“How does Chris have so many campaign posters already?” I ask Farida as we walk to AP Gov the Tuesday after Rob’s ER visit. “They’re everywhere.”

There are three alone on the wall in front of us. A is for Articulate, Active, Athletic, Amusing, Attractive, Adventurous, Amazing, Admirable! Make Argleton High Awesome! Vote Chris Abbott! is one.

“Points for alliteration,” I say.

“Someone definitely Googled ‘positive adjectives beginning with A,’” Farida says.

Another one is a picture of Chris surrounded by images of the school mascot, the Argleton Astro, at football games. The tagline reads: Astro says, “Vote Abbott to Make Argleton High Awesome!”

“What does that even mean?” I say. “Random mascot imagery, school colors, and Make Argleton High Awesome!”

“It’s not exactly subtle, is it?” Farida says.

“Awesome as in people who look and think and act just like Chris?”

“And she scores!” Farida says, kicking an imaginary goal.

I notice a poster on the opposite wall. “Wow, this one really takes the cake. How can Principal Hart let him get away with it?” There’s a picture of Chris surrounded by girls from our school wearing bikinis, and it says: Victoria’s REAL secret: We’re all voting for Chris Abbott!

“I just threw up in my mouth,” Farida says.

“Right? Especially since we get in trouble if we wear a tank top with spaghetti straps, or skirts or shorts that don’t meet the ‘fingertip test’ because it’s too distracting for the boys to learn.” I rip the poster off the wall. “I’m going to complain after class. They’re being such hypocrites if they let Chris get away with this poster.”

“Hey, what are you doing to Chris’s poster?” Mike Carlson shouts from a few feet down the hall.

“Yeah, taking it down because you know you’re gonna lose?” Wade Boles adds.

“No,” I say. “Because it’s sexist, and it violates the school dress code. I’m going to point that out to Principal Hart after my next class.”

“Oh, come on,” Wade says. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” I say. “If the administration enforces the dress code for us, because our skin makes it so hard for y’all to learn, then why are they letting Chris put up posters of girls in bikinis?”

“Because it’s a joke,” Mike says. “J-O-K-E. Where’s your sense of humor?”

“It’s alive and well but tired of double standards,” I say.

“Why do you have to make a big deal out of every little thing?” Wade says.

“Yeah, a guy can’t even sneeze around here without some girl complaining, ‘OMG, that’s so sexist!’” Mike says, in a lame falsetto imitation.

I give Farida a sidelong glance. She gives me a barely perceptible nod.

“Well, it’s been nice chatting, but we can’t be late for class,” I say.

We turn and head down the hall.

“Going to search for your sense of humor?” Wade calls after us.

“Nope! Your brain,” I call back at him.

I hear Wade and Mike making stupid comments about us down the hallway, but I don’t care.

“Do you think they know what it’s like to have to put up with this stuff?” I say.

“Getting all philosophical on me, I see,” Farida replies with a laugh. “But don’t you think it’s a little ironic that you’re saying that to me, all things considered?”

I stop in my tracks. “Ugh. Sorry.”

“Yup. But they’re human. And the fact remains, all humans hurt in one way or another. That’s what I try to remind myself.” She glances back down the hallway. “Although it’s especially hard to remember that when they’re acting like Neanderthals.”

Wade is jumping and trying to punch a hole in the ceiling, because … why?

I hear Mrs. Harris come out of her classroom and threaten them with detention as we walk away, and I can’t help smiling.

Later, I try to remember what Farida said about everyone hurting about something when Chris comes into Debate Club steaming mad, walks straight over to me, and starts yelling about me interfering with his campaign.

“You’re pathetic, Walker! You know you can’t win, so you try to sabotage my campaign? Is that how you want to play this?”

I take a deep breath and try to remind myself that he’s human and hurting rather than just being a jerk.

“Chris, it’s not about you. It’s about the issue.”

“What issue is that? Your losing campaign?”

“No. Dress codes and hypocrisy.”

“Dress codes? They’re posters!” Chris protests.

“Posters with pictures of real people who go to this school and so are subject to the dress code,” I point out. “If the girls in your poster came to school wearing shorts or skirts that don’t meet the fingertip rule, they’d still be wearing more clothes than they are in your poster, and they’d be sent home for being ‘inappropriately dressed.’”

“Do you even hear how ridiculous you’re being?” Chris asks. “You have no sense of humor.”

“How does pointing out hypocritical policies aimed at girls mean that I’m ridiculous and don’t have a sense of humor?” I ask, annoyed that he’s not getting it.

Mr. Walsh comes in before Chris can answer.

“Principal Hart tells me there’s been some controversy about campaign posters,” he says, looking directly at Chris and me. “And I am in complete support of his decision to remove the posters.”

“But, Mr. Walsh, what about my First Amendment right of free speech?” Chris complains. “I should call the ACLU. This is ridiculous.”

“Please feel free to go ahead and call them,” Mr. Walsh says. “But they’ll probably advise you of Hazelwood School District v Kuhlmeier in which the Supreme Court held that school-sponsored speech—and class elections generally fall under this category—may be censored for ‘legitimate pedagogical reasons.’”

Chris’s hands clench into fists of frustration. I flash him a satisfied smile.

“My dad is going to hear about this,” Chris says.

“I’m sure he will,” Mr. Walsh replies. “And I won’t be surprised when Principal Hart hears from Mayor Abbott and certain members of the school board. But it won’t change his decision.”

Chris is out of sorts for the rest of Debate Club, which makes it easier for me to beat him. Maybe it’s because he’s so used to having everything go his way. When your dad’s been the mayor for most of your life, problems seem to go away. Like when he threw a Gatorade bottle at someone’s head on the bus to DC on our eighth-grade trip. He was supposed to get a week of detention, but his dad intervened and it ended up being one day. And I’m sure there are, like, a billion other things he’s gotten away with over the years.

I wonder if there’s any way I can rattle him like this before the school election. Maybe then I could win.

When I get back from debate, Rob’s playing video games. He’s still wearing the same sweats as when I left for school this morning, and he smells pretty ripe.

“Did you go to class like that?” I ask.

“Didn’t go today,” he says without looking away from the screen. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Mom and Dad would get a call and an email if I skipped school and I’d be grounded before I could say, “Why can’t Rob take a shower?” But college doesn’t do that, because my brother is a so-called adult, so he can slack off as he pleases.

Unless I tell Mom and Dad.

I should. They need to know.

I’m trying to be there for Rob, but shouldn’t Rob be helping himself, too?

Instead, he seems to be trying to make everything worse for himself.

I go upstairs and text Mom and Dad.

ME: Rob skipped class today.

DAD: Is he playing video games?

ME: How did you guess?

MOM: Stella, you manage your life and let us deal with Rob, okay?

ME: Fine.

I thought I was being helpful by letting them know.

Whatever.

They can deal with him.

And I’ll just live my life. Or at least try to.

Luckily, Farida and I have plans on Saturday to check out Walking on Sunshine, this new shoe store that opened downtown. It’s good to get out of the house, away from the atmosphere that hangs over it like a cloud just waiting to rain.

“Look at these boots!” Farida says, showing me a pair of mocha suede ankle boots.

“Cute, but not as cool as these.”

I hold up a pair of black lace-up boots that will go perfectly with jeans.

“Ooh. I love those!”

“I thought you would,” I say. “And they are screaming your name. Can’t you hear them calling, ‘Farida! Buy me!’?”

“So that’s the voice I keep hearing in my head. Come to me, pretty boot babies,” Farida says.

When the salesperson brings us our sizes, we try them on and then walk around the store. Finally, we stand together in front of the full-length mirror.

“You have to get those, Farida,” I say.

“So do you!”

“It’s not too weird for us to have the same boots, right?” I worry suddenly.

Farida rolls her eyes at my reflection in the mirror. “Do you think guys ever think twice if it’s weird that they’re wearing the same brand of sneaker?”

I laugh. “Good point. I can’t see Chris Abbott wasting a minute of his time thinking about it. Besides, if anyone gives us crap, we can say they’re our BFF boots.”

“I think you mean our lit, incredibly stylish BFF boots.”

“Isn’t that what I said? If it’s not, it’s what I totally meant to,” I say.

“I vote that we wear our BFF boots to lunch, which I also vote we have right now. I’m starving.”

“I’m up for lunch, especially if it’s at the Jumpin’ Jive Café.”

“Deal,” Farida says.

We pay for the boots, taking our old ones home in the store bags, and head to our favorite coffee shop to get lunch. It’s warm, but not too hot to sit outside, so we grab a table on the sidewalk after we get our food.

I take a bite of my sandwich and sigh with contentment. “It feels so good to be out and not have to think about school, or running for class president. I’ve missed hanging out with you, you know?” Ever since Rob got home, I feel like Farida and I haven’t just hung out, not like we normally do. And I miss my best friend. Miss just doing silly, fun stuff together. Like throwing dance parties in her room when a new album from one of her billion favorite artists comes out. Or this, shoe shopping. Farida has the best collection of shoes in the school.

“Yeah, I know,” Farida says, tilting her head back and closing her eyes to soak up the sun. “It’s good to take a break. Otherwise we’d crack up. With my eyes closed I can pretend we’re in Paris or Madrid or Berlin.”

“Life goals,” I say.

She laughs and opens her eyes. “Or I can just enjoy the sunshine in beautiful downtown Argleton because I’m here with my bestie.”

I lift my iced coffee. “Cheers! Here’s to sunny days, killer footwear, and my best friend.”

Ken chose the film for our next Keeping It Reel screening. It’s a World War II movie that came out in 1970 called Catch-22. We’re over at his house watching it on Sunday afternoon while making campaign posters, and I am totally confused.

“Is it just me, or does it seem like everyone in this movie is dishonest or kind of out there?” I say, tapping the cap of my Sharpie.

“It’s a black comedy based on a satirical novel,” Ken replies. “What do you expect?”

“Okay. But still …”

“I think that’s the whole point, Stella,” Farida says. “That the situation doesn’t make sense. That’s the catch-twenty-two. If you want to get out of flying the dangerous mission, you’re sane, so you can’t get out of it. But if you want to fly it, you’re insane, but you’ll still end up flying it. So there’s no way out.”

“So basically, even if you’re a totally normal person to begin with, being in that catch-twenty-two situation all the time is enough to make you question your sanity,” I say slowly, watching Captain Yossarian, the main character, pretend to lose it on screen in a way that reminds me of Rob the other night. Or is he really losing it?

Maybe losing it is the only legit response when someone is trapped in a situation that makes no sense.

I wonder if this is some kind of clue to Rob.

That thought makes my brain hurt, so I go back to working on a poster. “Do you think Stella Walker: The Smart Solution is enough?” I ask. “Should we come up with some funny gimmicky ones like Amy and Chris did?”

“What, you want me to round up some hunky guys in Speedos?” Ken says, grinning.

“That would be a firm no way,” I say. “I’m thinking more like, You want something done? Stella’s the One, or something like that.”

“How about a picture of Marlon Brando from A Streetcar Named Desire shouting, STELLLLLLLAAAAAAA! for Class President,” Ken suggests.

“We’re probably the only ones who will get it, but I love it,” Farida says, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

I laugh and dial Ken’s phone, because he has Marlon Brando shouting “Stella” as his ringtone for me.

We all STELLLLLLLLLLA for a few minutes, but after we settle down and Ken finds a good Brando image to print out, I say, “Chris is still super pissed that we complained about his poster. He gives Farida and me the stink-eye every time we walk into AP Gov.”

“Chris’s dad is the mayor,” Ken says. “He’s not used to having to play by the rules like the rest of us mere mortals. If he steps out of bounds, Daddy makes it better. I couldn’t believe that Principal Hart actually made him take the poster down.”

“Me neither,” Farida says. “And that Mr. Hart stood by the decision when Mayor Abbott started up about ‘political correctness’ and ‘safe spaces’ in the press was amazing.”

“Can someone explain to me why boys need safe spaces from girls wearing skirts and shorts above their fingertips, but when we complain about Chris’s poster that’s political correctness?” I say.

“Probably not,” Ken says. “Because there’s no logical explanation except for hypocrisy.”

“Sometimes it feels like we live in a catch-twenty-two world, where there’s no such thing as logic,” I say.

“Right?” Farida says, swapping her marker for another handful of popcorn.

“That’s why you’re running for class president and we’re supporting you,” Ken says. “Wait, that gives me an idea! Picture of Mr. Spock and Stella Walker: The Logical Choice?”

Farida and I both laugh.

“Geeky, but funny,” Farida says, putting some partly popped kernels next to my poster. I flash her a grin as I scoop them up.

“Haley won’t approve,” I say, “but Rob would love it.”

Farida picks up her marker and taps it on the table like a gavel. “Subject change,” she announces, mock-seriously.

“Hear, hear,” I say, putting down my marker.

“So guess what I’m thinking of doing, if I can work it around helping out at the restaurant?”

I toss a few pieces of popcorn in my mouth to give me a few extra seconds to guess.

“Uh … learning karate?” Ken ventures.

“No, but that’s not a bad idea,” Farida says. “I can totally see myself doing some superhero moves.”

“Model UN?” I guess.

“You’re getting colder.”

“Colder?” I say. “Uh … can you give us a clue?”

“Yeah, because apparently we’re clueless,” Ken says.

Farida strikes a pose and starts singing: “‘It’s time to try defying gravity …’”

She stops and raises an eyebrow. “Still no guesses?”

“You want to be a witch?” Ken says.

Farida throws a piece of popcorn at him. “Freezing. But if I were a witch, I’d turn you into a newt for that.”

“Wait, are you going to try out for the musical?” I say.

“Yes!” she says. “Or at least I’m thinking about it—now that my parents won’t let me run for class president.”

“I can help you run lines if you want,” I say. “But if you make me sing, you know it’s not going to be pretty.”

“That’s an understatement,” Ken mutters.

“Look who’s talking!” I say. “Dogs howl along when you sing.”

Farida laughs. “Let’s be real—neither of you are ready for The Voice,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter when it comes to help running lines.”

We sing a rousing and somewhat out of tune chorus of “Defying Gravity,” then discuss potential song options for Farida’s audition. Ken keeps insisting on singing his suggestions, which results in Farida and me bombarding him with popcorn because his singing is really that bad. It takes us a while to clean up.

By the time Farida drives me home, she’s got five possible songs she’s happy with, and I’ve got twenty new posters. I’m pretty sure there’s a kernel of popcorn somewhere in my shirt and my hands are stained with Sharpie ink. Democracy really is a messy business.