Sweaty palms grip the my podium as my opponent steps to the podium to my left. The guidance counselor assured me that serving as the president of my class would give my transcripts that extra nudge to catch the eye of college recruiters, so here I sit waiting for my chance to convince the sophomore class that I should represent them in our junior year. I really don’t want the gig. My nervousness stems from the antics of my opponent. Inspired by one too many political campaigns, he announced to the whole school that he will be dropping a bombshell during the first debate—a bombshell about me. I have no idea what it could be, so I have a feeling he has made up something truly unthinkable, but will it be believable?
The principal opens the debate with brief introductions of the candidates. She reads the bios we submitted when we chose to run for office and adds our GPAs for extra measure. I have a feeling that information would only matter if the teachers were voting. But even the teachers don’t look interested. They continue to look blankly into space, wishing for this to be over. Or waiting for the promised bit of gossip?
Even I am beginning to lose interest in the answers and banter that my opponent and I exchange as we try to convince anyone who is still listening that one of us is more worthy to be president than the other. Then it happens. My opponent’s nose wrinkles as he offers me a half smile. He clears his throat and leans into the podium so his lips hover inches from the microphone.
“I know you all just want us to finish up, so you can be anywhere but here.” He pauses to watch every head in the room nod in agreement. “I also know that making the decision on who will be the class president seems like one that means nothing, but it does mean something. And that is why I have to tell you the truth about my opponent. She doesn’t even want to be your president. She roots for the Indians.”
The room erupts in howls of disapproval. The Indians have been our school’s rival since time immemorial. Even though I know his statement to be false, I dislike myself quite a bit at this moment, too. I clear my throat and tap the microphone. No one can hear my assertions of innocent and school spirit over the vitriol spewed forth so freely.
Guess who reported for duty as the president of the junior class the next year?
~~Lies hurt, friends. Lies hurt.~~
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