Funny Kid for President Read online

  “Ah, no, I haven’t,” I manage to mumble.

  “Lyin’ Max, that’s what we should call him,” Layla says, and all the kids laugh.

  “He didn’t lie!” Hugo shouts.

  A hush falls over the crowd as everyone turns back to Layla.

  “There is a video.”

  Everyone gasps.

  I’M DEAD

  The dictionary says that a scandal is any event that causes public outrage.

  As Hugo and I run away from the crowd of kids chanting, “Lyin’ Max, do we trust him? No, we don’t! Is Max the storeroom pooper? Yes, he is!”, it occurs to me that this probably counts as public outrage. The only way to make this worse would be if people started throwing stuff.

  Okay, an apple core just hit me in the head. I think we have a political scandal on our hands.

  We’re going to need a plan.

  Hugo balances his dad’s phone on the table and turns on the video camera.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Max?”

  I check my hair and sit up straight in the chair. “There’s only one way to respond to a political scandal,” I explain. “You have to do a tell-all interview.”

  “And you want to put it on YouTube?”

  “Layla claims Mr. Armstrong has a video that no one’s seen. We’ll give everyone a video they can actually watch. Are we rolling?”

  Hugo nods.

  “Time to ask me the tough questions, buddy.”

  He coughs a little bit.

  Hugo looks confused. “But you’re not talking to the voters. You’re talking to me.”

  I make sure I keep smiling. The camera is filming my every move.

  “Well, yes, but I’m talking to them through this interview.”

  “That’s a bit silly. Why don’t you just actually go and talk to them?”

  My mouth is still smiling, but I am glaring pure hate at Hugo now. I suspect I look like a zombie who’s had plastic surgery.

  “You’re a voter, Hugo. I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

  “So, are you going to do an interview with everyone, then?”

  “HUGO!” I explode. I turn off the camera. “What are you doing?”

  “You said, ‘Ask me the tough questions.’ Were they too tough?”

  “About the poop, Hugo. Ask. About. The. Poop.”

  “Oh . . .” It’s like turning the lights on for the poor guy. “Sorry, Max.”

  We start again, and Hugo gets straight to the point this time.

  “Tell us once and for all, Max. Did you do the poop?” Much better.

  “Hugo, I want to say one thing to the students of Redhill Middle School and I want them to listen to me because I’m not going to say this again.” I am using my don’t-mess-with-me voice. I want to sound as much like a president as possible. “I did not do the poop in that storeroom.”

  “Why would Mr. Armstrong tell everyone that there was a video of me doing the poop when there isn’t one?”

  “I . . . ah . . . do you want me to answer that?”

  “Why don’t I answer it?” I say.

  I lean forward and look directly into the camera. Here it comes:

  It’s interesting to see what happens when you suggest to a group of kids that their teacher may have pooped in the storeroom.

  We upload our video the next morning, and the gossip circles around the school in about three and a half minutes.

  “Mr. Armstrong is going to eat you for lunch,” Hugo says.

  Mr. Armstrong doesn’t wait until lunch to eat me. He takes our class to the gym early, but as I head out the door, he grabs my collar and holds me back.

  I’m not sure I’m supposed to answer that. He’s waiting a really long time though. Maybe I am supposed to answer it. I’ll answer.

  I wait for him to say something about pulling out my intestines and feeding them to the duck. Actually, it’ll probably be worse than that. He’ll want to put my intestines on coat hangers on the back of his car, hanging down like sausages. Then he’ll put ketchup on them, because my duck probably likes ketchup, and he’ll drive his car down the street with my intestines flapping in the wind and the duck chasing us. He’ll say “us” because he’ll think I’ll be in the back of the car, watching my duck chasing my intestines down the street, shouting:

  Mr. Armstrong will be laughing and laughing, which he’ll blame me for because, apparently, I’m the funny kid.

  I’m about to point out that there’s a problem with his story, because if he pulls out my intestines I’ll be dead, so I won’t be able to watch the duck eating my intestines, when I realize that he didn’t actually say any of that.

  Instead he’s saying something about how I need to quit running for president.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because you’re going to lose. There’s no point trying something if you can’t win,” he says.

  Teacher of the Year Award over here, please. Anyone? Anyone?

  “How do you know I can’t win?”

  He gets really close to me then. I can see the tiny hairs on the top of his nose and smell the garlic smoothie he had for breakfast.

  “Because I’m the teacher, Max, and as the teacher I’m going to use every bit of my biceps, every string in my hamstrings, and every try in my triceps to make sure you don’t win. Do you really want to go to war with me, Max?”

  You might think I’d be terrified in this moment, and you’d be right. But what you can’t see is that there’s a little bit of snot at the end of Mr. Armstrong’s nose, and it’s hanging on to a nostril hair that he forgot to trim. I’m only half listening to his threats because I’m watching this tiny piece of snot hang on for dear life (and frankly, because I’m scared that it’s going to come flying through the air and hit me in the face).

  BBBBRRRRRIIINNNNNGGG!

  Saved by the bell!

  The bell ringing means that it’s time for Mr. Armstrong to actually start our basketball class. He lines us all up on the court.

  “As I’ve told you many times before, gym class is not about everyone having a turn,” Mr. Armstrong begins. “It’s not about doing your best. It’s certainly not about feeling part of a team.”

  He paces up and down in front of us. I look at Hugo. Why do I feel like gym class is going to be worse than normal?

  “Life is about winning,” Mr. Armstrong continues. “Sports are about winning. That means that sports are life.”

  I remember Abby trying to argue this logic with him once. She didn’t get very far.

  “It’s my job to teach you to be winners. Look at Layla, for example.” No one looks at Layla. “Layla is a winner. She’s fast. She’s driven. She’s coordinated. I’m sure she’ll be your next class president, and she deserves to be. If only you could all be winners like Layla.”

  Abby raises her hand, as she always does when she thinks he’s said something unfair. Mr. Armstrong ignores her, the way he always does when he’s said something unfair.

  “The best way to teach you to be winners is to remind you over and over again how humiliating it is to be a loser.”

  He certainly knows how to give a great motivational speech.

  Mr. Armstrong then goes on to explain today’s drill. We will be learning how to do alley-oops, which, true to form, are almost impossible for an eleven-year-old to do.

  Mr. Armstrong has a catapult machine that shoots basketballs up in the air in front of the hoop. We will have to run, jump on a small trampoline, fly through the air in front of the hoop, catch the ball in midair, and dunk it in the basket. All we have to do then is land without breaking an ankle.

  Layla goes first, of course. She runs like a cheetah, bounces like a kangaroo, flies through the air like an eagle, and dunks the ball like an NBA star. Thanks, Layla.

  Hugo is next. He runs like a hippo, bounces like a bowling ball, loses his glasses as he flops forward, and lands on the ground like a dead person. The basketball bounces off his bottom and rolls to the other end of the court.
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  Abby is supposed to be next, but she has a note from her mother excusing her from such exercises, much to Mr. Armstrong’s disgust.

  Ryan is next, then it will be my turn. This is bad for me because Ryan is actually built like a basketball player. He could probably dunk the ball without using the trampoline.

  I, on the other hand, will have trouble jumping high enough to get on the trampoline.

  “Ryan, go!” shouts Mr. Armstrong.

  I watch, feeling like I know exactly what’s going to happen. Only, I’m wrong.

  Ryan runs, jumps onto the trampoline, and flies higher than anyone else has so far. The next part happens in slo-mo. The ball shoots out of the catapult, and rather than being at the right height for him to catch, it smacks him straight in the head.

  Ryan drops like a rock.

  At the risk of sounding like Mr. Armstrong, there are winners and losers when it comes to today’s basketball mishap.

  Ryan is obviously a loser because he had his head smashed by a giant orange ball. He broke his nose, was mildly concussed, and will be off school for at least a week.

  Which is one of the reasons why I am a winner. If you can’t remember which day of the week it is, you can’t really convince someone to vote for you. I’m crossing Ryan’s name off my list of reasonable competitors. I’m also a winner because Mr. Armstrong had to stop the basketball drill after the accident and I never had to humiliate myself on that stupid trampoline.

  “Hey, what happened to your posters?” Hugo asks at lunchtime.

  “What do you mean? We put up the new ones two days ago.”

  “Yeah, but they’re not there.”

  I look to see where Hugo is pointing. The wall beside the hall is covered in Abby’s election posters. But there’s a gap between each poster where another one used to be. Mine!

  “Someone’s been pulling down my posters!”

  We walk around the corner and sure enough, my posters are gone from the bathroom doors and from the locker room too. I also notice a couple of Layla’s have been ripped down and left on the hallway floor to rot.

  “I know who did this,” I say.

  “You do?”

  I turn to Hugo. “Look whose posters haven’t been touched.”

  People are looking across the playground as we shout at each other underneath a tree.

  “Why do you think it was me, Max?” Abby asks.

  “You didn’t think it through. Your posters are the ones that are left.”

  “Some of Layla’s are still up.”

  “If it was Layla, she would have pulled down both our posters.” Sometimes I wonder if Abby thinks I’m stupid.

  “You’re stupid, Max,” Abby says. “Don’t you guys understand what is going on here?”

  “What are you talking about?” Hugo asks.

  “Mr. Armstrong. His fingerprints are all over this.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t try to blame him.”

  “And now he wants you and me to turn on each other,” I realize.

  “So that Layla will sail home to victory,” Hugo finishes.

  Unbelievable. Mr. Armstrong is rigging the election! If he is going to be forced to sit down every week with Mrs. Sniggles and the class president, then he wants to make sure he gets to decide who that class president is.

  “The problem is, we have no actual evidence,” Abby says.

  “Then we’re going to have to find some.”

  There’s a branch poking me in the armpit.

  Every time I try to push it back, another one slaps me on the head as if to say, “Push one of us and you’ll deal with all of us, buddy.”

  I’m in a shrub, by the way. We all are – Hugo, Abby, and me. We’ve been sitting in a shrub for ten minutes. My shins are getting itchy, and a ladybug just climbed into my T-shirt.

  “Stop grabbing my leg, Max!” whispers Abby.

  “That’s not your leg! It’s a branch from the – oh, sorry, it is your leg.”

  It’s after the bell’s rung and everyone’s left for the day. Everyone except Mr. Armstrong. We’re waiting for him to go so that we can sneak into the classroom and search for evidence. My old posters in his desk drawer would be perfect.

  I’m still fighting with the armpit branch when I hear something.

  Quack.

  Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

  “It’s your duck, Max!” whispers Hugo.

  “Seriously?” I turn around and realize there aren’t three of us in this shrub, as I originally thought. The number is actually four.

  “What is your problem?” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Not now, you evil feathered fiend!”

  Abby sighs. “You’re such an idiot, Max.”

  “Just give me a break, would you?” I knew we shouldn’t have brought her along.

  “You want to know what the duck’s problem is, Max?”

  “What would you know about it?”

  “It thinks you’re its mother.”

  What? WHAT?

  Hugo starts laughing in that muffled way that sounds like you’re farting out of your mouth.

  “Tell me, Max, where did you first see the duck?” says Abby in that know-it-all tone of voice she has.

  “Ah, um, in my backyard. It came out of a bush one day. When it was really little.”

  “Like a little duckling?”

  “Yeah. My little sister threw my shoe into the garden, and I was trying to find it and there was this duckling in there.”

  “And it’s been following you ever since?”

  “Whenever it can, I guess. I stopped going into the backyard after it tried to bite my ankle.”

  Abby smiles with great satisfaction. “Ever heard of ‘imprinting’?”

  “No.”

  “Whoever a duckling sees first, it thinks is its mother. This duck isn’t chasing you. It’s following you because you’re its mommy!”

  And with that Hugo explodes into laughter.

  “Shhhhh!” I say as Mr. Armstrong steps out of the classroom. He looks over in our direction as though he hears something. Hugo manages to muffle his hysteria. Abby smiles smugly. I glare at them both in disgust.

  Mr. Armstrong walks across the courtyard with a pile of papers under his arm. The photocopy room is that way, so I guess he could be doing that (or destroying secret documents). It doesn’t really matter, because all I care about is that he’s not in the classroom. Time for us to investigate.

  “Let’s go!”

  As we creep toward the classroom door, making sure no other teachers are around, I run through the plan again in my head. Hunt around Mr. Armstrong’s desk until we find evidence that he is rigging the election. Take that evidence to Mrs. Sniggles, and then get Mr. Armstrong fired for interfering with the democratic process.

  Simple enough, except . . . he’s locked the door.

  Not so simple.

  Hugo tries the windows next to the door, but they’re locked too. This plan could be over before it’s even started.

  “Maybe we should just give up and regroup,” Hugo says.

  I’m already looking up at the high window on the side of the classroom. It’s so high that Mr. Armstrong uses a pole to open it on hot days. It’s also so high that sometimes he forgets about it and it stays open. Like it is today.

  “We’re not giving up,” I say.

  I run to the tree that stands alongside the building. I have no idea how this is going to work, but there’s only one way to find out. I begin to climb. First the low branches, then shimmying up the trunk a little, swinging from one branch to another, getting higher and higher.

  My shoelaces are undone, which doesn’t really help, but eventually I make it up so I’m level with the window.

  I thought I’d be able to reach. Turns out I’m going to need to jump because I have short arms to match my stumpy legs.

  I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad! And Rosie! Here goes nothing . . .

  I jump and time slows down. I feel my feet leave the t
ree. My arms stretch out toward the window. There’s a slight breeze. I look down. And down. And down. And realize I am going to die.

  Bang!

  I slam into the window ledge and somehow manage to hold on. I swing my leg up onto it. It’s not graceful, but I made it! I actually made it! Jeepers.

  Below me I see Hugo with his hands up in the air like he’s saying a prayer. Abby is just shaking her head.

  Inside, I lower myself down on top of a bookshelf. From there I can hop onto a display table and then onto the floor.

  I run over to the classroom door and open it for Hugo and Abby.

  I close the door before my duck can get inside, then start to open the drawers of Mr. Armstrong’s desk. Pens and pencils, staplers and a stress ball. Packets of protein-shake powder and power bars. The third drawer is locked.

  Hugo opens up the cupboard and goes through the shelves. Abby is looking through Mr. Armstrong’s trophy cabinet.

  But there’s nothing around that makes him look guilty of anything other than being super keen on going to the gym – a line of water bottles, a sneaker he saved from when he finished his first marathon. (So gross!) It sits on its own stand next to a framed postcard signed by Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  There has to be something in that locked third drawer.

  “Everyone look for a key,” I whisper. I check under the desk, under the chair, behind some books, in the other two drawers, and in his little pink pencil case. Nothing.

  Just as I’m about to give up, I look up at the marathon sneaker. Surely not? Can’t be. He wouldn’t. Would he? There could be all sorts of funguses in there. I’ll never be able to wash the stink off . . . Suck it up, Max. This is war.

  I climb up on his chair to reach the sneaker.