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WE'VE SPENT ALL
weekend coming up with a slogan and making posters, and on Monday, the public part of our campaign officially begins.

“What the crap is this?” I hear Carolyn Quim say, as she stands facing one of our campaign posters. I walk carefully behind her, undetected.

We've ended up using an idea of Delia's—“Have Some Candy, Vote for Mandy”—for two reasons. One, it really drove home the reward concept, and two, Joey made good on a claim that he had access to an “event-sized” bag of Jolly Ranchers, which, we all agreed, were colorful, indestructible, and tastewise put most other hard candies to shame.

“I don't know,” Tamberlin says, not sounding too concerned. She grabs a green-apple-flavored piece off the poster, unwraps it, and sticks it into her mouth.

I continue down the hall to science. Before I go into the room, I turn and look back. The two of them are still standing there, looking utterly confused.

And then someone says, “Oh, yum. Is that one water- melon?”

We're at lunch and Phoebe is telling us about her first act of abolitionism.

“I gave away my last Neo-Gel pen today, but it was worth it. Carolyn Quim rolled her eyes when Brynne called me an Albanian!”

“I think she meant albino,” Mandy says.

Phoebe gives her this confused look and asks, “Why would she call me an albino?”

Mandy shrugs, smirking.

Delia smiles. “Well, guess what happened to Olivia and me? We were walking down the hall and Brynne handed Corbin Moon a stack of flyers, and he was like, ‘Oh my God. You know what I just realized? Your initials are B.S.!' And then he started laughing so I slipped him one of my mom's cookies.” She looks over at me. “Crazy, isn't it?”

But I can't answer. I've overstuffed my mouth with Chikkin M'Eaties and am now having to chew three times my normal speed, as Caleb Austin approaches our lunch table, flanked by preppy-boy Carson Winger and Sudoku Club president Ryan Stoles. I'm also banging the table with an open palm to get everyone to shut up about the plan. But they stare at me like I'm weird until I can finally swallow and tell them, “Caleb Austin is coming.”

They look up just in time. Caleb reaches out his hand for Mandy's, which she extends slowly and suspiciously. I wish he'd hold out his hand to
me
. “Congratulations,” he says to her. “I see you've started your campaign.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

“Always glad to have another candidate on the books.”

Mandy laughs a little and says, “Really?”

“Sure. This is a democracy, isn't it?” Then he looks at me and shoots me one of his award-winning, heart- melting smiles, and I totally soak it in. When he rips his gaze away, it almost smarts.

“Do you all know Carson and Ryan?” he asks.

We nod. Phoebe hums an acknowledgment that sounds kind of like a low growl. Phoebe's never really gotten over the Sudoku Club Incident from last year—where they stole our Bored Game Club membership drive idea and doubled their roster.

“Well, they're going to be helping me out on my campaign,” Caleb continues.

“I'm campaign manager,” Ryan says.

“Hang on, dude,” Carson argues. “I've done this before—”

“Yeah, in fourth
grade
,” Joey whispers, as Caleb calmly quiets his campaign staff. “And he
lost
.”

“Well, we just wanted to stop by and wish you and your staff good luck,” says Caleb, turning back to us.

“You too,” Mandy says. As he walks away and I try not to look at him too longingly, Mandy winces. “That was so totally awkward,” she says.

“Why? He's not
that
hot,” I say. Okay, I lie.

“Good
lord
, Olivia,” Mandy says, her nostrils flaring. “I didn't say he was
hot
. I just mean that was awkward. He's only been here a couple of weeks and already people are fighting over him.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, and shrug. I try to look casual. “Anyway, I think he's totally weird-looking.”

“I think I know what's going on and I'm getting really grossed out,” Joey says. “Olivia's in love or something.”

“I am
not
!” I yell. “He looks like a—” I realize I have no idea what to say, because the words that are coming to mind are things like
Spanish prince
, or
incredibly successful underwear model
. “Chocolate Lab,” I finally manage. I mean, his hair is brown and thick and smooth. His eyes are that deep, thoughtful brown. And he kind of has that Labrador personality—easygoing and attentive, and he might even save your life.

They all give me these grins that I don't like, but luckily Phoebe starts coughing from swallowing her chocolate milk down the wrong pipe, and everyone gets too involved in walloping her on the back to continue that conversation.

“Is she okay?”

The ridiculous walloping stops, and we all glance up. Max Marshall is standing there, looking both amused and concerned.

“She's fine,” I say, embarrassed.

But he smiles at me and makes it better. “Okay, just making sure.”

And then, over Mandy's shoulder, I see Brynne, who's been watching Max and me from her table. She's decked out, like all the Spiritleaders, in bright orange sweats (Spirit Dress-Up Day. Theme: Jailbreak). She has a broccoli floret up to her mouth but hasn't taken a bite. When she catches me looking, her eyes flit to the side as if to pretend she hadn't been watching at all. Averting her eyes. A sign of submission?
Good girl
, I find myself thinking.

On the way to the buses, Delia and I stop by her locker to get her science textbook for homework. She's telling me that she passed Joey in the hall on the way to sixth period and, for the first time, she didn't hear him before she saw him. And Erin Monroe was walking next to him, appearing to be actually listening to whatever nonsense was coming out of his mouth.

“No way,” I say.

“It's true. It was like it was an after-school special, and someone else—a normal person—was acting the role of Joey,” she tells me.

Then Phoebe strolls by and waves to us. “See you tomorrow,” she calls from the crowd passing through the hallway.

We hear a voice call to her. “Hey, Phoebe. Wait up!”

It's Brant Farad pushing through the crowd to catch up to her. And then they get to the exit. He does the nice-man thing where he lets her through first and then follows, like they're on a date or something. Sort of like a grown-up, human version of the command
heel
.

I actually get goose bumps.

BESIDES BEING FORCED
to undress in public, there's another form of twisted abuse going on in the Hubert C. Frost Middle School gym, and it's called Sleeterball. Sleeterball was created by Colonel Sleeter, who taught P.E. at the school for like a million years and, lucky for me, retired the year before I got here. When dodgeball was outlawed in the county in 1998, Colonel Sleeter dreamed up this supposedly more humane version, so it's basically the same game with a somewhat lighter ball, fewer ball-launchers, more inner-circle victims, and specific (but completely ignored) rules about hitting only between the shoulders and belt.

When you “play” Sleeterball, it becomes pretty clear that the school board overlooked the fact that Colonel Sleeter had extensive military expertise in “ballistics and trajectory weapons,” which really means missiles and bombs.

So it's Tuesday, and I am in the middle of the Sleeterball circle, scared out of my wits. There are five of us left inside, and only one of them has a larger body mass index than me. His name is Charles Wooten, and he moves faster than you'd think—certainly too fast to hide behind. And yes, I've tried.

One of the other potential casualties is none other than Brynne Shawnson.

Amber Menendez, who seems to be looking for extra credit, shoots the ball across the circle at us, and we all scamper successfully and breathe a collective sigh of relief.

But it gets worse, of course. Tamberlin catches the ball. She narrows her eyes and looks at me. I hop around, having abandoned any sense of dignity for the more important goal of survival. I run to the back of the huddle, which opens up and exposes me. We are all running around like roaches under the nozzle of a can of Raid. It is every roach for himself.

Finally, having nothing to protect me from Tamberlin's angry glare, I crouch and cover my face. I bring my arms close in to my body. I don't have much, chestwise, but what I do have, I would like to protect. My body squeezes up and prepares for the pain. And then I hear the slap of rubber meeting flesh. And then a wail.

I look up. Brynne Shawnson is doubled over, rubbing the red welt on her thigh. Her face is crunched up like she's about to cry. “You're out,” Tamberlin says, and cracks her illegal gum.

Brynne stumbles toward the bleachers, and I blink and look at Tamberlin. She gazes back at me vacantly. I look for her eyebrows to lower, her lip to curl at me in disgust, for some sign that she still hates me. And then—

Thwack.

The ball has hit me in the back of my knee—Amber's doing—and my legs buckle. The sting of the rubber is almost unbearable. “Whoops, sorry, Olivia,” Amber says, and appears to mean it.

“Why weren't you looking?” Charles asks, and gives me a look that tells me how stupid I am, just in case I had any doubts about it.

I scoot out of the circle just as Tamberlin fires the ball back in. It hits Charles with a rich splat, square in the belly. “Awwww,” he moans, and bends forward, his hands on his stomach.

I am back on the bleachers by the time he throws up. Everyone acts like it's the most exciting thing that's happened in weeks.

But I am busy mulling it over, marveling at the fact that Tamberlin chose to assault Brynne instead of me. Marveling at the fact that Brynne is sitting thirty feet away from me, alone on the bleachers, nursing not only her injury but also her ego.

Because I can't exactly hop across the court and stick a piece of lame Freedent into Tamberlin's hand, I stare at her until she glances in my direction. And then I “reward” her with a smile.

Of course she doesn't smile back. But what she
does
do is look away very quickly, and then back at me, and away quickly again. And it's the weird nervousness in her glances that makes me really, truly believe that yes, Mandy could be right. And yes, Delia could be right. And yes, maybe even Phoebe's right.

It feels too good to be true. Could the plan really be working?

That afternoon, Corny and I go to Kisses's. By now she's mastered the sod, although she still won't step out onto the lawn. But today I get this wild idea all on my own. I take a few extra patio stones and make a short path on the grass. You can tell she's not happy about it, but I get her to walk three stones out. She's surrounded by all this enemy territory, but she manages to stay sitting on the third stone for close to five pretty calm minutes.

She's almost there. And maybe we are too. Like I said. Maybe it really is working.