The Kid Who Became President (14 page)

After I beat Trujillo at the World War Four game, he was so humiliated that the citizens of Cantania overthrew him and installed a new government elected by the people.

And me, well, when I arrived back in Washington on New Year's Day, everybody treated me like I was Armstrong just back from the moon. (
Neil
Armstrong, that is.) People lined the streets for miles, cheering and clapping their hands. Hundreds of thousands of letters poured into the White House. Everybody loved me again.

MOON IS HERO!
the headlines shouted. Video game sales zoomed. Hollywood wanted to turn my life into a movie.

“You must be butter, 'cause you're on a roll!” Vice President Syers said when she hugged me at Andrews Air Force Base.

“It was nothing,” I said modestly.

“You did good, Moon. Real good.”

“That's all I wanted to do,” I replied.

Even my dad, for once in his life, had something nice to say. “Well done,” he said as he clapped me on the back. Of course, Dad also says that when he orders meat in a restaurant, but I took it as a compliment.

The most surprising reaction I got was from the First Lady. Chelsea had always treated me like I was a dork. But when I got back from my confrontation with Trujillo, she ran over, threw her arms around me, and kissed me right on the lips.

“You were so brave!” she gushed. Even after I was able to pry her off me, she kept looking at me with goo-goo eyes.

Jeez! I didn't see what all the fuss was about. All I did was win a dumb video game.

 

The first year of my presidency was just about over. There was only one thing left to do.

Traditionally, every January the president of the United States stands before Congress to give what is called the State of the Union Address. It's a speech in which the president talks about how things are going in the country. He discusses problems facing the nation and says what he thinks should be done to solve them. The speech is televised and just about everybody watches it.

I called up Lane and begged him to come back and write the State of the Union Address for me, but he wouldn't do it. He said I was doing a great job on my own, and I should keep doing it that way.

I had never written a speech before. But I sat down and wrote this one myself. I spent a lot of time on it and wouldn't let anyone else see it. Not my parents. Not Chelsea. Not even Vice President Syers.

 

So there I was on January 9, standing alone behind the big podium inside the Capitol Building. In front of me, in a huge semicircle, sat a sea of elected officials. All one hundred members of the Senate. Four hundred and thirty-five members of the House of Representatives.

Sitting behind me were Vice President Syers and the Speaker of the House. Up in the balcony were my parents and Chelsea with her folks. Secret Service Agent Doe was there, just out of the hospital and recovering nicely. White House Chief Usher Honeywell was there. I had even invited Miller the Killer.

At exactly eight o'clock the red light on the TV camera went on and a hush fell over the huge room.

“Well,” I began, “it has been an exciting year!”

The crowd laughed good-naturedly and then broke into applause.

“My fellow Americans, all I wanted when I accepted the presidency was to do good for America. Some things have worked out. Other things haven't. I want you to know that I tried my best.”

Again, the crowd broke into hearty applause.

“I learned a lot this year. I learned a lot about what it means to be president of the United States. Being president isn't about riding around in limousines and helicopters to get your picture taken. It's about doing the right thing for the people.

“This, I learned, isn't as easy as I thought it would be. I learned that no matter what you do, a lot of people are going to be angry. Let me give you some examples. The president has to find a way to protect the nation's forests and also protect the job of a man who makes his living cutting down trees. The president has to help the poor without penalizing people who worked hard to become rich. The president has to work to end prejudice and also protect a bigot's freedom of speech. The president has to reduce people's taxes without taking away the services people need.

“These problems are so difficult and complicated, it may be impossible to solve them. I know one thing — I can't solve 'em.

“So, in the spirit of doing what is good for America, I would like to do one more good thing for my country as my first year as president comes to a close.”

I paused and took a deep breath.

“Effective immediately,” I said slowly, “I resign as president of the United States.”

The crowd broke into loud guffawing.

“That
wasn't
a joke,” I insisted. “I
mean
it. I quit.”

There was a loud gasp, then silence in the great hall. Not a sound. And then, two loud thuds were heard. It was my mom fainting and hitting the ground, followed almost immediately by Chelsea.

“I learned a lot this past year,” I continued as medics rushed to revive Mom and Chelsea. “And the most important thing I learned was that I'm not ready for the responsibility of the presidency. That's why I've decided to resign.”

“You can't!” somebody shouted.

“But I did,” I said. “I'd like Vice President Syers to join me at the podium at this time. Mr. Honeywell, will you please help Mrs. Syers?”

Honeywell hurried behind me to push Vice President Syers's wheelchair down to the podium. He was about to return to his seat, but I asked him to stay.

“Vice President Syers,” I said as I pulled out a Bible. “Will you raise your right hand, please, and repeat after me? I, June Syers …”

“I, June Syers …”

“Do solemnly swear …”

“Do solemnly swear …”

“That I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States …”

“That I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States …”

“And will, to the best of my ability …”

“And will, to the best of my ability …”

“Preserve, protect, and defend …”

“Preserve, protect, and defend …”

“The Constitution of the United States.”

“The Constitution of the United States.”

The crowd erupted into tremendous applause as Mrs. Syers smiled and waved.

There was one last thing I wanted to do before stepping off the stage. I moved Honeywell next to President Syers.

“My fellow Americans,” I said into the microphone, “I don't know if I brought our nation together in the last year, but I
do
know this: These two fine people were brought together. And we are gathered here not just to swear in a new president, but also to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony. If anyone here sees a reason why this man and woman should not be wed, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

“You go, girl!” somebody hooted from the balcony.

I continued, “Do you, President Syers, promise to love, honor, and cherish this man, Roger Honeywell, as your lawfully wedded husband until death do you part?”

“I do,” Mrs. Syers said happily.

“And do you, Roger Honeywell, take this fine woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” Mr. Honeywell said proudly.

“By the power vested in me as former president of the United States, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. Honeywell, you may kiss the president, I mean, the bride.”

When Mrs. Syers was finished smooching with Honeywell, she carefully struggled out of her wheelchair and rose to her feet, leaning on the podium for support.

“Well, I guess I seen just about everything now,” she said. The crowd cheered for a full five minutes.

“When I was a little girl,” Mrs. Syers went on, “if anybody ever said that an old, black, handicapped lady would someday be president of the United States, they would have been locked up in the loony bin. Don't this beat all?”

The crowd erupted into applause once again.

“Over sixty years ago, Franklin Delano Roosevelt was standing here delivering his last State of the Union Address. Most of you weren't around then or were too young to remember. But I remember. Roosevelt was my hero. He couldn't stand up too good, either. He had polio, you see, and he was a sick old man by then. But he was a force, that man! He didn't take no sass from
nobody.
He made people believe they could accomplish
anything.
Didn't matter if they were rich or poor. Didn't matter if they were black or white, young or old, man or woman, pretty or ugly, educated or not.

“Well, I'm living proof that in the United States of America, anybody can go anywhere. Be anything. So you better be ready, America. 'Cause Roosevelt is back. And I'm him. Thank you.”

And that was that.

When I stepped off the podium, the reporters were all over me like a swarm of gnats. They wanted to know why I decided to resign when I had the highest approval rating of any president in American history. I just shrugged my shoulders. Sometimes a guy's gotta do what he's gotta do.

The next day, Mom, Dad, and I packed up our stuff and moved back to Wisconsin. I would be going back to my old school, back to my old friends, back to my old life as a regular kid.

But, like I said, it had been an exciting year!

Go back

Hi, there, pea brain! You thought you were pretty smart, didn't you — turning to the back of the book to see how the story turned out.

Did you really think I was going to give away the ending so easily? Ha! You should be ashamed of yourself. Now turn back to page five and start reading.

Anything worth doing is worth doing right.

Learn how it all began for President Judson Moon in

 

 

It was a bright, sunny Saturday morning. Lane showed up at nine o'clock, wheeling June Syers, who was holding an enormous basket of lemons on her lap.

My folks were already gone for the day, attending seminars to help them sell more carpet tiles and cardboard boxes.

“I hate suits,” I said, pulling at my collar.

“You look outstanding,” Lane said. “Very presidential.”

Lane and I set up a long table at the edge of the lawn and Mrs. Syers got to work making lemonade.

I dug some long sticks of wood out of the basement and nailed cardboard to them. Lane has nicer handwriting than I do, so he painted three signs:
MOON & JUNE FOR PRESIDENT, HELP US!; WE NEED $20 MILLION!;
and
LEMONADE 25 CENTS
.

“Twenty million dollars?” whistled Mrs. Syers. “I'm gonna need more lemons.”

“It's just a symbol,” Lane explained, blowing up balloons to hang on the booth. “Grown-ups get all misty-eyed when they see lemonade stands. It reminds 'em of the good old days.”

“There
were
no good old days,” harrumphed Mrs. Syers. “The good old days is anything that happens before you're old enough to see the world as it really is.”

I live on a pretty busy street. Cars started pulling over right away and soon our lemonade stand was surrounded by people.

“Hi!” I said to each person cheerfully. “My name is Judson Moon. I'm twelve years old and I'm running for president of the YOU-nited States.”

“Keep smiling,” Lane whispered in my ear. “And don't say anything that will make anybody angry. Kiss some babies.”

“I'm not really into kissing,” I complained. “Do I have to?”

“Then hug people.”

“I'm not very good at it,” I admitted. “I never know which side I should put my head. If I put my head toward the left and if the other person puts her head toward the right, we bump heads. Can't I just punch 'em on the arm?”

We never had the chance to solve the problem. A beat-up Chevy Nova pulled up, followed by a minivan. A sloppily dressed guy got out of the Nova. He was carrying a pad in his hand and a pencil behind his ear.

“Judson Moon?” he said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Pete Guerra, with the
Cap Times
. I figured you wouldn't mind if I brought a few of the TV newsboys with me.”

A couple of guys got out of the minivan lugging video cameras, still cameras, a tripod, tape recorder, and microphone. They took a bunch of pictures of me serving people lemonade, and then Lane ushered us off to the side so Pete Guerra could interview me.

“So why ya running for president, kid?”

“Well, I figure grown-ups have had the last one thousand years to mess up the world. Now it's our turn.”

“That's a good quote,” Guerra said, looking up from the pad he was scribbling on. “Did you think of that yourself or did your campaign manager feed it to you?”

“Lane's job is to run the campaign,” I explained. “My job, as a candidate for the highest office in our nation, is to come up with good quotes.”

“Ya got any pets, kid?”

“A parakeet,” I replied. “Her name is Sn — Cuddles,” I lied. “Okay, let's get down to more serious business, Judson. People are going to want to know what positions you take.”

“I play third base,” I said. “Sometimes I'll play the outfield if the coach needs me out there.”

Guerra rolled his eyes and shook his head from side to side. “No, I mean your positions on the
issues
. Your
opinions
. Like, what do you think about gun control?”

“Guns don't kill people. They usually just cause serious injuries.”

“What about race?”

“I love all the races. My dream is to see the Indianapolis 500 and the Kentucky Derby someday.”

“What's the first thing you plan to do when you become president?”

“Install a skateboard ramp in the Oval Office and redecorate the White House with hip-hop posters.”

“When did you decide to run for president, Judson?”

“When I found out the White House had a bowling alley.”

When Guerra had enough of my wisecracks, he moved over to June Syers, who was dispensing her worldview for free with every cup of lemonade.

“Mrs. Syers,” asked Guerra. “How did you become Judson Moon's running mate?”

“Musta been my good looks and sparkling personality,” she said.

“Does Moon have what it takes to lead the country?”

“He can't hardly do any worse than the fools who are runnin' it now, can he?” she said. Then she proceeded to give him a capsule history of the United States, which basically consisted of saying the Indians were fools, the Pilgrims were fools, the Founding Fathers were fools, the Union and the Confederacy were fools, and every politician except Franklin D. Roosevelt was a fool.

“And I oughta know,” she concluded, “'cause I lived through all of 'em.”

 

As soon as Guerra and the TV guys left, Lane began tearing down our stand. Mrs. Syers counted up the money, and proudly announced that we had raised sixty-five dollars. There was a lot more lemonade we could have sold, but Lane wasn't interested.

“The idea wasn't to sell lemonade,” he said. “The idea was to make news. The money will come later.”

 

“Turn on channel three!” Lane shouted breathlessly into the phone that night while I was eating dinner.

Dad and Mom didn't seem to be paying attention to the TV, so I switched channels. “After these messages,” the anchorman bellowed, “we'll tell you about a twelve-year-old boy who says he's running for president. Stay tuned.”

“Where do they get these stupid stories?” Dad muttered from behind his newspaper.

I didn't say a word. I wanted to see the look on his face. After three commercials, the news anchor came back on.

“Well, they say that in America any youngster can grow up to be president. But at least one youngster isn't going to wait. Twelve-year-old Judson Moon of Madison is throwing his baseball cap into the ring right
now
.” Mom and Dad actually lowered their newspapers and looked at the TV. My face filled the screen and Dad's jaw fell open. Mom dropped the glass she was holding and it shattered on the floor.

“Grown-ups have had the last one thousand years to mess up the world,” I heard myself say. “Now it's our turn.”

“Moon will be running as a third party candidate representing ‘The Lemonade Party' for the presidency in November,” the anchorman continued. “The sixth grader and his running mate — an elderly African-American woman named June Syers — have already collected the two thousand signatures they need to get on the ballot in Wisconsin, and they're raising money by selling lemonade at a stand in front of Judson's house. We asked Mr. Moon how he plans to get around the Constitution, which clearly states that a candidate must be thirty-five years of age to run for the presidency.”

“I'm actually thirty-six,” I said to the camera with a smirk. “I'm just extremely young for my age.”

“That's our news for tonight. Good night and may all
your
news be good news.”

Before Mom or Dad could say a word, the phone rang. It was my aunt Lucy.

“Am I hallucinating!?” she shrieked. “Or did I just see you on TV?”

The instant I hung up the phone with Aunt Lucy, it rang again. It was one of my teachers. When I hung up with her, the phone rang again. Kids from school were calling. Mom's friends were calling. Total strangers were calling. Finally, Dad took the phone off the hook.

“Is this one of your pranks?” he asked. I wasn't sure if he was angry or amused. “It's
sort
of a prank,” I replied. “I don't expect to win or anything. You're always telling me I should get involved with extracurricular activities. Well …”

“I meant you should join the chess club or the school paper or something!” he said, his voice rising. “I didn't mean you should run for president!”

“Why didn't you tell us, dear?” asked Mom. “I
did
tell you, Mom. You just weren't listening.”

“Well, I think it's cute, honey,” she said, “as long as it doesn't interfere with your schoolwork. Remember, homework first, running for president second.”

Dad just rolled his eyes and shook his head slowly from side to side.

 

In the morning, I got up early and rushed outside to get the paper. There I was on the front page, with this big smile on my face, pouring some lady a cup of lemonade. There was an article to go with the photo:

MOON MISSION: 12-YEAR-OLD ON QUEST FOR WHITE HOUSE

By Pete Guerra

While other boys his age are flipping baseball cards and dyeing their hair purple, Judson Moon has other things on his mind — like running for president of the United States.

The 12-year-old from Madison says he is disillusioned with the Republicans and Democrats and has decided to mount a campaign as a third-party candidate in November's election.

“Grown-ups have had the last one thousand years to mess up the world,” claims Moon. “Now it's our turn.”

The young man, outfitted in a suit and tie, was raising money on Saturday by selling lemonade in front of his house for 25 cents a cup. He will have to sell 80 million cups to raise $20 million, the figure he says he needs to mount a national campaign.

Moon's running mate and fellow lemonade saleswoman is Mrs. June Syers, a retired nurse who used to babysit for the candidate.

“We're a perfect team,” Moon says. “I'm young and she's old. I'm white and she's black. I'm dumb and she's smart.”

Watch out, Democrats and Republicans! Stand back, Tea Partiers! Here comes The Lemonade Party!

 

Word gets around fast. When I walked into school on Monday morning, it was like I was from another planet. Everywhere I went, everybody was looking at me, pointing, and whispering. I'd walk toward a crowd of kids and they'd part to let me through.

Pretty weird!

Abby wished me good luck. Several of the teachers gave me the thumbs-up sign. Even Chelsea came over to me.

“You weren't kidding about running for president, were you?” she said, a lot friendlier than she was when we met.

“No, I wasn't,” I replied. “You weren't kidding about being First Lady, were you?”

“Actually I
was
,” she said. “But now that I know you're really doing this, you can count on me.”

Arthur Krantz made a face when he saw me, and I made the same face right back at him. As every politician knows, you can't please everybody.