. I looked at my watch and saw that the bus would be there any second, and still there was no Melanie in sight. I clutched my cell phone, ready to speed-dial her in case she was lingering in front of the TV, unaware of what time it was. My heart quickened as I told myself that she would make it—both to the bus and to school for her speech. Her dad left for work before the school bus came, and if she missed the bus, he’d usually call in sick for her. He’d done it before, and Melanie had missed a fair amount of school last year because of this. I didn’t know Melanie before her mom died three years ago, but I figured her dad’s nonchalant attitude toward her schooling was the result of suddenly being a single parent to two girls.

  Our student-council plan may seem a bit convoluted, but it really wasn’t. See, the election rules were changed five years ago, stating that you can’t run for vice president anymore, since the time a bunch of kids ran for veep but no one ran for prez. They just wanted the experience without the responsibility. So now you can only run for president and the other offices, and the runner-up to president becomes the v.p. I know this goes against the democratic ideal, but since nobody at our school cares about the council (besides me), I guess it wasn’t a big deal.

  That said, if Melanie wasn’t at school to give her speech, she would be disqualified from running. I would still be president, but my cabinet would be altered for the worse. I didn’t even want to think about the time when my sixth-grade vice president, Steven Francis, shot down my campaign to have electronic hand dryers installed in the bathrooms. Now every time I dried my hands with those scratchy brown paper towels, I felt like I was wiping my hands off with dollar bills. It was so totally economically, not to mention environmentally, unsound.