The Kid Who Became President

  To the next generation of leaders.

  One of you will be president someday.

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue: The Big Flip-flop

  1. A Chance

  2. First Babe

  3. Let’s Make a Deal

  4. Nice Place

  5. Secret Service Agent John Doe

  6. Class Trip

  7. The American Way of Life

  8. Getting Down to Business

  9. Fireside Tweets

  10. The Endless Parade

  11. The Secret Ninja Death Touch

  12. A Deadly Mistake

  13. Miller the Killer

  14. Some Enchanted Evening!

  15. More Disaster Areas

  16. Mumbo Jumbo

  17. Return of the First Lady

  18. Hate and Love

  19. Grounded

  20. Fireworks in November

  21. The Christmas Surprise

  22. Strength

  23. A People Person

  24. Meeting with a Madman

  25. Virtual War

  26. World War Four

  27. A Hero

  Sneak Peek

  Other Titles

  Copyright

  At exactly noon on January 20, I stood before the world, raised my right hand, and recited the following words:

  “I, Judson Moon, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

  They say that in America any kid — rich or poor, black or white — can become president. Well, I was the kid who did.

  The moment I finished taking the oath of office that day, I was no longer a plain old thirteen-year-old from Madison, Wisconsin. I was the leader of the free world. I was the most powerful person on the planet.

  How did it happen? If you’ve read a book called The Kid Who Ran for President, you know the incredible, improbable events that led up to me winning the last election. If you didn’t, that’s okay.

  To make a long story short, I was hanging around with my friend Lane Brainard after school one day when he jokingly suggested that a kid would make a good president of the United States. A kid like me. As a goof, I went along with the idea.

  Things kind of snowballed after that. Lane is a true genius, and he figured out how to raise millions of dollars to finance my campaign. He told me what to do, how to act, and what to say. He designed the bumper stickers and T-shirts. He directed the TV commercials. He even figured out how to get a constitutional amendment passed that would allow any American, regardless of age, to run for president.

  We got some breaks. The Democratic candidate that year happened to be an idiot. The Republican was a jerk. People seemed to like me for my goofy sense of humor and devil-may-care attitude. That, plus the fact that I have very good hair. The next thing I knew, I was ahead in the polls.

  By the time I fully realized that my candidacy wasn’t all a big practical joke, it was too late. The Judson Moon for President campaign was like a runaway train. On election night, the American people chose me to be the youngest president in American history. I can hardly believe it really happened.

  Then, the night I won the election, I resigned. That’s right, I quit. I got on TV and basically yelled at America for being so stupid as to elect a kid president of the United States. Everybody was totally blown away that someone would turn down the chance to be president. My mother passed out on national television.

  Well, my fellow Americans, I’m here to say that I had a change of heart. Politicians do that all the time, you know. It’s called a flip-flop. One day you believe one thing, and the next day you take the opposite point of view. It’s human nature. People change.

  Anyway, I decided to accept the presidency after all. This book is the story of my presidency.

  Can a kid — an innocent seventh-grader like me — make a good president? Or did the job totally overwhelm me and make me fall on my face, humiliating me and the office of the president? If you’d like, you can turn to page 215 and see what happened.

  That is, if you’re a pea brain who has to have instant gratification.

  If I were you, I’d read the book. You might actually enjoy it.

  But it’s up to you. This is still a free country.

  — Judson Moon

  The moment I told America I was refusing the presidency, pandemonium broke loose at the Moon for President headquarters in the grand ballroom of the Edgewater Hotel in Madison, Wisconsin. That’s the town I live in. In the two centuries since George Washington was elected our first president, no candidate had ever used his acceptance speech to say he didn’t want the job after all.

  Cameras flashed like fireworks. Reporters went running to the telephones to call their newspapers and change the headlines from MOON WINS! to MOON WINS … AND QUITS! Television guys and bloggers were elbowing each other out of the way trying to get to me for interviews.

  My friend and campaign manager, Lane Brainard, just stared at me with his mouth open.

  The girl I had chosen to be my “first babe”— Chelsea Daniels — started screaming as if she’d seen a monster.

  My mom was in shock. She had to be taken to the hospital.

  Some people thought I was joking. Others were crying. People were running around as if somebody had pulled the fire alarm. Everybody was acting like the world was coming to an end.

  I just laughed. I stood at the podium, watching everything swirl around me, and laughed. It was such a relief that the election was over, I didn’t care what happened. I never really wanted to be president in the first place.

  That night, when all the excitement had died down and I went home, there was a soft knock at the front door. I opened it and Mrs. June Syers wheeled herself in.

  Mrs. Syers had been my babysitter when I was a little boy. She was old now and so crippled by Parkinson’s disease that she needed a wheelchair to get around. Her mind was sharp, though, maybe the sharpest of any grown-up I knew. When Lane had asked me to select a grown-up to run as my vice president, I picked Mrs. Syers right away.

  “Moon, you do have a way of surprising folks,” she chuckled.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “I kind of messed things up for you, didn’t I?”

  “Forget it, Moon.”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” I told her as I wheeled her into the living room. “You’re going to say I’m crazy. You’re going to say I was always crazy. And I always will be crazy. Right?”

  “No,” Mrs. Syers replied. “That ain’t what I was gonna say.”

  “Then, what?”

  “Child, when I was born, women weren’t even allowed to vote yet. At your age, I couldn’t eat in a restaurant where white folks ate. I lived through the Depression. My husband died fighting in World War II. And I lived long enough to almost become vice president. I seen a lot of changes in my life. I learned a few things along the way.”

  Her left hand was shaking, as it did sometimes if she needed to take her medication.

  “One thing I learned is that life is about chances,” she continued. “We only get a few good ones. When a good chance comes your way, Moon, you gotta grab it or live with the fact that you didn’t.”

  “So you’re saying I should accept the presidency?”

  “You and your pal Lane did an amazing thing, winning that election. Now you got a chance. A good chance. If you don’t take it, for the rest of your days you’re gonna wonder what mighta happened.”

  “I can’t be president,” I said. “I don’t know the first thing about being president. I’d be terrible. Lane and I just trick
ed America into voting for me.”

  “Sweetie, I lived through a lot of politicians. Very smart men. Lawyers. Governors. Senators. A lot of ’em turned out to be bums. You won’t be worse. And you could be better.”

  “I just want to go back to being a regular kid again,” I complained.

  “You wanna grow up to be a trivia question?” she asked, challenging me. “Or do you wanna make a difference in the world?”

  “I’m thirteen,” I said, looking away from her. “What difference am I going to make?”

  “That’s up to you, Moon. The point is, you got a chance. And believe me, in the rest of your life, you’re never gonna get another chance like this. In two hundred somethin’ years, not many men have had this chance. Moon, all I’m sayin’ is, you should think it over before deciding. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  I thought about what she had said all night long. The next morning, I called Lane.

  “Hello?” Lane said wearily when he picked up the phone. There was music playing in the background and somebody was singing off-key.

  “It’s me, Moon. Who’s over there?”

  “The future Miss America,” he moaned.

  Chelsea.

  Chelsea Daniels was definitely the prettiest girl in our school, maybe the prettiest girl in Wisconsin. With her impossibly long blond hair and impossibly sky blue eyes, she looked like a fashion model. In fact, she was one. After school, she modeled for some local department stores.

  I didn’t even know Chelsea when I agreed to run for president. But Lane convinced me to ask her to be my First Lady anyway. He said I would get more votes if a gorgeous girl was on my arm. He was right. America loved Chelsea, and Chelsea loved, well … the attention.

  When I quit the presidency, Chelsea was naturally upset that she wasn’t going to be First Lady after all. She broke down crying. Lane cheered her up by telling her that she should think about entering the Miss America pageant. He promised to help her win, just as he had helped me win. Lane always likes a challenge.

  “Moon!” Lane whispered into the phone. “I had no idea what I was up against! Turning Chelsea into Miss America is going to be a lot tougher than getting you elected president.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The girl has no talent, Moon!” he whispered. “Zero! She can’t dance. She can’t play a musical instrument. When she started to sing, my dog ran away. And she’s dumb as a block of wood.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll bet she’ll win the swimsuit competition, though.”

  I had never admitted it to Lane, but I had a secret crush on Chelsea Daniels. She was just so gorgeous! It was cool when she pretended to be my girlfriend the entire time I was running for president. I knew everybody was thinking, “This guy must be pretty special to have such a pretty girl as his First Lady.”

  “So what about you?” Lane asked. “How does it feel to be the first president in American history to resign before his term began?”

  “Lane,” I said carefully, “I changed my mind.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  “Are you there, Lane? I said I changed my mind.”

  “I heard you,” he replied. “I was just saying a silent prayer.”

  “For me?”

  “No, for America,” Lane said. “Why do you want to do that, Moon? Quitting was the smartest thing you ever did. You get all the glory of winning the presidency without any of the hassles that come with actually being president.”

  “Lane, I want to do some good,” I said, a bit embarrassed. “I want to make a difference.”

  “You want to make a difference?” Lane laughed. “Moon, it doesn’t make any difference who’s president. It’s all politics. Nothing ever gets done. When a Republican is president, the Democrats just trash him. When a Democrat is president, the Republicans just trash him. And because you don’t belong to either party, everybody’s going to trash you.”

  “I want to try, though,” I pleaded. “I need you, Lane. I’ll need a lot of help.”

  “No, Moon. I’ve had enough of politics.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “Instead of being the top adviser to the president of the United States, you’d rather devote your life to … a beauty pageant?”

  “It’s not a beauty pageant,” Lane protested. “The girls have to be intelligent, articulate, talented —”

  “Yeah, everything Chelsea is not. Lane, I’m giving you the chance to help me guide the United States of America! It’s the chance of a lifetime.”

  In the background, I could hear Chelsea warbling something from The Sound of Music. Lane sighed. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “I want you to be my secretary of state.”

  “The secretary of state only handles relations with foreign countries,” Lane said, which was news to me. “I’m not interested.”

  “Well, I want you to be whatever my closest adviser would be. My go-to guy. My right-hand man.”

  “That would be chief of staff,” Lane told me.

  “Then I want you to be my chief of staff.”

  Chelsea butchered “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” while Lane thought things over. I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” Lane finally said.

  “Great! Put Chelsea on.”

  I heard Lane telling Chelsea to stop singing and pick up the phone. He told her it was me, but he didn’t tell her why I was calling.

  “I’m not speaking to you, Judson Moon!” Chelsea shouted. “I worked my butt off helping you get elected, and how do you repay me? You resign on election night! How could you do that to me? Who needs you anyway, Moon? Lane is going to help me become Miss America. And I’d rather be Miss America than First Lady any day. You jerk! I hate your guts!”

  “I thought you weren’t speaking to me,” I said quietly.

  “That’s all I’m going to say!”

  “Chelsea, let me just say one thing,” I said. “I changed my mind.”

  “Huh?”

  “I decided to accept the presidency after all. Lane’s not going to help you become Miss America. He’s going to be my chief of staff. And if you’re willing to forgive me, I’d like you to be my First Babe — I mean Lady.”

  Chelsea didn’t say a word. Then I heard sniffling. Then crying.

  “Are you okay, Chelsea?” I asked.

  “This is the greatest day of my life!” she sobbed. “I’m just so happy! I never really wanted to be Miss America anyway.”

  “So you’ll be First Lady?”

  “Yes,” Chelsea said, sniffing and pulling herself together. “But after the way you’ve treated me, Judson Moon, I have certain requirements that must be met.”

  “Requirements?”

  “Number one. As First Lady, I’ll have to throw lots of parties,” she said. “Whenever I want.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “That’s no big deal. First Ladies entertain at the White House all the time.”

  “Number two,” Chelsea continued, “I must have an unlimited budget for clothing, cosmetics, and hairstyling.”

  “Uh, ask Lane how much the president gets paid,” I instructed her.

  “Four hundred thousand dollars a year,” she reported back a few seconds later. “I looked it up on the Internet.”

  “Whew!” I whistled. “Okay, you can have as much money as you need. The First Lady has to look her best, I guess.”

  “Number three. You must agree never to ask me out on a date or try to kiss me or anything.”

  “What makes you think I would ask you out or kiss you?” I replied. “All boys want to ask me out and kiss me.”

  “I promise I won’t ask you out or try to kiss you,” I agreed.

  “Good,” Chelsea said happily. “As long as we’re in agreement. So when is Inauguration Day, Moon?”

  “January twentieth.”

  “That’s only five weeks away!” she said in a panic. “I’ve got to go
!”

  “Why?”

  “To pick out my dress, silly! I don’t have a thing to wear!”

  The weatherman had predicted rain in the Washington, D.C., area for Inauguration Day, but as I mounted the podium on the west side of the Capitol Building, the clouds parted to reveal a beautiful, sunny but chilly January day.

  As I looked out across the National Mall, I was struck most of all by the people. Thousands and thousands had jammed the grassy area outside the Smithsonian museums that line both sides of the Mall. They spilled out onto Independence Avenue and Pennsylvania Avenue. The sea of faces stretched all the way to the Washington Monument off in the distance.

  Flags were everywhere. Enormous ones flying from every building and tiny ones in the hands of little children. Marching bands played enthusiastically. “Yankee Doodle.” “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  As I turned to look at the stands behind the podium, I spotted my mom and dad beaming at me and waving. I wasn’t sure how they were going to deal with me being president. All my life they had been in charge of me. Now I would be in charge of … everyone.

  My parents were standing next to Chelsea Daniels — dressed to kill, of course — and her parents.

  Mrs. Syers was sitting in her wheelchair behind me, her hands folded in her lap, looking very regal and proud. She had already been sworn in as vice president.

  Lane was up in the stands in a corner seat, with a smirk on his face. I wouldn’t have been able to get elected president of the student council at school without him, and he knew it.

  The rest of the bleachers were filled with dignitaries — senators, members of Congress, Supreme Court justices, the outgoing president, and all the living ex-presidents.