The Kid Who Ran For President Read online

  To the next generation of young leaders.

  One of you will be president someday.

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. King of the Hill

  2. A Mighty Big Can of Worms

  3. That Jerk Arthur Krantz

  4. Family Values

  5. Abby

  6. Secret Campaign Strategy

  7. The First Babe

  8. Vice President Syers

  9. Twenty Million Dollars? No Problem.

  10. I’d Say It Sounds Like a Fake

  11. The Lemonade Party

  12. Homework First, Campaigning Later

  13. A Star Is Born

  14. Give the People What They Want

  15. America Is Calling

  16. The Customer Is Always Right

  17. Let the Kid Run!

  18. Pols and Polls

  19. The Virtual Candidate

  20. Moon, You Don’t Have Any Opinions!

  21. Time to Panic

  22. The Great Debate

  23. The Runaway Train

  24. Moongate

  25. Word for Word

  26. Election Day

  Sneak Peek

  Other Titles

  Copyright

  “Hi! My name is Judson Moon. I’m twelve years old and I’m running for president of the YOU-nited States.”

  That’s how I introduced myself to about a zillion people last year. I must have kissed a zillion babies, said a zillion hellos, shaken a zillion hands.

  When you shake a zillion hands, you learn the fine art of handshaking. You don’t hold the other person’s hand too loosely, and you don’t squeeze it like you’re trying to show them how strong you are either. You grab the hand firmly. Look the other person straight in the eye. One pump does it.

  Timing is crucial. You can’t let go a millisecond too soon or a millisecond too late.

  People respect a good handshake. Do it perfectly, and nothing else you do or say much matters. You’ve just about got that man or woman’s vote.

  I got a lot of votes. Enough to make me president of the United States? Well, you can peek at page 156 of this book and find out.

  That is, if you’re a total weenie with the attention span of a flea.

  Or, you can read this book and get the whole story. Me? I’d read the book. But hey, it’s your choice. It’s a free country, right?

  It was right after Election Day. Lane Brainard and I were down in his basement shooting pool when we first came up with the idea of a kid running for president.

  The TV was on. A bunch of boring grown-ups in suits and ties were sitting around a table. I wasn’t paying much attention, but they were jabbering something about what the Democratic Party and the Republican Party are going to have to do if they want to win the election next year.

  Ordinarily, I would grab the remote control and switch to something more interesting (to me, the Weather Channel would have been more interesting). But Lane’s sort of a weird genius who wants to know every thing about every thing. His favorite show is Meet the Press! Besides, it was his house.

  Lane recently moved to Madison — that’s the capital of Wisconsin, in case you don’t know — with his mom. She had just split up with Lane’s dad, who lives in California. Lane and I have only known each other for a little while, but we’re getting to be good friends.

  “The Democrats have been all messed up since they lost control of Congress,” Lane explained as he chalked up his stick. “And the Republicans are entirely clueless.”

  He smacked the cue ball into the pack and balls scattered across the table. The eleven ball dropped in a corner pocket and Lane walked around the table looking for his next shot.

  “Half the time the president doesn’t know what he’s doing, either,” I replied. I don’t know much about politics, but I can usually fake it if I have to.

  “You know who should be running this country, Moon?” Lane said, lining up his next shot. “A kid.”

  He stroked the five ball toward the side pocket. It just missed, tapping off the bumper.

  Lane looked up at me with a sparkle in his eyes. “Can you imagine that, Moon? A kid running for president of the United States? Think about it. It’ll be the next election. And a kid becomes the most powerful person in the world! What a mindblower!”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “The kid would have to be part of the political system. He’d have to know all the politicians. It takes years to make all the connections.”

  “You know, politicians aren’t picked by a bunch of political cronies in smoke-filled rooms anymore, Moon. It’s all computers, image consultants, special interest groups, corporate bundlers, online donations, media experts, and advertising now. They might as well be selling soap.”

  “Don’t you have to be thirty-five years old or something like that to run for president?” I asked. I seemed to remember something from history class.

  “There are ways around that,” Lane replied casually.

  “You oughta run, Lane,” I said. “You’re probably the smartest kid around.”

  “People don’t want a smart president,” he said. “They want a president who makes ’em feel good. If they wanted a smart president, Albert Einstein would have been elected.”

  “You mean he wasn’t?”

  “Moon, you’re a dunce. A lovable dunce.”

  “I was kidding!” I said. “I knew Einstein was never president. I swear it!”

  Suddenly Lane stopped and looked at me.

  “Wait a minute, Moon,” he said. “Why don’t you run for president?”

  “Very funny, Lane. Funny like a crutch.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  He had this sort of devilish expression on his face, the kind of face you see in old horror movies when a mad scientist cooks up a secret potion or creates a monster that will help him rule the world.

  “Moon, you’re perfect,” Lane said, walking around the table excitedly. “People like you. You make ’em laugh. You put ’em at ease. You’ve got a good presidential name — Judson Moon. President Moon. You look like an all-American boy. You’re tall. You’ve got good hair. It’s even parted on the side like a politician —”

  “Yeah, right,” I interrupted. “Like Americans are going to elect a guy president because they like his hair.”

  “Ever notice that we’ve never had a bald President?” Lane pointed out.

  I thought about that for a moment. “What about Lyndon Johnson? Wasn’t he a little thin on top?”

  “He doesn’t count,” Lane said. “He only became president because John F. Kennedy was assassinated.”

  “What about Eisenhower?”

  Lane backed me against his mom’s washing machine and looked me in the eye. “The point is, this is America, Moon,” he said excitedly. “The land of opportunity. You know what they say — this is the country where any kid can become president. Moon, that kid could be you.”

  “Why do you want me to run for President so badly?”

  “When I was little,” he said, racking up the balls again, “we used to play this game called King of the Hill. There would be a big mountain of dirt or gravel. All the kids would scramble to the top. Then we’d push each other and try to knock each other down the mountain. The one kid who was still at the top at the end was the king of the hill. I was always small and skinny and the other kids always knocked me down on my face. I was never king of the hill. The president of the United States is sorta like the king of the hill. I guess if I could get you elected, it would be sorta like I was king of the hill, too.”

  Like I said, Lane is a little weird.

  On the way home from Lane’s house, I walked
down Jenifer Street and saw June Syers sitting on her porch. That was no big surprise, as June Syers is always sitting on her porch.

  In fact, if I ever walked by her house and didn’t see June Syers sitting there, I would rush to call the police because something must be terribly wrong. But there she was, as usual.

  “Judson Moon!” she hollered. “You come up here this very minute and have a glass of lemonade with me or I’ll tell your momma on you.”

  I bounded up the steps. June Syers is an old African-American woman I’ve known since the days she used to babysit for me. She has Parkinson’s disease, which makes her hands and legs shake. But her mind still works fine. It’s a little hard to understand what she’s saying sometimes, but I usually find it’s worth the effort to try and figure it out.

  “Judson Moon, what are you, in fifth grade now?”

  “Sixth.”

  “Sixth grade!” she marveled. “The perfect grade! When you’re in sixth grade, you know every thing in the world there is to know. In fourth grade, you know nothin’. In fifth grade, you know nothin’. And then suddenly you hit sixth grade and you know it all. Nobody can tell you nothin’. Then a funny thing happens when you get older and become a grown-up.”

  “What’s that, Mrs. Syers?”

  “You don’t know nothin’ again,” she said, breaking out in her cackling laugh. “Strangest thing.”

  The lemonade tasted good and I plopped down in the rocking chair next to Mrs. Syers’s wheelchair.

  “Who was the first president you voted for, Mrs. Syers?”

  “Franklin Dellllllllllano Roosevelt!” she said, drawing out the middle name so it sounded almost musical. “And you know who was the last president I voted for?”

  “Who?”

  “Franklin Dellllllllllano Roosevelt!” she said just as proudly.

  “You haven’t voted since …”

  “Since 1944.”

  “Why not?”

  “Haven’t come across anybody worth votin’ for since FDR,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Truman? Eisenhower? Kennedy? Reagan? Obama? None of them were worth voting for?”

  “Not in my book. Politicians. Poll takers. When a man — or woman — comes along who really wants to lead this country and not just play politics, then I’ll pull the lever for ’em. Till then, I’ll sit here on this porch and watch the world go down the toilet.”

  I drained the glass and set it down on the railing. “Mrs. Syers,” I said, sticking out my hand, “my name is Judson Moon. I’m twelve years old and I’m running for president.”

  “What, of your student council or somethin’?”

  “No. Of the YOU-nited States of America!”

  “You crazy! Even when you were a toddler you were crazy. I still remember the time you hid my glasses in the pan and I baked ’em right into the cake.”

  “I’m not kidding, Mrs. Syers. I’m thinking I might actually do it.”

  “Politics changes a person,” she said, pointing her bony finger at me. “It rips your heart out and puts a stone in its place.”

  “Not mine.”

  As I bounded down her steps, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called out to me. “You’re openin’ a mighty big can of worms, Judson Moon!”

  I was sitting around the lunchroom at school with Lane and a bunch of kids. Everybody was talking about what they were going to do on New Year’s Eve.

  “Man, I’m gonna party all night,” said Spencer Bergeron. “We gotta watch the ball fall down, right?”

  “It’s just another night,” Ashley King said. “I’ll be playing video games.”

  “I know what I’m gonna do,” I said. “I’m going to be campaigning to be president of the United States.”

  Everybody busted out laughing.

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure,” said Merrick Jorgensen. “And I’m gonna fly to the moon on a unicycle blindfolded.”

  “He’s not kidding,” Lane chimed in. “He’s really going to run for president.”

  Somebody at the next table turned around to face us. It was Arthur Krantz, president of the Future Lawyers of America Club and just about every other dorky club in school.

  If anybody looked like he was running for president, it was Arthur Krantz. He even wears a tie to school on days we don’t have assembly.

  When we were younger, all the kids called him “Smarty Pants Artie Krantz.” Now, of course, we’re much more mature. We call him “Booger Boy.” I don’t even want to get into the reason why.

  Arthur was sitting with some other nerds at what we call “The Derf Table.” (That’s Fred spelled backward.) We used to be friends when I was younger. That was before I figured out what a dweeb he was. He’s hated me ever since I told him I didn’t want to hang around with him anymore.

  “What do you know about the presidency, Moon?” he sneered.

  “A lot,” I shot back defensively.

  “Oh yeah? If the president and the vice president die, who becomes president?”

  “That’s easy,” I said. “Chuck Norris.”

  The kids at my table started giggling.

  “Very funny, Moon! If the president and the vice president die, the Speaker of the House becomes president. You should know that.”

  “And if the Speaker of the House dies,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear, “you go to Radio Shack and buy a new speaker.”

  “Oh, big joke, Moon. Tell me, Mr. President, what do you have to do before you can declare war on another country?”

  “I have to call CNN so they can get a camera crew out there right away.”

  My table was howling. Frank was pounding the table with his fist and tears were streaming down his face. Nothing was funnier than getting Arthur Krantz all steamed up.

  Arthur didn’t give up. “What’s the electoral college, Moon?”

  “Everybody knows that. It’s where you go to learn how to become an electrician.”

  “Put an R in the middle of your name and it says what you are, Moon — a moron!”

  “Well, that doesn’t necessarily disqualify me from the presidency, does it, Booger Boy?”

  “Thicko!”

  “Spasmo!”

  “Dappo!”

  “Burger-brain!”

  “Waste of oxygen!”

  By that time, milk was spurting from Ashley’s nostrils and Spencer had slid under the table. Arthur got up with his tray and stormed out in a huff.

  “I think it would be cool to be president,” said Sarah Saladini when we had all regained our composure. “You take limos and helicopters every where you go.”

  “Doesn’t the president have his own plane?” Ashley asked.

  “Yeah, Air Force One,” said Lane.

  “My family went to Washington last year and we took a tour of the White House,” said Sarah. “Did you know it has its own barbershop, a tennis court, a bowling alley, and even a movie theater? The president can watch any movie he wants, anytime he wants.”

  “Cosmic!” we all agreed.

  “And there are six butlers and three chefs. So if the president feels like some food in the middle of the night, he just calls somebody and they bring it to him.”

  “Totally cosmic!”

  “That’s not why I want to be president,” I said, standing up with my tray. “I want to be president so I can bring peace to the world, rescue the environment, and throw out the first ball at baseball games. Adiós, amoebas!”

  I left them all snickering and throwing napkins in my direction.

  After school, Lane started putting the campaign wheels in motion.

  The first thing you have to do to run for president, he found out, is to make a petition with signatures of registered voters on it. In Wisconsin, you need 2,000 signatures to get your name on the ballot.

  Lane and I went out to the middle of State Street after school and badgered every grown-up we saw until they signed the petition. It took a week to get 2,000 signatures. Lane sent the petition to the Division of
Elections and didn’t tell them how old I am. A week later I received a letter saying I was on the ballot in Wisconsin.

  My folks are pretty oblivious about politics and stuff like that. Let me rephrase that. My folks are just plain oblivious.

  Mom is a salesperson for a carpet tile company. She’s spent the last twenty years trying to talk businesses into covering their floors with carpet tiles. She must be very persuasive. I see those carpet tiles every where. Mom enjoys her work, I suppose. I mean, why would somebody sell carpet tiles for twenty years unless they really liked it?

  Dad sells boxes, those corrugated cardboard boxes you pack stuff in when you move. My grandfather sold boxes, too, and when he retired, he passed the business on to Dad.

  I think my folks do pretty well. Their cars are always filled with hundreds of carpet tiles and cardboard boxes they have to deliver to customers.

  Between the two of them, they know just about every thing there is to know about carpet tiles and cardboard boxes. I’m not sure how much they know about anything else. Mostly, they like to talk about carpet tiles and cardboard boxes, which don’t interest me all that much.

  When they come home from work they’re both really beat. It seems like they use up all their thinking at the office so they don’t have much energy for thinking at home. I was looking for a chance to break the news to them that I was running for president, and figured I would just casually slip it into the conversation around the dinner table.

  The TV was on in the background. The TV is always on in our house, whether anyone’s watching it or not. As she ate, Mom was reading a magazine called Progressive Floor Covering, which I guess is read by people in the carpet tile business because I never saw any regular people reading it. Dad was absorbed by the latest issue of Box World Monitor.