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

campaign manager!” he said. “You can’t hire someone without my say-so!”
    â€œI’m pretty sure I can,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure I just did.”
    Esther scooped up our old posters and dumped them brusquely in the trash. “Fantastic,” she replied as she dusted off her hands. “Now we can get to work.”
    * * *
    Esther’s first task as art director was to get Ms. Clementi to agree to let us work on my campaign materials instead of next month’s newspaper. I’d always thought that Esther was Ms. Clementi’s favorite student (or at least I’d thought that since she’d said, Esther, you’re my favorite student ). We didn’t make a ton of progress, though Esther spent the whole class scribbling. When the bell finally rang, she confirmed that we hadn’t blown her budget on “our experiment in finger paints,” then slipped away with a vague promise that she’d have something in the morning.
    I managed not to think about the election or anything related to it for the rest of the day, but on my way out to the bus, I accidentally crossed paths with Veronica. She was waiting for me in the commons, directly underneath her banner.
    â€œDavid,” she said sharply as soon as I came into view. I was surprised that she would talk to me—and call me by name—in front of so many other people. “We need to practice our duet.”
    â€œYeah, sure,” I said distractedly. Practicing for the spring recital was the last thing on my mind.
    â€œYou don’t understand,” she said as she hooked me by my backpack straps. “We need to practice it tonight .”
    â€œOkay, tonight,” I said. Was she hard to read? You bet. Complex and mysterious? No doubt about it. “But I’ll have to ask my mom.”
    Veronica nodded. “Fine.” She pressed a Post-it Note into my hand. “Just call me once you know. As soon as you know, you understand?” She turned to go, then turned right back. “But we’re going to have to practice at your place. I can’t have people over at my house.”
    â€œYeah, sure,” I said again, though I wasn’t really listening anymore. I’d stopped listening as soon as she’d pressed that Post-it Note into my hand. No girl had ever given me her number.
    Veronica nabbed the Post-it Note. “You do have a piano, don’t you?”
    â€œOf course we do,” I said. It had been eleven years since Abner had moved out, but my second oldest brother was still a celebrity around these parts. Every time he came to visit, old ladies bombarded us with cakes and casseroles just so they could hear him play. “But do we have to do this now ?”
    â€œYes,” was all she said as she smacked me on the chest. I didn’t see the Post-it Note stuck to my T-shirt until she was already gone.
    * * *
    Mom didn’t have a problem with the practice; she even dialed the number for me. I’d wanted to text Veronica so I wouldn’t have to talk, but Mom hadn’t let me borrow her phone. I was the only twelve-year-old on this side of the equator who didn’t have his own, but my parents didn’t care. Sacrifice builds character had to be their favorite slogan.
    And that was how, forty-five minutes and one awkward phone call later, I found myself anxiously waiting for Veronica to show. I’d camped out in my room so I wouldn’t be hovering by the door (and so I could watch for her, though I’d never admit as much out loud).
    I flipped my blender rocket on and off while I kept an eye on the window. The blender rocket had been Owen’s—he’d built it for a science fair, and it could fly as high as thirty feet—but then, most of my stuff had belonged to one brother or another. My T-shirts had been Radcliff’s (though my boxers were my own). Elias’s Michael Jordan posters covered one wall of my room,