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essential to a successful campaign.”
    “It’s 7:30,” I say, looking at my watch. “And hi.”
    “I was here at 7:15,” she says. “Anyway, it’s okay. I don’t know anyone else who’s able to start the day with as much alacrity as I do.”
    Alacrity?
“Right. So Vicky, I picked up the School Leadership Team’s guidelines from the office yesterday — did you know the president is supposed to be the ‘student voice’ at School Leadership Team meetings? We never hear about that happening.”
    Vicky shrugs. “That’s boring, a lot of people standing up to talk about nothing. Listen, I don’t see you around after school, so I guess you have a lot of time on your hands. I mapped out all of the ‘hot spots’ for posting flyers so that you can start right away.”She smiles as she hands me a laminated color printout. “It’s color coded. You don’t have to thank me.”
    “Okay,” I say slowly. “What are the colors for?”
    “You know, where the different groups hang out, the vulnerable voters. The Veronica Cruzers — total clones who’ve never had an original thought in their lives. The future drug dealers, the future drug users, the drama queens, video game freaks, basic nobody losers …”
    “I get it,” I cut in. “But we probably don’t want to label people like that.”
At least, not out loud.
    She starts to frown, then grins. “You are so right. It’s easier my way, but it could get tricky. That’s exactly why I’m glad to have you on the V Team. Here, I got two thousand flyers printed last night; we can start posting them now. First floor’s done, I’ll do the second and third floors, you do the basement and fourth.”
    I see Joe C. coming toward us.
Thank you, God.
I can escape soon. “We should talk about our platform,” I say.
    “Our
platform?” She raises her eyebrows almost off her head. “Is someone trying to take over? Is someone not a team player?”
    Is someone crazy? Yes, and I think it was me.
    “Sorry.
Your
campaign, which you asked me to manage. Anyway. Maybe we should start surveying the students, find out what the people want.”
    “That’s so cute,” she says, smiling. “And old-fashioned.”
    “Okay, yeah, it’s not that innovative or, um, exciting, but we’re supposed to be all about community here. A campaign should be about bringing us together. The whole popularitycontest thing just makes the divisions worse. You could show that you’re the candidate who’s going to finally make it happen.”
    “Sure, I’ll give it some thought,” she says. “You’re an ideas guy, I like that. Great meeting! This is going to work out really well.” She heads inside, turning around to wave a flyer at me. “Get those flyers up! We’ll talk about that School Leadership Team thing too — sounds very interesting! Thanks!”
    “Don’t you feel a chill whenever she’s around?” says Joe C. as he climbs the stairs toward me. “How are you going to keep from killing yourself? Listen, you want to run over to the bank with me?” he asks without pausing. “We’ve still got a few minutes, and I’ve got to get some cash for lunch.”
    “Yeah,” I say, and we head toward the bank. Joe C. has his own debit card — he says it’s one of the perks of divorce. He uses his card to open the door, and I wait outside.
    A cop walks over. “Yo,” he says, like he doesn’t care much. “Keep moving.”
    “I’m waiting for my friend,” I mutter, looking at his badge. Name: Tucciarone. Brown hair, brown eyes. My parents taught me to do quick “police scans” when I was five, just in case I got hassled. I look in the bank window and see Joe C. still in line. The cop follows my gaze, and then looks toward me, somewhere in the vicinity of my neck. He stares so hard it hurts. Usually they ask for ID at this point. Does he think I’m going to jump Joe C. in broad daylight? Or maybe I’m scamming folks on their way out of the bank, raising money for “basketball team