“I’m sorry, but I have to vote my conscience. And I can’t conscientiously vote for Rhiannon Marshall to be in charge of my after-school activities.”
I laugh and keep walking. “You’re such a dork.”
“Takes one to know one,” he counters. “Wait, why are we walking toward the guidance counselor’s office?”
I pause and point up at the ceiling. Right then, the school secretary’s voice comes over the intercom system. “Ellison Sparks, please report to the counseling office. Ellison Sparks to the counseling office, please.”
“That’s why,” I say.
Owen stares at me in bemusement. “How did you do that?”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Remember when we were kids and we used to practice our psychic abilities?”
“Yeah.”
I pull open the counseling office door. “I guess mine have finally kicked in.”
2:02 p.m.
“Hello! You must be Ellison!” Mr. Goodman says, offering me the chair across from him. “Great to see ya. Really swell. I’m Mr. Goodman. But you can call me Mr. Greatman, if you want.” Har. Har. Swat. Swat. “Just joshin’ ya! So how ya doing? Ya holding up okay?”
“I’m great, Mr. Greatman. Just swell!”
He brightens at my enthusiasm.
“Good to hear it! Good. To. Hear. Now, let’s get down to business. Junior year. It’s a toughie, am I right? Or am I riiight?”
Wink. Wink.
“It sure is! Wow. This day alone has been a trial, let me tell ya.”
“And don’t forget about those colleges. It’s time to start thinking about your future.” He forms his hands into pistols and shoots them at me. “Pow! Pow!”
I do my best imitation of someone being shot in the heart. It cracks him up. His laugh could easily be confused with a donkey’s bray. I wake up from the dead and laugh along with him.
“Okay, time to get serious,” he says, wiping the amusement from his face by pantomiming a windshield wiper. “Us trusty guidance counselors have been assigned to meet with every student in the junior class to talk about the next two years. Have you given any thought to where you want to apply?”
“Not yet,” I say with a sigh, “but I was hoping you could help me figure it out.”
Something Tells Me I’m into Something Good
3:20 p.m.
I close my locker and check the clock on my phone. Two minutes and counting.
I’m not sure why I’m so nervous. Maybe it’s because today is the day I actually care about what happens.
I tap my fingers anxiously against the screen of my phone, willing the time to move faster.
“Hey!”
I pop my head up to see Tristan walking toward me with his usual sexy swagger. “That was some speech you gave today. You were amazing up there.”
I grin. “Thanks.”
“I also wanted to say thank you for the tip about the carnival. I was able to get us the gig for tonight! By the way, how did you know that—”
I shush him when I hear the ding of the announcement system. I bite my lip and knead my hands together as the school secretary starts to speak.
“Attention, students. I have a couple of announcements before I reveal the results from today’s election.”
This is it. Judgment day.
“First off, the cheerleaders would like to thank you for supporting their bake sale today. They raised over one thousand dollars! Also, a reminder that the auditions for the fall musical will start tomorrow afternoon. The deadline for signing up to audition is four o’clock today. This fall, the drama department will be bringing us the hit musical Rent!”
My heart pounds in my chest.
“And finally, here are the results from today’s election.”
Tristan grabs my hand. I listen intently as the results of the freshman and sophomore classes are read first.
“For the junior class, we had a bit of an unusual situation.”
Unusual?
That can’t be good. Unusual is never good.
“There was an abnormally high number of students who utilized the write-in feature of the ballot this year. After tallying up the votes, including the write-in additions, we can now confirm that your new junior class president is…”
Tristan squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
“… Ellison Sparks!”
I drop Tristan’s hand.
What?
Tristan lets out a whoop and picks me up, swinging me around. When he sets me back on my feet he’s beaming, but I’m scowling in confusion.
“You won!” he exclaims.
“B-b-but how?” I stammer. “I didn’t even run for president.”
“Enough people wrote your name in. Everyone wants you to be their president.”
“They do?”
“The people have spoken,” Tristan says in a deep movie-trailer voice. He gazes at me with something in his eyes that I’m not sure I’ve ever seen