Free Lucky Cap by Patrick Jennings

was yakking with a couple of girls from my campaign crew.
    â€œYou been telling people we’re going out?” I asked her. “Because we’re not.”
    Her mouth fell open, and then her eyes got all wet. Her friends hooked her arms, as if she was going to collapse or something.
    â€œI never said we were going out,” I said. “You’re the one who nominated me. I didn’t ask you to. I didn’t ask you to make posters or write a speech, either. You wanted to.”
    Her chin started quivering. One of her friends whispered comforting words in her ear, all the while glaring at me like I was a criminal.
    â€œI didn’t—” Kyla started to say, but the words stuck in her throat. She swallowed and started again in a shaky voice. “I didn’t t-tell anyone that.”
    Her glaring friend added, “She knows you don’t like her that way. She knows you just used her to get elected.”
    â€œUsed her? Ha!” I said, though that was pretty much true. It wasn’t personal, though. It was political. And it sure didn’t give her the right to pretend we were going out.
    After that, Kyla stopped talking to me, or acknowledging me in any way, which didn’t bother me one bit. Then word got out that she was trash-talking me, and that did bother me. I didn’t confront her about it, though. I just sucked it up. A president can’t expect to be loved by everyone. Or—let’s be frank here—to love everyone.
    The student council met every other Thursday. Misa, the blonde with the pink streaks who Chase said crushed on me, was vice president, Iris was elected treasurer, and another girl, Cassie (she and Misa were both cheerleaders), was secretary. Me and three girls. Sound familiar?
    The meetings were a total drag. It wasn’t in my power to make any important decisions, even though I was president. I had a vote and all, but it counted exactly the same as the others. I thought it would count at least triple. And I couldn’t veto the principal’s or the school board’s decisions. I couldn’t make changes to school policies or the schedule or the budget. I couldn’t fire teachers. I couldn’t even repeal the no-caps-worn-in-school rule. I didn’t have any real power at all. The whole election turned out to be a total joke, one of those stunts adults pull to get kids thinking they have power in their lives. The school gods wanted us to believe that school was like real life, when they knew the elections were a fake.
    The council’s only actual job was to raise money for our class, which meant devising and organizing events like car washes, raffles, bake sales, and boring carnivals with no rides. I thought I was going to die of boredom. Evan had been right. I should have never run for elected office. Lesson learned the hard way.
    The only good part about being president was getting to be president. Having the title. President Enzo Harpold. ¡Enzo Prezidenzo! From then on, I got introduced at most class assemblies, and some school body assemblies. The sixth-graders would rabbit-punch the air like boxers, because of the punching bag bit in my speech, and the crowd would go berserk. Ms. Kish would always quiet everyone down with a threat of some kind, then glare at me. It was in those moments that I enjoyed being president.
    Word had begun to spread about my trip, all my cool gear, and all the famous people I’d met. Plus I’d made the basketball team. All this had transformed me into an overnight sensation, a middle-school superstar.
    To my surprise, I loved it. Even the attention from girls. I let them love me; I just didn’t let them near me. (Well, none of them except Analisa, who I’ll talk about in a minute.) I actually looked forward to going to school each day. I had school spirit. I had pep. Strange but true.
    I had to keep my grades up to stay on the team, so I listened a bit more carefully during