Gephart - As If Being 12 3/4 Isnt Bad Enough, My Mother Is Running for President!

Contents

Dedicated to Daniel (Daniel. D-A-N-I-E-L. Daniel.) n.
1: exceptional husband. 2: fantastic father.
3: guitar-pickin, cold-cereal-chompin, basketball-bouncin,
pun-purveyin best friend.

Have I told you lately?

With love to my family and friends, who enrich my life every day.

A toast of gratitude with a glass of Ruby Red grapefruit juice to my Sunday groupLinda Salem Marlow, Sylvia Andrews, Carole Crowe, Peter Hawkins, Kieran Doherty, Jill Nadler, Dan Rousseau, and Donald Lovejoywriters and friends extraordinaire.

A bouquet of thanks to the young readers of my (unwieldy) first draft: Andrew, Paige, and Madelyn.

A shout of thanks to Diahnka Kingsley, talented artist, for sharing her experience of having her broken left wrist set in a purple cast.

Deirdre Flint, hilarious songwriter, is responsible for the idea of a Boob Fairy in this book.

Gracias to Caren Wilder for help with Spanish words and phrases.

A bumblebee pin and a wish for much success to Claire for sharing her spelling bee experiences with me.

Hats off to my editor, Stephanie Lane, and her magic blue editing pencil.

With gratitude to my Scrabble-loving agent, Tina Wexler (T-I-N-A W-E-X-L-E-R), for believing in me and in a quirky character named Vanessa Rothrock. For supporting me from first sentence through final revision, T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U (worth 18 points in Scrabble, but worth even more to me!) for making my dream come true.

The Bee.

Im sitting on a wooden folding chair, hoping I dont get a splinter in my derriere, as Chester Fields tries to spell thoroughly. Chester Fields is an idiot. Thoroughly is an easy word. But somehow he manages to muck it up, spelling, T-h-u-r-u-h, I dont know, w-l-y. Cowbell for that boy! How did he even get to the schoolwide bee? Ill bet his teacher felt sorry for him. Or maybe its because his mother is on the board of directors at Lawndale Academy.

I, Vanessa Rothrock, am sweating like a pigdo pigs sweat?and wishing I could smell my pits, but the whole audience is looking at me. I pump my left leg up and down like crazy and hear Moms voice in my head: Dont fidget, Vanessa; its unbecoming. Still yourself. Still yourself? Easy for her to say. Shes all poise and grace, forever saying and doing the perfect thing. Maybe Im not really Moms daughter. Maybe I was adopted, or switched at birth. But when I think of Moms enormous feet, I know Im all hers. I rest my hand on my leg to stop fidgeting and crane my neck. Is Mom even?

Vanessa Rothrock, please come up.

I gasp and choke on my own saliva. Then I stand and grab the back of my chair. Unfortunately, I do not die of asphyxiation (Asphyxiation. A-S-P-H-Y-X-I-A-T-I-O-N. Asphyxiation.) and I maneuver around students feet and chair legs. The microphone is in sight. Im sighing with relief at having passed through the minefield of legs without tripping when my gigantic feet tangle in the principals microphone cord.

I lurch forward, grab for the podium, and end up with a handful of papers before crashing to the stage. I say something charming, like Ooomph! The audience lets out a collective gasp. Unfortunately, I do not crack my head and die instantly. Why am I such a klutz?

As I lift my cheek from the dusty floor, I see camera lights flash like lightning. I put my head down and imagine tomorrows headline: GOVERNORS DAUGHTER TAKES SPILL DURING SCHOOL SPELLING BEE. ENTIRE STATE OF FLORIDA HUMILIATED.

No photographs, please, Mrs. Foster begs. You were informed.

I look up again and see Mr. Martinez marching toward me from backstage. Thats all I need to complete the humiliation packagemy six-foot-tall security guard scooping me up from the stage and brushing me off.

I hold up a few fingers and he stops. I mouth the words Im okay. Mr. Martinez backs up so that hes offstage again. And against my better judgment, I stand and face the audience, who, by the way, have their mouths hanging open. My cheeks grow so hot Im sure my head will spontaneously (Spontaneously. S-P-O-N-T-A-N-E-O-U-S-L-Y. Spontaneously.) combust. I look at Mrs. Foster and silently plead: Give me a word already and put me out of my misery.

Mrs. Foster clears her throat and motions toward my feet. I realize that her papers are scattered there. I gather them up and give them to her with trembling hands. I hear Moms words again: Still yourself, Vanessa. Still yourself!

After adjusting her glasses and clearing her throat, Mrs. Foster says, Your word is resuscitate.

I snort. I cant help it. I imagine a cute emergency tech resuscitating me on the floor of the stage. Unfortunately, when I snort, it makes a screeching noise in the microphone, and the people in the audience (even Mrs. Foster) cover their ears as though a supersonic jet has flown overhead. I see Mr. Martinez wince.

Why, I wonder, do I suffer such humiliation? What was God thinking when She made me?

Someone clears her throat. For a moment I think its God, but then I look over and see Mrs. Foster tapping her watch.

My nostrils flare in a less-than-flattering way. I hate when someone taps a watch. I shake my head. What is my word again? OHMYGOD! Ive completely forgotten. Sweat begins to pool under my arms. Did I remember to apply deodorant this morning or did I just spray perfume and hope for the best? Could I have the origin of the word, please?

Resuscitate, Mrs. Foster snaps. It comes from

Resuscitate. I cut the principal off midsentence. R-es-u-s-c-i-t-a-t-e. Resuscitate.

That is correct. I imagine the thank goodness and sit down she doesnt say.

I curtsyCURTSY? what am I, five years old?then scamper back to polite applause. Its obvious I impress the audience by making it to my seat without tripping.

Reginald Trumball, please come up.

Reginald turns and winks at me. At least I think its at me. My heart goes into overdrive, and fingers of heat creep up my neck.

I notice my best friend, Emma Smith, staring at Reginald as he gets out of his seat. I wonder for a moment if shes even more in love with Reginald than I am. Not possible.

I watch Reginald jog to the microphone. He doesnt even stumble. That boy is all grace and good looks. If Im lucky enough to have children with Reginald Trumball someday, I hope they inherit his good looks and quirky charmand my ability to spell obscure (Obscure. O-B-SC-U-R-E. Obscure.) words.

Mrs. Foster smiles and nods at Reginald. Your word is categorize.

I close my eyes, squeeze my fingers into fists, and will the correct spelling into Reginalds gorgeous head. But something must be blocking my brain waves, because Reginald says: C-a-t-i-g-o-r-i-z-e.

When the cowbell signals his defeat, Reginalds mother has her arm around his shoulders before hes even completely off the stage. Reginald puts his arm around his mothers shoulder and leans his head close to hers. She whispers something into his ear, probably about how hell never need to spell that word again and how shell take him out for ice cream later. I want that mother.