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“So, where we headed, Manager?” Laura asks, eyes scouting the hall as the remainder of the students start heading out for today. I push the door to the art room open, leaning off to the side to let Laura pass through.
“The art room,” I reply with a half grin, watching as Laura makes her way into the space.
The art teacher—Mr. Ingram—allowed us access to the art room for about an hour. I make my way over to the center table. Right now, the main thing we need is to make up for lost time and start making posters.
Splashes of paint decorate the room and Laura roams the shelves for additional supplies to the ones I have. When we make our way back to the table, we lay out posters, lips pursed as we imagine how the campaign posters should look.
“God, we won’t have time to finish all these.” Laura says after a few minutes, placing a paintbrush back into a water-filled vase.
I let out a breath, eyes scanning over the posters. “We might.”
Laura bites her lip, shaking her head. “I just narrowly handed in my form before the deadline yesterday. We’re walking on a thin rope here.”
“We’ll get it done,” I say with a nod, eyes steady on hers. When she doesn’t say anything more, I say, “We can pull an all-nighter.” Or more. “Trust me when I say we’ll get it all done.”
A firm, uncharacteristic confidence laces my tone, and Laura returns with a nod. Then we’re back to the posters, painting streaks across the papers, discussing slogans, and scrutinizing artistic decisions.
Music fills the air, blasting from Laura’s phone, and minutes blur into over an hour. Realizing that we’ve spent one and a half hours in the art room—an hour longer than Mr. Ingram permitted—I scramble to my feet, shuffling the dried posters into one pile and shoving them under my arm.
Realization dawns on Laura’s features and she rises to her feet as well, hanging the wet posters from the clothes pegs on the art room’s ceiling.
“So, the posters are essentially handled,” Laura says as we walk out of the art classroom, shutting off the lights and making our way down the hall.
“We can finish them up within...” I hum, “The next two days, tops.”
“Then... ” Laura says as we hoist our backpacks onto our shoulders and push our way out of the school doors and into the chilly air, “We can focus on the next aspect of my campaign.”
We exchange half grins. Because the next goal is arguably the most important, and could change the course of Laura’s campaign as we know it:
Winning over the student body.
***
“Is it true that you’re running?” It’s probably the twelfth or so time this question has been asked today. My eyes drift upwards to see one Yasmine Abadi standing by my table, arms folded as her eyes stay on Laura’s.
Somehow, slight guilt needles at my chest. With everything that’s happened: the awkward lunch with Yasmine’s friends, breaking off with ALO, and helping Laura run for president, I haven’t gotten the chance to talk to Yasmine again.
Or maybe, a voice says, you didn’t put in the effort.
Laura nods as she rests her chin on her hand, giving Yasmine a simple, “Yeah, I am.”
Yasmine’s eyes touch mine for a second, and I speak up. “Y-you can sit with us.”
She purses her lips at that, her eyebrows raising slightly. “Oh, has Amber allowed that?”
My shoulders sag, and I give her a look. “Yasmine.”
“Amina.” She echoes, and Laura’s eyes dart between the two of us, eyebrows quirked.
“I broke it off with Amber,” I say. “It wasn’t the best collaboration.” Understatement. “A lot went down,” I twirl my fork in my bowl of ramen. An exhale as a crooked grin rises to my lips. “I want you to sit with us. Please. If you want to.”
Yasmine’s lips twitch. “Cool with you?” She asks, turning to Laura.
“Sure,” Laura says through bites of her pierogis, giving her a thumbs up.
With that, Yasmine lowers herself into the seat next to me, arms folded over the table.
“We’re trying to work out who to gear Laura’s campaign towards.” I say, glancing over at Yasmine.
“Who’s easier to sway,” Laura nods, jutting a fork in the air.
“Oh, that’s right,” Yasmine says, a hand rising to her forehead. “It’s Campaign Lunch.”
I nod. Campaign Lunch has always been a tradition at Elkwood, for as long as I can remember. It’s the lunch where all the candidates try to outdo each other with splendor and attention-grabbers, all to win over the student body.
Whoever catches the most attention during Campaign Lunch has the highest likelihood of winning the coveted spot of president.
You have to be outstanding, and you have to push boundaries. Every word, every glance counts. You need to bridge the chasm between the student government and the student body.
Yasmine scans the cafeteria with a hum. “My table might be swayed to vote for you,” She hums again, “And the theatre kids are always out to break the social hierarchy, so you can count on them voting; mainly out of spite for Amber and her group, though.”
Laura’s eyes scan over the two aforementioned tables, and she takes all the information in, nodding slowly, before saying. “Although, those two tables voting for me will be great, it won’t be enough to win Brett and his group.”
“Some people might be getting tired of always seeing Amber and Brett at the top,” I nod towards the Ambiguous Whites, who eat across from each other. Golden and silver bracelets curve around the girls’ wrists, and a thin chain or two hangs from the guys’ necks, some brandishing the crucifix.
“They can be double sided when it comes to Amber and Brett.” I say, eyes steady on them, before turning back to Yasmine and Laura. “If we can win them over, or somehow, butter them into supporting us, they might just vote to spite Amber.”
“So... there’s a lot more at play here,” Laura hums, tilting her head to the side. “I’m betting we can win some of them over.”
Her eyes are calculating, self-assured. It almost seems like she’s in a trance, before her hand clamps down on the table, Yasmine’s spine straightening at the sound.
“Let’s hand out my flyers.” Laura says, packing her black sheen of hair into a braid, and rising from the table.
So, we do.
We hand out the flyers, drifting from table to table. Yasmine hands out flyers to her table first, I make sure to dish them out to the drama kids, (albeit awkwardly), and Laura makes her way to the most uncomfortable tables, being the Ambiguous Whites and of course, Brett and Amber’s table. Despite the skeptical look on those students’ faces, Laura hands them her flyers with a confidence that makes it seem like she’s gone to this school her whole life.
It’s clear that there’s discomfort within Amber and Brett’s table. With Brett’s last minute bid for the same spot Amber’s vying for, the White Bros™ and ALO seem to have an uncomfortable divide, apparent by ALO sitting further towards the edge of the table while the White Bros™ congregate around Brett, making jokes that they laugh heartily to.
“What’s this?” Tyler asks, holding Laura’s flyer in hand, eyes roaming over it.
“My flyers,” Laura says, easily, “For my campaign.”
A redhead near him laughs, letting out a swear. “You’re kidding,” His eyes widen, “I thought it was a rumour.”
“Yeah,” One quips, “Or that Brett was just messing around with us.”
Tyler slides the flyer back onto the table. “Sorry, What’s-Your-Face, but I’ve gotta vote for Brett. Nothing personal, though.”
Brett chuckles. “You’re actually handing out flyers at this table?”
I make my way over to Laura, hands clasped. “Well, this table’s part of the student body, so it’s worth a shot.”
“Right,” Brett drawls, “Well, you’d have better luck convincing the girls.” He says, glancing at where ALO is seated at the far end of the table, scouting the scene with passive expressions.
“Then again, it’s not like they’re up for conversation,” He chuckles. “Amber’s still butthurt that I’m running for president.”
Leslie mutters something to Amber who decidedly ignores Brett’s comment, rising to her feet with a container filled with perfectly cut brownies.
At this point, Yasmine shuffles over to where Laura and I are standing by Brett’s table.
“She’s seriously buying people over,” Yasmine says, eyes on Amber as the girl shuffles from table to table, handing out brownies to people seated at the surrounding tables, pointedly avoiding Brett and his friends despite their loud protests.
She returns to the table, leaning against it, eyes traveling over the White Bros™, Leslie and Olivia on either side of her. “If you guys want any of these, think carefully about who you're voting for.”
Groans fill the table as Leslie gives the boys unimpressed looks. The cafeteria hushes only slightly, eyes drawn to the scene. Brett lets out a bark of laughter, rising to his feet and standing on top of his chair. He scans the entire cafeteria before pointing at Amber.
Campaign Lunch has officially commenced.
“Is this who you want for your president?” He asks, smirk smug as he eyes the audience. Olivia gives Amber a nervous nudge, and I exchange glances with both Yasmine and Laura. Brett plows on, “Do you want someone as petty as Amber Wesley?” Amber blanches from where she stands, but Brett remains unfazed, “Someone who tries to manipulate people into voting for her. Someone who tries to buy you off with brownies?”
Murmurs fill the cafeteria.
“Has Elkwood lost every last shred of respectability to the point where you can be bought with brownies? To the point where someone as over-emotional and over-dramatic as Amber can win for president?” He shakes his head. “Look at her. I don’t know if it’s that time of the month or something, but she’s out of control.” He says, still smirking, eliciting laughter from the White Bros™.
My lips part, and ALO, Yasmine, and Laura mirror my expression.
Brett continues, “I’m serious, though. It has to be. I mean, Amber’s so triggered right now, and it’s not like it’s anything unusual, guys. She’s lost it. If she’s president and someone so much as questions her, she’s going to be impulsive and bring Elkwood’s StuCo down with her.” He laughs.
“She doesn’t know anything about politics whatsoever.” Brett goes on, then he turns to a stoplight-red Amber. “Next time, sweetheart, stick to bikini Instagram pics. Presidency isn’t for someone like you.”
Utter silence.
Amber’s tray of brownies falls to the floor, and her hands tremble as she heads out of the cafeteria, breaths coming out in quick gusts, Leslie and Olivia following her out of the cafeteria doors.
“Wow,” Laura says, eyes softening once the doors shut behind them.
He dragged her.
Brett lets out a laugh, stepping down from the seat in favour of sitting on it, instead. The White Bros™ praise him with high fives and loud barks of laughter.
Murmurs fill the cafeteria, and my eyes latch onto Walt, who’s randomly handing out pins for his campaign, going ignored by the majority of the student body.
“Is this what you do here?” Laura asks, drawing the cafeteria’s attention to her.
“Yeah,” Tyler laughs, receiving pats on the back for his intelligent comeback.
Laura shakes her head, making eye contact with every student who drops their gaze from her. “You shame someone out of running?” She lets out a dry laugh. “ I thought this was all a fair game.”
Brett scoffs, but she ignores him.
“And maybe it’s just me, but how many girls here were cool with Brett’s ‘that time of the month’ comment?”
No one raises a hand. Girls exchange glances.
“It was disrespectful, that’s what it was.” She turns to Brett who’s leaning back in his chair. “You know it’s possible for you to debate with someone without tearing them down, or using sexist comments to shut them up.”
Brett nudges his friends, and Laura turns away from him.
“I’m serious. Brett didn’t make any good points, all he did was draw attention to Amber, instead of telling us how and why he’s going to be a good president.”
Ad hominem. A classic strategy; tearing down the opponent, rather than their argument.
Laura glances towards me and I clear my throat, attempting not to squirm under the hundreds of eyes on me.
“A vote for Laura is a vote for everyone’s voices being heard,” I say, scanning each and every face. “It’s a vote for an open discussion instead of shutting someone down.” Pause. I gesture towards Brett. “I mean, aren’t you tired of Brett controlling Elkwood?” Murmurs fill the cafeteria. “Aren’t you tired of him comfortably sitting at the top with no competition? Where there’s no one to challenge him or hold him accountable?”
Some hums come from the Ambiguous Whites’ table.
“Aren’t you tired of seeing the same old face? Only having one option?” Yasmine pitches in, hands resting on her hips.
“That’s the problem with so many places right now. There’s only one option.” Laura emphasizes, eyes catching mine.
“There’s no balance, no opposition. It’s actually what we fear the most about dictatorships.” I say.
That’s when Brett stops exaggeratedly mouthing along to what we’re saying and rises to his feet. “Oh okay, so you’re comparing me to a dictator, now?”
“No one is doing that.” Laura says, brushing Brett’s outburst to the side. “What we’re doing is giving you something new, something different. Something refreshing. I want that. This country wants that. A new candidate is past overdue at this school.”
Laura’s grabbing their attention. Her hands wave around as her entire stance commands the entire cafeteria’s focus.
“A vote for Laura is a vote for something new, something different. A vote for Laura means a much needed change happening at this school. A vote for Laura means all of you,” Passion infuses her lungs and dark eyes, and she outstretches her hands to the audience, “And I mean all of you,” She nods towards the forgotten kids lingering around the cafeteria. “Will have your voices heard.”
Laura breathes heavily when done, and it almost seems like a mic drop moment.
Then there’s silence; uneasy, unsure silence. Deafening silence. The students stare up at her, eyes widened as if this is the first time they’ve heard a speech. Someone talking directly to them instead of at them.
In seconds, something sharp punctures through the thundering silence after what feels like an eternity.
Emory Richards is clapping. As in, hands-together, chin-up, head-nodding, clapping.
I almost let out a frenzied laugh as the isolated clapping travels from table to table, and Laura beams, an arm finding my shoulder. My lips part as I make eye-contact with Yasmine, because soon, what was once scarce clapping becomes thunderous applause, louder than any silence I’ve ever witnessed.
