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FRIDAY MORNING STARTS
a little drizzly, which I don't take as a bad sign. And it's good that I don't waste any worries, because by the time first period is over, the sun has come out.

Mandy was too excited to eat breakfast, so in between first and second period we're all crowded around her, coaxing her into eating a Luna bar so she won't pass out up there onstage.

“I'm not sure I can eat right now,” Mandy tells us.

“Well, there's still lunch,” Delia says.

“What, are you crazy? She can't eat lunch,” Phoebe says.

“Yeah, she'll spew,” Joey agrees. “Come on, try it. It's s'mores flavored,” he says. “These are better than Twinkies.”

I look at him like he's lost his mind. It's then that I realize he's also lost a little weight. I mean, he's still no, well, Caleb Austin, but he's looking less like the kid on
Family Guy
.

She takes a bite of the Luna bar and chews, and we all cheer a little. “One more bite,” Delia says. “You've got to keep up your strength.”

Then we hear, in the high-pitched yell of Corinne d'Abo, “Forecast calls for—” She is trotting down the hall in her blue unitard, leading a string of Spiritleaders. She turns her ear toward the front and cups a white-gloved hand behind it. “Come on, Frosties! Let's do this right!” she says again, only louder and higher, “FORECAST CALLS FOR—”

“What”—Mandy says, looking confused. But before she can finish with—“on God's green earth?” Corinne points at Mandy and screams, “That's right! Come on, all you Frosties. Like she said.
FORECAST CALLS FOR
—”

Now people around us chant, “
What!
” while we scoot toward a reinforced passageway.

Corinne is absolutely delighted. She circles her hands in the air, signaling for the crowd to be louder. “I can't
hear
you!
FORE
CAST CALLS FOR
—”

“WHAT?”
Total pack mentality is in play.

“FORECAST CALLS FOR FLURRIES!”
Corinne cries, her voice screeching. Then she and the Spirit leaders twirl gracelessly down the hallway, white-gloved jazz hands knocking into white-gloved jazz hands. It's clumsy, sure, and there are a few falls, but there seem to be no open wounds.

“They've tamed out without Brynne,” Mandy notices.

“They're still dangerous,” Phoebe says.

“Yeah, but once Mandy's in office,” I remind them, “they're so
over
.”

I think I feel Caleb's presence in my knees even before I see him, like I've developed some type of radar. “Ready for today?” he asks, like a grown-up might. He smiles at Mandy but shoots me a fleeting glance that quickens my pulse just a little.

“She's ready, all right,” Delia says protectively.

“Want a bite?” Mandy asks, showing him the Luna bar. “Delia says it'll keep your strength up.”

“No thanks,” he says. “I'm feeling strong enough already.”

“Good luck,” I say, but he's already turned away. I'm not sure he heard me, which is okay because I'm not sure I meant it. Well, okay, maybe I do, just a little, as long his luck's not better than ours. I mean, I hope he comes in second. Even a
close
second would be fine with me.

Once he's gone, Mandy gives us a look of panic.

“Don't worry about him,” Phoebe says.

I catch of glimpse of Brynne over Joey's shoulder. She's watching the last Spiritleader disappear down the hall. If she would just talk to me, look at me, maybe I would feel better about things. But then I remind myself, she kept the secret about my mother. She also covered for her former friends when they pulled the Trash Bag Day prank on her. And I try to shake the concerns out of my head because I'm just being silly.

I'm sure I am.

Long before the other kids are let in, the campaign staffs are allowed to claim their seats in the auditorium. I am sitting between Delia (I'm so happy, I have to fight the urge to grab and hold her hand) and Joey. Phoebe sits on the other side of Joey, analyzing our choice of seats, wondering if we should move for the fourth time.

“Calm down, Pheebo,” Joey says. It's his new name for her. I'm not quite sure when that started, or why, since Mandy's still Mandy and Delia's still Delia. He only today started addressing me by my name again, instead of
that woman
. We are seated in the center of the third row, which two minutes ago Phoebe declared was the perfect visual and cheering distance from the stage. “I'm not moving again.”

“I wish we could go backstage,” Delia says. “I hope she's not getting sick.”

But then Mandy peeks out from stage left. She spots us, smiles and waves, and I feel much better. We all wave back. Joey yells, “Go Mandy!” and Phoebe joins in, even doing that
WOOT WOOT
thing, which is really weird coming from her.

Caleb's co–campaign managers, Carson and Ryan, turn and nod at us with blank expressions, the way rude people do when they don't want to be accused of being unfriendly. This professionalism is just nerve-racking. Poor Dawn Lane doesn't have a campaign staff. And Brynne's consists solely of Mrs. Ardensburg, the Teen Life teacher.

Then it's like a dam burst. Kids start flooding in, bringing waves of sound with them, and filling in seats all around us. Phoebe has tried to reserve the seat next to her, just for “breathing room,” she says, but Peyton Randall sits down like it's reserved for her. Phoebe looks at us and secretly rolls her eyes. I thought maybe she'd been saving the seat for Brant, but when Joey taps her gently on the knee and whispers something, I think maybe not. Things have changed a little—okay,
a lot
—since I've been away.

Now Delia grabs and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back and we turn to each other and smile, and I sit there and think about how good it feels to have my best friend back.

“Everything's going to be okay, isn't it?” I ask her. It's not that I think she's psychic or anything, but her reassurance is pretty powerful to me.

She leans in closer to me. “Look,” she says. “I love you and all, and I don't mean this in a bad way, but will you please
shut up
and stop worrying?”

Then she laughs. I feel my heart swell a little, and I laugh too.

And then Mrs. Vander-Pecker calls the event to order.

“Ladies and gentlepeople,” she says, over the noise of the room full of middle schoolers. “Ladies and
GENTLEPEOPLE
!” Her voice gets louder in an attempt to make ours lower. By the time it actually works, her eyes are bulging, her neck looks like a tree root, her face is the color of a beet, and I think everyone has finally shut up just so they can study the curiosity up there behind the podium.

“
Thank
you,” she says finally, but not sounding at all grateful. “Today I am happy to introduce our four candidates for school president. They have all worked very hard to get here, and I hope that you will give them the respect they deserve. First, I offer you Dawn Lane.”

There's clapping, and then Dawn appears onstage, dressed a little like an American Girl doll. She is wearing a white puffy blouse under a denim vest, with a matching denim skirt. It looks like that fake denim fabric people cover pillows and couches with. I think she just blew it.

“Hi, everyone,” she says. “My name is Dawn Lane. I am an honor roll student—well, most days.” She pauses and looks around the audience with a smile, like she's waiting for a laugh. When it doesn't happen, Mrs. Vander-Pecker lets loose with a clearly made-up one. “And head of the Future Financiers of America. But I'm not rich—yet.” She pauses again. It's excruciating. Another forced laugh by Mrs. V-P.

She keeps talking, but I turn to Delia and wince. She winces back.

“I don't know if I can take this,” Joey says, his face twisted in pain. “It hurts.”

Then, cutting through the discomfort is the sound of a recorder. Through my fingers I see Dawn playing the instrument, eyes closed, face angled toward the heavens. She makes her way through a screechy sequence of notes, stops, and after we all breathe, says, “Wait. I messed up.” And then starts it all over again.

When she stops for the final time, she says, “And I hope you'll all remember that one when you go to the polls this afternoon. Thank you.”

“What was it supposed to be?” Delia's able to whisper this to me above the (very tame) clapping. Up onstage, Dawn bows.

“I don't know. It sounded a little like ‘Three Blind Mice,'” I whisper back.

Joey laughs. “‘Three Blind Mice'? We're supposed to remember
that
when we go to the polls?”

Phoebe mulls it over. “I think it was ‘Beat It.' An homage to Michael Jackson, perhaps?”

Peyton leans forward. “‘We Are the Champions,'” she announces.

“
Ooooh
,” we all say in unison.

Mrs. Vander-Pecker appears onstage again. “Thank you, Dawn. I think everyone appreciates a good tune. What a pick-me-up!” She claps again, which means that we all have to also. “Next, I'm happy to present Mandy Champlain.”

This time the clapping intensifies. It gets louder as Mandy walks out onstage. Much louder. There are whistles and hoots and people yelling, “Go Mandy!” Joey knocks his voice down about an octave and probably yells the loudest. Phoebe beams over at him and his man-voice.

I'm just hoping Mandy's checking the rafters. I can't help it.

“Wow, thank you,” she says. “I wish I had a song, but unfortunately you're going to have to settle for just me.” People laugh and clap, like it's incredibly funny, just because they like her. I can't believe it. I'm thrilled. “And I'm not so sure a dance would win your vote,” she says, to more laughter. “The thing is, I don't have a gimmick. I can't promise you a song or dance, or even soda machines in the cafeteria, for that matter. Or cool P.E. uniforms, which I know is important. But what I can promise you is a real person.” She tries to continue, but the clapping and cheering is way too loud. She smiles until it quiets. “A few weeks ago, the thought of getting up here in front of all of you—and actually getting votes—was just a dream. But it was a dream I wanted to go for. Not for fame and fortune, although that would be nice, but for one reason: I wanted each person in this school to have a voice.”

A couple of people stand and start chanting
“Mandy! Mandy!”

“No matter how weird you may be or how weird the rumors about you are.” (A few laughs and snorts.) “No matter how smart or dumb you secretly think you are.” (A few nervous ripples of laughter, some fidgety rustling.) “No matter how hot or not everyone else thinks you are.” (Audience squirms noticeably, more nervous laughter, one throat-clearing.) “No matter if you're a dweeb or someone like, say, class president.” (She smiles. Everyone laughs.) “Every single person.” (She pauses.) “In this godforsaken school.” (Audience hoots in agreement.) “Has something. To say.” (Audience claps and whistles.)

“If elected, I will make sure that each one of you has someone to say it to. And I will make one-hundred- percent sure that your voice is heard. Because, as we all know…” (She pauses and looks around.) “YOU are the most important part of Hubert C. Frost Middle School, and it's finally time you were given that respect.”

I don't think there are many times in a middle school auditorium when a crowd goes wild without some type of illegal activity going on, but this is one of those rare moments. People cheer. People stand. And everyone claps.

And by the time Mrs. Vander-Pecker gets everyone calmed down enough to introduce Brynne, I say good-bye to all my worries.

And that's when it happens.

WE SETTLE DOWN
and sit back in our seats, though our moods are somewhere near the ceiling. I feel relief, like I've just taken my last exam of the school year or something. You don't know what you've earned yet, but the most trying part is behind you.

From behind the podium, Brynne opens her mouth.

And laughs.

A lot
.

Everyone is looking at her like she's crazy, and I grow still as a rock, with fear. She laughs more.

“You want to know what's so funny?” she asks the audience. No one says a word. Throughout the auditorium, mouths gape open but remain completely silent. “What we just heard from my opponent. That was—well, there's no better word for it—
hysterical
.” I'm starting to feel a little queasy, and my stomach makes a gurgling sound that I'm sure
everyone
hears, because the room's as quiet as a tomb. Brynne has everyone's attention. Mrs. Vander-Pecker clears her throat, and it echoes throughout the auditorium. “Mandy Champlain says she has no gimmick! Well, that right there was a ‘song and dance' if I've ever seen one,” she says, making air quotes not just with her fingers but with her entire hands.

I can't move.

“Do you want to know why you like her so much?” Someone yells “Go, Mandy” in the audience, but it sounds defensive and forced. “You like her and all her little friends because you've been
trained
to. Trained like
dogs
. You've been rewarded with candy and staplers, and you've been treated like common house pets. The truth is, you couldn't possibly like these cretins if you hadn't been
trained
to.”

She clasps her hands and looks around confidently. Then she says, “Lights, please.”

I can't exhale.

The lights dim. The theater screen whirs and lowers. Brynne opens a laptop, and an image appears on the screen. “This, in fact, is my opponent just a few months ago.” It's a photo of Mandy. Her hair is sprayed gray. Her lips are shockingly black. There's even some accidental black Sharpie on her front tooth. There's a gleaming yellow pustule over her eyebrow, where her piercing sometimes is. And she's flipping off the camera. The audience takes in a collective breath of air. Delia's nails drive into the back of my knuckles.

“You know, she's gone through two campaign managers,” Brynne says. “You might remember
her
first.” A photo of me pops up. Well, of me and my butt, with the gigantic ketchup stain spread across my irregular-sized khakis. I hear a few people suck in their breath at the sight, and other people in the audience start to shift and murmur. I am both mortified and paralyzed.

“But
that
one left to pursue her true calling.” And then another photo appears on the screen. It's me again, this time a picture taken at my house—something she must have snapped that weekend she stayed with me. In the background, Bella is squatting in a round-back position. In the foreground, I'm wearing a pair of Corny's overalls and I'm bending over, scooping turds into a bag. Squeals of disgust ring out.

“And then there was campaign manager number two,” she says, all snippily. A close-up of the surface of the moon pops up. Or at least that's what it appears to be. “Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry about that,” Brynne says to the crowd. “You shouldn't have had to see that. Not so soon after lunch.” The photo zooms out, revealing a cheek, a pair of root-beer-colored eyes. The zoom-out continues until you can see Delia's face, turned toward the side, and her hand, obviously raised as a shield to the camera. The crowd
ewws
and moans.

“Oh, Holy Mother,” I hear Delia say, in a strained whisper.

I might as well just die right now.

“This isn't right,” Joey says, just in time for his rather large body to pop up on screen. He's looks like he weighs about twelve hundred pounds, and he's stuffing Funyuns into his mouth with his fist. His eyes are closed as if it is the most meaningful and enjoyable moment of his life. You can hear the roar of people starting to talk and laugh.

“
Nice
,” someone in the row in front of us says in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

“And last, but not—well, does it even matter at this point?” Brynne seethes. And up pops Phoebe, looking a little like a troll, but much, much paler. She's staring adoringly at Brant, who appears to be completely oblivious to her. Her hand is grabbing the seat of her pants like she's trying to adjust a wedgie. A laugh circles the room.

The lights come back on. Everyone is looking around the room—looking for
us
. “It's funny to me that this group of people, who I can't
legally
call losers from the stage like this, is running this entire school. Are you all going to let yourselves be treated like dogs?”

Mrs. Vander-Pecker appears onstage, grasps Brynne by the shoulders, and they disappear behind the curtain. The noise of the crowd starts to swarm, getting louder by the second.

Delia releases my hand. “I thought you were going to fix things with her.”

“I tried,” I manage to stiffly whisper back.

Phoebe looks at me with eyes rimmed with red. She jumps out of her seat, and Joey starts to follow, but Mrs. V-P reappears onstage and does the thing with her neck again. “Everyone,
sit down
! And be quiet! We still have another candidate to hear out, and
no
one will leave this room until we do. He has been
incredibly
patient, and I ask—rather, I
demand!
—that you be just as patient with him.” She throws out a flustered hand. “Caleb. Austin.”

Caleb floats onstage and stands there looking out at us like he's God or something. And then he claps once. Then twice. Then after a third time, he breaks into a crescendo of applause.

“Wow. That was great. Just
fantastic
,” he says. “Thanks, Brynne.
Very
entertaining.”

He puts his fists on his hips and shakes his head, looking amused.

“That's gotta be a first,” he says. “I mean, don't get me wrong. Some people will do anything for a vote. I'm sure that happens all the time. But to accuse us all of being dumb? Of being trained like dogs? I know I'm not a dog; what about you?”

The crowd begins to murmur.

“Look, be honest with me. Tell me you want my vote. But don't—
please
don't—insult me!”

People start to clap. Someone throws a balled-up piece of notebook paper across the auditorium and yells, “Fetch!” The crowd laughs loudly.

Caleb laughs too, and looks relaxed and amused. “So why aren't you all just tripping over yourselves to catch that? I mean, come on, aren't you all
good dogs
?”

The laughing and hooting rolls across the aisles like waves. Each wave makes it louder.

“Sit!” he calls out. “Oh, see,” he says teasingly, “maybe she's right. You're all sitting.” With that, the crowd begins to stand, and to cheer. “Hold on,” he calls out. “Bad dogs! I said sit!” More people stand. The cheering gets louder.

The claps and cheers have reached a deafening level, like a 3-D, stadium-seating version of the applause that Mandy got, which seemed so fabulously loud at the time. People are barking, yelping, and literally howling.

Caleb smiles. Over the excitement, he shouts, “Shall we move on?”

“Speech!” someone yells out.

And so he launches into it. He
does
promise soda machines in the cafeteria and better P.E. uniforms. He even mentions getting a pool built, but I don't think anyone's really listening. They're having too much fun.

They've just found their pack leader.