Read The Kid Who Ran For President Online
Authors: Dan Gutman
The Kid Who Ran For President
To the next generation of young leaders.
One of
you
will be president someday.
“Hi! My name is Judson Moon. I'm twelve years old and I'm running for president of the YOU-nited States.”
That's how I introduced myself to about a zillion people last year. I must have kissed a zillion babies, said a zillion hellos, shaken a zillion hands.
When you shake a zillion hands, you learn the fine art of handshaking. You don't hold the other person's hand too loosely, and you don't squeeze it like you're trying to show them how strong you are either. You grab the hand firmly. Look the other person straight in the eye. One pump does it.
Timing is crucial. You can't let go a millisecond too soon or a millisecond too late.
People respect a good handshake. Do it perfectly, and nothing else you do or say much matters. You've just about got that man or woman's vote.
I got a lot of votes. Enough to make me president of the United States? Well, you can peek at
page 156
of this book and find out.
That is, if you're a total weenie with the attention span of a flea.
Or, you can read this book and get the whole story. Me? I'd read the book. But hey, it's your choice. It's a free country, right?
It was right after Election Day. Lane Brainard and I were down in his basement shooting pool when we first came up with the idea of a kid running for president.
The TV was on. A bunch of boring grown-ups in suits and ties were sitting around a table. I wasn't paying much attention, but they were jabbering something about what the Democratic Party and the Republican Party are going to have to do if they want to win the election next year.
Ordinarily, I would grab the remote control and switch to something more interesting (to me, the Weather Channel would have been more interesting). But Lane's sort of a weird genius who wants to know every thing about every thing. His favorite show is
Meet the Press
! Besides, it
was
his house.
Lane recently moved to Madison â that's the capital of Wisconsin, in case you don't know â with his mom. She had just split up with Lane's dad, who lives in California. Lane and I have only known each other for a little while, but we're getting to be good friends.
“The Democrats have been all messed up since they lost control of Congress,” Lane explained as he chalked up his stick. “And the Republicans are entirely clueless.”
He smacked the cue ball into the pack and balls scattered across the table. The eleven ball dropped in a corner pocket and Lane walked around the table looking for his next shot.
“Half the time the president doesn't know what he's doing, either,” I replied. I don't know much about politics, but I can usually fake it if I have to.
“You know who should be running this country, Moon?” Lane said, lining up his next shot. “A kid.”
He stroked the five ball toward the side pocket. It just missed, tapping off the bumper.
Lane looked up at me with a sparkle in his eyes. “Can you imagine that, Moon? A kid running for president of the United States? Think about it. It'll be the next election. And a kid becomes the most powerful person in the world! What a mindblower!”
“That's crazy,” I said. “The kid would have to be part of the political system. He'd have to know all the politicians. It takes years to make all the connections.”
“You know, politicians aren't picked by a bunch of political cronies in smoke-filled rooms anymore, Moon. It's all computers, image consultants, special interest groups, corporate bundlers, online donations, media experts, and advertising now. They might as well be selling soap.”
“Don't you have to be thirty-five years old or something like that to run for president?” I asked. I seemed to remember something from history class.
“There are ways around that,” Lane replied casually.
“
You
oughta run, Lane,” I said. “You're probably the smartest kid around.”
“People don't want a smart president,” he said. “They want a president who makes 'em feel good. If they wanted a smart president, Albert Einstein would have been elected.”
“You mean he
wasn't
?”
“Moon, you're a dunce. A lovable dunce.”
“I was kidding!” I said. “I knew Einstein was never president. I swear it!”
Suddenly Lane stopped and looked at me.
“Wait a minute, Moon,” he said. “Why don't
you
run for president?”
“Very funny, Lane. Funny like a crutch.”
“No, I
mean
it.”
He had this sort of devilish expression on his face, the kind of face you see in old horror movies when a mad scientist cooks up a secret potion or creates a monster that will help him rule the world.
“Moon, you're
perfect
,” Lane said, walking around the table excitedly. “People
like
you. You make 'em laugh. You put 'em at ease. You've got a good presidential name â
Judson Moon
.
President
Moon. You look like an all-American boy. You're tall. You've got good hair. It's even parted on the side like a politician â”
“Yeah, right,” I interrupted. “Like Americans are going to elect a guy president because they like his
hair
.”
“Ever notice that we've never had a bald President?” Lane pointed out.
I thought about that for a moment. “What about Lyndon Johnson? Wasn't he a little thin on top?”
“He doesn't count,” Lane said. “He only became president because John F. Kennedy was assassinated.”
“What about Eisenhower?”
Lane backed me against his mom's washing machine and looked me in the eye. “The point is, this is America, Moon,” he said excitedly. “The land of opportunity. You know what they say â this is the country where
any
kid can become president. Moon, that kid could be
you
.”
“Why do you want me to run for President so badly?”
“When I was little,” he said, racking up the balls again, “we used to play this game called King of the Hill. There would be a big mountain of dirt or gravel. All the kids would scramble to the top. Then we'd push each other and try to knock each other down the mountain. The one kid who was still at the top at the end was the king of the hill. I was always small and skinny and the other kids always knocked me down on my face. I was never king of the hill. The president of the United States is sorta like the king of the hill. I guess if I could get you elected, it would be sorta like I was king of the hill, too.”
Like I said, Lane is a little weird.
On the way home from Lane's house, I walked down Jenifer Street and saw June Syers sitting on her porch. That was no big surprise, as June Syers is
always
sitting on her porch.
In fact, if I ever walked by her house and
didn't
see June Syers sitting there, I would rush to call the police because something must be terribly wrong. But there she was, as usual.
“Judson Moon!” she hollered. “You come up here this very minute and have a glass of lemonade with me or I'll tell your momma on you.”
I bounded up the steps. June Syers is an old African-American woman I've known since the days she used to babysit for me. She has Parkinson's disease, which makes her hands and legs shake. But her mind still works fine. It's a little hard to understand what she's saying sometimes, but I usually find it's worth the effort to try and figure it out.
“Judson Moon, what are you, in fifth grade now?”
“Sixth.”
“Sixth grade!” she marveled. “The perfect grade! When you're in sixth grade, you know every thing in the world there is to know. In fourth grade, you know nothin'. In fifth grade, you know nothin'. And then suddenly you hit sixth grade and you know it
all
. Nobody can tell you nothin'. Then a funny thing happens when you get older and become a grown-up.”
“What's that, Mrs. Syers?”
“You don't know nothin' again,” she said, breaking out in her cackling laugh. “Strangest thing.”
The lemonade tasted good and I plopped down in the rocking chair next to Mrs. Syers's wheelchair.
“Who was the first president you voted for, Mrs. Syers?”
“Franklin Dellllllllllano Roosevelt!” she said, drawing out the middle name so it sounded almost musical. “And you know who was the
last
president I voted for?”
“Who?”
“Franklin Dellllllllllano Roosevelt!” she said just as proudly.
“You haven't voted since ⦔
“Since 1944.”
“Why not?”
“Haven't come across anybody
worth
votin' for since FDR,” she said, shaking her head.
“Truman? Eisenhower? Kennedy? Reagan? Obama? None of them were worth voting for?”
“Not in my book. Politicians. Poll takers. When a man â or woman â comes along who
really
wants to lead this country and not just play politics, then I'll pull the lever for 'em. Till then, I'll sit here on this porch and watch the world go down the toilet.”
I drained the glass and set it down on the railing. “Mrs. Syers,” I said, sticking out my hand, “my name is Judson Moon. I'm twelve years old and I'm running for president.”
“What, of your student council or somethin'?”
“No. Of the YOU-nited States of America!”
“You crazy! Even when you were a toddler you were crazy. I still remember the time you hid my glasses in the pan and I baked 'em right into the cake.”
“I'm not kidding, Mrs. Syers. I'm thinking I might actually do it.”
“Politics changes a person,” she said, pointing her bony finger at me. “It rips your heart out and puts a stone in its place.”
“Not mine.”
As I bounded down her steps, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called out to me. “You're openin' a mighty big can of worms, Judson Moon!”