Mia the Meek by Eileen Boggess

cards on each student’s desk as he passed.
    “Every year, I give the Quadratic Formula to my ninth grade students, just as my ninth grade math teacher did for me. I want you to keep this card on your person wherever you go in life, because you never know when this amazing equation will be of assistance to you.”
    “Thank you, sir,” I mumbled as I looked at the card.

    I shoved it into my folder and Cassie raised her hand.
    “Mr. Grizzling, I couldn’t help but notice that Mia has something written all over her hands. Doesn’t rule number four on your list specifically state that there are not to be any marks on anything in the room, other than on our papers?”
    “Ms. Fullerton, show me your hands,” Mr. Grizzling demanded.
    I held them out, timidly, for his inspection.
    “No student enters my room looking like a walking billboard. Go wash your hands, and don’t return until they’re spotless.”
    Reluctantly, I got out of my seat and went to the restroom to wash my hands. Of course, I’d used permanent marker, so by the time my speech had been scrubbed away, so had a layer of my skin. I dried my hands on the sandpaper-soft paper towels the school provided us while I tried to finagle a new way to learn Lisa’s speech. It was no use. My brain had moved to a point beyond panic, just one step away from hysteria.

    I sat down in a chair next to the other candidates on the stage in the auditorium. My heart was pounding so hard, I was sure I would need CPR by the end of this fiasco. As the rest of the students shuffled into their seats, Mrs. Jensen approached the candidates. She glared at us with her faded blue eyes.
    “There will not be any tomfoolery, understand?”
    I solemnly nodded my head, afraid to speak—if I opened my mouth, I knew I would throw up.
    After that, I must have lapsed into a fog of fear, because the next thing I knew, Mrs. Jensen was poking me in the arm.
    “What are you waiting for?” she said. “Get up there.”
    I looked at her, curious.
    “Don’t the vice presidential candidates speak first?”
    “They just finished,” she said, cocking an eyebrow back at me. “What were you doing up here—taking a nap?”
    I looked over at Cassie, who was already standing up. How could I have missed Jessie and Dave’s speeches? I was going to use them as the basis for making up my own address. Sensing I wasn’t going to stand up willingly, Mrs. Jensen grabbed my arm, pulled me out of my seat, and propped me up next to Cassie.
    “I won’t be able to stay and listen to your speeches because I’m already late for a meeting with the Bishop,” she said. “But, believe me, I’ll hear about it if you two don’t behave yourselves.”
    As we watched Mrs. Jensen totter off the stage, Cassie whispered to me, “I want to go first.”
    Feeling like a prisoner receiving a stay of execution, I happily stepped back as Cassie strode over to the microphone. But rather than starting her speech, she instead smiled seductively at the crowd and began unbuttoning her uniform blouse! Before I could react, she had already ripped off her uniform skirt, which must have been rigged with Velcro, revealing a cheerleading outfit consisting of a short skirt and an off-the-shoulder midriff top. After she tossed her clothes into the audience, Stephanie threw her two pompons.
    I stood in stunned amazement while Cassie did a back flip handspring. Then she grabbed her pompons and cheered, “I’ve got spirit. Yes I do! I’ve got spirit. How ‘bout you?”
    Unable to resist the cheerleading dare to proclaim their own spirit, everyone yelled, “We’ve got spirit. Yes we do! We’ve got spirit. How ’bout you?” An auditorium full of fingers pointed back to Cassie, who immediately did three cartwheels and an arial.
    “A vote for me is a vote for spirit!” she cheered, ending her routine in a straddle split with her hands in the air.
    The audience erupted in cheers as Mr. Benson jumped up on the stage and quickly