I agreed to make him my campaign manager just to shut him up, but that only fanned the flames. By the time that lunch was over, he’d made Riley my speechwriter and told Esther to beat it (twice). She’d stormed off in a huff. Spencer’s bullheadedness had done one thing—it had convinced me this was real. I was actually running for class president. There was no denying it. By the end of seventh period, I honestly couldn’t decide if I was more excited or more nervous. Ms. Clementi’s room was more of a museum than a classroom—her pencil stub collection took up one wall by itself—but at least it was familiar. Riley had signed up for band for me, so I’d signed up for newspaper for him. Ms. Clementi might have been a screwball, but at least she let us do our own things. She looked up from her phone when I slid into my seat. “Good afternoon,” she said like we were sitting down to tea. “I was very pleased to hear that you’d signed up for the election.”
