This morning, I get up with the chickens and do my hair up. I did it big. Lots of big spiral curls, lots of hairspray and fullness. I do my makeup just a bit bolder, still soft and natural, but I add some highlighter to my cheekbones and nose, a little deeper blush at the hollow of my cheeks to add more definition. I add a rich dark purple eye shadow that brings out the purple in my eyes and a simple black swoop of eyeliner.
My look for today is a red tank top under a white blouse with red western detailing—little embroidery across the cuffs, which stick out just under my navy blazer—the plaid pleated skort, the cowboy boots, handmade silver earrings and necklace, and silver bangles. Now I feel ready to give my speech.
But, first things first. Gotta call Grandpa.
I thank him. Tell him about my speech today. He wishes me luck and fills me in on what’s been going on at the ranch. About the horses, the ranch hand’s love life, Grandma’s new apple pie recipe, and his new lemonade drink using pink lemonade rather than the normal yellow kind. I hang up feeling happy and confident.
I even have time to sit down and eat breakfast.
Dawson kisses me. “You got my vote, Keatie. Just look at you.”
And although this is nice, and I want to look nice, cute, and likable, I also kind of decided this morning after talking to Grandpa that I don’t want to win because of how I look. I want to win because of what I say in my speech. I do want to try and make a difference. I don’t want to just look pretty.
So I completely redid my speech. And have my new lines all memorized.
Now, I’m at the all-school convocation. We have to give our speech in front of the entire student body. I’m pretty sure this is some sick hazing ritual. If you manage to give the speech without throwing up then you’re in.
I’m standing in the hallway with the other candidates, who are nervously pacing and rereading their note cards. I’m really not that nervous. I never been one to get stage fright, but usually when I’ve performed in the past it has been at soccer games and dance recitals. I’ve never spoken to a large group before.
Aiden walks toward me and does a little motion. He has something in his hand that he wants to sneakily put into mine.
How I know what his little glances and gestures mean is a bit astonishing to me but, then, I’m pretty certain some sort of mind control is part of his god power package.
I move closer to him and he slides something small into my hand. Then he puts a finger up to the side of his mouth, making the universal sign for shhh.
I don’t open my hand.
I’m afraid to.
Plus, I want to savor it.
I hear my name being called. It’s my turn to go up.
I get up to the podium, lay down my note cards, turn my hand over, and open my fist. There nestled in my palm is a green glass four-leaf clover. And I feel . . . I don’t even know.
Lucky.
I feel like Harry Potter just put liquid luck in my butterbeer before Quidditch practice.
I feel unstoppable.
I speak eloquently and from the heart. I talk about what Student Council is, what it should be able to do, how it should not just be about social agendas or a popularity contest. That it should focus on the students and their rights. Their right to change the dress code. Their right not to get their phones put into jail. Their right to be served something besides empty calories and fried foods at lunch. Their right to stay out later. To have more all-school activities. And I end it with a loud, cheerleader-style, Vote for Keatyn Mon-ROARRRRRR, and, luckily, lots of people roar with me.
I don’t know if I will win or not. But I did good, and I’m proud of myself. And I think my lucky charm will be proud of me too.
Did you see those boots of hers?
French
Somehow, Aiden ends up walking me from lunch to French class.
“Your speech was really great,” he says.
“I didn’t look at what was in my hand until I got up there and was ready to start speaking.”
“You like it?”
“I did. It gave me an extra boost of confidence. I felt lucky. But why did you?”
“Well, I might have a little crush on my tutor, but don’t tell her. It will go to her head. And she already thinks she’s the shit. Did you see those boots of hers?”
I laugh. “Very funny. Do you like my boots?”
He looks at me with his dreamy eyes. “I love your boots. You in boots is my favorite. Reminds me of the first day we met.”
“My grandpa had them made for me to match my uniform. Told me they are to remind me to raise some hell and kick some ass.” I laugh at that.
“I’d like to meet him someday. He sounds like a good man,” Aiden says very sincerely.
As I sit down in class, I’m thinking that Grandpa would probably think Aiden is a good man too.