Vote by Gary Paulsen Read Free Book Online Page A

helping.” She blushed. Pretty soon Katie and I will probably do away with talking altogether, because we think along the same lines and seem to be
thisclose
to breaking the seal on telepathic communication with each other.
    “Got ya. So, um …” I racked my brain for suitabledebate questions to ask. “Who’s, uh, moderating and what’s the, whaddayacallit, format?”
    “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Crosby.” She looked at me like the fact that I hadn’t should be reason enough to call for a public flogging. “Given our—your—time limitations, it’ll be a three-question debate. He’ll provide each of us—you—with the same question today so that we—you—have time to prepare. He’ll ask his second and third questions extemporaneously. That is—”
    I cut her off by raising my hand. “I know what
extemporaneous
means.” I’ve had Crosby long enough to know that’s how he rolls: he asks the next question based on the prior answer. He says that keeps things fresh, keeps the students on their toes. I think it keeps antiperspirant companies in business.
    Good things come in threes. First Cash, then Katie, had appeared out of thin air at the perfect moment. Now Mr. Crosby walked past. Without breaking stride, he handed each of us an index card.
    How do you plan to be of maximum service to your school, keeping in mind that, as a leader, you will be encouraging your classmates, teachers and parents to follow your example?
    Ah. I can still make Cash look bad, but in a totally acceptable and brutally public fashion.
    Like any good politician.
    Katie might be able to prep Cash, but only for the first question. She wouldn’t have any way of coaching his responses to the second and third questions. And, from what I’d seen in my three-second conversation with Cash and while watching him interact with the voters now (lots of smiles and photos, no chat), he was all sizzle, no steak. Whereas I think on my feet.
    I looked up from the index card Mr. Crosby had handed me, smiling. Katie was chewing her bottom lip, and her forehead had gone shar-pei-like. She was studying Cash, who was surrounded by girls. She caught me watching her and tossed her head. Katie’s not really a whip-your-hair kind of person, so I could tell she was worried.
    I opened my mouth to tell her, hey, since we both have the same question, it won’t hurt anything to run through how we’re going to answer. We won’t be giving up the edge, we’ll be assuring a lively debate.
    I meant to say that, really, I did. But then I saw Tina—or rather, I caught a whiff of her first,since she smells like cookies in the oven and lilacs on a spring day and new puppies—and I closed my mouth and backed away.
    Carefully. Because I have a habit of running into objects or mowing people over when Tina is anywhere near me.
    I couldn’t risk doing anything that might make me look bad in this all-important, post–first date, pre–second date period of my relationship with Tina.

8

The True Politician Finesses the Fine Line Between Personal and Professional Obligations
    “Dutchdeefuddy.”
    I was dreaming about Tina. She and I were arm in arm on the stage of the school auditorium, waving to the clapping audience. Cash was sitting in a corner, weeping. His face was splotchy, he looked pale and out of shape and a river of snot flowed from his nose.
    “Dutchdeefuddy. Wake up.”
    Tina smiled up at me while everyone chanted: “KEV KEV KEV.” And then Cash poked me in the eye with something soft and fuzzy.
    “Hey, it’s morning.”
    I opened the eye Markie hadn’t poked withhis teddy bear and looked up into his face. He was straddling my chest.
    “Umph.” I yawned and stretched. “What time is it?”
    “The little hand is on the number that comes after six and the big hand is three little lines past the five. It’s four o’clock. Time for breakfast.”
    I closed my eyes again, trying to picture the position of the clock hands and wishing I had a