How Not to Run for President (14 page)

I felt like my entire town was ganging up on me. What did the world suddenly have against
me
? I was a nobody!

Everyone's smartphones started ringing. Stu and the general were answering multiple calls while other aides typed furiously on laptops. The governor was pacing and talking on the phone. Emergency meetings were being arranged: press conferences, interviews, and last-minute media blitzes.

I stood there, stunned. Just like that, the entire campaign was falling apart.

This definitely wasn't the way to run for president—not if you wanted to win.

I sank into a seat at the truck stop's food court, the soda machine on one side of me, Stu and the general at a table on the other. I was in a daze. Maybe if I splashed cold water in my face, I'd wake up from this bad dream.

A minute later, Emma sat down beside me, changed into campaigning clothes again: dressy black pants, a purple shirt, and black sandals. Her hair was styled, too. No wonder it had taken her so long.

She handed me a new box of Lime Brains. I didn't know whether I was more stunned by the fact she was being nice to me or by the fact that I was being dragged through the mud on a half-dozen news shows. Why did all these people care about me? And did anyone care that none of it was true? Where were the people who would stick up for me?

“Character assassination.” The general shook his head. “If I've seen it once, I've seen it a thousand times. You know what they say. The bigger the target, the harder they fall.”

“If he's a big target, I'd like to see a small one,” Emma joked.

I frowned at her. “This isn't the time to be funny,” I said. “Not that that was funny.”

“Why not?” she said, cracking her gum.

“Because! Everyone back home just dragged my name through the mud!” I said.

“You've heard that politics can be rough,” Stu said. “Well, it just got a lot rougher. Here, kid.” Stu handed me his BlackBerry. “Make some calls, send some texts, do what you can. We're going on all-out damage control, and you should, too.”

First I called my mom, but it went straight to her voice mail. Next I called Dad. Same thing. Why couldn't I reach anyone? I took a deep breath and called Mort. I had to know if that was how he really felt about me.

“All right, I've had just about enough of this,” he said when he answered the phone. “If you can't leave me alone, I'll have the police—”

“Mort! Mort, it's me, Aidan,” I said.

“Aidan!” he cried. “Oh, I'm so glad you called.”

I wasn't sure I believed him, after what I'd heard him say. I wasn't sure I could even really talk to him, I was so hurt.

“I've been trying to get through to you, to your parents,” Mort said. “I can't get them, and I saw that interview—”

“You mean the one where you said I was a faker and couldn't even hold a clarinet?” I reminded him.

“No, no. What I said was that you were so little when you started coming to me for lessons that you could hardly hold the clarinet,” Mort said. “That's different.”

“Okay, but then how come you said I always cheated during the duets?” I asked.

“No, no, no … I did not say that!” Mort cried. “I said
other
pupils sometimes tried to get away with not playing along with me when we did duets, but you never did! I didn't say those things! Aidan, I wouldn't, I promise.”

“But you did! I heard it with my own ears. The same ears that don't recognize pitch or notes or tunes or—”

“No! They edited everything. They took my words and edited them to make it sound bad. You've heard of splicing, right?” Mort asked. “When they showed up at my apartment, I knew they were shady. Why won't you believe me?”

“You—you said I couldn't carry a tune in a paper bag!” I reminded him.

“No, no. I said when we first started I used a paper bag to work on your breathing, to teach you proper technique and test your lung strength,” Mort said. “Also, you might have hyperventilated one

time. I made you blow into a paper bag.”

“Oh.”

“I've been calling that station in Cleveland all day to try to get them to retract the interview, but they won't listen to me. They won't take my calls,” Mort complained. “They only want to talk to me if I have more dirt on you.”

“
More
dirt?” I asked. “You didn't have any dirt, did you?”

“No, I didn't mean—look, Aidan. It's what I told you about politics. A shady business,” Mort said.

“Yeah, I'm kind of figuring that out,” I said. “Thanks for trying to clear things up. Keep trying, okay?”

“I'll walk to Cleveland if I have to,” said Mort. “Fools. By the way, I caught you on
Wake Up, America!
Nice job, kid. And you know what? Anyone who actually talks to you for two seconds will know you're a good kid. Don't let them spin it.”

But it was too late, I thought as we said goodbye and I gave the phone back to Stu. I was already getting spun. It reminded me of part of this awesome show
Vortex!
, where contestants get tossed into this spinning, turning wheel thing, and they have to climb their way out through foam. They keep slipping and sliding until the spin cycle slows down and they can leap out.

That was kind of what was going on here.

Except it wasn't stopping yet.

I stared at the TV. My stomach was starting to hurt. Maybe I was just hungry, I thought, so I popped open the box of Lime Brains Emma had given me.

I saw a reporter standing outside Fairstone Elementary, saying, “It was at this school that his socialist, big-government ideas took root.”

“That's weird,” said Emma. “I don't think you're that social.”

“Some of his radical ideas were expressed in his most recent science project: converting corn husks to bicycle tires,” the reporter said. “In this project, he claimed that, quote, ‘replacing as many cars as possible with bikes instead would solve America's energy crisis.' Not just lessen. Solve. This reporter has to ask: Why is Governor Brandon associating herself with radicals?”

“That's—that's not radical,” Emma stammered. “That's true!”

“Everyone knows we need to end our dependence on foreign oil,” said the governor. “Every candidate agrees on that! We just have different solutions for how to get it done.”

The general leaned closer to me. “You're sure you don't want to get your hair cut?” he asked. “That could take care of a lot of this radical nonsense.”

“My hair's not
that
long,” I said.

“The Secret Service agents thought you were a girl,” Emma said. “remember?” She laughed.

“I was wearing a marching-band uniform. It has these girl spat things on the shoes, plus a furry helmet,” I said.

Emma just stood there looking at me, smiling, arms crossed in front of her. “You don't look much like a girl—it's true. But you do have floppy hair. You have to admit. You're like a little California surfer dude stuck in Ohio.”

“Just a little trim, not a military cut,” said the general. “Although that could be arranged. Only take a couple minutes. Shave it right off.”

“Would everyone stop using the word
little
? Please?” I said. As if being attacked on TV wasn't enough, now I was being mocked by the people who were supposed to be working with me?

“General, what are you talking about? Cut his hair? We can't change a thing about him!” said the governor.

The general looked at her as if she were suddenly speaking a foreign language. “Why on earth not?”

“That would be wrong. We can't go around changing people just because it suits the campaign.”

Emma looked like she was about to burst. I could have sworn I saw steam coming out of her ears. “Really, Mom? really?”

“Hold on a second.” Stu pointed at the TV. “What's rex Moron talking about now?”

“This is Rex Morgan, reporting live from the Fairstone town hall, where I've attempted to locate the birth record for one Aidan Schroeckenbauer, with no success. The town clerk insists that only blood relatives and legal guardians are allowed access to this information, but this reporter can't help but wonder: What is this town hiding about their clarinet hero, and why?” He leaned in to the camera and whispered dramatically, “Could it be that he is in fact much older than he claims, and therefore ineligible to play in Little League?”

“Have they ever
looked
at a picture of you?” asked Emma.

“No kidding. If he were older than he claims, wouldn't he be that much
taller
? Idiot!” Stu screamed at the television. “You're an idiot, sir!”

That was followed by a report questioning whether my parents paid their income taxes, and why my grandmother had had a knee replacement and whether the government had paid for it, and last, did I even have asthma, or was that just for show?

“What I've observed, certainly, on the campaign trail, is that he has no trouble whatsoever breathing,” rex Morgan went on. “I've never even seen him take out his inhaler. Now, we can't get to his medical records, because that, too, is privileged information, but—this suggests that Governor Brandon's top aides did not really check out this alleged twelve-year-old before they invited him to speak for the campaign. Is that the kind of judgment we want in the White House?”

Suddenly, everyone at the truck stop was staring at me as if I was a terrible, horrible person. As if I should be in jail.

“Turn it off,” said the general with a sigh. “I hate rex Moron.”

“Actually, I think we'll keep watching it,” the clerk behind the counter said to him in a not-all-that-friendly tone.

“The man is certifiable. You realize that,” the general said with a frown.

“Oh, my goodness—look at the time, everybody!” said the governor. “We've got to move on down the road. I certainly enjoyed meeting with each of you.” She tried to shake hands with a few people, but they edged away, looking uninterested. “You don't really
believe
all that stuff, do you?” she asked nervously. “Aidan's a good kid. This is just made-up stuff to try to hurt me. Obviously, my competitors have decided to step up their games and play dirty. I mean, is that how scared they are of change? That they attack a twelve-year-old?”

“You
are
twelve, right?” Stu whispered to me as we headed for the exit.

I didn't bother responding. I had a feeling I was living on borrowed time here. But I wasn't going down without a fight. As we made our way back onto the bus, I turned to confront Emma. “I think I know what's going on here.”

“What?” She cracked her gum, right in my face.

“I can't believe you did this to me. Just because I pushed you into some pig poop,” I said. “Are you really that determined to see your mom lose?”

“No. What are you talking about? And don't talk so loud,” she whispered.

“All the attacks on my character. You're the one who made that happen,” I said.“It was you, not the other campaigns, wasn't it? Not that you'd ever admit it, but—”

“Me? How would I have the power and connections to do that?” Emma asked.

“Please. You're the daughter of a popular presidential candidate,” I reminded her. “You have all kinds of power.”

“Me? Power?” she scoffed. “Have you noticed that I don't get to do anything I want?”

“If you wanted something to happen, you could do it. You've been living in the governor's mansion for the past few years,” I pointed out. “You
know
people. And you told me you wanted me to bring down the campaign but that I was messing up. You said you were going to take care of it yourself. You even threatened me, remember?”

“But I—I would never attack someone's family,” Emma said. “I know what that feels like!”

“Then why did you do it?” I asked.

“I didn't!” she yelled.

“Yes, you did!” I pushed her a little. She shoved me back. We started pushing and shoving each other.

“Kids, kids!” Kristen yelled, pulling us apart. “Enough already! Get on the bus!”

I marched up the steps after Emma, with Kristen herding us as if we were a couple of out-of-control pigs.

A somber group of campaign workers sat in the front of the bus. They were slouched against windows, sort of dazed. By their expressions, you'd think they'd just found out the world was ending. Was the campaign in that much trouble? Because of me?

I sat toward the back, the way I always did. A few minutes after we headed out of the parking lot, Stu came to get me. I headed up front to the couch area, where the campaign staff did all its plotting.

The governor patted the seat next to her. Emma, never one to butt out, followed and stood behind me, in the aisle. Stu and the general were on the sofa facing us, looking very serious. “Aidan, listen,” the governor said. “This is hard for me to say. I know it'll be hard for you to hear.”

“You want me to leave, I know. And it's okay,” I said. “No one wants out of here more than I do.” I glared at Emma over my shoulder.

It would only take me a few years to fix my image. Five, tops. I braced myself. Now what? I tossed a couple of Lime Brains into my mouth.

“It's not that. Yet. It's just … you've been good to us, I think, so we want to be honest with you,” the governor said. “Now, some evidence has been uncovered that indicates … well … listen. Sometimes in life we discover things that—”