Scab for Treasurer? Page 3

  “Missy Malone is running for president?” I grunt. It can’t be true. Can it?

  “The worst part is, nobody is running against her.” Doyle wiggles the page.

  “Stay calm,” I say, seeing fear in his eyes. “We have all day. Maybe someone else will sign up.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He grabs my arm. “But what if nobody does? What then?”

  I shiver. I don’t want to think about that.

  “She’ll make us wear purple coats,” says Doyle. “And do face painting. I hate face painting. She’ll make us play Fly Around the World every single day. I can’t do it, Scab. Not every day.” He crumples up the sign-up sheet. “Let’s hide this in my desk. Wait! Let’s hide it in your desk. Yeah. Your desk is so messy, Miss Sweetandsour would never find it there.”

  “It’s a piece of paper, Doyle. Miss Sweetandsour will think she’s lost it. She’ll just make up a new list.”

  “So what do we do? The bell’s going to ring, Scab. What do we do?”

  My mind is racing. I’m not sure what to do. Suddenly, I have an idea. “Give me your pen.”

  DAREDEVIL BOYS SECRET

  * HANDSHAKE *

  * Step One: Clasp thumbs

  * Step Two: Wiggle fingers

  * Step Three: Slap palms

  * Step Four: Knock knuckles

  * Step Five: Bang your chest with your fist

  * Step Six: Burp ’em if you got ’em

  He fumbles for it, and hands it to me. “Good thinking. Cross out her name.”

  “I’m not crossing out her name.” Instead, I write my name right beside Never Missy’s. I make sure my letters are twice the size of hers. I turn my s into a rattlesnake head with fangs. I make the fangs shoot venom at Never Missy’s happy face o.

  Doyle laughs. “I like it.”

  “You’ll vote for me, won’t you?”

  He takes back his pen. “You have to ask?”

  We do our secret handshake.

  “You’ll win, for sure,” says Doyle. “Everybody hates Fly Around the World.”

  That is what I am counting on.

  A few minutes later, Never Missy shuffles into the room. As usual, she is wearing her purple coat buttoned up to the neck to hide her slimy green tentacles. She’s got two little yellow polka-dotted paper umbrellas in her hair. Alien antennae, no doubt. I am sitting quietly at my desk. I fold my hands. I place my feet flat on the floor, just how Miss Sweetandsour likes it. From now until the election I am going to be the perfect student. No burping. No snot flicking. No armpit noises. No fun at all. But it’s for a good cause.

  Never Missy flicks her brown bangs off her face. She smirks at me. Two dimples appear.

  I nod. I hide my grin, but it’s hard.

  Never Missy has no idea that she is about to lose. I like that she has no idea. I like it a lot.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Scab for Prez

  Doyle and I have been friends since we met in the summer before second grade. He gave me my nickname. (My real name is Salvatore—talk about a disaster!) I got 148 mosquito bites at camp that year, which ended up being 148 red, itchy, globby, nubby, crusty scabs. Ta-da! Thinking up names isn’t the only thing Doyle is good at. He can bounce a mini soccer ball from knee to knee fifteen times without dropping it. He can carve an exact replica of Principal Huckabee’s head out of the cornbread stuffing they serve in the cafeteria. He can burp “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” the whole way through without taking a breath. But, no matter how hard he tries, there is one thing Doyle Ferguson has never been able to do. My best friend cannot keep a secret.

  By the time the tardy bell rings, the whole class knows I am running against Never Missy for president. Miss Sweetandsour is taking roll when Never Missy whips around. I jump back in my seat, sure a slimy tentacle is going to shoot out from under her purple coat, grab me by the neck, and squeeze me until my eyeballs pop out.

  “I hear you want to be president,” she says, lifting her chin.

  I don’t see any tentacles, so I relax. A little.

  “You hear right,” I say, still watching the buttons on her coat. If they even start to bulge . . .

  “Why?”

  I tip my head. “Why what?”

  “Why do you want to be president?”

  I fold my arms. “Why do you?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “I asked you last.”

  TOP SECRET: SCAB’S SUREFIRE TIPS FOR WINNING

  * A STARING CONTEST *

  * Before the contest starts, close your eyes for one minute to get them good and watery.

  * If your eyes start to feel dry, force yourself to open them wider. This will make your eyes water so you won’t have to blink.

  * Try my trick move: yawn. Yawning is contagious. When you yawn, your opponent will yawn too, and accidentally blink. Hooray! You win!

  Dark gray eyes glare at me. I glare back. Neither of us wants to be the first to look away. Or to blink. Before I know it we are smack in the middle of a stare down.

  Never Missy leans toward me. I don’t budge. She doesn’t scare me. Well, maybe those tentacles do.

  “Give up, Scab.”

  “You give up.”

  “You’re going to lose.” Why do I get the feeling she is not talking about our stare down?

  “I can do this all day,” I growl. “My eyeballs could shrivel up and roll right out of their sockets and I wouldn’t blink.”

  “Your eyeballs could roll under my desk and I could squish them with my boots and I wouldn’t blink,” she says.

  “You could squish my eyeballs, trip on their slimy goo, and slide right out the door and I wouldn’t blink,” I say.

  “Are you giving up?” she says, snarling.

  I want to. Never Missy’s onion-ring breath is frying off my eyebrows. But I won’t. “Are you giving up?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “I asked you last.”

  Thirty seconds pass. It feels like thirty minutes. Never Missy narrows her eyes. She is about to blink. I know it. At last, I am going to beat her. I open my eyes wider.

  “Scab?”

  I look up at Miss Sweetandsour. And my eyelids close.

  Agggggghhhh!

  Giggling, Never Missy swings away from me. One antenna—I mean, umbrella—falls out of her hair.

  “Later,” I growl.

  My teacher kneels beside my desk. “Scab, did you sign up to run for class president?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Oh!” She laughs nervously. “I thought it might be Lewis playing a joke—”

  BOYS VS. GIRLS

  AN ORIGINAL POEM

  * BY SALVATORE W. MCNALLY *

  Girls like yellow polka dots.

  Boys like giant, steel robots.

  Girls like spinkled cupcakes.

  Boys like chasing garter snakes.

  Girls like glitter in their hair.

  Boys like dirty underwear.

  Girls like poems that rhyme.

  Boys don’t!

  “No. I signed up.”

  “Oh.” Miss Sweetandsour stands up. She wipes her hands on the front of her lettuce dress. “Okay, then. Okay then. Good. Good.” She walks away.

  My teacher always repeats herself when she’s surprised. I guess she didn’t expect anyone to run against her favorite student. Surprise!

  Never Missy is humming again. She is drawing a happy face on her wrist. I draw a rattlesnake on mine.

  By first recess, Doyle has taped a sign to his desk. It reads: vote for scab! Soon, he’s making signs for Will and me, too. With ten minutes left in the day, Miss Sweetandsour holds up her hand. After a few seconds, she bends her thumb into her palm. Then she tucks her pinky under her thumb.

  “Shut up!” shrieks Cloey. If our teacher gets to zero, we’ll have to stay in a whole minute from first recess tomorrow. “SHUT UP!” Cloey’s second scream rattles my head. The girl has enormous lung power. But it works. We quiet down.

&nb
sp; “Thank you,” says Miss Sweetandsour. “Before you go, I want to tell you how the election will work. Each candidate may make small signs for students to place on the front of their desks, and one big sign for the back bulletin board. On Thursday afternoon, each candidate will be given thirty seconds to make a speech, if he or she wants to. Then we’ll vote by secret ballot. I’ll count the ballots and announce the winners—yes, Meggie? You have a question?”

  “Can we hand out candy and stuff?”

  “No giveaways,” Miss Sweetandsour says firmly. “The point isn’t to buy votes, but to earn them. Instead of giving things away, what if you told students about some of the goals you’d like to accomplish if you’re elected?”

  “My goal is to give away twelve boxes of red licorice,” grumbles Meggie.

  “Are you ready to find out who the candidates are?” asks our teacher.

  We all shout, “Yes!”

  Lewis Pigford does a drumroll on his desk with a couple of chewed-up pencils. That’s why his two front teeth jut out to the sides—too much pencil chomping.

  Miss Sweetandsour clears her throat. “For secretary, we have Alec Ichikawa and Beth Burwell.”

  We all clap.

  “For vice president, it’s Carlton Cho and Meggie Kornblum.”

  We clap again.

  “For president, your candidates are Missy Malone and Scab McNally.”

  More applause. Will and Doyle really whoop it up for me. I pump my fist in the air. Never Missy hops to her feet and bows. Show-off.

  “And for treasurer . . .” Our teacher sighs and waves a piece of paper. “Well, we don’t have anyone running for that spot, so if you’re interested, please see me.”

  Behind me, Cloey mutters, “I don’t think so.”

  I turn. “Why not?”

  “I was treasurer last year in Mr. Woolwine’s class. It’s the worst job ever. When we order from the book clubs, you have to keep track of the orders. When we go on a field trip, you have to collect permission slips. When we do the PTA bake sale, you have to help count all the money afterward. It’s a ton of work and nobody appreciates you.” She pulls her light blue sweater off the back of her chair, and slips her arms into it. “You’d have to be crazy to want that job.”

  I nod. I’m not crazy. Nope. I’m going to be president.

  Yep. Scab McNally, Class President.

  Wait until my smart times ten sister hears about this.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Hot Dog, Cool Treat

  Don’t be a crab, vote for Scab.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t dillydally, vote McNally.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  It’s Tuesday afternoon, and Doyle, Joe, and I are in my lab. Doyle is working on my election signs. I am scribbling in my inventor’s notebook. We are waiting for my dog treats to freeze. Pup-sicles are my new invention. They are pretty simple, really—cubes of ice cream with bits of Joe’s favorite foods frozen inside. On my first try, the scrambled eggs turned to rubber. On my second try, the popcorn turned to mush-corn. This is my third batch, and I think I’ve got the right combo of ingredients this time.

  “How about ‘Vote Scab for Prez, Because I Says.’”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Scab, you’re not listening. Scab?”

  “I’m listening.” Sort of.

  * JOE’S FRUITY PUP-SICLES *

  * Two cups of melted strawberry ice cream

  * One can of fruit cocktail (pour the juice out)

  * Three Peanut Butter & Apple Snausages (cut into small pieces)

  * Three tartar control dog biscuits (crush ’em up)

  * Five peanuts (crush these, too)

  Drop a bit of fruit cocktail, Snausages, and dog biscuit into each cube of the ice cube tray. Fill each cube to the top with melted ice cream. Sprinkle with crushed peanuts. Place ice cube tray in freezer. Once the pup-sicles are frozen, pop out one or two for your dog to enjoy!

  “I’m trying to come up with stuff for your signs, and you don’t even care.”

  “I care.”

  “You don’t act like it.”

  “I’m going to win. You said so yourself.”

  “Yeah, but you should still stick some signs up. Never Missy’s got hers all over the place.”

  “She does?”

  “Didn’t you see them on everybody’s desks?”

  I shrug. I can’t remember. “Everybody hates Fly Around the World. They’ll all vote for me, you even said so yourself.”

  Ting! The egg timer goes off.

  Doyle and I look at each other. “Pup-sicles!”

  “Woof!” barks Joe.

  With Doyle in the lead and Joe bringing up the rear, we charge down the stairs. I round the corner into the kitchen and bounce off of Doyle, who has stopped short. Joe runs into me.

  Wuh-oh. The blue ice cube tray is sitting on the counter. One of the squares is empty.

  “So that’s when Kayla told Katie that Kirsten isn’t going to Kami’s party . . .” My sister strolls into the kitchen. She’s got the cordless phone in one hand and a pink pup-sicle wrapped in a paper towel in the other. “After everything Kami did to get Kirsten onto the soccer team when she could hardly dribble the ball . . .”

  “Izzy?”

  “Shush. I’m on the phone.”

  I point to her hand. “You shouldn’t—”

  “Hold on a minute, Kendall. You-know-who is bothering me.”

  I try again. “Isabelle, you really don’t want to be—”

  “I know, I know, Scab, I took one of your precious ice cream treats. I should have asked first. But you made plenty, and there’s no reason why you can’t share.”

  “If you’d listen for a—”

  “You know, you can be pretty selfish sometimes, Scab. It’s one of your worst faults. I should probably put that in my next news report to Mom and Dad. So what do you say?” She waves the pink ice cube at me.

  “I am sorry,” I say politely, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Please, Isabelle, have as many treats as you want.”

  “Now was that so hard?”

  “No,” I say, holding in a grin.

  Isabelle takes a lick of pup-sicle. “Peanuts. Yum.”

  Doyle lets loose with a good snort. I still don’t crack a smile.

  “I’m back, Kendall,” Isabelle says into the phone. “Where were we? . . . Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . .” My sister takes another lick of pup-sicle. Then another.

  I see Snausages.

  * SCAB’S TIP #8 *

  NEVER ARGUE WITH A know-it-all, superspy, tattletale sister who has the combination to your top-secret safe.

  I let a snicker escape. Then a chuckle. Pretty soon, Doyle and I are laughing so hard we can barely stand up.

  “Quiet, you two,” snaps my sister. She paces to the corner of the kitchen.

  My stomach is killing me. Tears are streaming down my best friend’s face.

  We watch Isabelle walk and talk and lick. Lick and talk and walk. “You would think Kirsten would be a little more grateful . . . uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . .”

  Doyle and I are, finally, getting a grip on ourselves when it happens.

  Crunch!

  Dog biscuit.

  “Arrooo?” Joe tips his head. Poor puppy. He can’t figure out why Isabelle is eating his food. Howling, Doyle and I collapse onto the floor.

  “Okay, call me—no, wait—have Kayla tell Katie to call me when she hears from Kami, okay?” Shooting me a nasty glare, Isabelle snatches another pink ice cube from the tray. She leans down to me, ’cause I am still rolling on the floor. “You know,” she says, “for the first time in your life you might have actually come up with a decent invention— What?” Back to the phone. “Oh, yeah, Kirstin is pretty clueless, isn’t she? She thinks she knows everything about everyone, but half the time she has no idea what’s going on . . .” My sister strolls out of the kitchen, licking the peanuts off her fresh pup-sicle.

  Doyle and I start
laughing all over again.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Rats!

  Where’s the big sign Doyle made for you?”

  “I forgot it.”

  My sister glares at me. “What about Doyle’s desk signs?”

  “Uh . . . forgot.”

  “Have you written your speech yet?”

  “It’s all here.” I tap the side of my head.

  “Sounds hollow to me.” Isabelle looks out the bus window as we pull into the parking lot of River Rock Elementary. “How do you expect to win the election, Scab, if you don’t try?”

  “I’ll win.”

  “You seem awfully confident.”

  “I am.”

  She gives me the once-over with that X-ray stare of hers. “What are you up to? And don’t you dare say four-foot-five-and-a-half.”

  “Nothing.” I hold up both hands. “Honestly.”

  “I hope you know you can’t be this lazy after the election.”

  “After the election?” I don’t see what that has to do with anything.

  “The class president has a lot of responsibilities, you know. You’ve got to help with the PTA fundraisers, like the plant and cookie sales. You’ve got to be involved in the Honor Society dinner, the talent show, and Grandparents Day. Oh, and of course, there are student council meetings every Monday and Wednesday during first recess—”

  “Recess?” I bolt up. Nobody said anything about having to give up recess. I play basketball with Doyle and Will every first recess. I am not about to chuck that for some dumb meeting where we argue about what Mrs. Chadwick and the cafeteria cooks put in the chef’s Special Salad Dressing. No thanks!

  SCAB'S QUESTION OF THE DAY: WHAT’S IN THE CHEF’S

  * SPECIAL SALAD DRESSING? *

  WHAT THE COOKS SAY IS IN IT

  WHAT THE KIDS KNOW IS IN IT

  blue cheese

  blue toe cheese