Funny Kid for President Page 2

  “I don’t like that, Mr. Armstrong,” she interrupts.

  “I know! I didn’t like it either –”

  “No, no. I don’t like you calling a child a creep.”

  Wait, what?

  “But he is one!” Mr. Armstrong exclaims.

  “The way I see it, children are our precious little cubs,” the principal explains, sipping tea from a flamingo cup. “It’s our job to nurture them as they grow. It’s a jungle out there.”

  I smile. I’m beginning to quite like Mrs. Sniggles.

  Mr. Armstrong leans forward as though to tell her a secret, but I can still hear him.

  “This kid is no little cub, Mrs. Sniggles. If he’s an animal, he’s a pest.”

  Clink! That’s the principal putting her cup down firmly on its pink saucer. She glares at Mr. Armstrong and straightens her glasses.

  “I think I’m beginning to understand the problem, Mr. Armstrong.”

  “Ah –”

  “Tell me, who is your class president?” Mrs. Sniggles asks.

  “My w-what?” Mr. Armstrong stammers.

  “Your class president. Your student representative. I would like to start meeting with you and your class president each week for a little . . . chat.” She is smiling so sweetly, but my teacher is squirming on the sofa next to me. “Is it you, Max?”

  “No, Mrs. Sni–”

  “We skipped that this year,” Mr. Armstrong interrupts. “We just didn’t have time in the curriculum –”

  He is sweating! I can see drops of Armstrong sweat rolling down his bald head. This is fast becoming the best day of my life.

  “Nonsense!” Mrs. Sniggles climbs down from her armchair. “Every class needs a class president. You have one week to hold your elections, Mr. Armstrong. The following Monday I will come and vote myself. After the president is elected, I look forward to a regular cup of tea with you and one of your cubs. I think that should help us all better understand each other. Now hop along, you two bunny rabbits. You have an election campaign to run!”

  Mr. Armstrong looks like one pretty cranky bunny to me.

  I’m having a lightbulb moment.

  A crystal-clear thought.

  A gold nugget of genius.

  At the same time, I’m running ridiculously fast down my street, trying not to be bitten on the bottom by a surprisingly fast-moving duck, so it’s a little hard to concentrate.

  Opportunities for greatness don’t come along very often, but this is one of those moments. I can get back at Abby Purcell, I can beat Mr. Armstrong, and I can become the most popular kid in my class all in one simple move.

  I’m going to become class president.

  I can’t believe all my problems can be solved so easily.

  Mr. Armstrong lines the five of us up at the front of the classroom. He looks more uncomfortable than ever – like he’s hiding a porcupine in his pants.

  “These shrimps want to be your class president,” he announces to all the other kids. He’s holding up a bright pink ballot box that he sits on the front of his desk. “They have all of next week to tell you why you should vote for them. The election will be on the following Monday. You should listen carefully to what they have to say . . . or don’t and just vote for Layla because she’s the best.”

  “What? You can’t say that!” That’s Abby objecting to things being unfair. I think we can expect this to happen a lot.

  “Of course I can. I’m the teacher,” Mr. Armstrong says. Abby’s mouth is open so wide you could park a school bus in there. Mr. Armstrong sighs. “Okay, I’m just joking. Chill out.”

  I should tell you about the other candidates–my competition for class president.

  LAYLA

  Let’s start with Layla, the teacher’s pet. She’s his favorite because she’s excellent at sports. It doesn’t even matter which sport – tennis, gymnastics, mixed martial arts, or pogo stick races. Her favorite sport is soccer, although she calls it football because her grandparents are Italian. The point is, she wins. She always wins. That’s why Mr. Armstrong likes her so much. We once had a running race around the school, and by the time we’d all reached the finish line, Layla had done the race twice, drunk three protein shakes, smashed out 127 push-ups, and beaten all the timekeepers at thumb wars.

  Well, Layla, it’s time for you to experience the sour aftertaste of being a loser . . . that someone once told me about.

  KEVIN

  All the girls love Kevin because he is very handsome – great nose, beautiful bone structure, and the best hair at Redhill. Someone is obviously paying his dentist a lot of money too, because when I’m talking to Kevin, I can just about use those shiny white teeth to check whether anyone is sneaking up behind me.

  Kevin, my friend, it’s going to take more than style and sophistication and an attractive personality to win this one. It’s going to take . . . smart . . . things you need to think of . . . and strategy, you know, ideas and . . . stuff.

  RYAN

  Some say that Ryan walks around with his head in the clouds. They’re right. This kid can look down his nose at a giraffe. I don’t know how you can grow this tall and still be eleven. He’s a nice kid and I’ve always looked up to him (ha!), but this election’s going to be about leadership and vision, not just about being head and shoulders above the rest (okay, I’ll stop now).

  ABBY

  Oh. I have nothing to say . . .

  . . . about this evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil very smart evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil evil bad person.

  So here we are, standing at the front of the classroom. The five candidates for class president.

  There have been many important rivalries throughout history. David vs. Goliath. Batman vs. Superman. Butter vs. margarine. Right-handers vs. left-handers. Gummy worms vs. gummy bears. Inevitably things can get ugly when people stand up for what they believe is right. That’s what we’re doing and I know what I believe is right. It’s right that I should be class president.

  Hugo gives me a thumbs-up.

  He’s really going to need to be cooler.

  Hugo and I are getting off the school bus.

  “I need you to be my campaign manager,” I tell Hugo.

  “What is that?”

  “You sound stressed, Max.”

  I turn and grab both of Hugo’s shoulders and look him in the eyes. “Just focused, Hugo. I’m just very focused. And I’m trying to ignore the duck.”

  “What? Where?”

  “It’s right behind you. Don’t make any sudden movements.”

  Hugo turns around slowly and there it is, that stupid duck. It was waiting for me when I got off the bus.

  “It is such a cute little duck though,” he says. “Maybe we shouldn’t run away from it. Maybe we should try and make friends with it.”

  “I’ll show you how to make friends with it.” I pick up a twig and throw it at the duck. It dodges the twig and quacks at me. Don’t give me that attitude, Duck.

  “I think you’re annoying it, Max.”

  I glare at Hugo. “I’m annoying the duck? IT’S annoying me!”

  I storm off. Hugo follows.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  At my place, we have a snack before we start work on my campaign. We need sustenance. I ask Dad to get us some healthy snacks because this is going to be a long slog (over a week) and we need to stay in top physical shape.

  We don’t have a whiteboard so we draw on the fridge to brainstorm ideas. I’m pretty sure our markers will rub off. Nothing’s really permanent, right?

  Time to make a list of campaign slogans. People pay
a lot of money for good slogans, but we can do it ourselves for free:

  “None of these seem right,” I say. “We need to inspire people to hope and greatness. It’s no good just trying to be funny.”

  “Wouldn’t it be good if it was a little bit funny?”

  “No, Hugo. No.” I shake my head. “This is very serious. I have to win.”

  I settle on:

  “I don’t get it,” Hugo says.

  “Dad said it worked for some old president. Let’s go with it,” I reply.

  Next, it’s time to take some photos for the posters.

  We hang up a blue sheet in the garage for the background and I dress in my best red-and-white T-shirt. Hugo is going to take the photos on Dad’s phone.

  “You’re not looking very relaxed,” Hugo says. “Stretch your face a bit.”

  “How do you stretch your face?”

  “Like this,” says Hugo, and he starts grabbing bits of my cheeks and pulling them. Eerrggh. He pushes my nose and pulls my ears.

  “Stop!”

  We take about 7,000 photos and by then Hugo has to go home. He will probably be busy all weekend designing and printing the posters, and then I’ve told him to get to school super early on Monday to make sure my posters take all the best spots around the school.

  As for me, I’m going to rest. It’s hard work running for president!

  I wake up bright and early on Monday. I’m thinking about what Hugo was saying. I think I was a bit stressed last week. It’s a lot of pressure running for president – you’ve got to be “on” all the time.

  I decide to start the day by doing some yoga before hitting the campaign trail.

  Once I’m all relaxed, I untangle myself from my downward-dog pose, get dressed, have breakfast, and head to school. Hugo should have all the campaign posters up by now. When I get there, my face should be covering the halls like wallpaper.

  On my way, I run over the day’s agenda in my mind.

  Feeling fired up. Feeling ready to go. This is going to be the best day ever!

  This is the single WORST day in the entire history of the whole universe.

  It’s also, I’m quite certain, the most terrible day that will EVER happen at any point EVER – and that includes the day of the actual end of the world.

  I’m looking at my poster. Hugo has stuck four of them on the school gate. They look like this:

  Hugo has used one of the super-ugly stretching-my-face photos on the poster! They’re everywhere – on all the classroom walls, doors, and windows, on the flagpole, on the flag, on the teachers’ lounge door, on the basketball court, in the garden, covering the disabled parking sign, on all the teachers’ cars, on the boys’ and girls’ toilet doors, on the toilets themselves, in the classrooms, on the desks, on every basketball in the sports cupboard, in the cleaners’ cupboard, on the mop, in the hallways, on the ceiling, and on every kid’s locker door.

  I’m sweating like a pig on a treadmill.

  And then I realize Mr. Armstrong is standing right next to me. To my surprise, he doesn’t seem mad. In fact, he’s smiling.

  “Interesting strategy, Max.” Then he laughs one of those evil laughs that echoes long after he’s stopped actually laughing.

  Sorry, I can’t talk right now. I’ve got to find my best friend so I can PULL HIS ARMS OFF!

  When I catch him, I’m going to pop off his legs, plug his ears with his big toes, and push his eyeballs into his belly button. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished.

  Hugo explains that he accidentally printed the wrong photo on the posters. He fell asleep while everything was printing last night and when he got up he saw his mistake and had to decide whether to put up the posters with the bad photo or not put up posters at all. He decided it was best to follow my original instructions and put them everywhere.

  This was most definitely the wrong decision and he understands this now. So I give him a break and let him keep his arms, legs, and eyeballs in place.

  The rest of the day’s agenda is scrapped as we deal with the poster crisis. We have to pull all my posters down, only to watch them being replaced with the other candidates’ advertisements.

  By the end of the day, the other candidates have started writing speeches, making lists of people who promise to vote for them, and handing out flyers. Somehow Abby even has T-shirts made already.

  What do I have? A recycling bin full of torn-up posters.

  At the dinner table I tell Mom about my problems. Mom is a high-powered CEO. She’s the boss of a whole lot of people. Kind of like a class president, I guess – just not quite as important.

  “That sounds tough, Max,” she says, after we’ve all finished eating. My little sister, Rosie, is trying to stick leftover spaghetti up her nose.

  “I don’t know how I can win now. All the other candidates have done all this work today and I’ve done nothing. Plus, everyone’s laughing at me!”

  “Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” says my dad. Dad is an inventor. He makes things in our back shed. That reminds me, I should ask him to invent some duck-proof ankle guards.

  “I’m running for class president, not class clown,” I reply.

  Rosie looks confused. She’s usually the one who did the poop.

  “What?” Dad asks.

  “Never mind.”

  “It’s only the first day of the campaign,” Mom says. “We all have bad days. You just have to pick yourself up and take one day at a time. One challenge after the next. What’s the challenge right in front of you?”

  “Abby,” I say.

  Thanks, Hugo. He’s over for dinner. He’s been quiet because he’s still feeling bad about the poster thing. Nice of him to offer that helpful opinion. NOT!

  “So focus on Abby, then,” says Mom. “And change the conversation. Get people talking about what you want them talking about.”

  “Poop,” says Rosie, the spaghetti now coming out of her nose and into her ear.

  You know what? Rosie might be onto something.

  Before school starts the next morning, I have my first press conference. That means I stand on the school steps and start talking to anyone who’ll listen.

  “Yeah, we know,” someone calls out. “We saw your posters yesterday! They were so ugly I’ve gone blind!”

  People laugh. Jeepers, this is tough. I clear my throat.

  I’m about to say something presidential when I suddenly see it. The duck. What’s my duck doing at school? No one else seems to have noticed it, but I can see it disappearing into the bushes by the classroom. My stalker duck has followed me all the way to school!

  Ignore the duck, Max. Ignore it.

  “Today is a . . . new day . . .” Uggghh. That sounds dumb even as I say it. There’s a reason they call this a stump speech – I’m stumped!

  I notice Abby and the other candidates are standing at the back of the crowd, watching me struggle. Even Mr. Armstrong is there, smiling like a smug hippopotamus.

  This is bad. Really bad. What did Mom say? Change the conversation. Make people talk about what you want them to talk about. Okay, here goes.

  “Actually, let’s talk about the poop,” I say. That surprises them. Everyone is listening now. “We NEED to talk about the poop. Because we have a pooper among us.”

  “Yeah, it’s you!”

  “You think I’m the pooper?” I ask. “So do most people, including the other candidates. No one can point to any evidence that it was me, just a teacher who thinks that I did it. But it could have been anyone, perhaps even the last person you’d ever expect. It could have been Abby Purcell.”

  There is silence. I have everyone’s attention.

  “You know what? I’m glad Mr. Armstrong chose to blame me, because it has motivated me. If you elect me president, I will find the real pooper before they poop again. Even if the pooper turns out to be someone like Abby-pooping-Purcell.”

  As I look over at the back row, I see Abby glaring at me. I think I can see steam coming out of
her eyeballs. I swallow.

  “Vote for me as your president, and together we will find tomorrow’s pooper, today!”

  It’s lunchtime, and Hugo and I are hiding in the library. Now that I know that the duck has followed me all the way to school, nowhere is safe.

  We’re trying to distract ourselves by coming up with some actual reasons why I should be the president:

  We are concentrating so hard that when Hugo looks up he screams, scaring the goose bumps off me!

  “It’s okay, Hugo, it’s only Abby,” I say. She’s standing there, hands on her hips like she’s been waiting for us to notice her for the last ten minutes.

  “That was quite a stunt you pulled this morning, Max.” She always says my name slowly, as though she has a cockroach in her mouth that she doesn’t want to squash when she finishes the word. “I’m surprised to see you playing dirty politics this early in the campaign.”

  “I think you’re forgetting this whole thing started because Mr. Armstrong blamed me for the poop. I’m simply sharing the love with my fellow candidate.”

  “Mr. Armstrong has already said that he thinks you did it, Max. He’s going to defend me,” Abby replies.

  “Good for you. I don’t want him on my side. He’s the teacher. He’s the enemy. If you don’t understand that, you’ll never be a good president.”

  “Hmm, brave.” Abby shrugs.

  I nod. “Mr. Armstrong doesn’t scare me.”

  It’s unusual for Abby to pay me a compliment. She must really think . . .

  Hang on a minute, what’s going on?

  “Wait, why do you think it’s brave?” I ask as she starts to walk away.