The Takedown(24)

“Wait.” Ms. Tompkins held me back. “Kyle, she also wanted me to tell you…they’re impeaching you.”

I laughed. “What?”

“They have Dr. Graff’s approval. Brittany’s going to be interim president.”

There were a thousand things I wanted to say, like how this fall when I told the group I wanted to tackle a major community-wide project before I graduated, Vice President Brittany Mulligan’s best idea was sticking dog-waste bags onto every garbage can in Park Slope—i.e., Brittany Mulligan thought dog poop was our community’s biggest issue. Not to mention she nearly failed algebra freshman year and her voice had more whine in it than Uncorked on Fourth Ave. How was she going to stretch the budget? How was she going to convince local businesses to donate nearly all our supplies? Have I mentioned she thought dog poop was Brooklyn’s biggest problem?

The rest of what I wanted to say was curse words.

I managed a shrug.

“Good prep for politics, huh? I’ll just do the behind-the-scenes stuff.”

Ms. Tompkins was staring at me like I’d just told her I’d never read the Narnia books. Sympathy mixed with remorse mixed with awkward.

“Oh.” Even I could hear the awful hurt surprise in my voice. “I’m, like, totally out. But I started the Community Club. I’m not even allowed to go to the party?”

She gave the barest shake of her head, no.

“But who will be Mrs. Claus?”

I knew from Ms. Tompkins’s expression exactly who was going to be Mrs. Claus. I set the bags back down, redid my ponytail, and tried to tell myself that the important thing was that the party was still happening.

“Kyle, I’m so sorry.” Ms. Tompkins squeezed my arm. “For the record, I told them I disagreed with their decision. Especially considering how much time you put into the club. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t let them take the cookies.”

Her gaze flicked to the door. I turned in time to see Brittany backing out of the room, her eyes wide with horror, trying to make a silent escape.

“Oh, hi, Kyle.” Brittany bumped into the door frame, then rubbed her elbow. “Sorry to interrupt. Just came to see if you’d brought, well, those yet.”

She reached toward the shopping bags that were still sitting at my feet. The shopping bags full of lovely free goodies that I’d scored for the kids. I stepped in front of them. Brittany stepped back.

“You know,” I said, “the Community Club bylaws state that you can’t just decide to impeach a person. You have to have a two-thirds vote, otherwise it isn’t legal even if Dr. Graff gives her approval. I should know, seeing as I wrote them. The whole point of Community Club is that we’re student-run, Brittany.”

“I know what the point of Community Club is, Kyle. You remind me of it every week. And for some of us, excessive dog waste is important, okay? Have you tried running in the park lately?”

“Girls,” Ms. Tompkins warned.

But Brittany was on a roll.

“And for the record,” she continued, “you can contest it if you want, but I have a two-thirds vote. Or I will. Because maybe you get things done, but you’re pushy and impatient and there are nice ways to say your opinion, you know. I’d rather get nothing done but know that people like me than solve every problem in Brooklyn and have people think I’m a BTCH.”

As soon as she finished speaking, her lower lip began to wobble. She inched toward Ms. Tompkins for safety. As if I might physically hurt her. Why use violence when I had words? Ms. Tompkins was too stunned to say anything. I wasn’t.

“Congratulations, Brittany. With one speech you set the women’s movement back a hundred and fifty years.”

I picked up the bags of wrapping paper and held them out to her. After a very hesitant moment, she took them from me.

“Don’t be stingy with the bows,” I said. “And don’t worry; I won’t contest the impeachment. I wouldn’t want to be a part of any club that would even consider having you as president. I’ll start my own community club, again, after the holidays. So get ready to lose enrollment, because don’t kid yourself, Brittany. Nice or not, nobody likes you. Later, Ms. T.”

I was out in the hall before Brittany figured out her comeback.

“You’d better watch your back, Kyle. That vid isn’t even the start of what’s coming your way.”

I wanted nothing more than to wedge myself into a cubby and hide beneath my coat until everyone else went home. But a cluster of boys started cracking up when they saw me. Chief among them was Derek Boger of the nine-hundred-times-viewed Mr. E.–and–Kyla Cheng remake video. Park Prep’s faculty loved to tell us that in ten years most of us would be leaders in our chosen fields. I’d always felt proud of that thought. Now it terrified me. This was the best and brightest?

“I like clothes,” Marcus Graham mimicked.

“Excuse me, milk brains,” I said as I pushed through them. “Victim of a spurious and fake defamation campaign trying to walk here.”

Only once I was a good ten feet away did Derek call out, “Slut.”

I stopped. Inhaled deeply. In debate there was nothing worse than an opponent who refused to get riled up. So, with a cheery smile, I turned. It’s all about the ruse, right?

“That’s it?” I asked pleasantly. “Come on, Derek. You attend one of the most prestigious high schools in the country. Put your parents’ tuition dollars to use. If you can’t be clever, at least be intelligent.”