ROSEBUD SWANSON FOR PRESIDENT OF THE FOURTH GRADE
Boy. That’d show everyone, wouldn’t it? If I was president of the whole entire fourth grade, I bet Maxie and Earl and I would never get picked on again.
The idea wasn’t totally impossible, you know. I mean, you don’t have to be cute or popular to run for president. It’s not an actual requirement or anything.
At school we have a poster of the presidents of the United States, and practically none of those guys were cute. George Washington even had weird-looking hair. I realize that weird-looking hair was in style back then, but I still think one of his friends should have pulled him over and said, “Hey, George. Change the ‘do.’ ”
Anyway, maybe it was just a coincidence, but at the exact same time the thoughts about becoming president were floating around in my head, my teacher read an announcement about the class election.
“There’s going to be a candidates’ meeting for fourth-graders right after school,” he read from the school bulletin. “Anyone who is interested in running for class office should report to room thirteen—that’s Mrs. Munson’s room—at three o’clock sharp.”
As soon as he said it, I got butterflies in my stomach and goose bumps came on my arms. The kind of goose bumps that don’t go away when you rub them.
“That’s today, right, sir?” I called out. “The meeting’s today?”
A couple of kids turned around and looked at me. They rolled their eyes as if they couldn’t believe a person like me would even think about running.
Judith Topper, the jerky girl who sits right in front of me, was one of them. The two of us aren’t that fond of each other.
“Yeah, right, Rosie,” she said. “Like you could really win an election. You’re not cute. And you’re not popular. Get a clue, okay?”
“Oh really, Judith?” I said back. “Well, if I’m not cute, then what does that make you? Repulsive or putrid? Pick one.”
Judith made a face at me. “Geek,” she said.
That’s when I really started to boil inside. It’s just not fair, that’s all. Why does being cute and popular have to be so important? Why isn’t it ever enough just to be a regular, average person?
There’re lots of us around, you know. In fact, almost everybody in my entire class is just a regular, average person. Some of them even wear glasses like I do.
Also, there are kids with crooked teeth and braces and dumb haircuts and big noses and ears that stick out. We even have two boys in our room who can put you to sleep just by talking to you.
I felt myself relax a little. Average. It’s not a bad word, really. It’s nice, in fact. Comfortable, sort of.
Norman Beeman caught me looking at him and blushed. Norman is one of the dumb haircuts. Also, he has fat, freckled fingers. And sometimes he wears yellow fishing boots to school. I would like to ask him about the boots, but Norman Beeman scares me a little.
He’d probably vote for me, though. Norman Beeman would probably love to vote for a person who wasn’t perfect or popular. I bet lots of kids would.
The more I thought about it, the better I felt about my chances. I mean, I was still really nervous about going to the meeting and all. But I was beginning to think that I really might give it a try.
Just then, Mr. Jolly told us to get out our history books. I looked down at some of the presidents pictured on the cover. For the most part, it was not an attractive group.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would feel like to win a school election. I pictured myself standing on the school stage giving a victory speech. I was holding my bullhorn and there was a giant American flag hanging behind me. I was thanking all the average kids who voted for me. Then I thanked the below-average ones, too. After that, I found Judith Topper in the crowd and I had a security guard drag her to detention.
Three o’clock came fast that day. When the bell rang, my heart was pounding faster than ever. I grabbed my backpack and ran straight to the girls’ bathroom. When you’re really, really excited about getting to a meeting, the worst thing you can do is be the first one there. It makes you look totally desperate.
I stood at the sink and washed my hands for a while. If you dry each finger with a separate paper towel, you can use up a lot of time. I would have been there longer, but Mrs. Galonka, the head custodian, saw all the towels I was using and started yelling, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
When I finally left the girls’ room, I walked as slowly as I could to room 13. Then I took a deep breath and went inside.
Mrs. Munson and Mr. Jolly were standing in the front of the room. There are four fourth-grade teachers at Dooley Elementary. But since Mr. Jolly and Mrs. Munson have been there the longest, they’re almost always the bosses.
Mr. Jolly smiled at me. “Rosie Swanson! Good. I was beginning to think that no one from my class was going to show up.”
Mrs. Munson went to the door and looked up and down the hall. “Are you the last of the stragglers?” she asked.
I didn’t appreciate being called a straggler, but I didn’t say anything. Instead, I went straight to the back of the room and sat down. The other kids were sitting nearer the front. I knew almost all of them.
Nic and Vic Timmerman were right in front of Mrs. Munson’s desk. In case you haven’t guessed it, Nic and Vic are twins. The weird kind of twins, I mean. The kind who don’t understand that they’re actually two separate people. Like if you call one of them, they both come. In first grade, when Nic broke his arm, Vic wore a sling. Also, they finished each other’s sentences, just like Huey, Dewey, and Louie.
One seat over from the Timmerman twins was this really cute girl named Summer Lynne Jones. That’s her real name, too. Summer Lynne. It must be nice to have a mother who doesn’t feel it’s necessary to name you after her dead Aunt Rosebud.
Two desks behind Summer Lynne Jones was this boy I went to kindergarten with. His name is Alan Allen. I’d like to make fun of it, but I have an uncle named Harry Harry. And besides, when you’re the best soccer player in the fourth grade, and you look almost exactly like Michael Jordan, your name could be Piggly Wiggly and no one would care. They’d just pat you on the back, say “Good game, Piggly,” and that would be that.
A girl named Louise the Disease was sitting next to the window. That’s not her real name, but she always has a cold, so that’s what everyone calls her. She deliberately sneezed on me in assembly last year. I reported her to the nurse, but no action was taken.
Roxanne Handleman was right behind Louise the Disease. I used to know Roxanne, but I don’t anymore. One time when we were in kindergarten, she came over to my house to play. She wore a nurse’s outfit and made me call her Florence. It was the longest afternoon of my life.
Next to Roxanne was this girl named Karla something, who I didn’t know much about. Then there were three kids from Mrs. Munson’s class. I didn’t know them, either, but they were acting really cool—like they were the “in crowd,” or something—so I decided not to like them.
Mr. Jolly grabbed a piece of chalk and walked over to the board. “Okay, let’s get started. I want to welcome everyone to our meeting this afternoon and tell you how glad Mrs. Munson and I are that so many of you have decided to run for class office.”
He took his chalk and wrote the words “President,” “Vice President,” “Secretary,” and “Treasurer.” Underneath each title he left room for names.
“The first thing we need to do is find out which office each of you wants to run for,” he said. “Let’s begin with president, okay? How many of you came here today to run for president of the fourth grade? Let’s see your hands.”
My heart started to pound again. I closed my eyes and secretly prayed that I would be the only one. When I opened them, Nic and Vic Timmerman were waving their hands all over the place.
Mr. Jolly looked puzzled. “Wait a second. You mean you both want to run for president? Do you really think that’s a good idea, guys? For two brothers to run against each othe
r?”
The Timmerman twins shook their heads. “We don’t want to run against each other, Mr. Jolly,” said Vic. “We want to run together. As a team. You know, the fourth grade will get two presidents—”
“—for the price of one,” finished Nic.
Mrs. Munson didn’t waste a second. “Oh no. No way,” she said flatly. “Absolutely not, gentlemen.”
Nic and Vic looked shocked.
“But why not?” asked Vic.
“Yeah, how come?” asked Nic. “It’d be perfect. We could do twice as much work as one president. And if one of us got sick, the other one could—”
“—take his place,” finished Vic. “It’d be—”
“—perfect,” said Nic.
Mrs. Munson crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, boys, but class president is not tag-team wrestling. We’re trying to teach you something about government. And in our government, there’s only one president. You two think it over, and we’ll get back to you in a few minutes.”
The Timmermans put their heads down on their desks.
Mrs. Munson moved along. “Okay, who else wants to run for president?”
I took a deep breath and started to raise my hand. That’s when Alan Allen’s arm shot into the air.
“Me! I do,” he said.
Then Summer Lynne Jones raised her hand, too. She fluttered her fingers and waved to get Mr. Jolly’s attention.
My insides went limp. Seriously. It was like somebody let all my air out. All this time, I had just been kidding myself about being able to win an election. Why would anyone vote for regular, average me, when they could vote for cute and popular them?
Mr. Jolly searched the room for more volunteers. I sat on my hands and slumped down in my seat.
Finally, he moved on. “Okay then. How about vice president? Who came here today to run for VP?”
Both of the girls from Mrs. Munson’s room called out their names. Then they looked at each other and crossed their fingers. I wondered if they would still be so buddy-buddy after the election.
When Mr. Jolly got to class secretary, Karla something and Roxanne Handleman both started waving. Roxanne tried to raise her hand the highest. Seeing this, Karla something got on her knees and stretched even taller. Finally, Roxanne stood on her chair.
Watching them made me embarrassed to be a girl.
Next came treasurer. Louise the Disease raised her Kleenex over her head. “Louise Marie Smythe!” she yelled.
As soon as she said it, the boy from Mrs. Munson’s class cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Robert Moneypenny! Robert Moneypenny for treasurer!”
Louise the Disease stared at him in disbelief. “That’s your real name? Your real name is Robert Moneypenny?”
The boy grinned and leaned his chair back on two legs.
Louise the Disease frowned. “But that’s not fair! Is that fair? His name is too good. It gives him an advantage.”
When Mrs. Munson said it was fair, Louise the Disease turned to Robert Moneypenny and coughed on him.
After that, there were only three of us left. Nic and Vic and me.
Mr. Jolly went back to the twins. “Have you two gentlemen decided what you want to do yet?”
Nic and Vic looked at each other and began raising their eyebrows up and down. It’s like they were talking in some creepy kind of “twin” language or something.
Finally, they looked up. “Treasurer and vice president,” they said at the same time.
Mr. Jolly picked up his chalk. “Okay. Fine. Which one of you will be running for which job?”
Nic shrugged glumly. “Who cares? What difference—”
“—does it make?” said Vic.
They were still figuring it out when Mrs. Munson glanced in my direction.
“What about you in the back? What office are you interested in? We’ve got lots of other things to discuss and we’re running out of time.”
Everyone turned around. That’s the bad thing about sitting in the back. Everybody always turns around.
I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I’ve never, ever been a quitter before, but …
“Rosie, please,” said Mr. Jolly. “We really need to know, okay? What office?”
I closed my eyes and bit my bottom lip.
“President,” I heard myself say. “I guess I’m running for president.”
3 ME AND
THOMAS JEFFERSON
It was Saturday, and as usual, Maxie and Earl and I were hanging out in Maxie’s garage. Maxie’s father has an old 1955 red-and-white Chevy that the three of us use as a clubhouse, sort of. Mr. Zuckerman thinks he’s going to fix it up someday. But Maxie says it’ll probably rust in the garage for another twenty years, and then some guy with tattoos will come haul it to the dump for fifty bucks.
Anyhow, while we were sitting there, Earl and Maxie were having this stupid argument about whether dogs were better than cats. I wasn’t joining in, though. I was still depressed about the candidates’ meeting. And I’m not one of those people who can act all happy when I’m not. Besides that, their stupid cat-and-dog argument was turning so idiotic it was embarrassing just to listen to it.
Earl kept saying that stinky cats needed stinky litter boxes. And Maxie kept arguing that bad-breath dogs drank from germy toilets.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Yeah, well, guess what? I hate this whole stinky, germy conversation. So why don’t you both just knock it off.”
Maxie and Earl looked at me. They had been trying their best to ignore my bad mood. But I could have told them it wouldn’t work. When I’m pouty, I am very persistent.
“Okay, fine,” Maxie said. “I guess we might as well get this over with. What the heck’s wrong with you this morning, anyway? Why are you acting like such a dingle?”
“I am not a dingle,” I snapped. “It just so happens that I have a lot on my mind right now. And don’t ask me what it is, either. Because I don’t want to talk about it.”
I waited for them to ask. But they didn’t. That’s the trouble with boys. When you tell them not to ask, they respect your wishes.
“All right, fine,” I said finally. “I’ll tell you. But when I’m finished telling you, I’m not going to talk about it.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay, brace yourselves …
“I’m officially running for president of the fourth grade.”
Maxie’s mouth dropped open. “What?” he said.
“You’re joking,” said Earl.
“No, I’m not joking,” I said back. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It makes me feel pukey inside.”
Right away, Earl started rolling down the windows to give me fresh air. He takes “pukey” very seriously.
“I’m not really going to puke, Earl,” I said. “If I was really going to puke, I would have done it by now. But you should hear who I’m running against. It’ll make you guys sick, too.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and said the names. “Summer Lynne Jones and Alan Allen.”
I was hoping that when I opened my eyes again, Maxie and Earl would be looking puzzled … as if they’d never heard of Summer and Alan Allen. But when I finally peeked at him, Maxie seemed almost as sick as me.
“Oh man. Not good,” he whispered.
“Not good?” said Earl. “Try hopeless.”
He reached over and gave me a sympathetic pat. “I feel your pain,” he said quietly.
For some reason, this comment made me totally annoyed at him.
“How, Earl?” I asked. “How can you feel my pain? Huh? Have you ever run for office against two of the most popular kids in the school?”
“Well, not exactly,” he said. “In second grade, I nominated myself for Cub of the Month. But unfortunately, as soon as I did it, the den mother rolled her eyes and said, ‘Get real, Earl.’ ”
Maxie couldn’t believe it. “Are you serious? That’s terrible, Earl. You told your mother, didn’t you? At least, I hope you did.”
&nbs
p; Earl stared at his hands awhile before he answered. “The den mother was my mother,” he said finally.
Maxie looked at him a minute. Then he totally cracked up. He doubled up into a little ball and started rolling all around the front seat.
“Not funny, not funny, not funny!” yelled Earl. But his yelling only made Maxie laugh harder.
Suddenly, I just wanted to go home. As I opened the car door, Maxie’s head appeared over the top of the seat. He had tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.
“Where’re you going?” he asked, trying to get himself under control. “You’re not leaving, are you? Come on, Rosie. Don’t go. We’ve got to talk about this.”
One of my feet was already on the garage floor. Maxie jumped out of the car and put it back inside. He closed the door again, then hopped back into the front seat.
“Listen to me, Rosie,” he said. “It’s good that you’re running for president of your class. You’re the one who’s always talking about how we should stand up for ourselves, right? So, go for it. It’s not as hopeless as you think. I swear. My father ran for town council last year, so I know a ton about campaigning.”
That didn’t really surprise me. Maxie knows a ton about everything.
“Your dad’s on the town council?” asked Earl.
Maxie squirmed a little. “What does that have to do with anything, Earl? There are more important things in life than just winning, you know. Winning, winning, winning—that’s all anyone ever thinks about.”
Earl looked at me. “He lost,” he said.
“So what?” snapped Maxie. “He could have won. The only reason he lost was that his opponent—this giant fardel named Leona Tisdale—went knocking on people’s doors at all hours of the night begging for votes.”
He frowned again. “Leona was a woman with no pride.”
He paused. “And one of those really huge flashlights.”
I reached for the door again. Earl was right. It was hopeless.
“No, Rosie. Stay. I know I can help you. I’m serious,” Maxie insisted.
More than anything in the world, I wanted to believe him.
I took my hand off the door. “How?”