How Not to Run for President Read online

  I know my dad tries to treat us equally. He just can’t help it that he’s more interested in Christopher’s athletic career than in mine. Or that he doesn’t come to all my band concerts because they tend to be at night, when he works. He’s never really gotten why I like the clarinet. Football is a lot easier to understand, and I can’t really blame him for that.

  Sometimes it feels like our family has two sides: me and Mom, and Christopher and Dad.

  We heard cheers coming from up on the embankment. I saw the Fresh Idea Party bus pulling up to park on the side of the road, where minivans usually took up the spots.

  “Here they come!” said my dad. Everyone in the field came over toward the dugout to get a better view. Uncle robert flipped a little mirror out of his pocket, whipped off his baseball cap, and started to fix his hair.

  “Again?” my dad groaned. “What, you think you’re going to be on TV or something? Do you really think they want to get a shot of you?”

  “Shouldn’t you be leaving for work?” Uncle robert replied, waving his comb in the air. “Besides, you only wish you had something to comb.”

  All the guys on the team, including me, were staring at the bus, the news vans, and the Secret Service agents who were stepping out onto the grass. Our grass. Our ball field.

  Secret Service agents fanned out around the bus and started to cross the field. Then the governor came down the steps, flanked by more agents, and headed toward us, followed by about a dozen other people, including her daughter.

  The governor was trailed by a few campaign workers, who were reading their BlackBerries or texting into iPhones and Droids while they walked. Reporters were walking after them, holding out microphones and looking desperate for a good story. One woman’s high heels kept sinking into the soft field, and she almost fell down.

  Governor Brandon was smarter. She had changed into jeans, a Cleveland Indians jersey, tennis shoes, and a baseball cap that said BRANDON FOR PRESIDENT.

  Trotting beside her was her daughter, wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and a Minnesota Twins ball cap. Her ponytail stuck through the little hole in the back. She was smiling and looked like a normal girl. That was strange.

  Maybe she had one of those split personalities, like those psycho villains in movies. One minute they’re normal, the next completely merciless.

  “Look out, everyone. Look out!” the taller Secret Service agent said. “Coming through.” He stopped and looked at me. “You again?”

  “Hi.” I gave a pathetic little wave.

  He narrowed his eyes at me, then kept going.

  Governor Brandon seemed surprised to see me standing there. “Hey! Aidan, right? I know you.” She grinned.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Yeah, you should remember him. He tried to kill you,” said T.J.

  I glared at him. “Be quiet.”

  Emma stood beside her mom, chomping on a piece of gum. She looked around at the FreezeStar Field. “Well, this field needs some work, doesn’t it?” she commented.

  “It’s Little League,” I said. “And it’s pretty nice. What do you expect, Yankee Stadium?”

  “No. It’s just … the grass is turning brown. My Little League field is way nicer,” Emma said.

  “Emma. That’s not polite,” her mother said. “I’m sorry. I think she’s homesick. Mind if we play along for a little bit?”

  “Oh, sure, sounds great,” said Uncle robert, looking nervously from mother to daughter and back again.

  “Excuse me, sir.” A tall African American man who was also wearing a brandon for president ball cap, along with a matching campaign button on his white button-down shirt, held an Indians ball cap out to Emma. “Here you go, Emma,” he said. “Wear this.”

  She looked at it as if were poison. “What? No way! Why would I wear that?”

  “Because the campaign manager wants you to,” the man said. He tipped his cap to us. “Nice to meet you all. I’m Governor Brandon’s campaign manager. retired General Roy McGarvin.”

  “Nice to meet you, General.” Uncle robert shook his hand. “I recognized you right away. You were secretary of defense under the last administration.”

  “That’s right.” The general nodded. “And secretary of transportation before that. And now, Emma, back to you. Enough already, just wear the home-team ball cap. Is that too much to ask?”

  “It’s not fair,” she said. “The only thing I know about the dumb team is that they stole our best player, reed Jackson.”

  “Cleveland didn’t steal him—he was a free agent,” I said.

  “Same thing,” she said, hands on her hips. “And what about Hayashi? He was our best relief pitcher. You stole him, too.”

  I looked at Simon and shrugged. What could we say? She was right about that. I was a huge fan of Hayashi and his split-finger fastball.

  “Wear it, Emma,” the general said in a stern but friendly tone, “or you don’t play.”

  “Fine.” Emma took off her Twins cap, handed it to him, and jammed the Cleveland one over her head.

  “Sometimes being in charge of an entire platoon was easier,” General McGarvin muttered to Uncle robert before he headed off, pulling out his cell phone.

  “I’ll take first base,” Emma announced. “That’s what I play at home.”

  T.J. was already on his way to first base. He stopped and stared at her. He looked like he was going to burst. “But that’s my position—you can’t—” he spluttered.

  “Can’t what?” She straightened her ponytail and jogged out to take his place at first. He started running beside her, but she won. “You’re out,” she said as he touched the base after her.

  T.J. stood in the infield, looking lost, as if he wasn’t sure what to do. Then he walked over to me and said, “Fine. I’ll play shortstop, then.” He pushed me out of position.

  Emma looked at me and cracked her gum. “Well, I’m going to need a glove.”

  “Emma,” her mother said. “We talked about that.”

  “My glove?” Emma asked. “I know. I told you I shouldn’t have left it at home!”

  “Not that. Gum!” her mother said. “You’re not to crack your gum in public like that.”

  “Fine,” Emma said. She dug a small hole in the ground with her heel, spit her gum into it, and covered it up with dirt.

  Her mother frowned. “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  Because of the way Emma did that, and since she had stood up to T.J., I kind of liked her a little more than I had earlier. Besides, he’d already pushed me out of my position. What was I going to do, push out someone else? I’d never do that.

  “Here, you may as well take mine,” I said, holding out my well-worn glove.

  She looked at it as if it were a dead fish, her lip kind of curled up to one side. “Okay, thanks, I guess,” she said. Then she slid it over her left hand and punched the heel a few times. “Let’s play ball!”

  I was happily on my way back to the dugout to watch when Uncle robert stepped out from behind the plate, sliding up his catcher’s mask. “Since you just gave up your glove, Aidan, why don’t you hit?” he asked.

  What? “Me? Why me?” I said.

  “That’ll be great. Mind if I pitch?” asked Governor Brandon.

  “Uh, well, no, I guess—that’d be fine,” Uncle robert stammered. He handed the baseball to Governor Brandon.

  “It’s okay—I won’t break it,” she joked as she strolled out to the mound. “I played a little softball in college.”

  “Mom. She was All-American,” Emma said loudly. “Why do you tell them the boring stuff and skip the cool parts?”

  “That was a long time ago,” said the governor. “But I think I can still get the ball across the plate.”

  Colin frowned at her, then jogged past me, toward the dugout.

  “You want to hit?” I asked him.

  He glared at me. “What do you think?” Colin tossed his glove on the ground and sat down on the bench to watch.


  I knew what he was thinking: why did they think they could just show up and take over our practice? At least, that’s what I was thinking.

  I grabbed a bat and stood at the plate. I took a couple of practice swings while Governor Brandon warmed up her arm, lightly tossing the ball back and forth with Uncle robert and the kids in the infield, including Emma. Our dugout had been temporarily taken over by campaign workers like the general. I glanced over at the photographers and reporters standing by the third-base line. There were even a couple of video cameras filming the governor. Over on first base, Emma was punching my glove and bouncing on her toes.

  Uncle robert tossed the ball back to the governor one final time, then crouched behind me. “Okay, Aidan. Hit one for the hometown. Make me proud.”

  I set my stance and waited for the governor to wind up.

  Governor Brandon’s first pitch blew past me like a freight train.

  Uncle robert cursed as the ball hit his glove.

  “Aidan! Look alive!” my dad called from the dugout.

  “My grandmother could have hit that ball!” Emma shouted from first base.

  Governor Brandon threw a few more pitches before I had a chance to even get my bat on the ball. When I did, I knocked it foul, over my shoulder.

  I started thinking that maybe she should quit politics and go into professional softball.

  “Rotate!” Uncle robert called, and T.J. jogged straight for home plate.

  “I’ll go,” he said. “So we can show them that someone in this town can actually hit a baseball.”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny,” I said. I was more than happy to trade places with him.

  T.J. handed off his glove to me like a football, slamming it into my ribs.

  When we quit practicing about fifteen minutes later and I walked over to the water jug, T.J. was showing Emma the video he’d taken earlier in the day with his smartphone. In it, I was tackling the governor, then getting hauled away by the Secret Service and frisked. T.J. had zoomed in and captured the grass in my hair and the dirt in my teeth. He, Emma, and the rest of the team were laughing hysterically as they watched it. Even Simon, that temporary traitor.

  “This is classic!” Emma took an iPhone out of her pocket. “I totally have to add that to my favorites.”

  “Totally,” I muttered.

  T.J. started telling Emma how many views it already had on YouTube.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do?” I asked him.

  “Not really. This is pretty sweet.” He hit play again, and he and Emma laughed as they watched the Secret Service agents pulling endless stuff out of my pockets and mistaking me for a girl.

  Fortunately, Governor Brandon came over just then. “What are you guys laughing at?” she asked. “Not my pitching, I hope?”

  “Oh, no, Mom. It’s nothing,” Emma said, shoving her phone into her pocket. She must have had practice at covering for herself.

  “If you say so.” Governor Brandon turned to T.J. “And who are you? I’m afraid Emma took your spot at first base.”

  “I’m T.J.,” he said. “T.J. Lewis?”

  Short for That Jerk, I wanted to say.

  “My dad’s the mayor?” T.J. added.

  “Right, right! Fantastic! Hey, how about a picture?” The governor posed with him while reporters snapped a couple of photos. That Jerk was getting good press while I was being made to look like an absolute fool. When was he going to end up on the losing side of things, for once?

  The general came over to say something to the governor. She looked at her watch. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, everyone, but we have to get going. Thanks again, Aidan,” she said to me.

  “For what?” I asked.

  “Everything. Saving me from that plunging sign, a concussion, or worse! And you really got to the heart of what this election is all about. Keeping jobs close to home and keeping small towns strong.” She nodded. “From now on, I’ll always think of Fairstone when I talk about those issues.”

  Ha! So there, I wanted to say to both T.J. and Emma.

  “Oh. I almost forgot.” Emma held out my glove. “Thanks for letting me use this, but you really need a new one. This thing is falling apart.”

  I glared at her. She couldn’t even say thank you without insulting me. “No problem,” I said coldly.

  I watched the entire group tromp across the field, up the embankment, and back to their Fresh Idea Party bus. If that was the last time I ever saw them, I was definitely okay with that.

  When I came down for breakfast Wednesday morning, my brother, Christopher, was having a fit. “Mom, seriously. Seriously. How do you expect me to keep up and not be totally embarrassed—”

  “If you find a job this summer, we can talk about getting cable again.” My mother tapped a few commands into her cell phone and smiled at me as I sat down at the kitchen table. “Oh, good, you’re finally up!”

  “You know, Mom. You don’t need a cell phone,” Christopher argued. “If you got rid of yours, then we’d have enough money for cable—”

  “Zip it, Christopher,” my mom said. “I do need a phone. I have to keep up on Facebook.” She looked over at me and smiled again. I noticed she had dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well. She tended to get insomnia a lot these days.

  “Humph.” My big brother was watching ESPN’s Baseball Tonight on the tiny TV that’s mounted under the kitchen counter while he ate a big bowl of chocolate frosted flakes. “I can’t believe they’re doing this to us. Can you believe it?” he asked me, slouching like nobody’s business. “Not only do we give up this”—he pointed to the TV—“but Internet, too? I mean, way to kill any fun around here, Mom.”

  I think it was about the fifth time he’d watched the same Baseball Tonight program. He was making a point, not that it was having any effect on our parents. It was our last day of expanded basic cable, and we were all in mourning. Just another one of the sacrifices Mom and Dad kept talking about, because of the so-called new economy.

  Of course, I know other people have it much worse. Even Simon, who ended up moving when his parents couldn’t make the payments on their house. Now they live in this apartment complex across town and it takes us twenty minutes to ride our bikes to see each other. Plus, he has to share a room with his brother Henry. Who’s two.

  Anyway, for me one thing that really stinks about your parents getting laid off is giving up things like cable. Especially when you’re a baseball and football fanatic like Christopher, or just a regular baseball fan, like me.

  “You have your phone,” Mom said calmly to Christopher. “Just be thankful for that for the moment.”

  “I could use a phone,” I said.

  “Yes, you have a point,” she agreed. “We’ll talk to your dad about that.”

  “Seriously?” I squeaked.

  “Wait a second. Why is he getting something?” Christopher complained. “You keep saying how we have no money.”

  Good question. There was something strange about Mom’s supremely good mood. She was dressed nicely, too, as if she might have a job interview. “Mom? Are you going back to work or something?” I asked.

  “Nope,” she said cheerfully.

  “You should. Then we wouldn’t have to give up cable,” said Christopher.

  “Don’t you think I would go back to work if I could?” my mom asked. “Honestly, Christopher. You don’t grasp what’s going on here. You need some of Governor Brandon’s common sense.”

  While I was wondering what that meant, Mom turned up the volume on the TV. The anchor was saying, “Folks, there are rare moments when the sports world connects with the political scene. Last night was one of those nights.” The video clips showed the two other presidential candidates throwing out first pitches: Flynn at a minor-league game somewhere in the South, and former vice president Mathias at a Yankees–red Sox matchup.

  I couldn’t help noticing that they didn’t pitch nearly as well as Governor Brandon. Flynn’s pitch went wild and nearl
y beaned a bystander, while Mathias didn’t throw the ball hard enough to even reach the catcher at home plate.

  The anchor continued, “On a separate note, let’s check in with Governor Brandon, who threw out the first pitch at a Little League game in Ohio last night—”

  “What first pitch? It wasn’t even a game,” I said. “It was practice!”

  “Nice arm,” Christopher commented as he watched the clip. “She’s got heat on that thing.”

  “Tell me about it,” I grumbled. “I couldn’t hit a one.”

  “Not much else went right for the Fairstone Freezers,” the reporter said.

  “Freezers?” Christopher exclaimed. “Can’t they even get the name right?”

  “These kids may not be headed to nationals, but they’ve got as much guts as any other team out there.” Then they showed me playing shortstop, grabbing a ball, and rocketing it to Emma at first. “The shortstop’s name is Aidan Shriekingbaum. Throwing to first, where the governor’s daughter also showed some serious skills.”

  “Schroeckenbauer,” Mom said. “It’s not that hard to say!”

  “You may be hearing more about him in the future,” said the reporter. “This is the same kid who saved the governor from falling scenery earlier in the day.” While he spoke, the replay of my heroic deed played on a large screen behind him. They had it in replay mode, so it repeated over and over, then backward. “He’s fast on his feet, America.”

  Christopher looked at me with newfound respect. At least I think it was respect. I didn’t get that look much, so I wasn’t sure I’d recognize it if I did. “You’re just an average kid,” he said, sounding jealous. “Why do you get featured?”

  I shrugged. “I must have done something right.”

  “Your fielding is good, but only because of what I’ve taught you,” said Christopher.

  “Right,” I said. “It has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve studied the game on my own or practiced or anything.”

  “Exactly,” Christopher agreed, pushing his chair back from the table. He refilled his bowl of cereal while Mom changed the channel to a local morning show.