“She’s not a candidate!” insisted Mr. Shute.
“I know I’m not,” said Jenna. “But I’m supposed to speak for the Mouse. I have a written paragraph. Mine is labeled ‘Number One,’ so I think I’m supposed to go first.”
“Let me just . . . you know, for the lighting . . .” Lena arranged Jenna behind the podium, adjusting the microphone so that her quiet voice would be heard loud and clear.
“To your seats, students,” called out Mr. Platt cheerfully. “We have another speech. What a great day!”
The sixth graders were curious enough to see what the Mouse had to say that they sat back down. Maggie positioned the robotic mouse directly next to Jenna so that it seemed as if the Mouse was truly speaking.
Jenna looked down at her note card, unable to meet the gaze of her classmates. She began to read:
My fellow Oda Mice. I have lived in the walls of this school for many years, and I have watched as many changes have taken place. Our numbers have grown smaller, our town has grown poorer, and after this year, Oda M will be no more. But most distressing of all is that we ourselves have become so accustomed to creeping about, silent when we might be heard, hidden when we might be seen, living our lives in the dark. We accept things the way they are. We have lost hope that tomorrow could be better than today. George Bernard Shaw once said, “You see things; and you say ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were; and I say, ‘Why not?’”
Jenna sneaked a peek at her classmates, who were all sitting quietly. “Why not?” she repeated. Then she stepped away from the microphone, and her voice was surprisingly strong, even without amplification. “That’s where it ends. But I think there might be more?” She scanned the audience.
Lyle stood up, holding a white index card—which had a small corner nibbled away. “Mine says ‘Number Two,’ so I guess that’s me.”
“Mr. Whittaker!” Mr. Shute took a step forward. “You are not wearing assembly attire. No tie, no speech.”
“Here, dude,” said Tyler, who was still up onstage with the other candidates. “Mine’s a clip-on!” and he quickly ripped off his own tie and lobbed it across the stage. Lyle managed to hook the clip-on tie over the neckline of his T-shirt.
“We’re good?” asked Lyle. “Rules is rules, right, Mr. S? Okay, Number Two. The Mouse speaks!” Lyle looked closely at the index card. “Right. Okay. ‘Why not?’ That’s what the Mouse asked us.”
Then his voice became very serious and he read aloud:
Why not have a student council instead of just one class president so that more students can be involved in running our school? Why not let the students make some real decisions, like who they sit with at lunch? Why not at least keep the library unlocked, trusting that kids won’t steal the books? Why not?
Lyle looked up. “That’s it. It just stops there. Anyone else?”
Everyone in the auditorium looked around. Would someone else step forward? Or had the Mouse fallen silent?
Colt broke from the line of other candidates and moved toward the podium. “I’ve got the third card,” he said, holding it up. “And I’ve got a tie, so I guess I’m allowed to speak.” He looked at Mr. Shute with just the slightest cock of his head.
“A candidate cannot deliver a speech for another candidate!” insisted Mr. Shute. “That would be absurd.”
“Principal Shute,” said Mr. Platt with grave deference in his voice. “We have a six-foot-tall robotic mouse on stage. I believe we’ve already crossed that line.”
“It’s super short,” said Colt, moving to the podium with more confidence than he had shown for his own speech. Without waiting for Mr. Shute’s go-ahead, he launched in:
Students of Oda M: A vote for the Mouse is a vote for each and every one of us. Because we all have a responsibility. We all need to be involved. We all need to ensure that government of the mice, by the mice, and for the mice shall not perish from the earth.
Maggie pressed two buttons on the controller, and the robotic mouse lifted both arms in the sign of victory. Lena said, “Oh! It’s poetry in motion!” The sixth graders went wild, cheering and stomping and high-fiving each other. Mr. Shute stared at the rebellious mob and, in perhaps the wisest move of his administration, exited backstage.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ELECTION DAY BEGAN WITH AN ARGUMENT. Actually, it began with voting, immediately followed by an argument.
First thing in the morning, all the students placed their votes safely inside the official, locked ballot box. But then the question was: Who would guard the box until the counting took place at lunch? The members of the Election Board had various suggestions, and they were “discussing” them in the conference room.
Mr. Platt suggested that the person who held the key to the ballot box (Mr. Shute) should not be the one to retain possession of the box during those few critical hours.
“Are you saying I can’t be trusted?” shouted Mr. Shute. The entire Election Board was crowded into the small conference room, and Mr. Shute fired his words across the table as though they were missiles that could blow Mr. Platt to bits.
“I’m saying,” Mr. Platt responded evenly, “that the perception of an election can be as important as the results of an election. And where this particular election has been somewhat—irregular—it would be wise to go the extra distance and remove any whiff of impropriety.”
“Whiff?” Mr. Shute asked menacingly. “Are you saying I smell?”
“Oh, for the love of Christmas,” said Mrs. Dornbusch, standing up abruptly. She had been playing Super Stickman Golf on her iPhone for the past ten minutes. Reaching across the table, she grabbed the box and headed for the door. “I’ll keep it. The rest of you are a bunch of—eleven-letter word that means cave dweller, plural. You can’t be trusted with a dull stick.”
Mr. Shute smacked the conference table with his copy of the election handbook. “Mrs. Dornbusch, put that box down. You have no authority, no mandate, no standing—”
“That’s exactly the point!” she countered. “I’m the only one in this room who doesn’t give a lick who wins this election. I. Don’t. Care. Which makes me the perfect member of this ridiculous Election Board to guard the box.”
She continued to the door, but Mr. Shute blocked the exit. “You are not leaving with that box!” he said resolutely.
Uh-oh, here it comes, thought Maggie. Her calculations from the first day of school were about to be put to the test. Newton’s second law of motion (force equals mass times acceleration). Mrs. Dornbusch was about to be obliterated. Right before their eyes!
The B-1 Bomber stood toe-to-toe with Principal Shute and drew herself up to her full height, staring down at him as if he were a flea. “Listen to me, you spineless bully,” she hissed. “I have arthritis, osteoporosis, poor circulation, and a heart murmur. If you don’t move out of my way this instant, I’ll claim injuries that haven’t even been named yet and sue you from here until Judgment Day. Now step aside!” And she swept out of the room with the ballot box under her arm.
Mr. Platt wriggled out of his chair, avoiding Mr. Shute’s eyes. “I suppose this meeting is adjourned,” he said.
Mr. Shute stood tapping the Official Odawahaka Middle School Handbook for Student Elections against the table. His eyes narrowed. He stared hard at Maggie. She felt like his eyeballs were actually cutting into her skin.
“This isn’t over,” he said. “This has just begun.” Then he marched out of the conference room.
Maggie exhaled. She had been holding her breath without even realizing it.
Mr. Platt shook the change in his pocket. “I should probably start looking for another job,” he murmured, staring at the door as if he thought one might be waiting for him around the corner.
“Oh, Mr. Platt,” said Lena sorrowfully.
Maggie felt awful. “The robot mouse was incredible,” she said, trying to console their math teacher.
Mr. Platt smiled. “Yes. Yes, it was. And we’ll always remember that, right? In dark days, in difficu
lt times, we’ll remember what we made, what we built, with our hands and our hearts, and we’ll take pride in that. Because no one can take that away from us.” He smiled again, but seemed lost in thought. Then he whispered, “Troglodytes. An eleven-letter word for cave dweller, plural.” He shook his head ruefully. “It was fun.” They could hear his footsteps fade away in the empty and echoey corridor.
“Ugh!” shouted Maggie. “Now what? The Barn Stormer has the ballot box. Mr. Shute has the key and looks like he’s plotting to murder someone—quite possibly me. We’re both on surveillance tape, and our only source of revenue has been shut down permanently. And Mr. Platt is going to get fired, thanks to us.” She was pacing the length of the conference room, but Lena was surprisingly still.
“Not exactly what we’d planned, is it?” said Lena. She looked thoughtful, but not terribly disturbed.
“Lena!” said Maggie in a panic. “The Mouse is going to win! It’s going to win the election. What are we going to do then?”
Lena took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “I don’t know. But not knowing something is not the worst thing on earth, Maggie, despite what your scientist brain tells you. We’ll figure it out. And we’ll do it together.”
During lunchtime, Maggie and Lena were ushered into the conference room by Mrs. McDermott. No one else from the Election Board was there. Both girls carried cafeteria trays of Chicken ’n’ Waffles with mashed potatoes and broccoli. The waffles were already soggy.
“How bad do you think this is going to be?” asked Maggie.
“From the smell of it, pretty bad,” said Lena.
“No, I mean the meeting, not the food.”
“Oh,” said Lena grimly. “I brought my camera—to photograph the bodies as they’re carried out.”
Before either of them sat down, the other three members entered: Mrs. Dornbusch and Mr. Platt, followed by Principal Shute. It was obvious that they had already been meeting, perhaps in Mr. Shute’s office, and that not one of them was happy with the way the meeting had gone. Mrs. Dornbusch carried the ballot box.
“Give me that,” said Mr. Shute, holding out his hand to Lena. Confused, she pushed the tray of food over to the principal.
“No! Not that. Your camera.”
“N-o-o-o,” she said slowly. “It’s my camera.”
“I won’t have any photographs taken. Give it to me now.” Maggie knew that he might just as well have asked Lena to tear out her heart and hand it to him. “This nonsense has gone on long enough.”
“Why don’t I hold it for you, Lena?” said Mr. Platt kindly. “I’ll just keep it right here, on the table, where you can see it.”
“You will not!” said Mr. Shute. He moved toward Lena but was blocked by several chairs that were in his way. Lena shrank away from him, moving toward the far end of the table.
Mrs. Dornbusch leaned over to Lena and whispered in a growl, “A famous guy once said, ‘Never wrestle with a pig. You get dirty, and besides, the pig likes it.’” She held out her claw. Lena hesitated, then placed the camera gently in the Dragon’s hand.
“Let’s get this over with,” snarled Mrs. Dornbusch, sliding the official wooden ballot box down the length of the table to Mr. Shute. “I’ve got an appointment to have my bunions shaved.”
There were seventy-one students at Oda M and seventy-one ballots cast. Mr. Shute read each vote aloud, then passed the ballot to Mr. Platt, who confirmed it with a nod of his head. Maggie and Lena recorded each vote on their separate tally sheets. At the end of the tabulation, Maggie and Lena added up the votes, made sure their totals matched, and handed the sheets to Mr. Shute.
There was no controversy about the final results: Kayla received nine votes; Stevie Jencks, Stephanie Himmelberger, and Amy Flitt each received two; and Tyler Grady received four. The Mouse received fifty-two. It was a landslide by any definition of the word.
“So,” said Mr. Shute, gathering the ballots together in a neat pile and placing them in the pocket of his coat. “This vote never happened, and anyone who says otherwise will be completely and utterly destroyed.” He turned first to Maggie.
“Maggie, I’ve reached out to the admissions department at MIT. Enough said? The videotape is safely in my possession.
“Lena, I looked into your family’s background. It’s problematic, wouldn’t you say? But perhaps it explains a few—oddities. I’m sure I can count on your cooperation.
“Paul. Make no mistake about it: you have always been expendable. In fact, I already have somebody lined up for your job.”
Lena reached over and grabbed Maggie’s hand. Maggie wasn’t sure whether Lena was asking for support or giving it. In the end, it didn’t really matter.
“And Mrs. Dornbusch.” Mr. Shute turned to the Barn Stormer, who was leaning back in her chair with both hands clasped comfortably across her stomach. She gave the appearance of being on the verge of dozing off, as if she were watching a fairly dull program on TV, long after midnight.
“Oh, Shout,” she said, rousing herself slightly. “Let’s not pretend you can threaten me. I’m bulletproof.”
“It’s true I can’t fire you,” conceded Mr. Shute. “But make no mistake. I can make your last year at Odawahaka Middle School one you will never forget.” He leaned forward, the knuckles of both hands resting on top of the massive conference table. Maggie thought he resembled a gorilla, except that gorillas have an unmistakable look of intelligence in their eyes.
Mrs. Dornbusch allowed her gaze to drift to the ceiling. “Sometimes I feel as though no one listens to me. I. Don’t. Care. Rig the election. I don’t care. Fire Paul. I don’t care. Send these two to Alcatraz. I don’t care.” She leaned forward and pressed both palms onto the top of the table. “I have one hundred and forty-four days left in this place, and then I’m buying a twenty-nine-foot cabin cruiser with a three-hundred-and-seventy-five-horsepower inboard motor, and I’m going to spend the rest of my days sailing around the Florida Keys. I’m going to fish. I’m going to swim with dolphins. I’m going to drink piña coladas with pink paper parasols sticking out of them. So do what you want, Shute. I don’t like you. But I don’t care.”
Oh. Maggie felt something die inside her. She hadn’t even realized how much she’d been hoping that the dragon in Mrs. Dornbusch would rise up and incinerate Mr. Shute. But instead, the fiery Dungeon Dragon had turned out to be nothing more than a piddling stream, seeking the path of least resistance as it made its eventual escape to the sea.
“We are adjourned. File out.” Mr. Shute stood to the side of the door and waited as each person walked out of the room.
Maggie hurried ahead of Lena, who retrieved her camera. Both girls carried their cardboard lunch trays, the food untouched and now turned cold. “Don’t even start on me,” Maggie said as they stepped into the privacy of the stairwell. There was a large trash barrel there, and Maggie threw away her tray, food and all. “I’m not blowing my chance to get into MIT. That’s been my dream my whole life, and I’m not throwing it away for a mouse.”
“I know,” said Lena sorrowfully, picking up a cold and soggy waffle before dropping the rest of her lunch in the trash.
“And it wouldn’t be fair to Mr. Platt. He needs his job.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that . . .” Lena nibbled on the edge of the waffle.
“What?” said Maggie, whirling around. “What, exactly? This was just supposed to be fun. Hacking is fun. It’s a brain challenge. A puzzle. A joke. That’s all it was ever supposed to be.”
Lena dumped the rest of her waffle in the trash barrel. “Go on! Tell yourself that if you want to,” she said angrily. “You know, Maggie, I still can’t figure out why you’re determined to make yourself so small.”
She walked away.
At the end of the day, Principal Shute came on the PA system and announced that Kayla Gold had been elected class president.
Maggie didn’t say anything to Lena, and Lena didn’t say anything to Maggie. They hadn’t spoken
to each other since lunch.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THAT AFTERNOON, THERE WAS A SHARP knock on Maggie’s bedroom door. Maggie, who had been looking through her father’s box of memories, shoved the box under her bed and then said, “Come in.”
“I need to talk to you,” said her mother, walking in and pacing back and forth across the floor several times before her eyes settled on something. Maggie followed her gaze and saw that she was looking at the photograph taped to her computer that Lena had created of Maggie with her father at MIT.
“How did you . . . ?”
“Lena did it with Photoshop,” said Maggie. She stared at the picture along with her mother. It was as if they were flies suddenly trapped on the sticky pesticide tape they hung on the porch in the summertime.
“I got a call . . . ,” began her mother, peeling her eyes away from the photograph, “from your principal. He claims that he has videotape of you trying to break into the school.”
“That’s a lie!” said Maggie. “We were just trying to get to school on time.”
Maggie’s mother waved her hand. “He’s got a whole list: Trespassing. Vandalism. Lying to school officials.”
“Principal Shute has issues, Mom. I seriously think he’s delusional. And totally paranoid. He carries this baseball bat with him everywhere he goes, and he spends more time on his cell phone than he does running the school. And . . .” Maggie knew she was running out of ammunition. “And . . . what do you care anyway?”
Maggie’s mother rubbed her forehead slowly. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Really, Mom? When is the last time you came into my room?”
“Oh! Is that what we’re going to argue about now? My parenting skills? Look, I’m the first to admit that I could do better. I know other mothers sew curtains for their daughters’ bedrooms and vacuum every day and tidy up their toys, but those aren’t the only things that count.”
“Well, they count for something,” said Maggie. “That, and maybe not drinking every night.”
“I haven’t had a drink in three days,” her mother said sharply. “In case you haven’t noticed, which I’m sure you haven’t. Why would you? So busy with your own schemes. Your own plans. Your own dreams. You know, you really are like your father. He—”