How Not to Run for President (7 page)

“So here's what's going to happen,” the general said while we waited. “If they ask you what your ideas are, you just keep repeating what you said yesterday.” He glanced down at his notes. “The bit about saving jobs and manufacturing.”

“Right.” What did I say yesterday? I couldn't quite remember, exactly. I must have blocked it out because it was so embarrassing. I guessed I'd been talking about FreezeStar, though. “How one plant closing affects a town?”

“Yes, that. Everyone can relate to that,” the general said. “Now, as for the clarinet … if they ask you to play, well, that's up to you.”

“In that case, I think I'll leave it on the bus,” I said. “At least for today.”

Stu nodded. “That's just fine. Until we figure out the best way to use your clarinet playing, that's probably the best plan.”

“You're going to use it?” I asked.

“We use everything,” said Stu. “That's politics. We'll use a cat, a kitten, a grandmother if we have to.” He got that wide-eyed, lightbulb-going-off-above-his-head look. “Do you have a grandmother?”

“Sure, I have two of them,” I said. “But—”

“Where do they live? Are they mobile?” he asked.

“Sure. Sure they're mobile,” I said. “I mean, Grandma E. can't drive at night, and Grammy S. has artificial knees, but—”

“Bionic grandmothers who occasionally need rides. We'll keep that in mind,” he said, nodding. “What else you got?”

Kristen looked at her clipboard. “He has asthma,” she said.

“Let's use that!” Stu cried. He was so excited about it that I knew he must not have asthma himself.

“Chronic medical conditions are important to Bettina. Very important,” the general explained. “She's pushing for universal health coverage, and she's made a lot of changes in her state to make health care more affordable. If elected, she'll continue to fight against the insurance lobbyists and special interests.”

I had no idea what a lobbyist was. Someone who hung around lobbies? Was it the same thing as loitering?

“Anything else we should know about your relatives? Uncles? Aunts? Grandfathers?” Stu asked. “If you have any crazy relatives hidden away in an attic, tell us now.”

“Huh?” I asked.

He fake-punched me on the arm. “Just kidding. Who was that older guy you were talking to when we pulled into the parking lot?”

“Oh, him? That was Mort. He's definitely not crazy. And he's not a relative, either. But he's kind of like a grandfather to me sometimes.” I thought about how we'd sometimes get ice-cream cones after my lesson, and how he gave me ten dollars every year for my birthday.

There were also the times he criticized me and made me play the same measure over and over again. Then he was more like a teacher. A really hard one who never gave out A's.

This was pathetic. I'd only been gone an hour, and I already kind of missed everybody.

“Who's this Mort?” asked Kristen.

“Only the greatest clarinetist Cleveland ever had,” I said. “He's my clarinet teacher.”

“Oh.” She smiled politely. “Well, that's very sweet.”

“One last thing, Aidan,” said Stu. “Please don't tackle the governor this time around.”

“Right. No problem. Not in the cards,” I said.

“Then we're set,” said Stu just as the lead Secret Service agent got back on the bus. He announced that we were good to go, and everyone got to their feet and started lining up in the aisle.

Kristen glanced back at me. “Don't take this the wrong way, but is that what you're wearing?”

I looked down at my red Ohio State T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sneakers. Wasn't it obvious what I was wearing? “Um … yes?”

“Well, uh.” She coughed. “Well, it's just that we usually dress kind of nicely for these appearances, so …”

“But I'm not even officially appearing, onstage or anything, right? I'm just part of the crowd. Besides, shouldn't I look authentic? Everyone will think I'm a phony if I show up in a suit and tie,” I argued.

Not to mention the fact I hadn't brought them. Why didn't they give me a list of what to pack if they cared so much? I didn't even own a suit and tie that fit. I glanced at Emma, to see how I compared. She had on shorts and a T-shirt, too, right?

I did a double take. She was wearing a dress and fancy shoes.

She must have gone into the bathroom and changed between the time we arrived and now. She was like a superhero with her own personal phone booth. How come she got to look polished and I didn't?

And why did I care? What was happening to me? This campaign was trying to turn me into a dweeb!

Kristen tried to fix the collar of my T-shirt, which was kind of ridiculous since it didn't actually have one. “Maybe we'll have to schedule a shopping trip,” she said. “right after this event.”

“Yes, but Aidan has a good point. We don't want anyone to think he's gone all slick,” the governor said. “They'd never trust him or believe he was that everyday kid in Ohio.”

“Why does he get to wear what
he
wants?” Emma complained.

“Because he's not the potential first daughter,” the governor said, “and you are.”

“Lucky for me,” I said. “That would be awkward.”

Emma laughed, but Kristen completely ignored my joke. “We'll tackle your wardrobe issues later,” Kristen said. “right now we need to get out there and meet the crowd!”

“You definitely have issues,” Emma said as she pushed past me to be second off the bus, behind her mother.

I stuck out my tongue at her.

“How childish,” she commented.

“How rude-ish,” I replied.

“That is not even a word,” Emma said.

“I know that,” I said just as she continued, “Don't you know anything?”

“Kids. Kids! Knock it off. We need a unified front,” said the general. “We can't show any weakness here. A weak front is a losing battle. Let's go, everyone! Let's go get those votes! Let's attack from all sides, make sure no one forgets us!” He made it sound like we were landing in France and storming the Normandy coast, or whatever.

As soon as the bus doors opened, a whoosh of hot air—and loud screams—came at me. “Bettina! Brandon! Bettina! Bran-don!” a giant group of fans was chanting. Fresh Idea Party signs were being waved, slogans shouted, pictures snapped.

I felt ridiculous as I stepped off the bus behind everyone else. Who was I, anyway? Just some random kid they picked up along the way. Why was I even here? I could be home watching
Baseball Tonight
.

Well, maybe not, since we no longer had cable.

Maybe I'd somehow end up earning money on this tour, and we could get our cable back when I got home. That would make everyone happy.

Yes. That was it. I'd stick around long enough to get paid. Not that anyone had said anything about paying. I might have to ask about that. There should be a union, just like at FreezeStar.

In the parking lot, reporters were circling the governor within seconds. It was a mob scene, just like the day before, only worse.

“People, people, stand back! Give her some room!” Stu was shouting while the agents and local police kept the crowd at arm's length. The governor was shaking hands and kissing babies while the general urged her forward to the building's entrance. Meanwhile, questions were coming at the governor from all directions:

“What do you have to say about the latest trade deficit numbers?”

“What plans do you have to save the economy?”

“What will the latest immigration act ruling do for migrant farm workers in Ohio?”

“Hot enough for ya?”

I tried to hide in the background, behind Emma. She's taller than I am, so she made a good human shield. I would have to remember that in case the crowd ever turned on us and started throwing tomatoes, cream pies, or worse.

Speaking of which: where
was
my personal Secret Service agent?

“Hey, aren't you that kid?” a reporter came out of nowhere and held a microphone in front of me.

“Which kid?” I asked.

She laughed. “You know, the tackle-first, ask-questions-later kid.”

“Um, yeah,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, it's him, all right,” Emma added.

“I'd love to do an exclusive interview—” the reporter began.

“Hey, look, it's Aidan!” someone else yelled. “The clarinet hero!”

All of a sudden, I had as big a group of reporters around me as the governor had around her, yelling questions.

“How was the bus ride, Aidan?”

“You got any songs for us?”

“Play something, Aidan!”

“What are you doing here?”

I was about to say that I'd been kind of wondering the same thing myself when Stu came to my rescue. “He's the latest Brandonite, of course. His issues are the governor's issues. Now, everyone, if you'll excuse us, we have a rally to attend!”

We headed into the convention center through the back doors. The Secret Service agents and local police escorted us to the backstage area of the convention hall, which reminded me of our school auditorium. The seats were filled, and people were standing in the aisles. Up onstage, a woman from the Ohio Grandmothers for Peace group announced that Governor Brandon was in the building, and the crowd went wild. People were waving Fresh Idea Party banners and American flags. Peeking out from backstage, I saw groups wearing T-shirts that said
BRING ON BETTINA!
and
WE FLIP FOR FIP!
There was even a set of twin babies wearing shirts that said,
¡NIÑAS PARA BETTINA
!

A group of women in the front row held signs that said,
INDEPENDENT WOMEN FOR AN INDEPENDENT PRESIDENT
. Onstage, a band started performing a rallying song, while backstage, the governor reviewed her notes one final time.

Stu, the general, and Kristen hovered by the governor, waiting for instructions. Emma stood near me, but we didn't say anything. Finally, a local politician introduced Governor Brandon.

When she walked onstage and said, “Hello, Elyria!” it was like the reaction Christopher's varsity football team gets when they take the field for a big game, only a lot louder. People were screaming, chanting, going a little berserk, if you asked me.

Whoa
, I was thinking. She really was growing in popularity. So
this
was what happened when you had a
real
campaign stop in a big city. This was why people got so keyed up over politics. It was like one big party—except for the signs and the weird, gigantic buttons pinned to people's shirts. Fame. Attention. I loved it.

Stu, the general, and Kristen, along with Emma, disappeared into the auditorium to take their reserved seats, leaving me standing there feeling like I'd missed the bus. Why didn't they
tell
me they were going? I didn't know how to sneak around and get past the stage without being seen.

So I was standing backstage listening to the governor's remarks when suddenly someone tugged at my elbow. “Aidan, listen—I know this is last minute, but Stu just told me he changed his mind. They want you onstage,” Emma said.

“They do? Why?” I asked. “For what?”

“They want you to stand there and hold this.” She gave me a big poster-board sign that said,
OHIO LOVES FRESH IDEAS!
“You appeal to the Ohio element,” she said.

“What?” I struggled to hold on to the large sign.

Emma shrugged. “It's election-speak. That's what Stu told me to tell you. Never mind that. Just go, now!” Emma shoved me hard, the way you'd push a shopping cart if you wanted to hop on and go for a ride in the parking lot. I went flailing and stumbling out of the wings and onto the stage, dropping the poster board.

You know how you try to stop yourself from falling, but it's like slow motion and you can't do anything about it? Instead, you just wave your arms and keep falling. I went careening across the stage and slammed right into Governor Brandon at the podium.

I fell, and I made her fall. It was a domino effect.

I heard the audience gasp. Then nothing, just total, embarrassing silence.

I tried to get up, but my foot slipped and I fell against the bass drum onstage with a giant thump.
“Ba-dum!”

The drummer peered at me over her drums. Her long beaded braids knocked against the cymbals, sounding like wind chimes. Either that, or I had a head injury that was making me hear tinkling bells.

“You okay, little dude?” she asked.

Man. Even a hippie drummer could insult me.

Governor Brandon, meanwhile, had crashed into a speaker, high heels first.

“Uh, drumroll, please?” I asked. Everyone laughed. When I stood up and shrugged, totally humiliated and wanting to hide, they cheered.

The Secret Service agents just looked at me, shaking their heads as if they couldn't believe I was pulling this stunt again. “Identify the threat,” one said to the other.

And he pointed at me. “He is the threat.”

The crowd was screaming.

I hurried to help Governor Brandon to her feet. I apologized again for taking her out. She was looking a little flustered and not quite ready to say anything. I don't know what came over me at that moment, bravery or stupidity, but I stepped up to the mike.

Whoa. There had to be a few thousand people looking at me.

“This wasn't the planned opening for today's speech. And I apologize for that,” I said, my voice getting a little louder and clearer with each word. “But when you leave here today, don't remember this clumsy moment of mine. remember Governor Brandon. You can knock her down,” I said, “but you can't count her out!”

There was a deafening roar of applause from the audience as Governor Brandon came up to the mike. She shook my hand as the band kicked off another campaign song. Before she could speak, everyone started chanting her name, and then people onstage began to dance and I backed away, wondering why politicians were such horrible, horrible dancers.

Behind me in the wings, Kristen and Stu were high-fiving each other, only Stu wasn't very coordinated and high-fived Kristen in the eye. So then she was screaming and jumping around, holding her hand over her eye.

I tried to sneak off the stage and back into oblivion. No such luck. Stu and Kristen pushed me back onstage, where I had to sit in a folding chair and listen to Governor Brandon's speech once all the noise died down. I felt like a complete idiot. Also, I was not all that interested in the speech, which was all about foreign policy and world peace. The Grandmothers for Peace were ecstatic. I was bored.

Next, the governor was talking about human rights, and then about workers' rights and how everyone was entitled to fair and equal treatment.

I was thinking, this is all great, if you
have
a job, but not if you don't and your family has to give up things like name-brand peanut butter, cable TV, and the Internet.

I started thinking,
What would I do if I were in Governor Brandon's shoes (besides look ridiculous)? If I had an audience full of voters to talk to, what would I tell them? Or what would I ask them?

I remembered something we'd learned in social studies, something that President John F. Kennedy (number thirty-five) once said: “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.”

I'd modify that slightly.

Ask not what Aidan can do for you—ask what you can do for Aidan. Like, give him back ESPN. And establish a T.J.-free zone.

But that wasn't exactly what President Kennedy was getting at in that famous speech. I knew that it wasn't about being selfish. He was asking people to volunteer, to get involved and help others.

Just then I spotted Emma in the crowd, sitting next to the general. He might be able to control an army, but he had no control over Emma.

I glared at her. She smiled and waved, as if she were a princess riding on a float in a parade. As if she were completely sweet and innocent and hadn't just pushed me the way, well, the way T.J. would have.