The Kid Who Ran For President (3 page)

Lane passed me a note during social studies class: MEET ME IN THE TREE HOUSE AT 4:00. I nodded back to him and slipped the note in my desk.

Abby and I built the tree house in the woods near my house a few years ago. It wasn't just a bunch of planks nailed to a tree. We hauled in a rug, a couch somebody had thrown away, and an old rocking chair. We even had a battery-operated TV and boom box. It was pretty cool.

Abby and I spent hours up there together. We were both hooked on the game of
Life
, and we'd have these marathon sessions up in the tree.

 

By the time I climbed the rope ladder to the top, Lane was already up there. He was busily jotting down notes on a long yellow pad.

“I thought this would be a good place for a secret strategy meeting,” he said seriously. “We've got a lot we need to talk about.”

“Are you sure the tree is secure?” I whispered. “I mean, it might have a bug in it!”

Lane doesn't laugh much, and he didn't laugh at that.

“I liked the way you handled that creep Arthur Krantz in the lunchroom,” Lane said. “I was afraid he was going to walk all over you. But you refused to give him a straight answer and made him look like a jerk.”

“I thought that only showed how stupid I am.”

“No, it
hides
how stupid you are,” Lane said. “It's more important for you to
look
as if you know what you're talking about than it is for you to
know
what you're talking about. In a serious discussion of the issues, you're a dead man.”

“I know.”

“The first thing we need to talk about is me,” Lane said. “Do you want me to manage this campaign?”

“Sure I do.”

“Well, I'll only do it on one condition. I'm in charge. After Election Day, you're in charge. But up until that point, I call the shots. Okay?”

“Sounds fair,” I said. What did I know about running for office anyway?

“That means I tell you what to do, what to wear, what to say, and when to say it, Moon. And you've got to run to win. I don't want to get started with this thing unless you're willing to stick with me until the bitter end. So we're in agreement?”

“Let's do it,” I said.

To me, the whole thing was a goof.
A kid running for president! That's ridiculous!
But I've certainly done crazier things in my life. In any case, we shook hands on it.

“One of the first things we have to nail down,” Lane said, checking off a note on his pad, “is whether you're a Republican or a Democrat.”

“How should I know?” I said. “We didn't learn them yet in social studies.”

“Well, there are a lot of differences between the two parties. But to put it very simply, the Democrats are in favor of a strong federal government. The Republicans are against putting too much power in the hands of the government.”

That meant nothing to me. “What other choices do I have?” I asked.

“Those are the choices! It's a two-party system!”

“But what if I don't like either of those parties?” I complained. “Why can't I just run as me?”

“My feeling exactly,” he said, pleased. “Voters are sick of the Democrats and Republicans fighting with each other and never getting anything accomplished. And if you ran as an In de pen dent we wouldn't have to bother with primaries, delegates, conventions, and all that other garbage. Let's run you as an In de pen dent!”

“Great.”

“We need a slogan,” Lane said, looking up as if one might be written in the sky. “Some catchy line that people will remember. Like ‘Keep Cool with Coolidge,' or ‘Tippecanoe and Tyler Too.' Something like ‘All the Way with LBJ.'”

“How about, ‘Vote for Me, I'll Set You Free,'” I volunteered.

“This is a free country, Moon. You don't want to make people feel like they're enslaved.”

“How about, ‘Moon for President'?”

“Boring.”

“How about ‘Don't Be a Loon, Vote for Moon'?”

“Catchy, but too silly.”

“How about ‘Shoot for the Moon'?”

“You want to encourage some crackpot to try and assassinate you?” Lane said.

“How about ‘Moon: Let Him Orbit Around You'?”

“Ugh,” Lane groaned. “Hey, the moon causes the tides, right? How about ‘Moon — He Makes Waves.'”

We both groaned at that one. Neither of us was happy with any of the slogans we were coming up with, so we agreed to put the slogan aside for the moment. Lane looked for the next item on his list.

“We're going to need to pick your running mate,” he said.

“Jogging gives me shin splints,” I complained.

“Your running mate is your vice presidential candidate, lamebrain.”

“Well, why don't
you
be my running mate?”

“I'll have my hands full running your campaign. I can't be vice president, too.”

“Oh.”

“You want to pick somebody who is very different from yourself. That way, people who don't like you but do like
him
will vote for you anyway.”

“Hmmm. What about Arthur Krantz? He's about as different from me as anybody could be.”

“Booger Boy?
Nobody
likes that dork,” Lane said. “Besides, you and Krantz would kill each other before Election Day.”

“How about a grown-up?”

“Good thinking!” Lane said. “Voters who don't want to vote for a kid might feel more comfortable if there was a grown-up on the ticket. Do you have anyone in mind?”

“My dad?”

“You can't have your dad be your vice president!”

I brainstormed for a few minutes, and then it hit me. “I know who would make a good running mate!” I exclaimed. “June Syers!”

“Who's June Syers?” Lane asked.

“You know, that old lady who's always sitting on her porch.”

Lane started laughing, and I swear I thought he was going to collapse. He was rolling around clutching his sides and shaking. He almost fell out of the tree house.

Then, suddenly, he stopped laughing. He sat up, said nothing for a few seconds, and announced excitedly, “I love it!”

Lane started scribbling frantically on his pad. “We already have the youth vote. The old lady will give us the African-American vote. She'll give us the senior citizen vote. She'll give us the handicapped vote! And she gives us a killer slogan, too!”

He held up the pad and showed me our first campaign banner …

“You're brilliant, Moon! An absolute genius!”

“It was nothing really,” I said, polishing an imaginary apple. “I just like her.”

We decided that I would talk with Mrs. Syers, and Lane moved down the list to the next item he wanted to discuss.

“We've got to work on your image, Moon.”

“What's
wrong
with my image?”

“Don't be so touchy! You don't even have an image yet. We have to
give
you one.”

“I thought a person's image was the natural personality they give off.”

“You're so naive, Moon,” Lane said, shaking his head. “I've been thinking it over and one thing you definitely have to do is change your parakeet's name.”

“Change Snot's name?!”

“You can't have a bird named Snot.”

“That's her name!”

“It's disgusting!”

“It is Snot!”

“Why'd you name your parakeet Snot in the first place?” Lane asked.

“Well, when we first got her, she was always running around her cage.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Like a nose,” I explained. “She was always running. And she looks a little bit like a big nose, too.”

“So you had to name her Snot? Why didn't you name her Nose or Shnozz? Even Booger would have been a better name.”

“I like Snot!”

“How about Cuddles or Choo-Choo?” Lane suggested. “Something voters will find adorable.”

I hated the idea of changing Snot's name. But as Lane pointed out, it would be a shame to lose votes just because my parakeet's name offended some people. So Snot became Cuddles.

“Now, our next order of business,” Lane said, going down his list. “The First Babe.”

“The First Babe?”

“Behind every great man stands a great woman, Moon. You've got to have a First Lady.”

“That's a no-brainer, Lane. Abby Goldstein is the First Lady.”

Lane took a few moments to find the right words. “Moon, I've given this a lot of thought, and I don't think Abby fits your image.”

“I thought you said I don't
have
an image,” I blurted out.

“She doesn't fit the image we want to
give
you.”

“What's wrong with Abby?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, Moon, but it wouldn't hurt a kid running for the highest office in the country to have a real knockout with him. All those photo opportunities and every thing.”

I had never thought of Abby as someone who was pretty or not pretty. I just thought of her as my friend.

“You think Abby's ugly?” I asked.

“I didn't say that, Moon. She's just sort of uh … normal. Tell me, what do you think of Chelsea Daniels?”

“You mean the girl with the long blond hair in science class? She's the most beautiful girl in the school. Doesn't she do fashion modeling or something?”

“She's the one.”

“She doesn't even know who I am,” I said.

“Once the word gets around that you're running for president, she'll know who you are. And it will help her modeling career to be seen with you.”

“I don't know, Lane. Abby and I have been friends since we were babies. What will she think if some other girl is my First Babe?”

“Moon, you agreed to let me run the campaign and that you'd run to win,” Lane said. “I say you get more votes with Chelsea at your side than with Abby at your side. Do me a favor and just
ask
Chelsea. Will you do that for me?”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

So I had two girls to ask out. June Syers and Chelsea Daniels.

I spotted Chelsea walking home from school the next day and ran to catch up with her.

“Uh, excuse me, Chelsea?” I said awkwardly from behind.

“Oh, hi! I'm sorry, I don't know your name.”

She turned around to face me. Chelsea Daniels is one of those twelve-year-old girls who looks like she's about eighteen in the magazine ads. I know it's not cool to think a girl is beautiful just because she has blond hair and blue eyes, but looking at Chelsea somehow makes the muscles in your face malfunction and you forget how to talk.

“Judson,” I finally choked out. “Judson Moon.”

“Hi, Judson Moon,” she said. I recorded in my mental memory bank that Chelsea Daniels had actually spoken my name. The words “Judson Moon” had passed through her lips.

“Can I ask you a question, Chelsea?”

“I'm kinda in a hurry …”

“It'll only take a minute. See, I'm running for president …”

“What, of the student council?”

“No. Of the United States.”

She stared at me, then laughed. “Yeah?”

“And every president has to have a First Babe. I mean First Lady.”

“Yeah …?”

“I was wondering if you might be
my
First Lady.”

“Is this going to be on YouTube or something?” she said, looking around for a camera. “Who put you up to this?”

“Nobody.” I reached into my backpack and pulled out one of the petitions Lane and I had been circulating. She looked it over.

“We don't have to
date
each other or anything, do we?” Chelsea asked, wrinkling her nose.

“No, of course not!” I assured her. “I might ask you to attend some functions with me. Parties and stuff …”

“Parties?!” she said, brightening. “Formal parties where I would get dressed up and there would be photographers and stuff?”

“Possibly,” I said.

“Cool!” she said, finally smiling at me like I deserved to be on the same planet as her. “Do you think I would look better in a blue or a pink silk dress at the inauguration?”

It was as simple as that. I had my First Babe.