Page 4 of Don't Hate the Player
“She’s running! Principal Klein approved your platform? Oh my god, you worked so hard on that, congratulations! You totally have my vote and the whole field hockey team, if I can swing it.”
Penny takes her flyer back and admires her own picture. “How about you guarantee it? Run with me. Be the Biden to my Obama. The, ah shoot—Who ran with Hillary?”
“Kaine.”
“I never remember that guy. The Kaine to my Clinton.”
“Penny, I—” I love Penny, I really do. We’ve been best friends since I moved here in the fourth grade, and I would do anything for her. And my mom would be over the moon if I could add student council to my resume for college. I wouldn’t have to do it next year, just long enough to have “Junior Year Vice President” as a nice little bullet point and drop it if she runs for senior class next year. Vice presidents don’t really do anything anyway, right?
I mean Dick Cheney shot that guy in the face and beefed up the military-industrial complex to, like, catastrophic efficiency, but he didn’t have Penny Darwin in the executive’s chair. She wouldn’t even let me touch the real work. I’d just have to stick out the campaign while being field hockey captain and a Model UN delegate and volunteering while maintaining my GPA and playing an undead necromagical warlock with an elite team of competitive gamers every night under cover of darkness so no one finds out.
It’s just one more thing, for a little while. I’ll do it for Penny. It’s just practice with Fury for now, and the campaign will only last up until homecoming in October.
“Yeah,” I tell Penny once my mind is made up. “Yes! I do.”
“It’s a campaign, not a proposal.”
“Is it? Whatever. I accept your nomination.”
“Yay!” Penny claps in glee. She draws attention from a couple of the guys having breakfast cupcakes at the gamer table, who look over at her like she’s a colorful, exotic bird. One of them even turns to look at me, squinting through thick glasses and a curtain of messy black hair. Relax, nerd, I don’t want your cupcake.
Once he gets a look at my mean mug, he turns away immediately. That’s right, shoo.
“I’m so stoked you said that,” Penny continues, “because your name is already on the paperwork. Had to turn it in before Klein signed off on it. Behold, the first Black-Latinx presidential ticket in the history of Hillford West.”
“Are we really the first?”
“Bitch, probably. Smile.” Penny holds her phone up to take a selfie of the both of us holding her flyer up. I’m grateful all over again for this morning’s concealer gift. She won’t have to fix any of my tired eye nonsense with an app before she posts.
“Sleepy eyes; you have sleepy eyes, Lia, wake up.” Never mind.
“Boo, you. I was up late.”
“Yeah, I know, up late not readingThe Great Gatsby. Here, close your eyes, and when I count to three, open them wide. Pageant trick I saw on YouTube. One . . . two . . .”
On three I force my eyes open and smize for the angels. Please let it be enough this time; my cheeks are starting to hurt.
“Hold . . . hold . . . amazing. I’m sending it to my moms too. You know they love you.”
I love Penny’s moms too. They let her be excellent without interfering too much, and the result is my unstoppable BFF.
“So why were you up late if it wasn’t for the quiz?” Penny asks when she’s texted and posted the campaign announcement everywhere it needs to go. “Were you talking to Connor? Did he take his shirt off on FaceTime?”
“I was not talking to Connor,” I admit. “I mean, yes, he does take his shirt off on FaceTime sometimes. I was . . .”
See, I wish I could just tell Penny aboutGuardians League Online. If anyone in my life deserves to know how dork-ass crazy I am about this game, it’s her. We share everything else in common except this. She’s not into video games, but even if she were, I don’t want to get her involved with that part of my life. It’s not that I don’t trust her. It’s more complicated than that.
A buzz from my pocket interrupts my train of thought and gives me an excuse not to answer Penny right away.
“Did you just text me the photo?” I ask.
“Not yet, I’ll tag you.”
“Oh, wait a second then—” I pull my phone out of my pocket and feel my stomach do a flip. It’s a notification from the Team Fury Discord. Byunki never does the @everyone thing unless it’s really important.
FURY. URGENT. READ.
Not good. Or maybe really good? I don’t like the word “urgent.” Urgent can mean too many things, and I prefer clarity in virtually everything. There’s a wall of text in the chat that looks like a press release:
