As If Being 12 3/4 Isn't Bad Enough, My Mother Is Running for President! Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Mrs. Perez’s DROP-DEAD Delicious Lemon Squares

  Dear Reader,

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedicated to Daniel (Daniel. D-A-N-I-E-L. Daniel.) n.

  1: exceptional husband. 2: fantastic father.

  3: guitar-pickin’, cold-cereal-chompin’, basketball-bouncin’,

  pun-purveyin’ best friend.

  Have I told you lately?

  With love to my family and friends, who enrich my life every day.

  A toast of gratitude with a glass of Ruby Red grapefruit juice to my Sunday group—Linda Salem Marlow, Sylvia Andrews, Carole Crowe, Peter Hawkins, Kieran Doherty, Jill Nadler, Dan Rousseau, and Donald Lovejoy—writers and friends extraordinaire.

  A bouquet of thanks to the young readers of my (unwieldy) first draft: Andrew, Paige, and Madelyn.

  A shout of thanks to Diahnka Kingsley, talented artist, for sharing her experience of having her broken left wrist set in a purple cast.

  Deirdre Flint, hilarious songwriter, is responsible for the idea of a Boob Fairy in this book.

  Gracias to Caren Wilder for help with Spanish words and phrases.

  A bumblebee pin and a wish for much success to Claire for sharing her spelling bee experiences with me.

  Hats off to my editor, Stephanie Lane, and her magic blue editing pencil.

  With gratitude to my Scrabble-loving agent, Tina Wexler (T-I-N-A W-E-X-L-E-R), for believing in me and in a quirky character named Vanessa Rothrock. For supporting me from first sentence through final revision, T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U (worth 18 points in Scrabble, but worth even more to me!) for making my dream come true.

  The Bee.

  I’m sitting on a wooden folding chair, hoping I don’t get a splinter in my derriere, as Chester Fields tries to spell “thoroughly.” Chester Fields is an idiot. “Thoroughly” is an easy word. But somehow he manages to muck it up, spelling, “T-h-u-r-u-h, I don’t know, w-l-y.” Cowbell for that boy! How did he even get to the schoolwide bee? I’ll bet his teacher felt sorry for him. Or maybe it’s because his mother is on the board of directors at Lawndale Academy.

  I, Vanessa Rothrock, am sweating like a pig—do pigs sweat?—and wishing I could smell my pits, but the whole audience is looking at me. I pump my left leg up and down like crazy and hear Mom’s voice in my head: Don’t fidget, Vanessa; it’s unbecoming. Still yourself. Still yourself? Easy for her to say. She’s all poise and grace, forever saying and doing the perfect thing. Maybe I’m not really Mom’s daughter. Maybe I was adopted, or switched at birth. But when I think of Mom’s enormous feet, I know I’m all hers. I rest my hand on my leg to stop fidgeting and crane my neck. Is Mom even—?

  “Vanessa Rothrock, please come up.”

  I gasp and choke on my own saliva. Then I stand and grab the back of my chair. Unfortunately, I do not die of asphyxiation (Asphyxiation. A-S-P-H-Y-X-I-A-T-I-O-N. Asphyxiation.) and I maneuver around students’ feet and chair legs. The microphone is in sight. I’m sighing with relief at having passed through the minefield of legs without tripping when my gigantic feet tangle in the principal’s microphone cord.

  I lurch forward, grab for the podium, and end up with a handful of papers before crashing to the stage. I say something charming, like “Ooomph!” The audience lets out a collective gasp. Unfortunately, I do not crack my head and die instantly. Why am I such a klutz?

  As I lift my cheek from the dusty floor, I see camera lights flash like lightning. I put my head down and imagine tomorrow’s headline: GOVERNOR’S DAUGHTER TAKES SPILL DURING SCHOOL SPELLING BEE. ENTIRE STATE OF FLORIDA HUMILIATED.

  “No photographs, please,” Mrs. Foster begs. “You were informed.”

  I look up again and see Mr. Martinez marching toward me from backstage. That’s all I need to complete the humiliation package—my six-foot-tall security guard scooping me up from the stage and brushing me off.

  I hold up a few fingers and he stops. I mouth the words “I’m okay.” Mr. Martinez backs up so that he’s offstage again. And against my better judgment, I stand and face the audience, who, by the way, have their mouths hanging open. My cheeks grow so hot I’m sure my head will spontaneously (Spontaneously. S-P-O-N-T-A-N-E-O-U-S-L-Y. Spontaneously.) combust. I look at Mrs. Foster and silently plead: Give me a word already and put me out of my misery.

  Mrs. Foster clears her throat and motions toward my feet. I realize that her papers are scattered there. I gather them up and give them to her with trembling hands. I hear Mom’s words again: Still yourself, Vanessa. Still yourself!

  After adjusting her glasses and clearing her throat, Mrs. Foster says, “Your word is ‘resuscitate.’”

  I snort. I can’t help it. I imagine a cute emergency tech resuscitating me on the floor of the stage. Unfortunately, when I snort, it makes a screeching noise in the microphone, and the people in the audience (even Mrs. Foster) cover their ears as though a supersonic jet has flown overhead. I see Mr. Martinez wince.

  Why, I wonder, do I suffer such humiliation? What was God thinking when She made me?

  Someone clears her throat. For a moment I think it’s God, but then I look over and see Mrs. Foster tapping her watch.

  My nostrils flare in a less-than-flattering way. I hate when someone taps a watch. I shake my head. What is my word again? OHMYGOD! I’ve completely forgotten. Sweat begins to pool under my arms. Did I remember to apply deodorant this morning or did I just spray perfume and hope for the best? “Could I have the origin of the word, please?”

  “Resuscitate,” Mrs. Foster snaps. “It comes from—”

  “Resuscitate.” I cut the principal off midsentence. “R-es-u-s-c-i-t-a-t-e. Resuscitate.”

  “That is correct.” I imagine the “thank goodness and sit down” she doesn’t say.

  I curtsy—CURTSY? what am I, five years old?—then scamper back to polite applause. It’s obvious I impress the audience by making it to my seat without tripping.

  “Reginald Trumball, please come up.”

  Reginald turns and winks at me. At least I think it’s at me. My heart goes into overdrive, and fingers of heat creep up my neck.

  I notice my best friend, Emma Smith, staring at Reginald as he gets out of his seat. I wonder for a moment if she’s even more in love with Reginald than I am. Not possible.

  I watch Reginald jog to the microphone. He doesn’t even stumble. That boy is all grace and good looks. If I’m lucky enough to have children with Reginald Trumball someday, I hope t
hey inherit his good looks and quirky charm…and my ability to spell obscure (Obscure. O-B-SC-U-R-E. Obscure.) words.

  Mrs. Foster smiles and nods at Reginald. “Your word is ‘categorize.’”

  I close my eyes, squeeze my fingers into fists, and will the correct spelling into Reginald’s gorgeous head. But something must be blocking my brain waves, because Reginald says: “C-a-t-i-g-o-r-i-z-e.”

  When the cowbell signals his defeat, Reginald’s mother has her arm around his shoulders before he’s even completely off the stage. Reginald puts his arm around his mother’s shoulder and leans his head close to hers. She whispers something into his ear, probably about how he’ll never need to spell that word again and how she’ll take him out for ice cream later. I want that mother.

  As I sit onstage gnawing on the skin beside my thumbnail, I wonder if my mom, the great Governor Rothrock, is even here today. I try to remember her schedule or if I even had breakfast with her this morning. I was so busy studying multisyllabic (Multisyllabic. M-U-L-T-I-S-Y-L-L-A-B-I-C. Multisyllabic.) words like, well, “multisyllabic” that my brain didn’t have room for spare information like the presence of my mother or if I remembered to wear underpants this morning. I check discreetly. I did remember. The pair with purple hearts and red arrows. Whew!

  Now, what was I checking for? Reginald’s adorable face? No. Underwear? No. My mom? Yes! I strain from my seat and scan the crowd. Big hair. Toupee. Ugly bow tie. Twin women—how odd. Gray braid. Uni-brow. I search for Mom’s perfect coiffure. (Coiffure. C-O-I-F-F-U-R-E. Coiffure.) I look for the person who has played Scrabble with me since I was four, although we haven’t played at all lately. And it’s not because she’s worried I’ll win. I never have. Ever. Mom’s that good. It’s just that she’s been a little, er, busy lately. And “busy” might be a slight understatement when describing my mom’s daily schedule.

  I spot Mom’s press secretary, Mr. Adams, in the audience. He wiggles his fingers at me. I gasp and slink low in my seat. Mom sent her press secretary to watch me in the school spelling bee? Her press secretary! File that under neglect!

  On the next round, I make it to the front of the stage without tripping or snorting into the microphone—hurrah—and spell “buoyed” correctly.

  During each round, I watch chairs on the stage empty.

  Unfortunately, during round six, Emma loses on the word “wildebeest.” I told her she should have skipped a couple equestrian lessons to study more. She said she was a naturally good speller and didn’t need to. After spelling “W-i-l-d-a-b-e-a-s-t,” Emma is met with the harsh clang of the cowbell. Her shoulders sag, and she turns to me, blinking, like an injured deer. She tries to push the corners of her mouth up to show me she’s okay, but she’s sniffing and her shoulders are bobbing, and I can tell she’s about to cry. I want to rush up and give her a hug, tell her there’s always next year, but I’m not allowed to leave my seat. I hope she can read my thoughts. Emma shrugs, walks off the stage, and joins her mom in the audience.

  I sigh and prepare myself for the next word, knowing I’ll console Emma after the bee, during lunch.

  Finally, it’s between me and Darcy Clements. Darcy is a perfectly nice girl, except that she considers nose-picking a hobby. She and I go back and forth awhile. Darcy once told me she’d read every book in our school library. Slight exaggeration, I’m sure. Nonetheless, I sweat, pump my leg, and generally fall apart inside. On the outside, though, I’m like Merriam or Webster.

  In the end, I whomp Darcy on the word “deficiency.” I can’t believe it. Such an easy word. Darcy left out the second i.

  After I realize I won, I say, “Good job, Darcy,” and she bursts into tears. I have no idea what to do. I pat her on the back, keeping far away from her pointer fingers—don’t know where they’ve been lately—but she keeps sobbing. Uh, a little help here, please.

  Suddenly, Darcy is gone and I’m engulfed by people saying “Congratulations” and slapping me on the back. Mr. Martinez moves in close. He doesn’t like when people crowd me. It makes his job of keeping me safe harder. I’m afraid he’ll tackle the principal, Mrs. Foster, when she drapes her arm over my shoulder and smiles for a photographer.

  Emma is squished by the crowd but reaches her right arm toward me, wiggling her fingers. I stretch toward her hand, but our fingertips haven’t quite touched when someone calls, “Vanessa. Over here.” I turn, and a flash goes off. Then another. I’m smiling and feeling pretty good until I get that pang, the one that feels like a big open space in the middle of my stomach. And I get that feeling because even though I’m surrounded by people, the one I need most in the world—my mom—isn’t here.

  After Mrs. Foster hands me a certificate with a gold seal and wishes me luck in the County Bee, I grab my backpack and head toward math class. Of course, Mr. Martinez follows a few feet behind. I’m still not used to being followed everywhere. I’ve had a bodyguard only since Mom won the Iowa caucuses about a week ago. Some kids think a pimple or a bad haircut makes them stand out. Imagine being trailed everywhere (and I do mean everywhere) by a six-foot-tall man wearing a dark suit and carrying a concealed weapon. As if I don’t already have enough trouble blending in!

  I squeeze my brows together, trying to remember where Mom is today. I know it’s something important that I should remember, so I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand a few times to jar the information loose as I walk into Mr. Applebaum’s classroom.

  “You okay, Vanessa?” Mr. Applebaum asks.

  “Yes,” I sputter. “Just—a—a—mosquito.”

  “In January?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, feeling heat creep up from my neck to the tips of my ears. I want to slink to my seat and do something constructive like, I don’t know, die. Mr. Martinez waits outside the classroom as usual. The only thing more boring than sitting inside a seventh-grade math classroom has to be standing outside a seventh-grade math classroom waiting for the rare chance that something might happen. I mean, what could happen to me? Mr. Applebaum would hit me over the head with my math textbook? As if! That man’s got to be the most harmless human being on the planet. New to Lawndale this year, he’s the quintessential (Quintessential. Q-U-I-N-T-E-S-S-E-N-T-I-A-L. Quintessential.) nerd—complete with thick glasses and a pocket protector that holds his calculator.

  I don’t make it to my seat.

  “Class,” Mr. Applebaum says, his hand on my shoulder, “let’s give Vanessa a round of applause. She and Reginald made it to the school bee. And Vanessa Rothrock, I was just informed”—he is beaming—“went all the way!”

  OHMYGOD! Did my teacher just say that I, Vanessa Rothrock, age twelve and three-quarters, went all the way? I haven’t even French-kissed a boy yet. To be perfectly honest, I haven’t kissed a boy at all. Although as it turns out, the boy I’d most like to kiss in all of Lawndale Academy sits right next to me.

  I slide into my seat and cannot even look at Reginald. I feel like if I glance in his direction, my eyeballs will melt because I’m positive that boy can read my illicit thoughts about him.

  Something pokes me in the arm. I brush it away. Another poke. I look over, totally annoyed to see Michael Dumas grinning. At least his eyelid isn’t twitching. He gives me a double thumbs-up. What is he, Ebert and Roeper? I give him a weak smile and face front. Now I can’t look right at Reginald or left at, ugh, Michael Dumas. I know it’s a bad day when my best option is looking straight ahead at Mr. Applebaum, the only teacher in school who wears a bow tie—and that’s his most attractive feature!

  While he drones on and on about obscure geometric figures and their properties, I think of my winning word in the bee—“deficiency.” I’ve certainly got several. Grandma says one can’t improve until one recognizes one’s weaknesses.

  So, instead of paying attention to Mr. Applebaum, I do something constructive. I tear out a sheet of loose-leaf paper and list my deficiencies (D-E-F-I-C—Oh, whatever!) in purple ink. Later, I’ll work on fixing the ones I can.

  The Deficienci
es of Vanessa Rothrock, Age 12¾

  1. Boobs the size of cherry pits. (If life is a bowl of cherries, why are my boobs the pits?)

  2. Mom is so busy I practically have to make an appointment to see her.

  3. I’m probably the only girl in seventh grade who has NOT gotten her period.

  4. I frequently embarrass myself by tripping over air molecules.

  5. Did I mention how busy Mom is?

  6. Feet so gigantic they could stamp out a forest fire—in the Sequoia National Forest, where Mom and Dad took me before—

  When I hear Mr. Applebaum walk down the aisle, I throw my arm over my paper. Please don’t notice. Please keep walking.

  Mr. Applebaum stops. He taps my geometry book, looks over his glasses, and keeps walking.

  “Thank God,” I murmur.

  “Excuse me,” says Mr. Applebaum, turning back.

  I want to bonk myself on the head. “Nothing.”

  “Okay, Vanessa. Pull it together, please. Open your book now.”

  I nod. I’m positive Reginald is staring at me, wondering why such a dweeb has to sit near him. I glance over. He’s picking his teeth with his student I.D. badge. At least he cares about his dental hygiene.

  I open my math book, turn to the page number written on the board, and stare at the image of a rhomboid. But I don’t really see a rhomboid. Of course not. If I saw a rhomboid, I might be doing well in class. I see Reginald Trumball and me kissing in the Manatee Sculpture Garden at the Governor’s Mansion.

  “Ms. Rothrock!” says Mr. Applebaum.

  OHMYGOD! Did I say something out loud? And how did Mr. Applebaum get to the front of the classroom without my noticing? I sit back in my chair and raise my eyebrows as if to say, “Who, me?”

  Mr. Applebaum taps the board with his yardstick. “Please come to the board and draw a picture of a rhomboid for us.”

  I continue to stare.

  “Any size at all is fine, Ms. Rothrock.”

  I gulp. There’s no time to slip my list of deficiencies into my backpack or pocket, so I slide my textbook on top of it. As I walk down the aisle, I trip only slightly. This is a great improvement. I start to curtsy and stop myself immediately.