How Not to Run for President (17 page)

“Uh, hold on a second. That's not true,” said T.J.

I couldn't believe she was accusing him of cheating at baseball. Wasn't that going a little too far?

“It may be true,” Emma said. “As far as we know. And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The view from the bench.” She smiled, then turned off the mike. “And that's a wrap.”

“A wrap? You didn't give me a chance to say anything!” T.J. whined.

“Exactly. Now you understand how this works,” said Emma. She handed the mike to the reporter, then turned to me and Simon. “You guys ready for phase four?”

“Of course,” said Simon. The three of us headed up to the giant SUV, where the driver was waiting for us. “All we have to do is go past my house and pick up my drums.”

“Nice interview of T.J.,” I said to Emma after we climbed in and were headed down the road, with Simon giving directions to the driver. “How did you get to be such a good reporter?”

“Please. What did we watch all those news shows with the general for? We know how to do this,” said Emma.

It was almost nine when we finally arrived at the FreezeStar factory: me, Emma, Simon and his drums, Christopher, and my mom. Fireflies were lighting up the dark spaces between streetlights.

The plant was massive. It was the length of a dozen football fields and about as wide. It looked sort of like a gray fortress, and we looked like little ants standing outside the chain-link fence surrounding the building.

I got out my clarinet, and Simon adjusted the snare drum around his neck. “Christopher, keep texting so we can get a crowd here,” I said. He nodded, slouched in the backseat. “And Mom, stay put in the car and stay safe until we come get you.”

“Okay, if you say so, but if I see any trouble, I will be out of here in a second to save you,” she said.

“Mom, it's going to be fine,” I assured her, closing the door.

“What do we do now?” Simon asked. “March or something?”

We both looked for Emma, to find out the game plan. She walked around from the other side of the SUV, holding a flute.

“Where did you … ?” I asked.

“You never saw it, but I do travel with my flute.”

“Okay, but I don't know any trios,” I said.

“Yeah, me neither,” she said. “But I figured there's strength in numbers.”

We started with what we all knew from memory: the theme from
The Simpsons
.

So there we were: me wearing my baseball cap, playing the clarinet outside the company gates. Simon, still in his FreezeStar baseball uniform, playing drums, marching beside me. And Emma, the candidate's daughter, who'd insisted on dressing nicely because it would make her less suspicious, in front of the FreezeStar plant.

“If there was ever a photo op, this is it,” the reporter said. He had the cameraman take several shots of us, playing as we marched on the sidewalk and standing on a bus bench to make our sound travel farther.

“My dad's inside. I wonder if he can hear me,” I said.

I thought of my dad telling my mom, “You don't stand here and criticize the company, not here.” What if what I was doing jeopardized my dad's job, got him in trouble? My mom was already out of work. I couldn't add my dad to the list. But I had to stand up for my mom, too. There was no way she was going to take the fall for FreezeStar. If there was a spy, which I doubted, she wasn't it.

“No one's going to hear us,” said Simon.

“Yeah, but that's what the TV station is for.” Emma coughed, clearing her throat. She turned to the camera as a security guard approached us.

“What exactly is going on here?” asked the guard. “May I help you?”

“Yes, please.” Emma smiled. “We have a list of demands. And we will stand out here and play until management comes down.”

The guard frowned. “There's nobody here right now who can help you with your … problem. Whatever it is.”

“Come on, that can't be true,” said Emma. “Can't someone come out and talk to us?”

He looked at me. “Don't I know you? Steve Schroeckenbauer's kid?”

“Yes, yes,” I said enthusiastically. “It's me, Aidan!”

I expected him to be nicer after that, but no. “What do you want?” The guard narrowed his eyes at Emma.

“The truth—that's all,” I said.

“We're following up on the untrue rumor about Aidan's mother giving trade secrets to Cold rainbow,” said Emma. “We know it's not true. We need someone from FreezeStar to come out here and refute it on camera.”

“Well, why don't you write a letter?” The guard looked at the cameras. “No cameras allowed on company property. Industry secrets to protect.”

“We're on the public sidewalk,” said the reporter. “Same as these kids.”

“But you can't do this!” the guard cried as Simon began to play the drum again. “There's a noise ordinance.”

“Please, you think that's loud? You should hear your trucks,” I said.

“But there's a senior residence in the area—”

“Exactly. This will keep them awake all night. Which is why you should get someone down here ASAP to talk to us. I'm sure we can clear this up,” Emma said with a sweet smile. “Please. We don't want trouble. We totally respect your authority here.” She looked—and sounded—a lot like her mother.

“Well, okay, I'll ask,” the guard finally said.

“He'd never make it in the Secret Service,” Emma said to me once he was standing off to the side, making a call.

Simon, Emma, and I kept playing and marching, back and forth while we waited for someone to come talk to us. Just as I was feeling like it was almost time to give up, there was Mort, holding his clarinet.

“Got room for one more?” he asked.

“Hey! You heard us!” I said.

“Who wouldn't? Wait, I take that back. The other blue-hairs are all asleep by now,” he complained. “Anyway, what's-her-name called me, left a message.” He pointed at Emma. “What's the plan?”

“Play until they agree to talk to us and clear my mom's name,” I said.

“Thought that was it.” Mort nodded. “Old-school protest. Count me in.”

We kept playing, and as the minutes wore on, people started to show up. Christopher was doing a good job calling and texting everyone he knew, and they were bringing their families. The crowd continued to grow as Mort, Emma, Simon, and I played “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Soon, a fancy-looking car pulled up and was buzzed through the gates. A short time later, a woman in a suit came out to talk to us. As she got closer, I saw that she wore the FreezeStar employee ID tag around her neck, the same one my dad had.

I ran over to the SUV to get Mom. We hurried back to Emma and the news crew, just in time to hear the woman introduce herself on camera. “Hello. My name is Mary Afton, and I'm senior vice president and director of human resources at FreezeStar. I'm here tonight to address some questions that have been brought to my attention,” she said with a smile.

“Hello, Mary,” my mom said, stepping forward.

“Oh, Tricia, it's you,” said Mary. “How are you?”

One of the reporters suggested it might be a good idea to climb higher than the crowd, so they could be seen and heard by everyone. Mom and Ms. Afton stood on the bus bench, while Emma, Simon, and I climbed onto the roof of the SUV for a better view.

“We're here because we'd really like to—no, we need to—clear up some misunderstandings,” my mom said. “There's this crazy story in the news about me, about how I got fired because I was a spy. First of all, I'm not a spy. Second of all, I'm on temporary leave—not fired. right?”

Ms. Afton nodded. “Yes, that's right. Who's saying that you're a spy? That's ridiculous.” She laughed.

“The press is ridiculous,” said my mom. She glanced down at the cameraman. “No offense. I like you guys. Could someone from FreezeStar please tell the world that I'm no corporate spy?”

“Whoever is listening, that story is absurd,” said Ms. Afton. “Tricia Schroeckenbauer is not a spy.”

“Okay,” said Emma, sliding down from the SUV and stepping forward, as the camera swiveled in her direction. “But this is about getting the truth out there, because it affects me and my mom as a candidate.
Why
did you have to lay off Mrs. Schroeckenbauer?”

“Our factory orders rise and fall, depending on the economy. We often have to adjust our employee numbers,” Ms. Afton said.

“And is that what happened? Not enough people buying freezers?” Emma asked, looking up at Ms. Afton.

“That's absolutely correct. I can tell you that Mrs. Schroeckenbauer is no spy,” Ms. Afton repeated.

Mom pumped her first in the air. “Yes! Thank you!”

“Has she done anything wrong to justify her being among the first group of layoffs?” a reporter called from the front row of the crowd.

“The first group?” Ms. Afton shook her head. “She was in the third group, according to my records. Because of her long record of loyalty and hard work, she was among the last to be furloughed. And as soon as we can hire her back, we will.”

While I was perched on the SUV, I saw a figure in the darkness, pushing his way from the back of the crowd to the front. He was headed straight for us. No, wait. He was heading right for Emma, carrying something that looked like it might be a stick in his right hand. Was it a stick? Why would he—Wait. Maybe it was a rifle! My heart started to pound.

I slid off the top of the SUV, wondering how I could intercept him—or her. This was all my fault! I was panicking. This was why Emma shouldn't travel without her Secret Service agents. This was why she needed security.

If anything happened to her while she was trying to help me, I'd never forgive myself.

Or wait—maybe the person was headed for my mom. Maybe he thought
she
was the real traitor. Or maybe he was the real spy.

There was no time to lose. I slipped into the crowd and crept up behind him. He was taller than me, with broad shoulders, and moved briskly. He looked like he might play football. He was definitely carrying a stick, and he clearly meant trouble.

“Excuse me,” I said, but my voice came out sounding shaky and weak. “Hey!” I yelled. “Hey, you! Stop!” I called.

He began to turn around, and I gripped my clarinet, bell in front, as if it were my favorite bat. Then I took a swing for the fences—right at his gut!

He doubled over, gasping in pain, clutching his stomach.

It was T.J.

That Jerk!

He dropped the aluminum bat he'd been holding, and it clanged against the concrete sidewalk. It rolled away from him, into the gutter.

“You?” I panted, suddenly out of breath. “What are you doing?”

“I … should … ask … you,” he gasped. Then he got his wind back and tried to shove me away.

I stumbled a little but managed to keep my balance. “You were headed straight for Emma. I thought you were going to attack her,” I said.

“Well, I was,” T.J. admitted. “I want her to take back what she said about me.”

“By attacking her with a baseball bat? You really think that would work?” I asked.

“I was just going to show her the bat, not attack her! It's not a juiced bat!” he cried. “It's my lucky bat—that's all.”

A smaller crowd within the big crowd began gathering around us. I saw kids from school pressing in to get a better view.

“You can't stop me,” T.J. said, trying to push past me, but I barred his way with my clarinet, forcing it against his waist like a gate.

“
Move
, Shrieking,” he said, picking up the bat.

“You're not going up there,” I said. “You're not going to do anything. Leave her alone!”

“Oh, so suddenly you're best friends?” T.J. scoffed. He drove his body into mine like a fullback.

I leaned back at him, trying to think of some Secret Service moves I could use. Why had I never gotten some tips from them?

“I'm sick of you being on TV,” T.J. said, pushing me again. “I'm tired of seeing your face!”

“Jealous much?” I asked, pushing back. I was vaguely aware of the crowd around us getting bigger.

“I'm not jealous. You're annoying is all. And the stuff you say isn't even true.” He grunted as he struggled to push me aside. “I've never used a juiced bat. Never.”

“Then maybe now you know how it feels when people lie about you on the news!” I yelled, wincing from the hold he now had on my arms. I was about to drop my clarinet.

“Out of my way, Shrieking!” He gave one last shove and hurled me to the ground. I landed nose-first, and my clarinet clattered onto the pavement beside me. I reached out and grabbed his ankles as he went past me, and he dropped with an awkward thud.

“Nice takedown!” a kid yelled.

“Fight!” somebody else yelled, and the crowd around us grew even bigger, so that I could feel it looming over me.

T.J. and I wrestled on the sidewalk. Before he could pin me, I wriggled out from underneath him and jumped to my feet. T.J. got up and swung a punch at my face, but I ducked just in time—just as the general caught T.J.'s fist in midair. Then he lifted up T.J. by his belt loops. “Is there a problem here?” he asked in a deep voice.

I did a double take. When did the general show up?

“Put me down!” T.J. cried.

My face was killing me, and I thought I might have a bloody nose. Still, I smiled when I saw T.J. being dangled in the air by the general. Maybe the general was a little gruff and obsessed with politics, but he was a pretty cool guy all the same.

“Young man, I'd advise you to verbalize your opinions in the future,” the general said as he shifted T.J. to a more neutral position—sideways. “Words speak louder than fists.”

“Put me down!” T.J. cried again. “I'm going to sue you!”

Emma glowered at T.J., her fists raised. “You think you can just punch people for no reason?” she asked him.

Most of the cameras were now trailing Governor Brandon, who was walking briskly from the Fresh Idea Party bus through the crowd. Microphones zoomed in from all directions like a swarm of mosquitoes.

“Emma!” cried the governor. “Oh, my goodness, I'm so glad to see you're all right. But could you please stop fighting?”

Emma's hands dropped to her sides.

“And, uh, you, too, General?” the governor said.

The general gently set T.J. back down, and I took a few steps back, wary of what T.J. might do next.

Governor Brandon gave Emma a big hug, and at the same time, seemed to pull her a bit farther away from me and T.J. “What's going on here, Aidan?” she asked quietly. “Can't we all just get along?”

“Emma, would you care to comment?” asked a reporter.

“Nothing's going on. It was just a little dis-agreement—that's all,” Emma said.

The reporter turned to me. “Aidan? Is that true?”

“Why would she lie? Nothing's going on. Nothing at all,” I said. “Well, T.J. here was upset because we may have suggested he used a juiced bat. But he doesn't. We were wrong.”

“And T.J.? Don't you have something to say?” asked Emma. “Like admit what you were wrong in saying?”

“Oh. Well, Aidan isn't a horrible player,” T.J. said. “He's actually a pretty good shortstop sometimes. He's not why we lose games.”

I shrugged. It wasn't much, but I'd take it. Fair enough.

T.J. picked up my clarinet and handed it to me. I handed him his bat. “Truce,” he said. Then he walked away.

Mort walked up then and took my clarinet away from me. “I think you might have smashed a key or two. Or more. I'll take it home and see what I can do. If I can't repair it, I'll let you use one of mine until you get it fixed. See you Tuesday? regular time?” he asked me.

“Regular time,” I said, smiling.

The crowd broke up a few minutes later. Ms. Afton drove away, Mort walked home holding our two clarinets, and the news vans headed back to their stations.

“Well?” I said, feeling nervous. “This has been, uh, quite a night.”

“Yes. A little too much excitement, if you ask me,” said the general. “Also very scary for the governor, when you two vanished into thin air.” He gave both me and Emma a stern look. Then he turned to Kristen, who was standing on the bus steps, watching from a distance. “Excuse me,” the general said. “I need to have a conversation with Kristen and find out how this happened.”

“I'll be right there,” said the governor. She turned back to me. “It's pretty late, so I think we're going to find a place nearby to stay the night. The rental SUV will take you home and then return to Detroit. We'll talk in the morning, okay?”

“Sure. Okay,” I said. “Sounds good.” There were a dozen other things I wanted to say, but this wasn't the right time.

Emma gave me a little wave over her shoulder, and she and the governor and the rest of the campaign team left on the Fresh Idea bus. Mom, Christopher, and I were left to ride home in the giant SUV that looked more like a tank than a truck.

I was about to climb into the SUV when Dad ran out of the company gate, waving his arms and shouting, “Aidan! Aidan, wait up!”

“Hey,” I said, grinning. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm on break,” he said. “I only have ten minutes, but I just wanted to say it's great to see you. And another thing. Nice job.” Dad gave me a high five, then pulled me into an awkward hug.

“What part?” I asked.

“All of it,” he said. “But especially when you tackled T.J. by the ankles.”

“How did you see? Binoculars?” I asked, gazing up at the plant windows, which were tall and narrow—and slightly frosted-looking, as if they were meant to hide what went on inside, from spies and everyone else.

“No way. The security video,” he said. “We were all watching.” He smiled and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “Glad you're back.”

I smiled as if I really had hit a home run this time, instead of T.J.'s gut.