Dodger for President (11 page)

“That's ENOUGH!” James said. “Fine, I'll just go in there and say I didn't see anything. The rest of you can say whatever the heck you want. Just be quiet about me and my parents, Craig. I mean it.”

Craig nodded.

Then the principal's door opened. Her name is
Dr. Whistleblower. I had never been sent to her before, but I knew she was a scary lady. Mostly she just hid in her office, but I'd heard stories. Some kids said she had a pet cobra that she kept in the bottom drawer of her desk. Others said the candy on her little coffee table was made of truth serum, and that if you ate even one piece, you'd be willing to rat out your own mother. And this one second grader who hangs out with my sister swears that she once saw Dr. Whistleblower on a daytime TV talk show about people with violent personality disorders. According to this kid, Dr. W. was throwing chairs around the set, shouting, “You want a piece of me?” Watching Dr. W. now as she cracked her knuckles and gave us the evil eye, I had no trouble believing that last story.

I don't know how long it usually takes for a kid to crack in that office, but I'm proud to say that even after maybe twenty minutes of threats, bribe offers, and out-and-out blackmail, none of us told Dr. Whistleblower anything. She had just announced that if we didn't talk, she would have to suspend us all, when I heard
POOF,
and Dodger
appeared behind her. He was holding his blue telephone in one hand and a spray bottle labeled ESSENCE OF BELIEF in the other.

Craig and James didn't react at all, of course, because they couldn't see Dodger. But Lizzie looked at me with panic in her eyes. Dodger smiled at us and mouthed,
Don't worry, dudes. I've got this under control!
Then he sprayed the air in front of Dr. Whistleblower's face. I put my head in my hands; I couldn't bear to see what happened next.

When Dr. W.'s phone rang a moment later, I must have jumped about three feet. She picked it up and said, “Hello, this is Dr. Whistleblower.”

I looked up. Dodger's lips were moving, but I couldn't hear the words. Dr. W. sat up straighter in her chair, covered the mouthpiece of her phone, and said, “Ooh, it's the State Department of Education! They're calling about your case.”

Dodger gave us the thumbs-up sign. I swear, I almost fainted.

“Yes, Dr. Chimpstone. I'm honored that you're calling me today. Yes, of course I'll put us on speakerphone.”

Now Dodger's voice was coming through the
phone's speaker. He said, “Guess what, dude? I mean, lady dude.”

Dr. W. looked puzzled but said, “What? Umm . . . state dude?”

“This is your lucky day! Here at the State Department of Education's Division of Complicated and Pointless Paperwork (Triplicate Filings Division), we've invented a new suspension form, and you've been selected as the very first principal in the entire state who gets to use it. And we understand you will get to fill it out FOUR times! This will be great. Unfortunately the computer version isn't quite ready yet, but that's all right. I hope you have a lot of pens handy.”

Oh, come on, Dodger
, I thought.
You sound like a half-surfer, half-school-boss. And a handwritten form? Dr. W. is an intelligent, professional educator. With or without a magic belief spray, there's no way she's going to buy your act.

“I'm sure my secretary has plenty of pens she can use to fill out your new form, Dr. Chimpstone.”

Okay, maybe she was buying it.

Dodger threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, that's a good one! I knew you were, like, a totally impressive law-and-order principal, but I didn't
know you also had such an excellent sense of humor. I'm sure you're familiar with Regulation G-Nine, which clearly states that all suspension paperwork must be personally filled in by the principal herself, in triplicate. So that's, uh, thirteen forms you'll need to fill out for the four students in front of you.”

“Actually, sir, four times three is twelve.” Dr. W. said this with a bit of attitude, but I noticed she was looking a bit pale and shaky all of a sudden.

“Oh, right. Dude, no
wonder
they kicked me out of the Division of Multiplication. Just kidding. Get it, though? Division of Multiplication? See, because division and multiplication are opposites, so that's a totally funny name for a—well, anyway, you are correct. You'll only have to fill out the form twelve times, then. Whew! That will save you about nineteen pages of writing. Well, plus the D-Seventeen form: Permission to Staple Multiple Handwritten Copies.”

“So,” Dr. W. said, “you're telling me I have to fill out twelve copies of a nineteen-page form—personally? By
hand
?”

“Yes, Dr. Whistleblower, you are the chosen
one. We here at the state know that, while many other, less-determined principals might choose to let these four children go due to the total lack of evidence, you wouldn't let a measly seven hours of boring hand-copying get between you and the, uh, administration of justice. Right?” He gave a hearty chuckle.

Dr. W. made a weak attempt to laugh in response, but what came out of her sounded like the last cry of a strangled crow. Her skin was losing all of its color, too. “Uh, right. That's me: Dr. Justice!”

“Perfect!” Dodger shouted. “Then we'll fax you the instructions for filling out Form DP-Seven, as well. That's the Illustration of Incident Scene in Pastel Watercolors. Dude, this one is amazing! I invented it myself. All you have to do is paint a life-size six-panel series of illustrations showing the progress of the incident. Per student, of course. I have to warn you, the instructions are a bit long. They were written by my brother, umm, Dr. Rodger Chimpstone. I hope you have a lot of paper in your fax machine!”

Dr. W. just sat there staring at the speaker in horror. I swear, her face was absolutely gray.

“Hello?” Dodger said. “Are you, like, still with me?”

Dr. W. cleared her throat. “Uh, yes, sir.”

“Great! Then I think you should get started on that paperwork. If you tackle this right away, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to leave your office by—oh, I don't know—next Friday afternoon? If you'd like, we can get you some food and water. I'll just send over a form X-Thirty-one: Application for Liver and Surplus Cheese on Dampened Onion Bread.”

Dr. W. wiped her clammy-looking forehead and said, “Um, sir. On second thought, perhaps I will give these children a second chance. After all, what's justice without mercy, right?”

Dodger sighed. “Dr. Whistleblower, are you absolutely, like, sure about this? I know how much you enjoy suspending children, and I wouldn't want to do anything to spoil your fun. Plus, dude, the pastel painting part is, like, completely off the hook! I'm sure you'd have a great time with the—”

Dr. W. said, “You're right, Dr. Chimpstone. I do enjoy a nice suspension. But then again, we have to consider what's best for the children. So someone
else will just have to try out your, um, wicked awesome new form.”

“All right, if you insist. I won't take up any more of your time. Although, if you'd like to give these kids a firm scolding, I would be happy to send you Form FS-Ninety-seven: Scolding, Intimidation, and General Causation of Students' Nightmares, Condensed Version. It's only seventy-three pages long, and we'll gladly send along a magnifying glass to help you read the last nineteen pages of instructions. They're in Japanese, but I'm sure you could—”

“That won't be necessary, but thanks anyway. I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding. Right, kids? Now, why don't you all just scamper back to class and we'll pretend this whole thing never happened?”

“All righty, then,” Dodger said. “I'll just have my brother call you next week to see how things are going. Later!”

Dr. W. shooed us out of her office and hung up. Dodger smiled, put away his phone, sat down in the corner, and started munching on a banana. Dr. W. reached into her desk's bottom drawer and
pulled out a gallon jug of Pepto-Bismol. I had a feeling she'd need to keep it handy for a while. As we walked away, I thought I heard her mutter: “A form for scolding? My goodness, the Department of Education takes the fun out of everything.”

On the way upstairs, James said, “What the heck was up with
that
? The haunted playground, my speech getting all jumbled up, and now the principal lets us all
walk
? Does it seem to any of you like things have been getting a little weird around here?”

“No,” I said, trying not to crack a smile.

“Uh-uh,” said Lizzie.

“Nope,” said Craig. “Just another busy day on the campaign trail.”

At the top of the steps, James turned left, toward the nurse's office. Good move—he really needed to get some ice on that eye. The rest of us turned right and headed for Mrs. Starsky's room. Just before we went in, Craig said, “Hey, guys, you know we're still going to be enemies in the election, right?”

“Absolutely. But from here on in, what if we all agreed to just play fair?” Lizzie said.

Craig raised one eyebrow, then shrugged and said, “Why not? I'll try anything once!” And with that, we stepped into the room together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER SCHOOL
, I went to Lizzie's house to help her with her speech, which she would be giving the next morning. I felt kind of funny about being there. I mean, Lizzie had been to my house a bunch of times, and her parents had been driving me places for years. Plus, I'd been in her house for little bits of time before, but this was different. Now I was
hanging out at Lizzie's house
. Lizzie's mom offered us tea and biscuits, which sounded totally revolting—but it turns out that English people call cookies biscuits. We sat around the kitchen table
and told Mrs. Barrett all about the events of the campaign so far, leaving out the parts with magic, flight, and/or packs of vicious dogs. She said, “Wow, this is so exciting! My little girl is conquering America!” Lizzie rolled her eyes. I knew the feeling.

When we finally tore ourselves away from the tea, cookies, and embarrassment, I found myself in Lizzie's room. I was
hanging out in Lizzie's room
! Apparently, so was Dodger, who appeared out of thin air the instant we sat down. Thankfully, there were two chairs, so I didn't have to sit on a girl's bed. Besides, Dodger immediately took to jumping up and down on it.

“All right, Elizabeth,” I said formally. “I have devoted some serious thought to this last speech, and I feel that the time has come to discuss the issues with the voters. The way I see it, the people want to know where we stand on such serious matters as the improvement of the school salad bar, procedures for decreasing wasted recess time, and developing a mechanism for taking student complaints to the PTA.”

Lizzie said, “And what do we plan to do about those issues?”

“I have no idea,” I replied. “But hey, I'm not the one who tricked me into running for president.”

Dodger stopped doing back handsprings on Lizzie's bed long enough to say, “Dudes, don't sweat the small stuff. People don't care about the issues—they want to vote for someone they like. So you're golden. Willie is the cool-walking, smooth-talking bringer of doughnuts. And James is the guy who can't even give a speech without offending half the audience. Plus he got totally hooked in the eye by his own running mate. All Lizzie has to do is remind everyone why you're the true-blue choice, and the next thing you know, you'll be wearing the crown!”

“Uh, Dodger,” I said, “I know what you mean, but . . . well . . . James isn't the only one with a black eye. And what about all the people who laughed at me because of James's posters? They don't think I'm so cool. Oh, and another thing: Presidents don't even wear crowns.”

“Sure they do. Whenever I see Miss America on TV, she always has a crown. Which reminds
me—when's the swimsuit competition? I think we should get you into a weight-lifting program to bulk up your chest muscles before—”

“Dodger! The Miss America pageant and the presidency are two totally different things! They have absolutely NOTHING to do with each other.”

“No way!
Oh, man!
That means I made Abe Lincoln parade around in swim trunks and a sash for nothing, huh? No wonder Mrs. L. never invited me back to their big white house after the election.”

“Wait a minute!” Lizzie exclaimed. “Dodger is absolutely right!”

I was stunned. “You mean, there really is a swimsuit competition? Because I am
not
gonna—”

“No, you fool, he's right about the election! All I need to do is remind everyone of how great you are!”

“Oh, so I'm a
great
fool?”

“Yes,” she said happily. “You really are! Now, go home. You, too, Dodger. I have work to do!”

 

Lizzie refused to let me see her speech before the assembly, so I was pretty nervous as the big event got started. Just like the last time, she and
I were sitting on one side of the stage, and Craig and James were on the other. My black eye had faded to a pale, sickly yellow, but James's was in full, gruesome effect. I kind of felt sorry for him, at least until Craig stepped up to the microphone:

 

Dear classmates, fellow students, teachers, and staff,

I was really not sure what I should say today. I mean, on the one hand, you all know that this is my second time in fifth grade. So maybe I'm not that smart. Or maybe I'd make an extra-good vice president, since I have more years of elementary-school experience than just about anybody. But the main thing that confuses me is what I should tell you about James and Willie.

I mean, I made an agreement with Willie and Lizzie yesterday that we wouldn't pull any dirty tricks today—we all agreed that the election should be fair and square. So does that mean I shouldn't point out that Willie's nickname has always been “Wimpy”? I mean, I don't want to be unfair. And does it mean I shouldn't point out that, even though Willie's posters showed him in a baseball uniform like he's a big ball hero, really he only got one hit all season?
I mean, I don't want to be unfair. So maybe I shouldn't even mention that Willie hasn't ever been involved with student government before, or that Lizzie has only been in this country since the third grade, even though in the real grownup elections, you can't run for president unless you were born in America.

Because, you know, I don't want to be unfair.