Funny Kid for President Read online

  “Oh, no reason.” She stops and looks back at us. “It’s just that the teacher has all the power. I think it’s smarter to keep the powerful people on your side rather than make them enemies, don’t you?”

  She’s talking in this I’m-so-sweet-I-grow-daisies-and-breed-polka-dot-butterflies kind of way. Time to be the tough guy.

  “Well, that’s what I’d expect the teacher’s puppet to say.”

  When I say this, I try to do that eyebrow thing she does – raising one up high and keeping the other low – but I just end up doing a very awkward wink.

  She does it back, perfectly. Grrr . . .

  I go back to writing my list of presidential objectives. I don’t have time for this banter with the competition. We’re not friends. Abby Purcell is going down.

  Hold on, did I just say, “You’ll be the first president”?

  I look up in horror. Abby Purcell, my evil archrival, is grinning.

  What just happened? How did she do that?

  “You make a pretty good puppet yourself, Max.” She turns and begins to walk out of the library. “See you at the debate!”

  Aarrgghhh . . . wait, what debate?

  “Welcome to the Class President Debate!”

  I’ve just walked back into the classroom to discover it all set up for a debate. In fact, all the other candidates are already sitting at the front. How did I not know about this?

  “Nice of you to join us, Max. Better late than never,” Mr. Armstrong says. “Come sit here at the front. The first question is for you.”

  I look quickly at Hugo, who shrugs as if to say, “This is the first I’ve heard of it, Max. Believe me, I would have told you if I knew it was happening. This is something it would have been really, really good for you to prepare for.”

  He has very expressive shrugs.

  I walk slowly to the front of the room, feeling more than a little bit anxious. Hugo is right. It would have been helpful to prepare. I’m still feeling rather unnerved by Abby’s word games in the library. It’s like I’ve got a tiny little Abby Purcell sitting in my brain, and she’s even more annoying in miniature.

  I take a spot at the front next to Layla.

  “When did you find out about this?” I whisper to her.

  “Mr. Armstrong told us all about it after your press conference this morning,” she replies. “He wanted to give us time to prepare. Didn’t he tell you?”

  I turn and look at Mr. Armstrong. He’s glaring at me.

  Oh.

  Okay.

  So this is how we’re going to play, huh?

  Bring it on.

  “The first question is for you, Max,” repeats Mr. Armstrong. He is reading from a sheet of paper. “How do you think the science curriculum could be adjusted in the coming weeks so that we can better satisfy the learning outcomes?”

  Gulp. He’s smiling at me, almost pleasantly. Unless you look at his eyes. They are as cold as a grumpy polar bear eating a flavorless ice block in front of a fan while wearing underpants made of frozen peas and humming “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?”

  I have no idea how to answer this question.

  “Ah –”

  “Can I answer that, Mr. Armstrong?” Of course. It’s Abby-the-genius-Purcell.

  “Certainly, Abby. Max doesn’t seem to be able to.”

  Abby smiles and takes a deep breath.

  There’s stunned silence . . . then:

  “Yes!”

  “Woop-woop!”

  Of course they would like to make paper airplanes in science lessons. Find me the kid who wouldn’t like to do that! It also makes Mr. Armstrong happy because she said the words “teams” and “physics” in one sentence.

  The most annoying thing about Abby Purcell is that she actually is a genius.

  I’m going to need to lift my game.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Armstrong?” It’s Abby again. “Can I ask Max a question, please?”

  Uh-oh.

  “That’s not usually within the debate rules,” says Mr. Armstrong. “But given Max’s unfair attempt to tarnish you in his press conference before school this morning, I’m willing to make an exception.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Armstrong.” Abby looks over at me as if to say, “See?” “Max, I’d like to know what you can offer as president that none of the rest of us can?”

  I glance at Hugo. He looks panicked. Thanks for the confidence, buddy.

  The truth is, I don’t really know how to answer that.

  “Um, ah, well . . .” What’s the best thing to do when you can’t answer a question? Turn it back on the person who asked it! “Before I answer that, Abby, perhaps you can tell everyone what you can offer?”

  “Sure, that’s easy,” she says. “I’m the smartest.”

  Suddenly I realize what is happening. Abby is trying to end my campaign for president right here in the debate! She’s taking the opportunity (after the poster disaster and the poop rumors) to finish me off right here and now. She continues:

  “This is not the time for playing games, Max. If we’re going to stand before these people and ask for their votes, then we need to be honest. I am the smartest kid in this class and that’s why I should be president. Layla is the fastest kid in the class. She is the best at sports. Ryan is the tallest, and Kevin is the prettiest human being that’s ever existed. But what are you best at, Max?”

  I’m dead. I have no answer to this question because I’m not the best at anything. It’s one of those things you secretly realize about yourself and you just hope you can get through middle school before anyone else ever works it out.

  Well, Abby Purcell just worked it out! And now she’s announcing it to the whole class.

  She really is evil.

  It can’t get any worse than this moment.

  Or maybe it can . . .

  Quack.

  Did anyone else hear that? No one seems to be looking around, but I definitely heard it. I scan the room. Perhaps it’s just in my head?

  Nope. It’s here. It’s actually here somewhere. Stalker duck. It’s heard my voice and found my classroom.

  Oh, this cannot be happening right now.

  “Max, can you answer the question?” Abby asks.

  “Um . . . duck,” I reply, searching the room for the crazy little bird.

  There’s an awkward sort of laughter that ripples through the room. I’m looking up to the back of the classroom, past all the kids, trying to see a hint of that beak or get a peek at those feathers.

  “What was that, Max?” Abby asks.

  Then, I see it. I’m not imagining it. Actually standing at the back of the classroom, finally coming out of hiding, is the duck. And it’s looking right at me.

  There’s more laughter now.

  “Mr. Armstrong, I think we need to call the school nurse,” Abby is saying. “I think Max is having a mental breakdown. He doesn’t seem to be able to handle the pressure.”

  First, it was Mr. Armstrong out to get me, then it was Abby Purcell, and now a blasted duck has joined the gang! Why? Why me? What did I do to make the world decide to poop on me?

  My duck walks slowly toward me, around the legs of kids who aren’t paying attention.

  It’s like a cowboy right before a quick draw.

  Then, and you’re not going to believe this, but like some kind of waddling Abby Purcell, it raises one eyebrow at me! Who even knew ducks had eyebrows?

  “Max!” Mr. Armstrong’s booming voice breaks through and scares the bottom off me.

  Without even thinking, I yell back at him:

  Stunned silence. Then . . .

  LAUGHTER!

  Duck runs toward me, and I scream a little and dart behind the other candidates.

  Quack! Quack! Now everyone’s seen the duck! How could they miss it? It’s chasing me around the front of the classroom.

  “Help! Help!” I yell as it tries to bite me on the butt. I run down the side of the classroom around to the back of the students. I need a weapon
! I grab a chair and turn around to face Duck, holding the chair out in front of me.

  Kids are quickly choosing sides. “Max! Max!” “Duck! Duck!”

  Quack. It’s scratching its little webbed foot on the floor. What? Is this thing getting ready to make a run at me?

  YES, IT IS!

  Duck charges, and I drop the chair and scream like a baby on helium.

  I’ve done a full lap of the room now, but my duck isn’t giving up. It’s hot on my tail. Kids are genuinely falling off their chairs laughing.

  I’m running backward. I don’t want to take my eyes off Duck’s beak. That thing’s going to hurt if its teeth (do ducks even have teeth?) sink into the creamy flesh of my bottom.

  “Ow!” I’ve run into the printer. I see Mr. Armstrong’s face grinning at me.

  Not now, you crazy maniac!

  I limp around the printer with Duck hot on my heels. I need a way to solve this problem. I look around for a solution. All I see is a pot of coloring pencils. A bookshelf. The storeroom . . .

  The storeroom!

  I run to the door and throw it open, but before I can close it behind me, Duck slips in and bites my bottom.

  “Aaarrrggghhh!” My poor left butt cheek!

  It hurts so much I let go of the door, effectively locking myself inside, with my duck, in the dark. It’s not very big in there. I’m scrambling around, trying to get the door opened, when – “Aaarrrggghhh!” My poor right butt cheek!

  Duck is behind me now. I manage to grab the handle and open the door just enough to slip back out into the classroom.

  The door slams shut behind me and – success – the duck is locked in the storeroom. I slump to the floor, leaning against the door, trying to catch my breath.

  But as the sound of blood pumping in my ears quiets, I hear it. Laughing. And not just laughing. Cheering. All the kids are cheering something.

  Someone gives me a high five on the way home.

  Kids who aren’t even in my class pat me on the back and tell me they heard how funny the duck thing was.

  The bus driver says she’s heard everyone talking about me today. It makes me smile, because you know what no one is talking about?

  Paper-flipping-airplanes.

  Hugo and I had arranged to meet after school to redo my posters, but as we arrive at my house, I say to him, “Let’s scrap it.”

  “The campaign?” Hugo asks.

  “The old slogan.”

  I grab a piece of paper and a pencil and draw a sketch of a new poster. I slide it across the bench to Hugo. He smiles.

  Okay, so here’s the big idea for my speech:

  “Bravo!”

  “Great speech!”

  “Your fly’s undone.”

  That’s Mom and Dad. They’re sitting on the couch and I’ve just read them my new stump speech.

  Now it’s time to zip up my fly, evade a duck, and get out there and win an election.

  I’m standing at the starting line, looking down at the grass and thinking about becoming an ant. Life must be so simple for ants – just keep walking, walking, walking and follow the bottom in front of you. What an easy life!

  Unless your buddy in front is farty, I guess. Still, I’d consider trading lives with an ant right about now if it meant I could get out of Mr. Armstrong’s Presidential Race.

  I don’t mean the election, I mean an actual running race.

  I hate running. I hate it like fish hate skateboarding – it’s not natural! When God was making my body, he’d run out of ingredients by the time he got to my legs. They’re the legs of a much shorter, lazier person. They’re way too short to get the rest of me moving at any reasonable pace.

  “Get set!”

  Besides, what is the point of running anyway? Haven’t we invented enough things that enable us to move faster if we need to – scooters, cars, rocket launchers? Choosing to run is like choosing to ride a horse to the store – we’ve found a better way, people!

  But Mr. Armstrong is convinced that it would be fun to have an actual Presidential Race. That’s his idea of funny. He’s lined up all the candidates at one end of the sports field and he wants us to run to the other end while everyone watches.

  He’s about to yell, “Go!” when I realize my shoelace is undone.

  “Time out!” I shout, reaching down to fix it.

  “Too late, Max!” replies Mr. Armstrong. “GO!”

  Wait! What? No!

  The other four candidates take off, but I’m half bent toward my shoe. Without asking for permission, my legs decide they’re going to run too.

  It happens in slow motion.

  1. My right knee comes up and hits me in the nose.

  2. My head flicks back, which means when my left leg launches forward it flips straight up in the air.

  3. Instead of running, I am now doing a backward somersault.

  I’m looking at sky. I’m looking at clouds. I’m looking at Mr. Armstrong upside down. I’m looking at grass. I’m looking at an ant’s butt. So, this is what it feels like.

  I flop onto the grass and look up just in time to see the rest of the candidates reach the finish line. No surprise, Layla’s clearly in front.

  Me, on the other hand? I think I actually moved backward.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  “Nice one, Max,” says Mr. Armstrong as he steps over me. “You’re doing a really good job of losing this all by yourself, aren’t you?”

  He chuckles a little, and then yells to the rest of the kids. “Back to class! I bought lunch for everyone!”

  That afternoon, we’re in the library for a lesson from the librarian on how to search for books. I’m listening super, super hard. And talking to Hugo.

  “I can’t believe Mr. Armstrong bought us all lunch. I think it might be the first time I’ve ever seen him do something nice,” I say.

  “I don’t know,” Hugo replies, rubbing his tummy. “I’m still a bit hungry. Fat-free, nut-free, dairy-free, taste-free green smoothies aren’t very filling.”

  “I had a mouthful of grass earlier, so I’m quite full.”

  Everyone laughs. It was Kevin – the style king himself.

  “He looks a little gray,” says Hugo. He’s right. Cute Kevin’s not looking so hot right now.

  “Kevin, are you all right?” Abby asks.

  Then it happens. It starts as a low rumble from somewhere, like a distant plane or a groaning rhinoceros that doesn’t want to do its homework. Then Kevin begins to wiggle – up and down, left and right – and he starts to get that panicked look in his eyes. The one that says, “Something very bad is about to come out of my body, and I’m not going to be able to stop it.”

  During a natural disaster, people need their commander in chief. Someone who’s not going to panic. It’s time to step up.

  “He’s going to blow!” I shout. “Everyone down!”

  People begin to scream, but it’s too late.

  Green-smoothie spew projects out of Kevin’s cake hole like water from a hose, spraying on the bookshelves as he turns like one of those creepy clowns at the community fair.

  We hit the floor, but what goes up must come down – vomit included.

  “Get behind the shelves!”

  I grab Hugo and drag him behind a shelf.

  “I’m hit! I’m hit!” the librarian shouts.

  We look out from our shelter behind the dictionaries. Sure enough, the librarian has taken it in the face. She’s going down.

  I peek through a gap in the books just as Kevin turns in our direction!

  I dive backward, grabbing Hugo and Abby on the way down.

  Vomit hits the shelves, and a few splatters sail over our heads. If anyone wants to find “spew” in the dictionary now, they’ll have no trouble.

  We stay pressed against the stacks, close to the floor, catching our breath. Everything is eerily silent.

  When it feels safe, I sneak a peek. The library has been painted green. There are bodies everywhere. I spot Kevin
lying still, moaning softly, looking emptied – like a shriveled balloon.

  I hold a hand out to help up Hugo and Abby.

  “You’re my hero,” Hugo says.

  Vomit-apocalypse was bad. Kevin was sent home sick – out for a week, according to his doctor. It turns out he’s lactose intolerant, and even though Mr. Armstrong’s smoothies were supposed to be dairy-free, they didn’t go down well. (Or come up well, for that matter.) That means Kevin will probably miss the election, but either way, it’s a bit hard to ask someone for their vote after you’ve spewed in their face.

  Call me brutal, but this is a good thing as far as I’m concerned. There’s one less person to beat now. Politics is a contact sport.

  When I get to school the next morning, everyone is buzzing. Apparently Layla is going to make a shocking announcement before class.

  “Maybe she’s going to tell us that she’s an alien,” I suggest to Hugo.

  “Yeah!” he says. “Or a turtle.”

  Sometimes I really wonder if Hugo’s brain is actually a giant clump of chewed gum.

  We gather at the bottom of the steps, and sure enough, Layla stands up in front of everyone to make her announcement.

  “I have something shocking to say,” she says. “Really shocking.”

  Yep, we’ve got that.

  Wait, what? I thought this was going to be about her.

  Hugo nudges me and winks. “That’s you,” he whispers.

  He looks excited. Idiot. This is going to be bad.

  “Max said that he did not do the poop.”

  Uh-oh.

  “He said that there was no evidence that he did the poop. But he has been lying to you.”

  Suddenly everyone is turning and looking at me.