Total Knockout Page 4

  “Now, as you all know, we had very spirited speeches this year, and the race for the presidency was close. Both Lucia Latham and Melanie O’Hare deserve kudos for their efforts. This race was close. But this year’s student council presidency goes to . . .” Ms. Jenkins paused again for dramatic effect. Keep a pleasant face, I told myself. Act gracious, no matter what. “. . . Lucia Latham!”

  I pumped my arm and cheered, “Yes!”

  As the others in my class openly laughed at me, I pulled myself together and thought, So much for gracious.

  Leaving homeroom I secretly wanted to walk the halls to throngs of “Congratulations, Lucia!” and “It’s great to have you back for a third year!” Or something. I don’t know why—it’d never happened in the past. I guess I hoped that maybe this year would be different. I had made history and thought that was worth something.

  Like a true best friend, Cooper was the first to congratulate me. He high-fived me in the hall when I passed him walking with Max, who yelled, “Way to go, Prez!” I didn’t want to think he said that just because he was with Cooper, but it made me smile anyway.

  Nicole Jeffries was the only other person at school who said anything to me, and that’s just because of the interview.

  “So, same time tomorrow morning, Madam President?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  I felt very strange. Like I was completely unsatisfied, which didn’t make sense because I had gotten exactly what I wanted. I started to wonder what would make me happy, and the only thing I could come up with was a little bit of recognition. I mean, if they took away the student council tomorrow, not one person, besides me, would care. But what everyone didn’t know was how helpful the council could be. Like with the homework thing, which I believed had been cut down a bit.

  “Hey, you okay?” Cooper asked after school before I got on the bus. I could see his mom’s new silver Lexus waiting to take him home. When I told Cooper I was fine, he asked, “You didn’t think you wouldn’t win, did you?”

  I shook my head, no. The truth was, I’d been rattled by Melanie’s ability to engage the crowd—the very thing I never could do. I know what she did was a little less . . . refined than the speech I gave, but I felt like I was looking at her more closely for the secret to getting people to care about what I did.

  And when I climbed onto the bus, Melanie was already there, saving me a seat, her pink flower slightly wilted but still bright and cheerful.

  “You did it!” she cheered, grasping my hand. “Not like everyone didn’t know you would, but . . . yay!”

  I was happy and knew I had to stop being so weird about the whole thing. I squeezed Melanie’s hand back and said, “I won!”

  She clapped her hands and hooted, and I felt all my anxiety go away.

  “Look! It’s President I Hate Fun,” Robbie called from the back of the bus—and back came the anxiety.

  “Shut up, jerk!” Mel snapped. Turning back to me as if nothing had happened, she said, “Want to go to the mall with me later? Beverly is meeting up with some guy she met and I need new shoes for volleyball try-outs. Oh, did I tell you? I’m trying out next week.”

  I was about to ask her if she thought volleyball would interfere with student council but decided not to. One, because I didn’t want to be a nag like my mom, but also because I secretly wondered if she’d stick with volleyball long enough to even be on the team. I felt bad for thinking that, especially after what she’d done for me. Instead, I told her I had a lot of homework and just wanted to stay at home.

  The day that I won my third junior-high presidential election, sealing my status as a history maker at Angus, I came home to find the house completely and utterly empty. I’m not saying that because I felt sorry for myself, but it was odd. Mom was always working; Dad was always not working; and Henry had exactly one friend, whose house he went to only occasionally.

  I went to my room and pulled my school stuff out of my bag and sat at my desk. I turned on my computer and arranged everything just so, like I normally do before getting down to work. I repositioned my framed, autographed picture of Nancy Pelosi, which Cooper had gotten me for my birthday, took out my notebook, and got to work on Important Project Number 1 for my final year at Angus. I hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Cooper. Not that I thought he’d tell anyone, or that he’d think it was stupid or impossible or something. It’s just that I felt that the more control I had over the projects, the better their chances of success.

  I got so involved in my research that I didn’t realize Mom and Dad were home until I heard them arguing in the kitchen. I also realized I was starving, but before I went to investigate, I wanted to see if Henry was in his room, away from the fighting. They’d been fighting a lot since Dad got laid off. I’d heard Mom tell him more than once that he hadn’t even tried to save his job. Dad said that maybe losing it was a blessing, which only made Mom angrier.

  I knew all the yelling had to be scary to Henry; it was scary to me. And even though he’s practically a boy genius, skipping second grade and now making all As in his advanced classes, Henry was still a kid, even if he was totally precocious.

  His bedroom door was mostly shut; I nudged it open. Inside, I found him lying on his stomach on his bed, reading a book. I could hear my mom telling my dad in a very loud voice that he could at least clean the kitchen, to which he said, “I’m going to!”

  “You okay?” I asked my brother.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “I’m just trying to read.”

  “Must be hard with all that noise. What are you reading?”

  He lifted the book up to show me the cover: There’s Just Something About Buddhism. “It’s teaching me to be centered, and truthful and, like, stuff like that.”

  “Oh.” I loved my brother, and he sometimes massively got on my nerves, but he was entering new territory for me here. I didn’t know whether to admire him for seeking a higher truth or worry that he was sliding off into the deep end.

  I turned to leave his room, and Henry said, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” I knew he was talking about the kitchen, and Mom and Dad. “Bad energy will exhaust you.”

  I quietly shut his door.

  In the kitchen, the argument was still going on. I was hungry, though, and wasn’t about to let their issues get in the way of my need for sustenance.

  “I just don’t understand why you have to buy expensive cheese and beer when we’re trying to cut back.” Mom said the word “beer” as if it were a curse word.

  “I wish you’d quit treating me like I don’t know what I’m doing,” Dad said.

  “Kind of like you knew what you were doing when you did nothing to save your job?”

  “How can I compete with some twenty-five-year-old kid with an MBA? It’s not like I—” Dad stopped when he saw me and ran his hand through his hair. When Mom saw me, she let out a deep sigh.

  “Honestly, William,” Mom said, lowering her voice and trying to sound calm. “I’m just saying we have to cut back. On everything.” She shook her head.

  Dad looked angry but beaten. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Fine,” Mom responded. “Could you please mow the lawn like you said you would while I start dinner?”

  Dad shook his head and muttered, “Good Lord.” He walked out the kitchen door that led to the garage, stopping to ruffle my hair on the way out.

  Mom took another deep breath, then turned her attention to me. “So. What do you want for dinner? Pasta sound okay?”

  I guess I was lucky that the one thing Mom knew how to make was exactly what I was in the mood for.

  As the sound of the lawn mower revved up outside, Mom looked at me expectantly and said, “Well? The elections?”

  I smiled. “Duh. I won.”

  “Congratulations! I knew you would, Lucia. And Melanie and Cooper?”

  “Both in.”

  “Good job. Are they excited about working with you?”

  “I don’t know,” I
said.

  Mom shook salt into the pot of water and said, “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just—well, Melanie didn’t seem excited about it. I just hope that she’s into it, and takes it seriously.”

  “What did she say when you congratulated her on winning vice president?”

  I scratched at some melted cheese on the counter-top. Dad had probably made quesadillas for lunch. “Nothing.”

  “She didn’t say anything?”

  “No, I didn’t say anything.”

  “Aha,” Mom concluded.

  “But if it weren’t for me, she’d never have won the vice presidency,” I argued.

  “Did Melanie ask to be vice president?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then.”

  I knew Mom was right. Maybe I should have been the one to congratulate her first. I should have even thanked her. Why hadn’t I? Probably because I was too wrapped up in myself.

  When Mom asked for more details about the election, I told her—about my slightly frazzled speech and how Melanie had tossed out toys to the student body. “To make matters worse,” I told her, “Ms. Jenkins told me that this year’s election was the closest in all her years at Angus.”

  “Hmm,” Mom said as she poured squiggly pasta into the boiling water.

  I thought about what that meant—what it really meant. “I guess part of me is relieved that I won, and maybe a little shaken that I almost lost. If Melanie had won . . . well, I’d probably be pretty mad at her for beating me. But the other part of me . . .”

  “Yes?” Mom asked as she slowly stirred the pasta.

  “I feel like nobody cares about the student council at our school but me. And it’s like everybody hates me because of that. They’re either barely talking to me or laughing at me about something I’ve done.” I thought of Robbie Cordova, throwing the pirate topper at my head that morning. “But then, they go ahead and elect me for president. Even if I won by a narrow margin, I still won. It makes me think, Well, do they like me?”

  Mom nodded like she understood. She’d always been a good listener. It wasn’t that I was closer to her than I was to Dad; Dad had taught me all about boxing and what it took to be a champion. He always told me it took heart, but my whole heart was in politics. And even though I won, I hadn’t been able to bring my passion for it to everyone else. But since Dad lost his job, I felt like he’d lost heart too. Mom nagged him for weeks before his company merged, telling him he better step up—that he should dress better, get to the office early, stay late, volunteer for extra projects. “There’s another guy just like you one county away ready to take over the whole department,” she’d tell him. But Dad never did any of those things, and never even bothered to worry himself about it. My dad and I used to be so tight, but not anymore. Even though he was always home, he didn’t seem as available as he used to be.

  “They voted for you,” Mom said, “because, deep down, they trust you. And, to be honest, I think people fear change. They don’t like what they don’t know. Maybe they saw Melanie as someone fun, maybe a nice change of scenery, but in the end, your classmates did what people always do—they stuck with what was familiar. Now it’s your job to show them that you can also shake it up, like maybe they thought Melanie did. Can you do that?”

  Could I? It was only what I’d been planning since the end of the last school year. I decided I could be like Pretty Boy Floyd—I was prepared to see my presidency through to the victorious end. What else had I been training, working for since sixth grade?

  BLUE JAYS . . .

  THE VIEW FROM ABOVE

  Predictable Elections Spiced Up

  BY NICOLE JEFFRIES

  What looked to be just another tepid student council election turned into a festive, if somewhat raucous, proceeding when presidential hopeful Melanie O’Hare showered the student body with freebies as if it were a Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans.

  “I just wanted to do something a little different,” Ms. O’Hare said after the assembly, her cheeks still flush with excitement. “Every year it’s the same old boring speeches that nobody listens to. Some people may not agree with what I did, but hey—it sure got their attention.”

  When asked if she thought she had a chance of winning this year’s election, Ms. O’Hare adjusted her adorable red beret and said, “To be honest, no, I don’t. Lucia Latham will definitely win, and she deserves to win. I would be honored to be her vice president.”

  When Ms. Latham was asked the same question, she responded with, “Naturally. There’s no one better qualified than I am.”

  Although a bit of humility might serve her well, we can’t gloss over Ms. Latham’s achievement. She is, after all, Angus Junior High’s only three-peat president, something we hope all future Blue Jays will appreciate.

  I won, and that was what mattered. I hadn’t done anything shady to clinch my final presidency, and given my competition, I did deserve to win. Nicole’s stories could be a little cutthroat, and I imagined the Washington Post would be glad to have her on its staff in ten years. Even though I totally didn’t agree with some of the things she wrote, I did appreciate the fact that she recognized my accomplishment.

  And how great was Melanie’s quote? After I read that I realized that I never had to doubt Melanie. The girl was loyal.

  A week after the election, I had an early-morning appointment with our principal, Ms. Jenkins, in which I planned to present to her my first—and biggest—goal of my final year at Angus. I knew it was going to be one of those things that the students didn’t go crazy over right away but would (hopefully) learn to love. That’s why I was doing this project first. Also, if I could get Ms. Jenkins to approve it, I would be a true trailblazer for the entire school district. No other student council president had attempted such a feat.

  Of course, I was also dying to know what the big student council fund-raiser for the year would be. Each year the student councils are in charge of raising money for whatever it is the school needs, but the eighth-grade class—the top class—gets the job with the biggest dollar amount and the most responsibility. I’d mentioned to Melanie that whatever we raised money for, I was going to do a bake sale.

  She wrinkled her nose and said, “Really?”

  I bristled. “Yes.”

  “I just thought you’d want to do something a little more . . . wow.”

  “There’s a reason why there’ve been bake sales for ages, Melanie. They’re classic.”

  I needed to get to school early the next day, so I asked Cooper if I could come down to his house—which is just five houses away—to box at six instead of six thirty. He wasn’t excited about getting up so early, but he agreed.

  I ran in the dark across the dew-covered grass, crickets still chirping and streetlights still on. Our neighborhood was an older one, like maybe thirty years old. We all lived in tract houses—cookie-cutter homes, as my mom once said—but since they’re kind of old, most people have added a porch here, a second story there, and they don’t look exactly alike anymore. The Nixons have added a lot to their house since their Mexican restaurant took off, like a cool brick walk to the front door, a bay window on the side, and full-on landscaping. Melanie’s house had fancy white shutters and the front door had been moved from the middle of the house to the side. Ours, though, looked like it probably had when it was first built—square, boxy, and in need of a paint job.

  I got to Cooper’s house just as he was opening the garage door. He yawned loudly and rubbed his eyes.

  “This is cruel and unusual,” he said.

  “You agreed to it,” I said. “Besides, it’s good for you. If everyone did all the exercise we did, there wouldn’t be a single diabetic person in our school. Type 2, anyway.” I made a mental note to say something along those lines to Ms. Jenkins.

  “I’m still sore from the other day when you went all Tyson on me.” He awkwardly tried to put on his hand wraps. They were kind of hard to manage, but Dad had taught
me how to wrap them right after he taught me how to jab. Cooper still hadn’t learned.

  “Here, give them to me,” I said. As I wrapped his hands in the blue fabric (mine were black, contrasting nicely with my pink gloves), I noticed how rough his hands were, but he kept perfectly still as I worked the fabric over them. He always watched closely and I wondered, on this morning especially, why my heart pounded a little harder than usual at the feel of his breath on me. I concentrated on the wrapping, and when I was done, his hands looked like a pro’s.

  He punched a fist into his palm. “I think this is my favorite part,” he said. “These things make me feel tough.”

  “You are tough,” I said.

  We put on our headgear, then tugged on our gloves and strapped the Velcro tight with our teeth. I pounded my fists together and said, “Ready for your next beating?”

  Cooper cricked his neck and said, “Girl, I got moves you ain’t even seen yet.”

  I punched the timer on the clock, leveled my gloves to my face, and said, “Let’s go, then.”

  Later that morning, dressed in a knee-length khaki skirt with a pink shirt and matching Keds, I sat outside Ms. Jenkins’s office, jiggling my legs, my folder balanced on my knees. I tried to hold still, remembering something Henry had said about containing your energy for positive use. Ms. Jenkins’s door was shut, and the school secretary, Mrs. Weeks, who had come in just behind me, told me to wait outside her office until she was ready for me. I wondered if she was even in yet.

  “We have an appointment,” I told her. “Seven thirty.”

  “I know, Lucia,” Mrs. Weeks said. “She’ll be with you when she’s ready.”

  Ms. Jenkins finally arrived ten minutes later, clutching her briefcase, folders, keys, and a cup of coffee. I couldn’t help but think that if she hadn’t stopped for that coffee, she’d have been here on time.

  “Come on in, Lucia,” she said, unlocking her office door and flipping on the lights. I grabbed the handle of my rolling backpack and followed her in. She dumped her folders and keys on her cluttered desk, turned on her computer, and sat back in her chair. “What can I do for you?”