I’D RATHER BE WEARING GREEN PLAID and pink and yellow polka dots.... I’d rather have a volcanic zit bubbling on my nose.... I’d rather be locked in a small jail cell with a pissing camel, an angry cobra, and a hungry lion... than be where I am right now, standing next to Mona Perfect Simms in front of the 468 students of Stafford High.
No one told me that running for class president meant that I was up for public dissection, that kids would draw extra body parts on my posters, write obscenities on my banner, and change my pep song to include references to my weight. No one informed me that it was not about making changes at the school, but a popularity contest, like homecoming queen.
And DEFINITELY, no one confided that we would have to stand on the stage like this and hear the vote count read aloud:
Absent—2
Mona Simms—374
Vernon Goldburg—70
Sage Priestly (ME!)—22
That 22 is every member of the Thespian Society minus me. I voted for Vernon.
Mona whips around, her blonde hair floating, like in a commercial; she’s too beautiful for reality TV.
She cranks Vern’s hand like she’s pumping a flat tire. Vern’s double-jointed. He does this move, his right arm looped through his left elbow. Everyone laughs. Except Mona. It might give her smile lines.
I am standing apart on the stage like a kid peeing her pants at the kindergarten pageant. My body feels like a giant pillar, only I’m not holding anything up. A pillar with nothing to support has a tendency to topple.
Roger Willis jumps up and down in the audience, going “Mo-na. Mo-na. Mo-na.” My mouth waters like he’s cherry cough drops and I’ve got a cold.
Finally, Mona turns from Vern and offers me a charming shrug, as if to say, Sorry, loser. She grabs my hand and tugs me forward, hugs me for a century or two. “Good job,” she whispers to my hair.
“Good job” is like giving a quarter to an Iraq War veteran with his legs blown off.
Twenty-two votes. Good job.
Principal Chard (like the vegetable) calls into the microphone: “Mona Simms, Student Body President.”
Applause. Applause for Mona.
“Well, kiddo.” Vern gives me a squeeze. “Back to obscurity.”
I force a smile. My lip catches on my braces. “I’m sorry I made you do this.”
“Anything for a friend.” Which pretty much sums up Vern.
Chard leads us offstage. We no longer belong. Mona stands in the center and waves, little parade hand, mechanical.
My armpits are sweaty and my pants feel too tight. I crave chocolate in a big way. And, in this moment, it strikes me why I hate Mona so much, why I have hated her since third grade. It’s because more than anything else, I want to be her. I want so much to be Mona.