When I wake up this morning, the first thing on my mind is Election Day. Why can’t I be eighteen so I can vote? At thirteen, all I can do is beg other people for theirs. Still, I’m hopeful that we’ll win both the levy and the game before the day is over.
When I pull the clothes from the wash that I ran last night, I inspect my jeans. “Yesss!” I say out loud.
Mark pauses at the laundry-room door and asks, “What did you do to your jeans?”
“Wrote S.O.S.—which stands for Save Our Sports all over them with the bleach pen. Cool, huh?”
Mark shrugs and takes a bite of his toaster waffle. “I guess. You’ve got a future as a graffiti artist.”
“I’m going to wear them today when I stand in front of St. Jude’s for the levy.”
Mark grunts and begins to walk away. A second later, he pops his head back in the door. “St. Jude’s?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I throw my wet laundry into the dryer. “From twelve to two.”
“Not in those jeans.”
“Yeah, in these jeans.”
“You’ll look like a dork!”
“At least my clothes are clean. Hey, what’s the matter? Afraid Jillian won’t like ’em?”
“Nooo, I just don’t want my little sister walking around like she’s a mental moron.”
“It’s a great idea. A brilliant idea! And do I need to remind you, Mr. GQ, that your girlfriend wears ugly plaid and polyester to school every day?”
“You’re really hung up on this sports thing passing, aren’t you?”
I nod, feeling my throat tighten. I don’t even try to say another word.
“Wear the jeans,” Mark sighs. “If you like ’em, I guess that’s all that matters.”
* * *
I do like them. I admire them so much as I’m walking over to Bo’s that I almost trip on the uneven sidewalks. Before I left the house, I took an even more creative approach and used different-color gel pens to write Vote Yes inside and around the bleached S.O.S. spots. I’m so excited to show Bo my Election Day creation that I walk right by the bobble-head twins sitting on their front steps.
“Hey, girl!” they call and run down to the sidewalk.
“Hi, guys. Do you like my jeans?” I ask, proudly extending my leg in front of them so they can get a closer look.
They try to sound out the word: “Vho … tt … eh … y-yehs.”
“Vote yes!” I help them. “Today’s Election Day”—I show them my homemade levy sign—“people are going to the polls to vote for the school levy.” I might as well say that people are flying to the moon for a milkshake for all they understand about polls and levies.
“Did you do that to your pants on purpose?” the girl asks.
“Yep!”
“Hmm,” the boy says, walking around to get a view of the back side. “Hey, look,” he points. “She even wrote on her butt!”
They crack up laughing.
“All right, that’s enough.” I shoo him away. They’re obviously too little to appreciate walking art. As I head over to Bo’s, I overhear them say, “That girl does a lot of bad things.”
“Yeah,” the other agrees. “When she grows up, they’ll put her in jail.”
I’m in the middle of pounding on Bo’s door when, miraculously, it opens, and he’s standing there completely dressed and ready to go, wearing a smug grin.
“Got ya!” he says, snapping his fingers in my face.
“I was just about to grab a rock from your grandma’s garden and toss it at your window.”
“I’ve been up for hours,” he says, reaching behind his head to tie his dreads back. “Finished Harper’s math packet and got a start on that project that’s due on Friday for Metz.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me. I haven’t even looked at it yet. Maybe tonight after the game.” Yeah, right! I’ll be too busy watching television for the levy results.
“St. Jude’s?” he asks.
I nod. “You didn’t notice my pants.”
“Hellooo, pants!” Bo whistles. “But Tess, don’t you think you’re taking this—”
“Too far? Too serious? Too—?”
“Yeah, all of the above. How are you going to feel in a week or a month from now, walking around wearing vote yes on your butt?”
“I’ll feel great, because it’ll remind me of the day we won! Besides, if it changes even one person’s mind at the polls, then it’ll be worth it.”
We arrive at St. Jude’s in time to relieve Olivia from her post outside the front doors of the building where people are going in to vote. She glares at my homemade Save Our Sports sign.
“I thought I told you that you needed approval for that.”
I hold the sign up in her face and say, “Olivia, may I?”
She squints her eyes and studies it for a minute. “Yes, you may. But next time, follow the rules.”
“Hopefully, there won’t be any next time,” I say.
“Hey, Liv.” Bo points to my jeans. “Does she need approval for those, too?”
Hands on hips, Inspector Olivia takes her job as president of the Clarkstown Middle School Student Levy Committee waaay too seriously when she says, “Technically, yes. After all, they are an advertisement for the levy.”
“They don’t say school levy on them. Just S.O.S and vote yes,” I remind her. “Totally generic.”
“But you’re a public school student holding a school levy sign, and so by process of association—”
“You heard her, Tess. Off with your pants—right now!”
“Shut up, Bo.” I cover my mouth with my sign, trying not to laugh.
“What’s the matter?” he says. “Bleach your underwear, too?”
I try to hit him with my sign, but he ducks out of the way.
“I’m so out of here!” Olivia says. “Will you two try to stay out of trouble? And remember what Ms. Harper said—‘play nice with the community!’”
Bo begins to jump around like a lunatic, growling and beating his chest with his fists. He sings out, “We’re the mighty lions. The mighty, mighty lions! Roooar!”
He caps the performance with one of his trademark booming farts, with the intended effect of driving Olivia far away.
“You’re such a pig, Bo Tauber!” Olivia calls over her shoulder as she beats a hasty retreat.
“What about you?” Bo says as he playfully hangs his arm over my shoulders and snorts in my ear. “You think I’m a pig?”
“No—just crazy.”
An elderly couple, dressed like they’re going to church, make their way up St. Jude’s front walkway, heading for the doors where the miniature American flags are popping out of the ground. They eye us suspiciously.
I push Bo away and hold up my sign. “Please vote yes for the Clarkstown school levy!” I say, wearing what I hope is a winning smile.
The woman barely nods and refuses to make eye contact. The man gives Bo a stern look and holds open the door for Sourpuss as they make their way inside.
“Think they’re a yes or a no?” asks Bo.
I kick at a pebble on the walkway. “Probably no,” I sigh.
“How can you tell?”
“They wouldn’t look us in the eye. Just like in To Kill a Mockingbird, the lawyer, Atticus, told his children that the jury never looks the defendant in the eye if they’re voting against him.”
“We’re not on trial here, Tess.”
“Maybe we’re not,” I mumble, “but our school is.”
“Well, look who’s here!” A familiar squeal pierces the glum silence.
“Bo Tauber! What are you doing hanging around an all-girls school? Looking for a date?” asks Jillian O’Hanlon.
Jillian’s friends cackle at her lame joke.
Bo smiles. “Nope—just doing my part for my school, my team, and my country.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” They sound like a bad laugh track from an old ’80s sitcom.
“Give me a break,” I mutter.
Suddenly, the Jillians stare at me like I’m a fresh rat turd newly deposited at their blessed front doorstep. Could it be the jeans?
Jillian turns to her clones, all identically dressed in navy-and-green plaid skirts with white blouses. “This is Mark’s little sister.”
“Tess Munro,” I say.
They eye me from head to toe, taking an extra-long time on the jeans. One girl tilts her head and moves her lips as she reads my levy slogans. I don’t need to be a mind reader to figure out that I’m not measuring up.
“Ahh, interesting jeans, Tess,” says Jillian with a smirk.
Should I remind her that she walked around with the word Dance scrawled across her butt the entire summer? And what’s the matter with a little team spirit for a good cause? Suddenly, I feel my arms sinking to my sides, weary from holding up my sign to flatline faces that hold the power over whether I’ll be dribbling the ball on the court this winter or ever again.
Tough crowd.
But after all, we’re stationed at a Catholic school. I’m sure that kids standing outside the public schools, American Legion Halls, and libraries are receiving a warm welcome—Yay! Higher taxes. I’ll vote for that!
“Well, good luck!” Jillian chirps, all fake and phony. Everyone knows she had a billboard on her front lawn telling everyone to VOTE NO! And if it weren’t for my brother’s inability to master the concept of reverse, it’d still be standing today.
Jillian walks away with her friends and calls over her shoulder, “See you later, Tess!”
Is she planning another gymnastics exhibition on her front lawn? No—it’s getting too cold for that now. Maybe she and Mark are going out tonight, but that wouldn’t usually happen on a Tuesday. Jillian doesn’t leave me in suspense for long.
“At your soccer game this afternoon.”
“My soccer game?” I look at Bo for confirmation.
He shrugs. “That’s what she said.”
“Why would she come to my soccer game?”
“Anyone can attend. They’re not invitation only. Vote yes!” Bo calls after a mom and two toddlers entering the doors. This time, the voter makes eye contact and smiles.
“Who’d invite her? Unless—I’m going to kill him!”
“Mark?”
“Who else!” I whip my S.O.S. sign around in frustration. “He never comes to any of my games. Why would he wait until the last one of the year to show his face? And if the action on the field’s not enough to hold his attention-deficient brain for even sixty minutes, he has Jilly Bean there for entertainment.”
“Jilly Bean?”
“That’s what he calls her. Wonder if she plans on putting on a halftime show?”
“Forget it, Tess. What do you care if Jillian’s there or not? You’ve got plenty of other things to think about if you’re going to win today.”
A businessman dressed in a crisp gray suit walks between us. “Excuse me,” he says.
“Vote yes!” I halfheartedly wave my sign in his direction.
He grunts noncommittally.
“Do you think we’ll win, Bo?”
“You’ve asked me that a hundred times! If I could read the future, I’d win all the Friday-night poker games.”
“I just can’t stand the suspense any longer! I feel like I’ve been in limbo for the past month. I want so badly to beat Ramapo and win this stupid levy.”
“I think you’ve got a good chance—with both, Tess. Here—” He takes out a pen from his back pocket and kneels down—“I want to write something on your jeans.”
“Hey, watch it!” I slap his hand away.
He makes a face. “Come on, I’m writing it on your leg.”
I feel the pen’s pressure. “What does it say? I can’t read it from here.”
He finishes and stands up. “You’ll see it later. Now, let’s grab something to eat before the game.”
As we leave our posts outside St. Jude’s, we run into Mrs. Bustamonte heading in to vote.
I wave and call to her, “Vote yes, Mrs. B.! Vote yes!”
She smiles and says, “Of course! And congratulations to the both of you on all your hard work.”
“Thanks,” we answer.
She adjusts her glasses and points to my pants. “Creative campaigning, Miss Munro!”