Rosie Swanson: Fourth-Grade Geek for President

  I didn’t smack him, though. Instead, I tapped him on the shoulder so he couldn’t ignore me anymore.

  “So, how’s the old campaign going, Al?” I asked. “Been working on your posters much?”

  At first, Alan stared at me like he was trying to figure out who I was. Then he shrugged and said, “Nah.”

  “Oh really?” I said. “Well, if I were you, I’d get busy, Al. ’Cause my friends and I have been working on my posters a lot.”

  Alan didn’t reply.

  “A real lot, I mean,” I added. “In fact, I’ve got two fifth-graders working on my campaign around the clock. Maybe you’ve heard of them. Earl Wilber and Maxie Zuckerman? Earl is like the best artist in the entire fifth grade. And Maxie’s practically an Einstein or something. So you can imagine the great poster ideas we’ve come up with.”

  “Gee,” said Alan. “I’m so worried.”

  “Yeah, well, too bad I can’t tell you what the posters are about, Al. But my ideas are so great I’m keeping them a secret until the ‘Meet the Candidates’ meeting tomorrow.”

  Alan took a drink and looked back at me. “Don’t call me Al,” he said.

  “Okay, fine. All I’m telling you is that I’ve got a great campaign going,” I said. “And that’s not bragging, either, Al. ’Cause my grandfather says something’s only bragging if it’s not true. And what I’m saying is all true. I’ve got an unbelievable campaign going. Seriously. I do.”

  Alan wiped his mouth. “I’m shakin’,” he said. Then he turned and ran back out to the soccer field.

  I smiled a little and leaned down to get some water. He could act as cool as he wanted to, but I could tell that I’d gotten to him.

  As I was drinking, someone tapped me on my shoulder. “What were you two talking about just now?”

  When I stood up, Summer Lynne Jones was standing behind me. She’d probably been listening the whole time.

  Casual as anything, I shrugged. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “It’s just that my campaign for president is going really great. And Alan’s getting a little worried, I guess.”

  I leaned a little closer to her. “I mean, it’s going really great, Summer,” I added. “Amazingly great.”

  I almost grinned, but not quite. “Well … ta ta, Summer. See you on-stage tomorrow,” I said.

  After that, I strolled away without even looking back.

  That afternoon my grandfather picked me up from school. My mother said I could buy a special outfit to wear to the candidates’ meeting, so Granddad offered to take me to the mall.

  When it comes to shopping, my grandfather and I get along a lot better than my mom and I do. That’s because my mother is always trying to buy me things a kindergarten kid would wear. Also, if I find two outfits that I really love, she hardly ever lets me get both of them. Not even if I cry and promise not to ask for another thing for the rest of my life.

  Granddad is way easier to deal with. He sits in a chair, holds my jacket, and goes to sleep. Once, a security guard thought he was dead and poked him with a plastic hanger.

  Not this time, though. This time I was so speedy my grandfather didn’t even have a chance to get comfortable. The outfit I wanted was right on the mannequin in the girls’ department. It was a red, white, and blue sweater with a matching navy-blue skirt. The perfect colors for an election.

  It looked great on me, too. When I came out of the dressing room, the saleslady whistled and said I looked like “a million bucks.”

  “I’m running for president of my fourth-grade class,” I told her.

  She grinned. “Well, in that outfit you can’t lose, sweetie. Right, Gramps?”

  Granddad frowned.

  “He doesn’t like to be called Gramps,” I whispered to the woman.

  The lady frowned back at him and said, “Cash or charge?”

  Anyhow, as it turned out, my mother loved the outfit I picked as much as I did. The next morning she even fixed my hair in a French braid and tied it with red, white, and blue satin ribbons.

  When I got to Maxie’s house, Earl said I looked like the Star-Spangled Banner. He didn’t laugh when he said it, so I knew it was a compliment.

  As we were walking to school, he dug into his jeans and held his hand out to me. “Here. I found these this morning. They were growing through a crack in my driveway.”

  He opened his fist. In his hand were two lucky four-leaf clovers.

  I started to take both of them, but Earl shook his head. “No, no, no. You only get one,” he said. “I need the other one to get through my own little problem today.”

  It made me smile. Earl almost always has some kind of little problem going on.

  “Well, I guess this is it, huh, guys? Today’s the big day, right? I hope my speech goes okay. I mean, I hope I don’t get all tongue-tied and say something stupid.”

  I paused and waited for them to tell me I wouldn’t. But as usual, they didn’t.

  Instead, Maxie held the posters and the bag of campaign buttons closer to his body. Even though the posters were wrapped in black plastic, he was worried that someone would see them.

  “Quit worrying, Maxie,” I said. “It’s too late for anyone to steal our posters or copy our campaign ideas now. My ideas are going to knock their socks off. That’s what my mother calls it when you really surprise people. She calls it knocking their socks off.”

  Maxie looked all around. “I hope so,” he said, sounding unsure.

  I gave him a shove. “We will, we will. And don’t worry about me dumping you guys after I win, either. Once I’m president, I’m going to make you my fifth-grade advisers.”

  Maxie forced a smile. He never stopped looking around, though. He was guarding those posters with his life.

  When we finally got to school, the bell was already ringing. Maxie was so relieved to hand me the posters and campaign buttons he practically shoved them at me.

  Meanwhile, Earl started acting even weirder than Max. Instead of taking off for his classroom, he stood in front of me, rocking back and forth on his feet. It was like there was something he wanted to tell me, but he just couldn’t get it out.

  Finally, he just blurted, “Good luck,” and he rushed through the door.

  When I looked around, Maxie was gone, too.

  The candidates’ meeting was at nine-thirty. Mr. Jolly dismissed me at nine o’clock so I could “go freshen up and get ready.” In a way, it was sort of insulting. I mean, couldn’t he see that I was already ready? My hair was beautiful and I was dressed like the Star-Spangled Banner. How much better could I possibly look?

  I didn’t make a big deal about it, though. I just went into the girls’ bathroom and sat on the sink for a while. Then, finally, I wandered over to the media center.

  Nic and Vic Timmerman were already there. Their hair was all slicked down with gel and they had on matching bow ties. They were searching for their name tags on their seats at the long candidates’ table in the front of the room.

  I thought about talking to them. But then Louise the Disease came in, so I talked to her instead. I know this sounds mean, but I’d rather catch a cold than be seen with two bizarros like Nic and Vic.

  One by one, the audience started to arrive. As they did, the other candidates came in and found their seats at the big table. When everyone was finally seated, all the candidates for class secretary were at one end, and all the presidents were at the other end. The treasurers and vice presidents were in the middle.

  Summer Lynne Jones sat in the chair on my right at the very end of the table. Even though it was sort of chilly outside, she was wearing sandals, a straw hat, and a bright yellow sundress. I think she wanted to look “summery.”

  “You look like a flag,” she said when she sat down.

  “Thank you,” I answered. But this time I was sure it wasn’t a compliment. Competitors never compliment each other on the way they look. Like you never hear a boxer get into the ring and say, “Yo, Rocky … love your shorts.”

  Ala
n Allen was the last candidate to arrive. He strolled in the room acting totally cool and sat down on my left. He waved to a couple of his friends and snickered, sort of. But when I turned to look at him, he looked away.

  All of a sudden, Mrs. Munson clapped her hands together to begin the meeting.

  “May I have your attention, please?” she asked. “As your teachers have explained, this morning we are going to have an opportunity to meet the candidates running for class office. During the past few days, we have been talking to you about the political process and how it works. As we have told you, the job you have as voters is the most important job there is. You have the awesome responsibility of choosing the best person for each office. So it’s up to you to find out as much about the candidates and their views as you can.

  “This morning the candidates are going to introduce themselves to you and tell you a little bit about themselves and their campaigns. We will begin with Roxanne Handleman, who is running for class secretary.”

  Roxanne gasped. “No,” she said. “No way!”

  Mrs. Munson frowned. “Excuse me, Roxanne?” she asked. “Is there something the matter?”

  “Why me? Why do I have to go first?” asked Roxanne. “How come we can’t just raise our hands when we’re ready to talk? I thought we were gonna get to raise our hands.”

  Mr. Jolly walked over to Roxanne and leaned down. “There’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said quietly. “We just want to know a little bit about you and why you’re running. We talked about this before, remember?”

  “Yeah, I know. But nobody said I had to go first. I thought we were gonna get to raise our hands. The first one always flubs up.”

  Mr. Jolly narrowed his eyes. “Roxanne. Please. Just go.”

  Roxanne stood up. “Okay, okay. I’ll go. But I still don’t think this is fair.”

  She took a deep breath. “My name is Roxanne Handleman and I’m running for class secretary because, well … I don’t exactly know why. I just wanted to, that’s all. I mean, no one told me I had to have a reason. But lots of people do stuff without knowing why. That doesn’t mean they’re not good at it, though. Like my brother can’t stand to have his vegetables touching his meat. But that doesn’t mean he’s not a good eater. And so I’d be a good secretary, too, probably. It’s just that I didn’t know I needed a reason.

  “The end,” she said.

  She sat down, put her head on the table, and covered up with her arms.

  Next to her, Karla something jumped right up. She didn’t even wait to be called on.

  “My name is Karla Ungerman and I’m running for class secretary because my mother—Mrs. Sharla Ungerman—is a secretary at the high school and she’s teaching me how to type. Also, I’m very organized. Plus, ever since first grade I’ve gotten straight A’s in English and penmanship.”

  Karla sat down for a second, then popped right back up again. “Oops! I almost forgot—I also get straight A’s in spelling.”

  This time when she sat, she smoothed her dress neatly and lowered herself gracefully into her chair.

  Roxanne raised her head. “Big whoop,” she snapped.

  The candidates for treasurer came next. Louise the Disease held up her new calculator for everyone to see. “I just got this for my birthday and I already know how to use it,” she said.

  After that, she turned to Robert Moneypenny and smirked. “Even the memory feature, Robert,” she said.

  Robert leaned his chair back on two legs and raised his fists in the air. “ROBERT MONEYPENNY FOR TREASURER!” he shouted out.

  After that, all the boys started waving their fists, too, and making that stupid gorilla noise. The one that sounds like “hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo.”

  During the commotion, Vic Timmerman stood up and blurted, “I’m Victor Timmerman and I’m a whiz with numbers.” But I’m pretty sure no one heard him.

  I don’t remember what any of the candidates for vice president said. By that time, I was too nervous to pay much attention. All I know for sure is that when we got to the presidents, Summer Lynne Jones said a few words about how she’d be our friend in government, and then she tossed her long blond hair around for a while.

  When it finally got to Alan Allen, the room practically went wild. I mean it. His friends started chanting his name and they wouldn’t stop.

  “Allllan … Allllan … Allllan … Allllan … Allllan …”

  After a while, Alan raised his hands to quiet the crowd. A second later, he pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and began to read:

  “ ‘A Campaign Poem,’

  by Alan Allen.

  The French fries are fine,

  The fruit cup is better.

  But don’t eat the peas,

  Or you’ll ralph on your sweater.”

  He looked up from his paper and started clapping for himself. “Alan Allen for better lunches!” he shouted.

  I fell off my chair.

  6 HARD FEELINGS

  I caught myself before I hit the floor.

  “Hey! Wait a minute! Hold it! That was my poem! He stole it, Mr. Jolly! He stole my poem!”

  I stood up and stamped my foot. Mrs. Munson rushed up to the candidates’ table and ordered me to sit down again. I guess I must have done it, but I really don’t remember much. I was boiling over inside. Madder than I’ve ever been in my whole life, I mean.

  The meeting came to a quick close. Mrs. Munson and Mr. Jolly met with Alan and me. Just the four of us.

  “Tell us about the poem, Alan,” Mr. Jolly said.

  As usual, Alan tried to act real cool and all. But he finally admitted that the poem was mine.

  “I didn’t really steal it, though,” he said. “I just borrowed it, sort of. Just to recite at the meeting today.”

  “Borrowed it?” I yelled. “You don’t borrow a poem, Alan. I didn’t even give you permission. You stole it!”

  “I did not! I didn’t steal anything,” he insisted. “One of your friends spouted it out all over the place. If you don’t believe me, just ask him. It’s that geeky fifth-grader you hang out with. And anyway, my father told me that in political campaigns, people use each other’s ideas all the time. So I thought it would be okay.”

  Mr. Jolly rolled his eyes. “Stealing a poem wasn’t what your father meant, Alan. I think you know that. The poem was Rosie’s. You owe her a big apology.”

  I stamped my foot again. “No, Mr. Jolly! No! I don’t want an apology. I want Alan to drop out of the race. I worked hard on my campaign about cafeteria food, and now everyone will think that I’m copying him! He shouldn’t be able to run. He just shouldn’t.”

  Mr. Jolly stared at Alan some more. Mrs. Munson just sat there tapping her foot. I mean, please! What was there to think about? Why didn’t they just kick him out?

  Mr. Jolly ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know, Rosie,” he said. “We all agree that it was wrong that Alan recited your poem. But I’m not sure we should make him quit the race.”

  He looked at Mrs. Munson. “I’m not even sure we can forbid him to campaign for better cafeteria food.”

  A knot formed in my stomach. “Yes! You can! You’re teachers. You can forbid anything you want to.”

  Mrs. Munson sighed. “The thing is, Rosie, Alan’s father may be right about this. This is politics. And in politics, if one candidate comes up with a good idea, you can’t forbid the other candidates from using it, too.”

  “You need to understand this, Rosie,” Mr. Jolly said. “Let’s say that two men are running for president of the United States, and one of them decides he’ll lower taxes. Well, if the other candidate thinks that lowering taxes will be a popular idea with the voters, then he might begin to campaign for it, too. In our system, he’s allowed to do that.”

  I turned my eyes away from him.

  Mrs. Munson took over from there. “Mr. Jolly is correct, Rosie,” she said. “And while we certainly won’t let Alan use your poems or copy your poster ideas, he is all
owed to campaign for better lunches. If Alan thinks it’s a good idea, then he’s allowed to jump on the bandwagon, so to speak.”

  Alan was practically puffing out with glee. You should have seen him. You could have popped him with a pin.

  “I’m sorry I recited your poem,” he said. “But I still like the idea about making the cafeteria food better. No hard feelings, okay?” he said.

  “Oh yes, there are, Alan,” I replied. “There’re lots of hard feelings. More hard feelings than you can even count.”

  After that, I narrowed my eyes at Mrs. Munson and Mr. Jolly. And I walked out of the room.

  I saw Earl on the playground at recess. He was crouching behind a tree trying to hide from me. It was all the confession I needed.

  I took off running in his direction.

  “You can’t hide from me, Earl! I know it was you! I’m coming to kill you, Earl.”

  Maxie was standing next to him. When he saw me coming, he backed up a little bit.

  By the time I got to the tree, Earl had put his sweater over his head. I yanked it off him and crouched down next to his face.

  “IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SECRET, EARL! IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SECRET!”

  Furiously, I took his four-leaf clover out of my pocket and threw it at his face.

  “No wonder you wanted me to have this! No wonder you needed one for yourself! You and your ‘little problem.’ You were hoping I wouldn’t find out, but I did!”

  “Stupid clovers,” muttered Earl quietly. “I knew that good-luck junk was a bunch of hog-wash.”

  Finally, he looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I’m really, really sorry. But they made me tell them. They did. I swear.”

  I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. That’s how mad I was. And disappointed, too.

  “Who, Earl?” I managed. “Who made you tell? Who made you ruin my whole entire campaign?”

  His answer took me by surprise.

  “Summer Lynne Jones,” he said. “Summer Lynne Jones and that friend of hers with the long black hair. They ran up behind me while I was walking home from school yesterday and started asking a bunch of stuff about your campaign.”