How Not to Run for President Read Online Free Page B

over toward the dugout to get a better view. Uncle robert flipped a little mirror out of his pocket, whipped off his baseball cap, and started to fix his hair.
    â€œAgain?” my dad groaned. “What, you think you’re going to be on TV or something? Do you really think they want to get a shot of you?”
    â€œShouldn’t you be leaving for work?” Uncle robert replied, waving his comb in the air. “Besides, you only wish you had something to comb.”
    All the guys on the team, including me, were staring at the bus, the news vans, and the Secret Service agents who were stepping out onto the grass. Our grass. Our ball field.
    Secret Service agents fanned out around the bus and started to cross the field. Then the governor came down the steps, flanked by more agents, and headed toward us, followed by about a dozen other people, including her daughter.
    The governor was trailed by a few campaign workers, who were reading their BlackBerries or texting into iPhones and Droids while they walked. Reporters were walking after them, holding out microphones and looking desperate for a good story. One woman’s high heels kept sinking into the soft field, and she almost fell down.
    Governor Brandon was smarter. She had changed into jeans, a Cleveland Indians jersey, tennis shoes, and a baseball cap that said BRANDON FOR PRESIDENT .
    Trotting beside her was her daughter, wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and a Minnesota Twins ball cap. Her ponytail stuck through the little hole in the back. She was smiling and looked like a normal girl. That was strange.
    Maybe she had one of those split personalities, like those psycho villains in movies. One minute they’re normal, the next completely merciless.
    â€œLook out, everyone. Look out!” the taller Secret Service agent said. “Coming through.” He stopped and looked at me. “You again?”
    â€œHi.” I gave a pathetic little wave.
    He narrowed his eyes at me, then kept going.
    Governor Brandon seemed surprised to see me standing there. “Hey! Aidan, right? I know you.” She grinned.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    â€œYeah, you should remember him. He tried to kill you,” said T.J.
    I glared at him. “Be quiet.”
    Emma stood beside her mom, chomping on a piece of gum. She looked around at the FreezeStar Field. “Well, this field needs some work, doesn’t it?” she commented.
    â€œIt’s Little League,” I said. “And it’s pretty nice. What do you expect, Yankee Stadium?”
    â€œNo. It’s just … the grass is turning brown. My Little League field is way nicer,” Emma said.
    â€œEmma. That’s not polite,” her mother said. “I’m sorry. I think she’s homesick. Mind if we play along for a little bit?”
    â€œOh, sure, sounds great,” said Uncle robert, looking nervously from mother to daughter and back again.
    â€œExcuse me, sir.” A tall African American man who was also wearing a brandon for president ball cap, along with a matching campaign button on his white button-down shirt, held an Indians ball cap out to Emma. “Here you go, Emma,” he said. “Wear this.”
    She looked at it as if were poison. “What? No way! Why would I wear that?”
    â€œBecause the campaign manager wants you to,” the man said. He tipped his cap to us. “Nice to meet you all. I’m Governor Brandon’s campaign manager. retired General Roy McGarvin.”
    â€œNice to meet you, General.” Uncle robert shook his hand. “I recognized you right away. You were secretary of defense under the last administration.”
    â€œThat’s right.” The general nodded. “And secretary of transportation before that. And now, Emma, back to you. Enough already, just wear the home-team ball cap. Is that too much to ask?”
    â€œIt’s not fair,” she said. “The only thing I know about the dumb team is