President of the Whole Fifth Grade Page 2

  I mean, come on, people. Now, after years of trying to be just like me, even Tabitha Handy was in a total daze over the New Girl???

  Foolishness. I pushed past Tabitha, Annie Darling, and Nerdy Boy.

  I tried not to shudder as I slid into my seat at the lunchroom table. A true leader doesn’t let her fear show, right? And the truth was, the whole competition for president thing was making my insides shake.

  Becks slid into the seat next to mine. Lauren and Sara sat across from us. Lauren was stretching her arms with her fingers locked together. She looked as if she were getting ready for a karate match. Becks took two long blasts from her asthma inhaler. Her round cheeks were pinkish and she looked excited.

  She said, “Hey you guys, guess what?” And just like Becks, before any of us could say a word, she kept on talking. “I saw Jeremy Ross earlier. He said his father works for a publishing company and he’d heard about my summer trip to Brazil—Jeremy, I mean, not his dad. Anyway, Jeremy said that his dad’s company pays good money for well-written stories by kids, so I should write about my trip. But he said to write like it’s fiction. As if it happened to someone else, like him. Jeremy, not his dad. Jeremy says if I write it, he’ll make sure his dad reads it.”

  She let out a big exhale and sat back, her face shiny with excitement.

  Poor Becks.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Lauren said and rolled her eyes.

  Sara just shook her head.

  “What?” said Becks.

  I draped my arm across her shoulder. “Becks, Jeremy’s dad doesn’t work for any publisher person. He’s a fireman. Remember in third grade when he came in on career day?”

  “Then why…”

  Lauren cut her off before Becks could finish her question. “Because Jeremy is in Mrs. Bigelow’s class and that’s the assignment she made when school first started.”

  “Jeremy probably blew it off and now he’s desperate. He just wants you to do his homework,” I said.

  “You really think so?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  See, Becks was like that. She was the nicest, sweetest person in the world. But sometimes… well, I’d hate to think what might happen to her if she didn’t have us watching her back.

  Sara said, “Okay, now that that’s settled, we really need to talk about this whole Jasmine Moon thing.”

  “She seemed nice on the playground,” said Becks.

  “Rebecca! Don’t be a doof! She’s totally trying to steal the election from Brianna,” Lauren said.

  Sara squinted and rubbed her forehead for a second, then said, “I’m worried. You should have been the easy favorite to be president of Mrs. Nutmeg’s class. But now that it’s between all the fifth grades and we have that new girl, and the word is that her dad is some kind of coach or something for the Pistons, well…”

  None of us wanted to say anything after that.

  Sara was right. Having a dad on the coaching staff for the Detroit Pistons was like being royalty. Girls would look up to her and guys would be in awe.

  After a few seconds, Sara smiled.

  “What?” I asked.

  Sara raised her milk carton and said, “What are we worried about? We’re the girls of the Woodhull Society!” Sara was right. We all smiled.

  Sara’s mom worked for a bank and helped us keep up with our own bank accounts so we could save our money. When we first started, she told us we needed a name for our group. For a while we didn’t know what to call ourselves, then Mom and Aunt Tina took us to the museum and we saw an exhibit about great women. Well, one woman we learned about was Victoria Woodhull. She was once called “the queen of finance.” And she was the first woman to run for president. Mom told us she would be the perfect role model for our money-saving club.

  With our milk and juice cartons held high in the cafeteria, we cheered, “To the girls of the Woodhull Society!”

  I got chills. Of course, I was a Woodhull girl. It was like an omen. Victoria Woodhull was the first woman to run for president of the United States. And she was smart about making and saving money. I wasn’t the first girl to run for president at our school, but I could wind up being the first girl—the first kid ever—to be president of the whole school and not just one class.

  And rich, too. Don’t forget rich!

  Lauren nodded and looked at me. “It will be just like we planned. First, you will become president of the whole fifth grade. We didn’t spend all summer listening to you talk about the election and all that for nothing. You will be president. Then you will get your own cupcake cooking show and be a millionaire.”

  Hey, I liked the way that sounded!

  I said to Lauren, “And one day you are going to be a famous Hollywood stuntwoman and then have your own TV show!”

  Rebecca raised her milk carton to Sara. “You’re going to be an Olympic horse rider and a millionaire businesswoman.”

  We turned to Becks. “And if we can keep you away from scammers like Jeremy Ross, you’ll be a totally famous author!”

  “And…,” we all said together, “be a millionaire!”

  We laughed and said “cheers,” bumping our milk cartons together.

  Rebecca’s round cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink after she took another pull on her inhaler. She was waving her hand, like she wanted to be called on in class or something.

  “For goodness sake, Becks, stop raising your hand!” Lauren said with a laugh.

  “Okay, okay. Can I just give Brianna one piece of advice?”

  You know she didn’t wait for anybody to answer her, right?

  “Brianna, okay, you know we love you. But please can you promise that you won’t get too, too, tooooooo carried away with the election?”

  Sara was nodding her head, her upturned brown eyes sparkling.

  “She is right, you know? You do get…”

  “Caught up!” Lauren finished the statement.

  I batted my eyes dramatically. “Who me? Moi? I? Carried away?”

  “CARRIED AWAY! Crazy for WORLD DOMINATION!!!” they all said at once. Then followed it up with a hearty, “Waa-haaa-ha-ha!”

  We all burst out laughing. Okay, so sometimes I did get so excited about stuff that… well, I couldn’t think about anything else. But who could blame me if that happened this time? We’re talking about being president of the fifth grade, people.

  We were still laughing and playing around when a shadowy movement caught my attention. The next thing I knew I was yelling:

  “Whoa! There’s a horse in my soup!”

  5

  Beware the Dark Horse!

  The silhouette of a man on a horse appeared inside the cafeteria’s double doors, right next to us.

  Then, even though the man on the horse kept saying, “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” the horse kept whinnying and twisting around, and before I knew it…

  Well, the horse trotted sideways, snorted, and dunked his snout in my soup.

  I jumped backward and almost landed on the floor. Big Wally, a burly bully who used to take Becks’s lunch money in third grade before Lauren used her karate training to kick his legs out from under him and pin him to the ground, looked like he’d seen not just a horse, but a ghost horse. The horse clattered over the tile floor. His tail swished. He looked nervous.

  The cafeteria was what grown-ups call a solarium, but it sometimes felt more like an aquarium. It had a really high ceiling that went up like two, maybe three stories. And the roof part was made of glass so when it was sunny out, like today, the whole room was bright.

  But it also made noise sound really loud. As if the glass top sealed all the yelling and squealing and goofing around tight inside, like closing a lid on a jar. When it got loud in here, it was really loud!

  I realized it was Principal Beelie on the horse’s back, dressed like George Washington. His big, round belly jiggled every time the horse reared up. I never pictured George Washington with a big, round belly.

  And I never pictured him scared
or sweaty either.

  Principal Beelie was both.

  The horse trotted forward, table and chair legs scraping the floor as kids slid over to make a path. I felt like I was right in the middle of some sort of reality show on TV. Beelie was sweating because I bet that George Washington wig made his head hot. Assistant Principal Smith popped out of nowhere making “nice doggy” sounds to the horse.

  Sara made a disgusted sound. I looked at her and shrugged.

  Rebecca said, “You aren’t going to eat the rest of that soup, are you? It’s full of horse germs!”

  My mind flashed back to one of the “little-known facts” Mrs. Nutmeg had written on the blackboard: George Washington used to have people brush his horses’ teeth. EVERY MORNING! I looked at Big Wally. I’d known that boy since forever and I knew for a fact he didn’t brush his teeth every morning.

  Snrt!

  I guess that was horse for “get me back to the farm!” The animal trotted backward a few feet and snorted again.

  Sara and I exchanged glances. Sara loved horses. She had horses. Sometimes when we hung out at her house, we’d ride them together. Sara hated to see animals in distress, and Dr. Beelie’s horse was in distress big-time.

  Sara leaned over and said, “This is terrible. That poor animal is frightened and Dr. Big Belly is too busy being president of the principals with his costume to care.”

  Sara could be pretty feisty when she got angry.

  Assistant Principal Smith said, “Dr. Beelie wants all you boys and girls to give the fifth graders your utmost respect and attention as they plunge into their roles as junior decision makers. We…”

  Right then the horse reared up and made a loud WHEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! And Dr. Beelie let out a loud “Yeow!”

  And then out of nowhere… SHE appeared.

  Jasmine Moon.

  She just popped up and all of a sudden she was next to Dr. Beelie and the unhappy horse. Sara sprang to her feet. But before Sara could take a single step, Jasmine Moon placed her hand on the side of the horse’s snout and gently rubbed. Then she stood on a chair and leaned forward. The horse actually lowered its head as if waiting for a secret.

  Sara looked at me.

  I looked at Sara.

  Well, the next thing you know, the horse was all nice and Jasmine was all smiley like some kind of horse whisperer.

  Foolishness, that’s what it was!

  Dr. Beelie almost fell off the saddle, then he said a bunch of stuff about how important the elections were to America and a bunch of other blah-blah-blah-ness… Then he said the worst thing ever!

  Dr. Beelie looked at Jasmine and said:

  “Young lady, I don’t know what you just whispered to Mr. Lucky, but if you’re as good with the students as you are with animals you could definitely wind up the president of the fifth grade!”

  I felt like I had just gotten kicked by Mr. Lucky.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was so flustered, I scooped up a spoonful of my soup and slurped it down.

  “No!” cried all my friends.

  Oh no!

  Not only was it possible I might lose the most important election ever and wind up without important leadership skills and then of course be unable to run a big cupcake empire or get my own TV show, which would mean no millions. Now I might be dead any minute because I’d just slurped down a big spoonful of chicken noodles and horse slobber.

  That night, after I’d brushed my teeth and gargled an extra-long time to try and kill any stray horse cooties, I plopped onto the bed and fell back against my pillow.

  All I ever wanted was to be a millionaire cupcake maker. And Miss Delicious had told me exactly how to do it when she spoke to our class last January.

  “So why is it getting so hard, Pig Pig?”

  Pig Pig’s belly rumbled with shifting quarters and dimes and nickels and pennies, but his painted eyes did not blink. And his painted mouth did not speak.

  This whole woman of big business thing might be harder than I thought. If I lose the election, could that really change my entire life plan? My future?

  I fell asleep clutching Pig Pig to my chest and hoping for an answer that did not come in the night.

  6

  Vote for Brianna! Sweet Justice Pick Me

  (HELP! We need a slogan!)

  Elections were less than six weeks away.

  November third.

  The first Tuesday in November.

  I was hanging upside down from a branch in my backyard letting the blood pump into my brain. Around me, green leaves flapped like new dollar bills. I was thinking about Jasmine Moon when I heard loud snoring from the porch.

  Grandpa!

  As usual, he’d fallen asleep while he was supposed to be “supervising” us. I flipped down from the tree and went over to give him a shake.

  “WHAT?” he shouted, sat up, and looked around like he was in combat and the enemy was shooting.

  “Grandpa, you’re… you know… snoring.”

  He frowned, shook his head, and grumbled, “You kids keep down your racket. Brianna, get in there and make sure them cupcakes don’t burn!”

  Oh, well, I needed to check my cupcakes anyway. Sara, Becks, and Lauren followed me into the kitchen. “It smells sooo good!” Lauren said.

  “I bet this is how it smells at Miss Delicious’s house all the time,” Sara said.

  I opened the oven carefully. I set the cupcake pan on the stovetop and then gently removed each cupcake and set them on the cooling rack.

  “No offense, but we’re supposed to be working on your campaign strategy,” Sara said.

  “I am,” I said as I scraped the sides of the mixing bowl. “I’ve been working on a new recipe for homemade chocolate frosting.”

  Sara rolled her eyes. She said, “A campaign strategy is what people use to help them become president. Bree, your strategy would be the perfect way to show kids you are going to be a smart, funny, fair president who cares.”

  Lauren snorted and then tasted the frosting. “I think Bree’s strategy should be to crush the competition. Coach always says ‘go hard or go home’!”

  “What does that even mean?” said Sara.

  I couldn’t help laughing. This was typical of those two. Lauren shot back, “It means forget all that fuzzy-wuzzy nicey-nice. The campaign should let everybody know that Brianna isn’t playing around. And that she’s willing to pound anyone who gets in her way.”

  “You guys, cut it out. I’ve been thinking about the campaign. And I think cupcakes and campaigns have a lot in common. I don’t need to crush anyone and I don’t need to try to convince anybody of how nice I am.” I took the already cooled cupcakes off the cooling rack and placed them on a tray. Using a butter knife, I began to top the yellow cupcakes with my new, super-chocolaty frosting.

  “See, to make this new frosting taste better, I switched some ingredients and added my own flavor. I think the campaign is kind of like that. You can look at the way our forefathers did it, but mix it up…”

  “… And add our own flavor,” Sara said, finishing my sentence.

  Lauren mumbled, “And be like George Washington and crush the competition.”

  “Lauren!” Sara let out a big sigh. “Nobody ran against George Washington. There was no competition!”

  Now we were all laughing as we finished frosting the cupcakes that had already cooled. We each chose a cupcake for ourselves. The kitchen was really warm because the oven had been on. Grandpa yanked the sliding glass patio door open and sort of stumbled into the kitchen.

  “I smell cupcakes!” he said.

  “They are soooo good!” Lauren said.

  “Well, move over and let Grandpa have a look-see.”

  We took our cupcakes and glasses of milk onto the patio. We were still licking the frosting off our fingers when…

  WHANG!

  A noise that loud and unmistakable could mean only one thing:

  The band across the back alley was practicing.

  �
�What is that horrible noise?” asked Becks, covering her ears.

  “Follow me!” I said.

  We ran through my backyard to the gate and pushed it open. The whanging of the guitar got drowned out by the chop-chop-chop-BOOM of the drumsticks.

  Across the alley was a garage and inside were four teenage boys playing instruments with one girl singer, Layla Prince, out front.

  Layla was like this total rebel chick, really cool!

  Even though the music was so loud it hurt our ears, we sat crisscross on the grass, pressed our hands to our ears to dull the BOOM and the whang, then rocked back and forth.

  Layla looked right at us while she sang, and Toby Z. on guitar did a special whang-whang-whang thing that I knew was just for us.

  When they finished the song, we got to our feet. Toby Z. came out and stood next to Layla.

  “What’s up?” Toby Z. was cool. He was tall and thin and could drive. He delivered pizzas AND played in a band.

  “We were over at Bree’s house helping with her campaign,” Sara said.

  “What we need now,” Lauren said, “is a killer slogan. You know, a catchy way for kids to remember that Brianna is the best! Brianna is totally going to be president of the whole fifth grade. We’re helping her.”

  Layla and Toby gave each other high school looks. You know. How teenagers look at each other when they think us elementary school kids are being sooo adorable.

  Layla said, “That’s so adorable!”

  See. Told ya.

  She stretched and shook her thick, wooly brown hair. It wasn’t quite an Afro, but it wasn’t exactly straight.

  “What’s your band’s name?” Sara asked.

  Layla and the others looked at each other, slow smiles spreading across their faces. Layla said, “Pinks 257.”

  Lauren asked, “What does that mean?”

  Layla shrugged. “Old Lady Pink lives over there,” she said, pointing to the white house next to Toby Z.’s yellow house. “Her house number is two-five-seven,” Layla added.

  Toby scratched his chin where he had a little fuzz growing, sort of like the mold that puffs up on an old orange. “She goes to Bible study from four to six, and because she complains to our folks, that’s the only time we can rehearse. So we decided to dedicate our band name to her.”