Free The Kid Who Ran For President by Dan Gutman Page A

couldn’t stand still.
    â€œRelax,” Lane kept telling me. “Take a deep breath. Remember what I told you. Don’t put your hands in your pockets. Don’t look at your watch. Make eye contact at all times.”
    â€œWith who, the moderator?”
    â€œNo, with the camera,” he said. “You want to connect with the people of America.”
    I tried to go over my opinions on the issues. There were so many facts buzzing around my head that I started mixing every thing up. I felt like my brain was overloading, and the circuit breakers were shutting the system down.
    I started to panic. I forgot what affirmative action was. I couldn’t remember if I was for or against gun control. I could barely think of my name.
    What a time for my mind to go blank!
    And what a time for somebody to knock on the door and usher me to the podium.
    I was in a fog. I barely noticed President White and Senator Dunn smiling at me from their podiums. The director stood before us and whispered …
    â€œWe’re on the air in five … four … three … two … one … lights, camera …”

As I stood behind my podium and looked at the president of the United States fifteen feet away, a thought hit me that should have hit me about ten months ago.
    Who am I fooling?
    I don’t have opinions on any important issues, I thought to myself. I have no business being here. I only wanted to run for president as a goof. I never thought it would go this far. I can’t run a country.
    I’m like one of those idiots who runs on the field in the middle of a baseball game!
    But it was too late to back out. I couldn’t just walk off the stage.
    It was at that moment that I figured out my only option was to sabotage my own candidacy.
    I decided to do what I always do when I’m in a jam — play it for laughs and act like a jerk. Maybe America will forgive me for wasting its valuable time. Maybe people will say boys will be boys and let me go back to my normal life.
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    The League of Women Voters, who sponsored the debate, had decided on a format designed to prevent candidates from rambling on and on — each candidate would be asked a question by members of a panel and have twenty seconds to complete his answer. The three of us would take turns fielding questions.
    The moderator introduced President White, Senator Dunn, and me. The panel of journalists fired the first question at Senator Dunn and the next one at the president. Each of them gave a very thoughtful, rehearsed, and (to me, anyway) boring response. Then everyone looked at me.
    â€œMr. Moon,” I was asked, “a third-party candidate has never won the presidency. What makes you think your Lemonade Party can?”
    Lane knew I would be asked that question, and he had written a good answer for it. But I couldn’t remember what it was. So I improvised.
    â€œI look at it this way,” I said. “The two-party system is an improvement on a one-party system. Therefore, three parties should be an improvement on two parties. Americans love parties, and I believe the more parties we have the better. I would start a fourth party if I could, but I can only start one party at a time. So, in conclusion, I say … let’s party, America!”
    The place erupted. The studio audience was screaming. Half of them were laughing their heads off. The other half were demanding that I be removed from the auditorium. The panel of journalists stared at me, openmouthed. It took a while for order to be restored.
    As soon as I finished giving that answer, a sense of calm came over my body. I stopped sweating. I wasn’t nervous anymore. It was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I felt like I was back in the school cafeteria, goofing on Arthur Krantz and his jerky friends.
    The three candidates took turns. Every time the panel of journalists threw a question at me, I threw the answer right