Don't Vote for Me by Krista Van Dolzer Page A

was trying not to smile). “I think you would look good in purple.”
    â€œGross, Mom. That’s just gross.” I shivered despite myself. “Purple isn’t my color.”
    But as I followed her to the registers, I couldn’t help but wonder if it might be Veronica’s.

Seven
    As soon as we pulled up to our house, a plain-looking brown rambler on the northeast side of town, I spotted Riley and Spencer, who were waiting on the porch. When I said we’d get together later, they must have taken it literally. I was still trudging up the walk when Spencer launched into a rant about the evils of plaid flannel. It would have been an awesome opportunity to mention my run-in with Veronica, but he didn’t stop to take a breath until I’d produced my keys, unlocked the door, and silently ushered them in. Besides, it felt weird to talk about Veronica when she couldn’t defend herself, so I just kept my mouth shut.
    At least Spencer shut up when I announced that I was ready to make my campaign materials. Mom provided the supplies (a few posters, some dried-up markers, and an old paint-by-numbers kit), Spencer organized us into stations, and Riley came up with the slogans—which left the painting to me.
    By the time that we were done, we’d spilled the paint-by-numbers kit all over the back patio, but we’d also produced a couple of somewhat decent posters. But when we got to school on Tuesday, we knew that even Riley’s best slogan, “This Grainger Ain’t No Stranger,” wasn’t going to cut it.
    If I’d had to guess, I would have said that Veronica’s poster—if you could even call it that—was twenty feet tall, with golden trim and one red tassel dangling from its pointed end (which was practically scraping the floor). I wasn’t sure how she’d attached it, but it was hanging from the rafters like a banner in a throne room. It only said one thing—VERONICA PRITCHARD-PRATT, 7TH-GRADE CLASS PRESIDENT, with a larger-than-life picture of Veronica herself—but it said it so emphatically that I couldn’t help but swallow. It wasn’t a slogan; it was a simple statement of fact.
    I chucked my poster on the floor, then gave it a swift kick for good measure.
    Spencer didn’t seem to notice. “What is that thing?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s defeat,” Riley replied, collapsing onto his trombone case.
    Spencer managed to ignore him. “Doesn’t that break one of the rules?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” I admitted. She wouldn’t have been dumb enough to spend more than fifty bucks.
    Riley plopped his chin into his hands. “So what are we going to do?”
    I glanced down at the poster that I’d kicked across the commons. Compared to Veronica’s banner, it looked like a kindergartner’s art project. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.
    â€œWell, I do,” a voice said.
    We turned around in unison, our faces frozen in shock. Esther was standing behind us, and her hands were on her hips.
    â€œYou’re gonna dump all of those eyesores in that garbage over there”—she flicked a thumb over her shoulder—“and then you’re gonna make me art director of this bumbling campaign.”
    I cocked an eyebrow. “Just like that?”
    â€œJust like that,” Esther replied, tucking her arms across her waist. “Or do you want to be the only kid at Shepherd’s Vale who’s never won a single vote?”
    â€œOh, that’s cold,” Spencer said, but instead of dismissing her, he sighed. “Look, we appreciate the offer, but my candidate and I are gonna have to think about it.”
    â€œActually,” I said, “I don’t think we need to think about anything.” I held out my hand to Esther. “Welcome to the team.”
    Esther beamed as we shook hands, but Spencer sputtered like a leaky faucet.
    â€œBut I’m the