Scab for Treasurer? Read online

  whipped mayonnaise

  whipped maggots

  vinegar

  Mr. Velasko’s nose hair (it’s so long you can braid

  fresh parsley from the market

  dead dandelions from the court yard

  chopped chives

  chickenpox scabs

  As the bus comes to a stop, Isabelle gathers up her stuff. “What did you think being president was going to be like?”

  What’s to think about? I want to beat Never Missy. That’s all. Girls make everything so complicated. Isabelle is trying to scare me with all this talk about responsibilities. She ought to know I don’t scare easily.

  “Your teeth look nice,” I say to my sister.

  “Huh?”

  “Nice and white. Tartar free.”

  “Ooooo-kay.”

  “You have a shiny coat, too.”

  She looks down at her navy jacket. “What are you blabbering about?”

  I give her the only hint I can. “Woof.”

  “Boys are such a waste of oxygen.”

  “Have a nice day,” Ms. Rigormortis says blandly as we get off the bus. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too,” I say with a wave.

  When I step onto the curb, Doyle is there. He looks at my empty hands. “Where are the signs I made yesterday?”

  “Doesn’t know,” Isabelle shoots over her shoulder, hurrying away.

  “I forgot them,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “But I worked on those all afternoon!”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “I could have called to remind you this morning, but you said you’d remember to bring them. You said I didn’t have to worry about it and that you’d pack everything up and—”

  “I know what I said. Quit dogging me about the signs, will you?” It comes out sounding angrier than I meant for it to. We turn into Room 242. Suddenly, I am surrounded by a purple fog. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I throw a punch. Thump. My knuckles bounce!

  “Hey, watch my balloons,” says Never Missy.

  “No fair,” Doyle pipes up. “Teacher said we couldn’t do giveaways.”

  “Yes, fair. It’s not a giveaway. They’re decorations for my signs, see?” We watch her tape a small purple balloon to the front of a sign that reads, i’m for malne! I fake barf into Miss Sweetandsour’s trash can with the yellow tulips on it. Doyle laughs.

  “Who wants a balloon?” calls Missy.

  I hiss into Doyle’s ear. “None of the guys are going to—”

  “I do!”

  When we see who comes over, our jaws drop.

  “WILL!” Doyle and I shout.

  “I want a balloon. Is that a crime?”

  “Yes!”

  We spin him and make him spit swear right then and there that he is going to vote for me.

  “I was going to anyway,” he mumbles. “Geez!”

  When I look around, I see that i’m for malne signs are everywhere. Even some of the guys—Henry, Lewis, and Juan—have her signs on their desks. What is going on here? I mean, she’s a girl. And an alien. And a Fly Around the World pain-in-the-rump show-off. And a GIRL!

  After she takes roll, Miss Sweetandsour tells us to open our science books. She starts reviewing the chapter on the water cycle. I cannot get over what is happening in my class. I was so certain everyone hated Fly Around the World as much as I did. I was so certain the election was going to be a snap. But now, seeing wall-to-wall purple, I am no longer certain of anything.

  STUFF THAT SHOULD BE

  * OUTLAWED AT SCHOOL *

  * Pop quizzes

  * Making snowflakes (Mine always fall apart!)

  * The two words we most hate to find at the top of our papers: “See me”

  * Sporks (the plastic fork/spoon thing they make you eat with in the cafeteria)

  * Substitutes who can’t pronounce anybody’s name right

  Cloey is flicking her fingers against my back. “Take out a piece of paper.”

  “What?”

  “Plug your brain back in, will you? Chapter quiz.”

  Bug spit!

  Miss Sweetandsour tells us to number our pages to fifteen. She begins asking questions about the water cycle. How much of the Earth’s surface is covered by water? How much water does your body need each day? What is the freezing point of water? I don’t know. I can’t remember. And thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit. (I am a scientist, after all.) When we’re done with the quiz, we swap papers. I trade with Henry Mapanoo. He gets thirteen right. That’s a B+. I get nine right. That’s a D.

  We hand our papers forward. “Did anyone answer all of the questions correctly?” asks Miss Sweetandsour.

  Never Missy’s purple arm shoots up. It’s official. This girl is not human.

  “Wonderful,” oozes Miss Sweetandsour. “Missy, Juan, Trina, and Carlton, you may each come up and pick out something from the prize box.”

  Whoa, whoa, whoa!

  Nobody said anything about this being a prize quiz. No fair! I kick the leg of my desk. If only I’d paid attention. I could be up there right now snagging my glow-in-the-dark rat. I kick my desk again. Ouch. I watch Miss Sweetandsour take the top off the red plastic storage bin marked prize box. I can’t look. I spin in my seat. “Hey, Cloey?”

  She is brushing her hair. Her bangs make a wavy curtain in front of her face. “Uh-huh?”

  “You’re voting for me, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Don’t you hate Fly Around the World as much as I do?”

  She runs a brush through her hair curtain. “Sure, but we’re talking class president here, Scab.”

  “So?”

  She parts her hair on the left side, pulling the biggest chunk over to clip on the right. “It’s like what Miss Sweetandsour told Meggie.” She sees the confusion on my face. “You should try to earn our votes.”

  “How do I—?”

  “Weren’t you listening? What are your goals? What will you do if you’re elected?”

  I puff out my chest. “I’ll get rid of Fly Around the World.”

  She clicks her tongue. “That’s it?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “It’s just a game, Scab.”

  I almost fall out of my chair. A game? A game? Earth to Cloey! How could she say that? It’s about Never Missy always winning and the rest of us always losing! It’s about Miss Sweetandsour treating Never Missy better than everyone else. It’s about right and wrong. Fair and unfair. Good and evil. Fly Around the World is a lot of things, but it is not just a game.

  “You should do a handout,” says Cloey. “You know, like Missy’s.”

  I stiffen. “Missy’s?”

  “Didn’t you get one?”

  “No.”

  “I think I’ve got one here in my desk. Yeah, here it is—see how she’s written out her goals? She says what she wants to do if we elect her.” Cloey shoves a light purple piece of paper at me, but I push it away. I don’t want to see anything of hers.

  On the back bulletin board, white block letters almost jump off the large purple poster: don’t miss-y out n the best: vote missy malne for class president. I whirl around in my seat. If I see one more happy face o or purple balloon I will explode. It would be worth it to spew my blood, guts, and brains all over Never Missy’s desk. Not that Miss Sweetandsour would make her clean me up. She never makes her straighten up around her desk. I look across the room for Doyle, but there are too many balloons in the way. I throw my pen at the one on Lewis’s desk to try to pop it. The pen just bounces off the chubby balloon and rolls away.

  Never Missy is skipping down our row. She is smiling. She’s swinging—no! NO! She’s dangling a white, glow-in-the-dark, rubber rat—my glow-in-the-dark, rubber rat!

  Never Missy slides into her chair. She starts humming.

  It takes all of my energy not to scream That’s mine! You stole MY rat. The only thing that stops me is that I know that’s what she wants me to do. She wants me to get
mad. She did this on purpose. Never Missy probably doesn’t even want the rat. She’ll probably draw a happy face on it with her red puffball pen and dress it up in a little purple coat. I fling her hood off the edge of my desk. So Cloey wants to know what I stand for, huh? She wants to know my goals, huh?

  Here’s one: Never Missy has won for the last time. And that’s more than a goal. That’s a promise.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Ka-boom?

  I’ll snag the b-ball,” says Doyle. Our class is lining up for first recess. “You guys save the good court—”

  I wave him off. “I’m calling an emergency meeting.” I karate chop a purple balloon on Juan’s desk. It comes loose. I kick it away. Don’t any of these stupid things pop?

  “Okay!” Doyle bounces his head as if to say, “Finally.”

  Miss Sweetandsour must be feeling more sweet than sour today, because when I ask her if Doyle, Will, and I can stay in during recess to work on my campaign signs she says yes. After everybody leaves, our teacher shuts us in the classroom, locks the door from the hall, and goes to check her score on the Teacher Torture Board. Will and I start churning out desk signs, while Doyle tackles the big banner for the back bulletin board.

  He rolls out a long piece of tan butcher paper. “Never Missy’s got a good head start on you, Scab, but we’ll turn it around. What do you want your sign to say?”

  SCAB’S TOP SECRET

  * PERSONAL INFO *

  * I didn’t give up blanky wanky (my baby blanket) until I was eight.

  * Sometimes, I wear my pajamas with the feet attached. They have sheep on them. I feel stupid. It has to be really cold out.

  * I still sleep with Howard, the stuffed musical rabbit Grandma Lu gave me when I was two. You got a problem with that?

  Spit swear, please, that all the above information will be kept confidential. Thank you.

  “Something funny.”

  “And short,” adds Will.

  “Funny and short,” murmurs Doyle. As he thinks, my best friend chews on his thumbnail, or what’s left of it. I suspect Doyle still sucks his thumb. I don’t tease him about it, though. We all have stuff to deal with.

  “How about ‘Vote Scab McNally’?” asks Doyle.

  “Short,” says Will. “Not funny.”

  Doyle munches on his thumbnail some more. “How about this one: ‘We Won’t Have to Play Fly Around the World when Scab’s Class President.’”

  “Not short,” I say. “And not funny.”

  More thumbnail biting then, suddenly, Doyle throws his arms into the air. “I’ve got it. ‘Pick Scab.’ Get it? Pick Scab.”

  We get it. We laugh. We like it. Short and funny.

  Will and I each make six desk signs. They’re not as nice as Never Missy’s fancy poster board signs. My writing slants too much. The letters are bunched together because I ran out of room. Will spelled my name wrong on his signs. They read mcnaily for prez. Plus, we don’t have any decorations. No balloons. No glitter. No stickers.

  “What’s the matter?” asks Doyle. He knows me from the bones out.

  “My signs stink.”

  Doyle looks them over. “That one’s not so bad.”

  I hold my nose. “They stink. I wish I had . . . I need . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know . . . more.”

  “More signs?”

  “No, I mean . . . I mean . . .” I pull my hair straight up in the air. I don’t know what I mean. But I am starting to freak out.

  “You could write out what you’ll do if you’re elected president, like Never Missy did,” says Doyle. “Do you want to see what she—”

  “No! I don’t want to do a crummy handout.”

  Will looks up from his desk. He’s got a big streak of blue ink on his chin. “What, then?”

  “I’m not sure. This election is boring. I want to have fun. And I want to do something I’m good at doing.” An idea is beginning to form in my brain. “I want to do something I’m good at doing and something Never Missy isn’t good at doing.” Yes, I’m definitely getting an idea!

  “You mean something daring?” Doyle grins. He is reading my mind, as usual. I nod.

  “Something so cool that when kids see it they’ll have to vote for you?” Will’s got it now.

  Together, we shout, “Stunt!”

  We are congratulating ourselves when Doyle stops to ask, “What kind of stunt?”

  I clasp my hands on top of my head and walk around the room. This is how I do my best thinking.

  “You’ve got to do it at school where everyone can watch it,” says Will.

  I agree. And keep walking.

  “You’ll have to be careful not to get Zaffed,” Doyle reminds us. He’s talking about Mrs. Zaff, the lunch and playground monitor. Just yesterday, she was blowing her whistle at me.

  Thweet. Thweet. Thweeeeeet.

  “Scab McNally! What in the world are you doing?”

  Her plastic-covered mashed-potato head charged my way. She was wearing her bright yellow raincoat with the orange tabby cats, even though it was a sunny day.

  “Uh . . . cleaning my rocks? This one’s got a slug on it.”

  “Not in the water fountain. Get those rocks out of there. Pronto.”

  “Okay.”

  “Break it up.” She swung her cat umbrella to get rid of the kids who’d come over to see what was going on. Thweet. Thweet. Thweeeeeet.

  Maybe that should be one of my campaign promises. I, Scab McNally, promise to drop Mrs. Zaff’s whistle in the toilet. Flush. Flush. Whooooosh.

  “Scab.” Will is pointing to the door.

  Isabelle’s face is smooshed up against the long, skinny window.

  What is she doing here? Of course! The second I didn’t show up on the playground for recess, my sister, Superspy, began tracking me with her supersister radar. Recess is half over. What took her so long?

  “You’ve got my lunch,” Isabelle says when I open the door. “I’ve got yours.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.” She rolls her eyes. “My whole class knows.” She opens the bag.

  I take a whiff. “Ah, bologna, egg, marshmallow, and ketchup on rye.”

  “Ew. Take it, will you, before I throw up?”

  “I’ll get yours.”

  While I go to the cubby rack, Superspy strolls around the room. “Nice sign, Doyle,” she says flatly. “Pick Scab. Real mature.”

  “Thanks,” he says with pride.

  * SCAB’S TIP #16 *

  STAY AWAY FROM TEACHERS who wear plastic clothes, tell bad jokes, or pick their ears and eat what they find. Doesn’t that cover pretty much all of them?

  I hand Isabelle her lunch. “Thank goodness you have it. I didn’t bring any money today, and no way was I going to eat that cootie sandwich of yours. Not that it even compares to that nasty wrap-thingy you made yesterday—”

  “You didn’t even try it.”

  “Salami, applesauce, and sour cream-and-onion potato chips in a tortilla? I don’t think so.”

  “You forgot the blueberry jelly beans.”

  She gags. “I don’t know how you do it. One of these days your stomach is going to explode. Ka-boom!”

  “Will not. My stomach’s made of iron. It’s tough and strong. It can handle anyth—” I freeze.

  That’s it! An amazing, one-of-a-kind stunt that will get everyone to vote for me. It’s perfect!

  “Scab?” I hear Doyle calling me, but my brain is too busy to answer. My hands are on the top of my head again. I begin circling Miss Sweetandsour’s desk. Slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster.

  Will starts to say, “Hey, Scab, maybe you could—”

  “Ssshhh,” says Doyle. “He’s getting an idea. It must be for his stunt.”

  “A stunt?” Isabelle gulps. “You mean a daredevil stunt?”

  “Uh-huh,” answers Doyle.

  “Here?”

  “Uh-huh.”

 
; Will’s eyebrows go up. He slaps his thigh. “Oh, boy!”

  Isabelle’s eyebrows go down. She slaps her cheeks and sighs. “Oh, boy.”

  I barely hear her. I am working out the details of the most difficult stunt I have ever attempted. It will be the most incredible stunt in the history of River Rock Elementary. And the best part is, Never Missy won’t be able to stop me. Or beat me.

  CHAPTER

  8

  The Human Vacuum

  Doyle tapes a sign to the front of my chest. Will slaps another one on my back. The three of us walk single file into the cafeteria. I’m in the middle. At River Rock Elementary, each class is assigned a row of tables for lunch. Our class is in the first row so it doesn’t take long for kids to read my signs. Coming and going, I say the same thing:

  SCAB MCNALLY THE HUMAN VACCUUM

  YOU BRING IT HE’LL EAT IT

  VOTE SCAB

  “Hey, Scab!” shouts Henry Mapanoo. “Will you eat salt?”

  “Sure, that’s easy,” I say with a snort.

  “How about a lemon?” asks Juan.

  “I won’t even make a face.”

  “What about sardines?” cries Beth.

  “I love ’em.” That one is true.

  “Artichokes?”

  “Sauerkraut?”

  “Scorpion tails?”

  “Goat cheese?”

  “Yep, yep, yep, and yep,” I call. “I’ll eat anything!” Scorpion tails?

  “Seriously? Anything?” asks Lewis Pigford. “Even dirt?”

  “Dirt?” shouts Alec Ichikawa. “Hey, everybody, Scab’s going to eat dirt!”

  “No!” says Doyle, waving his arms. “Not dirt. Will, you’d better fix that.”

  Will crosses out the first it and writes food on my signs.

  I am glad. I’m not crazy about chowing down on dirt, worms, or lint. Sure, I’ll eat them, but I’d rather not if I don’t have to. . . .

  “I’ve got the sign-up sheet,” Doyle calls out. “Write down what you are going to bring tomorrow. The Human Vacuum promises to eat one bite of each thing. The line starts here— Hey, quit pushing. Take it easy. Everybody will get their turn.”