Dodger for President Read online

  “Yeah,” I said, removing the sock from the front of my sweater. “Wow. Now, about that election.”

  “We didn’t mean it, Willie. It just kind of happened,” Dodger said. “One minute, everything was going great. I drank the potion, pretended to be you for a couple of hours, took that quiz I was telling you about, watched the cake fall on James Beeks—it was all fun and games. Then all of a sudden, everybody was yelling at each other, and I had to stick up for Lizzie. The next thing I knew . . . umm . . . well . . .”

  Lizzie took over: “The next thing he knew, Mrs. Starsky was walking out of the room to the water fountain so she could wash the cake off of her shoes. As soon as she left, Beeks said, ‘Shut up, Wimpy. You think you’re so great now just because you got one lucky game-tying hit in one stupid baseball game. Well, I think you’re ridiculous. You got one hit. ONE hit. And all of a sudden, a few people pat you on the back, you have your dorky English girlfriend, and you think you’re popular. Is that it, Ryan? Do you think you’re all popular now?’ ”

  Dodger took over the story: “I tried not to say anything, I really did. But, dude, he called Lizzie dorky. And he insulted your big hit. So I just said, ‘Maybe.’ Then Beeks poked me in the chest, and said, ‘Maybe WHAT, Wimpy?’ So I said, ‘Maybe I’m popular. And maybe you should wipe the cake off your head before you call somebody else ridiculous.’ After that, things got a little out of hand.”

  I shouted, “After THAT, things got out of hand? How much more out of hand could they possibly BE?”

  Dodger and Lizzie hemmed and hawed for a while more, and little Sherlock Holmes knocked on the door two more times, but I eventually got the whole story: how Mrs. Starsky had come back from the hall with her shoes dripping and separated Dodger and Beeks. How they had kept yelling at each other until Mrs. Starsky had written both my name and Beeks’s on the board. How Beeks had challenged Dodger to run against him for student council president. How Flynn had muttered, “Yeah, right. Wimpy for president!” How Dodger had stopped for a second to think. And how, in the momentary silence, Lizzie had slammed her palms down on her desk and shouted, “We accept!”

  After Lizzie left, and Dodger fled to the inside of his magic lamp for the night, I got ready for bed. While I was lying there in the dark, I kept picturing the whole nightmare classroom scene in my head and wondering what the heck I was going to do about it. Finally, before I drifted off into a night of nervous, tortured half-sleep, I decided what I would have to do. I’d just get up in the morning, march off to school, and tell Mrs. Starsky that I was sorry, but I couldn’t run for president after all. I mean, Dodger had gotten all worked up in the spirit of the moment and put me in a bad situation. But I had spent years carefully avoiding the spotlight. If I backed down, Beeks would probably make fun of me for a while, but soon things would be back to normal. I would be happily invisible, Beeks would get elected, just like he had every year since kindergarten, and life would go on.

  I figured, how hard could it be? It’s not like one day of being absent could change my life forever, right?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Making My Own Decisions

  THE NEXT MORNING, bright and early, I ran up to my classroom before school started. Mrs. Starsky was just getting there, wearing a brand-new pair of icing-free shoes. “Hello, Willie!” she said. “How’s our school’s newest political candidate doing today?”

  I looked down at the floor—which still had a vivid orange volcano-cake stain—and said, “Uhh, about that candidate thing . . . I’ve thought it over, and I don’t think I want to run for president after all. I didn’t really want to run in the first place.”

  Mrs. Starsky looked sort of puzzled. “But, Willie,” she said, “you seemed so fired up about it just a day ago. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I guess I just wasn’t myself yesterday. And running wasn’t even my idea.”

  Mrs. Starsky gave me the dreaded Understanding Teacher Smile. “Oh, William. I have a little story I think you should hear. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  I sat, and she launched into one of those inspiring pep-talk stories that teachers save up for these special moments. “You’re not going to believe this, Willie, but I was once a shy kid.”

  Mrs. Starsky had been shy? I found that hard to believe—this was a woman who sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” on the intercom every day during morning announcements. Even though she was 100 percent tone-deaf.

  “But then my best friend persuaded me to try out for the middle-school cheerleading squad. She was always much more daring than I was—kind of like your fearless friend, Lizzie. I tried my hardest to get out of trying out. I pretended my throat hurt. I tried to tell the coach I had a sprained ankle. I even claimed that someone else had signed my name on the tryout list—can you believe that?”

  I smiled at her. Weakly.

  “But my friend wouldn’t give up on me, and when the day came, there I was, standing on the line at the edge of the basketball court in a hotpink leotard.”

  Eww.

  Mrs. Starsky beamed at me. “By the end of the session, I even found the courage to let myself get flung up in the air from the top of a pyramid formation. So you see, Willie, sometimes you have to rise to a new challenge, even if you do have some second thoughts the morning after.” Shaking my head to erase the weird image of Mrs. Starsky flying through the air waving pom-poms, I asked, “So, what happened with the tryout? Did you make the team?”

  Just then, the bell rang to let everyone into the building. “Ooh, look at the time! This was a lovely chat, Willie, but I have to write the homework on the chalkboard now. Please think about what I’ve said, all right? If you still really want to drop out of the election, you can let me know by three PM today.”

  “Oh, come on, Mrs. Starsky. You can’t tell me ninety percent of the story and then not let me know how it ended. Please tell me what happened.”

  She laughed nervously.

  “Please? Just tell me—did you make the team?”

  “Well,” she said, “I didn’t quite . . . I mean . . . there was a little problem with the pyramid stunt. But the dentists at the hospital did a great job of fixing my front teeth. And in the end—after some minor plastic surgery—I learned some important life lessons.”

  Swell, I thought. She tried the new experience and escaped with nothing worse than a smashed-up face. That was tremendously comforting. As the rest of the class arrived, I thought about Mrs. Starsky’s request to wait until the end of the day to drop out of the race. I didn’t see the point because the facts weren’t going to change by then. Math was math. In the margin of my notebook, I started to write down the equations that would control the outcome of the election:

  Me = Dork

  Lizzie = Dork

  James = Popular Kid

  Craig Flynn = Scary Tough Kid

  Popular Kid + Scary Tough Kid = Unbeatable Combo

  Dork + Dork = Very Beatable Combo with Possibility of

  Record-Breaking Landslide Defeat

  My pencil point broke, and I got up to sharpen it. When I got back, Dodger was standing silently next to my seat. I waved him away, and he strolled over to take a nap in his favorite spot on top of the radiator. Sitting back down, I saw that Dodger had added another line to my calculations:

  Dork + Dork + Magic = FUN!!!

  I groaned. As you can probably tell, Dodger’s definition of fun was remarkably similar to my definition of trouble.

  At lunch, I told Lizzie about my conversation with Mrs. Starsky. She spent the next twenty minutes attempting to convince me that I should run no matter what happened. Then we went outside for recess, sat down under a tree, and kept right on arguing.

  Two shadows fell over us. I looked up into the sneering faces of James and Craig. “So,” James said, “are you planning your election campaign or your wedding?”

  “Ooh, good one,” Lizzie retorted. “Did you think of that by yourself, or did you ask a first grader for help?�
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  James said, “You know you’re totally going to lose, don’t you? I mean, I’m the best candidate. I’ve been on student council since kindergarten, and I have tons of friends. And you’re—well—you’re you.”

  Lizzie stayed calm. Looking James right in the eye, she said, “You know, the election isn’t just a popularity contest. A lot of kids in our grade would be happy to vote for an intelligent, thoughtful candidate who has a good understanding of the issues surrounding—HEY, WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?”

  James was practically doubled over with glee. “The issues,” he wheezed between fits of laughter. “She thinks the election is about the issues. Ooh, that’s a good one. The issues!”

  “Okay, Mr. Expert, what is the election about, then?”

  “It’s about me being the best, and everybody else knowing it. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get your friend here to drop out of the race before things get really embarrassing.”

  Lizzie was fuming. When I was little, there was this kid named Davey on our block. Davey had this tiny, short-legged lapdog that looked like the weakest animal in the world. The first time I met Davey, I asked him the name of the dog, and he said, “Bloodfang.” I almost laughed. But then, about a week later, I saw a huge German shepherd running past my house in a panic. A moment later, Bloodfang came charging after it. That German shepherd practically ran up a tree to escape Bloodfang’s rage, and I don’t think it ever came back to our street.

  If James didn’t back off fast, he was going to find out that Lizzie’s parents should have named her Bloodfang.

  “Listen, James,” I said. “I don’t really want to run anyway. So I’m sure we could work this out so that everybody is happy if you’ll just stop being so insulting.”

  Lizzie elbowed me aside. “Yeah, James. We’ll drop out of the race. All you have to do is ask nicely.”

  Craig, who hadn’t said a word this whole time, said to James, “Hey, that sounds fair. Why don’t you just ask the dorks—sorry, Willie . . . sorry, Lizzie—to drop out?”

  James whirled to glare at his running mate. “James Beeks doesn’t ASK, Craig. James Beeks TELLS. James Beeks has been running unopposed in these elections for years, and he isn’t about to stop now.” He turned back to stare down at us. “What do you say to that, Lizzie?”

  “I say James Beeks sounds like a moron when he talks about himself in the third person.”

  “Okay, how about you, Wimpy? Are you ready to step aside and let a real man run, or are you and your ugly girlfriend going to embarrass yourselves even more than usual?”

  Lizzie bit her lip. She didn’t look very Bloodfangish anymore. In fact, she looked like she might be about to cry. Suddenly, I heard an angry voice. Alarmingly, the voice was coming from my mouth: “Oh, we’re running, Beeks. And we’re going to kick your sorry butts!”

  Oh, man, I thought. I’ve definitely been hanging out with Lizzie and Dodger too much.

  At the end of the day, I told Mrs. Starsky I would stay in the election. She smiled radiantly at me and said, “Excellent! I’ve been itching for a real election campaign around here for years. We’ll set the elections for two weeks from now, right before Thanksgiving. This will be a great learning experience for all of us!”

  As the afternoon sunlight slanting through the classroom windows reflected off her teeth, I was pretty sure I could see a line where one had broken off and been glued back together. I gulped, and prayed that my learning experience with the election would work out better than hers had with the pyramid.

  On my way out of the building, I passed the gym, where a bunch of James Beeks’s cool female friends were already practicing cheers for him:

  “Yeah, James! Go, Beeks!

  We know you can beat the geeks!”

  It was going to be a long two weeks.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Three Exclamation Points

  “SO,” DODGER SAID, standing on his hands and leaning his feet against the wall, “what’s our strategy, dude?”

  We were in the family room at my house after school. My mom had set us up with a snack of apples, then gone outside to work in the yard. Lizzie and I were munching on the apples. Dodger had just gobbled down an entire bunch of bananas that he had pulled out of his Bottomless Well of Treats, a magical bag that filled up with whatever food you wished for. I had had a little mishap with the bag right after I’d met Dodger, so now it had a big patch on the bottom. Also, everything that came out of it tasted a little bit like milk and chocolate doughnuts.

  Long story.

  Anyhow, we were having the first meeting of what Lizzie insisted on calling, “Team Ryan-Barrett!!!” I had asked her jokingly whether the three exclamation points were optional, and she had replied with an icy no. As if the only thing standing between us and total victory was a lack of exciting punctuation.

  Lizzie called the meeting to order—no, I’m not kidding—and took out a yellow legal pad and a pencil. “Good question, Dodger,” she said. “What is our strategy?”

  Dodger did a back handspring, landed on the big comfy chair, burped, and said, “Beats me. Willie’s the one running for president. He must have some truly excellent ideas. Right, Willie?”

  I just looked at him blankly.

  After an uncomfortably long silence, Lizzie said, “All right, we’ll get back to strategy later, if there’s time. Meanwhile, how about we list our strengths?”

  I snorted. “Now that shouldn’t take long,” I said. “Can I see that pencil for a minute?” She handed it over, and I made a little chart on the pad:

  STRENGTHS

  Beeks-Flynn

  Ryan-Barrett

  Popularity

  Abundant banana supply

  Government experience

  Abundant banana supply

  Vice pres. candidate is intimidating

  Vice pres. is great with punctuation

  Cheerleaders

  Chimp

  Lizzie yanked the paper away from me, and her eyebrows wrinkled up as she read it. “Willie, why in the world are you running if you think we’re doomed from the start?”

  “Beesh call boo uggy,” I muttered into my armpit.

  “What did you say?” Lizzie asked.

  I felt really funny about saying it more clearly, but Dodger apparently didn’t have the same problem. He blurted out, “Willie said, Beeks called you ugly.”

  Then a horrifying thing happened. Lizzie got all misty-eyed, stood up from her chair, and patted me on the arm. “You’re defending my honor! Oh, Willie!”

  “Oh, Willie!” Dodger giggled.

  Just then, Amy tromped into the room in her Sherlock gear. “ ‘Oh, Willie,’ what?”

  Lizzie gave me one more dreamy look, sat back down, and filled in little Sherlock on our whole campaign situation. At the end, she asked, “So, what do you think? You’re a great detective—how should we proceed with this case?”

  “This isn’t a case,” Amy said. “It isn’t even much of a mystery.” She paused dramatically to look through her magnifying glass at a bit of banana peel that had fallen onto the table. Lizzie, Dodger, and I all leaned closer to hear her next words.

  “Your only chance,” Amy continued, “is to fight dirty.” Then she raised an eyebrow, took a tweezers and a plastic bag out of her coat pocket, and confiscated the shred of banana peel as evidence.

  Amy walked out, and I said, “What does she mean, our only chance is to fight dirty? We’re honest. We’re noble. We’re the good guys.”

  Amy popped her head back in the doorway. “You’re the dead guys.”

  I threw a sofa pillow at her, and she disappeared from sight. This time I waited until I heard her bedroom door slamming upstairs before I said anything else. “Is she right? Is cheating our only chance?”

  Dodger looked disgusted. He said, “Dude, I hate cheating. The Great Lasorda was always trying to get me to cheat for my clients. I think we should win this thing the old-fashioned way.”

  “With i
ntelligence?” Lizzie asked.

  “No,” Dodger said.

  “With a carefully balanced platform that meets voters’ needs?”

  “No.”

  “With family values and good old American know-how?”

  “Nope.” He stopped to pick some mushed banana out of his chest hair and then licked his fingers with satisfaction. “With free food!”

  You know what? It takes a whole heck of a lot of wishing and stacking to get a whole school’s worth of doughnuts from a Bottomless Well of Treats. Plus, let me tell you, smuggling four hundred doughnuts out of the house when you live with a suspicious detective is no bargain either. Dodger and I had to get up at five AM. Then I had to sneak down into the garage, climb out the window, and stand in the middle of a pricker bush while Dodger tossed down several garbage bags full of doughnuts. Next I had to hide the bags behind the bush, climb back into the garage, sneak to my room, and try to go back to sleep with Dodger bouncing around, going, “Hey, since we’re up, let’s play! Do you have any cards? I love War. Man, I RULE at that game. Once, when I was stuck in my lamp under a lily pad in the middle of a pond for twelve years with nothing to entertain me but a pack of cards, I figured out an unbeatable system for winning at War. There was this school of guppies that always wanted to play Go Fish, but I was like, ‘Why does it always have to be about you?’ ”

  By the time he finally stopped to take a breath, I was nearly asleep again, but I managed to groan, “Dodger, you do realize that War is totally a game of luck.”

  He didn’t say anything for a while, so I said, “Uh, you do know that, don’t you?”

  He was still silent. “Dodger?”

  Then he punched me on the arm and doubled over with laughter. “Oh, dude, you really had me going there for a minute. War is a game of luck? That’s a riot!”