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associated with the Grin Reaper’s lame campaign, but she’s in for Donovan the Destroyer.
    I know how that feels.
    Ms. A’s about to speak when Vicky says softly, her voice cracking a little, “Reginald? Can I count on you?”
    “I’ll do it,” I say, because I can’t say anything else. I try to look managerial and not like I want to run away. I glance at Vicky. She’s not looking at me.
    Ms. A shakes her head just a little before she tells us to take out
Native Son.
Gordon and Blaylock leave; Blaylock turns around to give the class a double thumbs-up.
    I have to look at Donovan. He grins and makes the universal sign for throat-slitting.
    Ruthie hits me with her math textbook as soon as we get to our lockers after class. “Ow!” I say. “Stop the violence!”
    “What is wrong with you?” she asks. “I was so proud of you for a minute there. I mean, you’re better off doing nothing than shilling for that bloodsucker.”
    “Going over to the Dark Side,” says Joe C. “I’ll pray for you, my son.”
    Ruthie glares at him. “The dark/light thing. Don’t get me started.”
    “Oh, yeah, sorry,” says Joe C. I pat him on the back.
    “Listen, I’ll probably just give her a few suggestions and that’sit,” I say. “I couldn’t just leave her hanging like that in front of everybody. And you know how Donovan is. He’s going to play so dirty. Maybe I can keep her from suffering the same fate I did.”
    “Maybe you should focus on keeping yourself from that fate again,” says Joe C., shaking his head. “This is not what I meant by ‘low profile.’”
    “I’m not going to be the one out front; I’m not going to be the one making speeches onstage and all that,” I say. I turn to Ruthie. “You’re the one always telling me to get involved, to be change.”
    Ruthie sighs. “That’s sweet and all, but she’s such a user. Vicky just knows you’ll work hard because you’re nice. Do you really think she cares anything about helping Clarke?”
    “Maybe I can help,” I say. “Maybe this will help me.”
    There’s a tap on my shoulder. It hurts. I turn; it’s Vicky.
    “Welcome aboard,” she says, dumping an overstuffed accordion folder into my hands. “The V Team is happy to have you.”
    I look around for the rest of the “V Team.” Vicky glances at Ruthie and Joe C. “Are you two—” she starts.
    They almost fall on their butts, they back away so fast. Ruthie gets busy in her locker and Joe C. holds a notebook in front of his face.
    “Uh, Vicky,” I say. “Maybe we should talk about what we’re going to do, have a meeting or something.”
    “Great idea! This is going to work out so well. Tomorrow morning, 7:30, on the steps. Don’t be late. And thanks again!” She walks away.
    “You didn’t say ‘thanks’ the first time,” mutters Joe C.
    She turns back and slows down a little, but she doesn’t stop walking. “That folder is a chronological listing of all of myachievements since preschool. Please read up tonight so we can focus in the morning on what I need you to do. Learn it, live it, love it. And get every last one of Donovan’s defacements out of people’s hands. You’ve got to be on top of these things.” She stops to flash a big, scary grin at a couple of little kids. “Hi! I’m Vicky! I’m running for president! I’ll walk you to class!” She grabs their hands and pulls them away, in the direction opposite to the one they were going.
    “Still feel sorry for her?” asks Ruthie.
    “Good luck with that,” says Joe C.

OCTOBER 8
7:28 A.M.
    At least I’m a little early,
I think as I turn the corner toward school. I even wrote down a few ideas in case Vicky really wants to make a difference. But my heart still drops when I see her standing on the steps, another accordion folder cradled in her arms like some kind of crazy Vickybaby.
    “You’re a little late,” she says, scary-smiling. She’s practically blocking the school entrance. “Timeliness is