Read Online Don't Vote for Me by Krista Van Dolzer - Free Book Online Page A

opponent.”
    Mom rolled her eyes good-naturedly, but when she cupped my chin, her grip was bone-achingly tight. “ Be nice ,” she said again, “or I might just have to ground you.”
    I jerked away from her. I hated it when she cupped my chin; it made me feel like a three-year-old.
    â€œAnd stop acting like a three-year-old,” Mom called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen, “or I might start treating you like one!”
    I felt my cheeks get hot, but Veronica didn’t seem to notice (or if she did, she didn’t mention it).
    â€œYour mom seems nice,” she said.
    â€œShe’s a mom,” I said, scowling. “Don’t they kind of have to be?”
    Instead of answering, Veronica spread out her music and sat down at the piano. I perched on a nearby chair and freed my trumpet from its case. While I warmed up my mouthpiece, she traced the letters that spelled STEINWAY, then trailed her hands along the keys. The way she touched the keys made me think that they were sacred (or at least that she thought they were). The air suddenly felt charged, but whether with dread or anticipation, I honestly couldn’t have said.
    As the charge built up inside me, I knew I had to let it out or risk spontaneously combusting, so of course, I said the first thing that popped into my head: “That’s a nice banner you’ve got.”
    She glared at me across the Steinway. “It didn’t cost more than fifty bucks, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”
    I held up my hands. “I was only making conversation.”
    That wasn’t strictly true, of course, but if I’d come right out and said, No, what I’m trying to say is that your campaign is gonna murder mine, she probably wouldn’t have believed me.
    Veronica’s shoulders slumped. “Mom thought I should get the big one—make a statement, you know? And she knew the guy at the print shop…”
    Instead of finishing that thought, Veronica glanced down at her lap. I could have sworn her cheeks reddened, but I only caught a glimpse of them before her hair fell across her face.
    â€œThey went out for a while,” she explained, “so he said he owed my mom a favor. He only charged us forty-five. I can show you the receipt.”
    I shook my head. “No, I trust you.” That wasn’t strictly true, either, but I would have said anything—and I mean, anything —to keep from hearing more about her mom and Print Shop Guy.
    She straightened her music (though it hadn’t needed to be straightened). “Well, what about your signs?”
    â€œWhat about them?” I asked, stalling.
    â€œWhere’d you put them?” she replied.
    I scratched the back of my head. I probably could have lied, but the truth was even better. “I didn’t, actually. They’re at the bottom of the trash can in the middle of the commons.”
    She half chuckled, half choked. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”
    Instead of answering, I shrugged. It was a shrug I’d learned from Nathan, who’d once worked on a sidewalk-chalked landscape on the back patio for months. Don’t bother me with silly questions, my shoulders seemed to say. Haven’t you ever heard of a work-in-progress?
    But she didn’t take the hint. “Where are they really?” she replied.
    â€œI don’t know,” I admitted. “They’re kind of Esther’s responsibility.”
    Or at least I hoped they were. For a second, maybe less, I considered the horrifying possibility that Esther had taken our money and run, then pushed that thought out of my head. We hadn’t given Esther any cash, and even if we had, where was she going to run? She wouldn’t make it very far on the old bike she rode to school.
    Veronica nodded knowingly. “Well, that sounds promising,” she said (which was probably a lie, but she said it so convincingly