Andy Malone 
As soon as I learned that my middle school had a student government, I knew that I would run for office. I had been told for many years: You could be President someday.
I know that adults say things like that a lot, and I know that such sentiments rarely sound genuine. Adults usually make these big promises (You could be President! You could be anything!) when they’re talking to crowds of kids they haven’t even met. Usually, these adults are not even talking to the kids in front of them – not really. They’re talking about their own accomplishments or they’re reading a book about someone else’s.
But more than once, growing up, adults made it a point to single me out. They took me to the side somewhere, looked me in the eye, and said: “You, Andy, you really could. You really could be President someday. You’ve got something special.”
I believed them. That’s why my ears perked up when my sixth-grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. M, announced student government elections. President was not yet on the table. That big office was reserved for an eighth grader. VP was saved for seventh. The other positions were anybody’s ticket, so I chose Corresponding Secretary. Treasurer sounded dull.
I had fun preparing for my first race. I gathered my 50 nominating signatures easily. I started with my friends, then approached the most approachable kids in my classes. I made ten posters, the maximum allowed, out of large sheets of oak tag. My graffiti letters, I thought, would give me a clear advantage on the campaign trail.
After the posters, I got to work on my speech. I drafted it on thin, loose-leaf paper, scripting extra-big letters and skipping every other line. This was a public speaking strategy I had been taught at some point. My message was simple. I focused on three of my character traits. First, I was diligent. Second, I was organized. And third, the big one: I was empathetic. I was a listener, and your concerns would become my own, and I would do my darndest to alleviate them. So choose me, Andy Malone, to be your humble elected representative. Your Corresponding Secretary.
The Monday afternoon before Election Day, I practiced my speech with Mrs. M, who was my faculty sponsor and now-favorite teacher. We tweaked some phrasing and thought extra hard about the opening and closing lines. Mostly, we practiced my pacing. “Remember,” Mrs. M said, “your speech will sound faster to the audience than it does to you. So speak slowly.” This was, and still is, very good advice.
The next morning, I sat on the auditorium stage, facing the entire school, gathered in assembly. I went first, but I was not nervous. I was 100 percent memorized; I had practiced plenty; and I had a killer opening line: “Hi, I’m Andy. Or you may remember me from Halloween as The Pillsbury Doughboy.” With the audience warm, I breezed through the rest of the speech. Mrs. M winked as I walked back to my chair.
I was elected the next morning. I heard, from an inside source, that it had been a landslide.
I don’t remember much about my first year in office. Student government was underwhelming. We met maybe once a month. We organized school events that adults had already organized, or we discussed bland issues that adults had already discussed. The government’s perfunctory nature didn’t seem to bother the other officers too much, but it bothered me. A lot. I genuinely wanted to use my political office. I was determined to make a difference.
Seventh grade, I thought, was my big opportunity. I set my sights on Vice President. A Vice President would have real power, I assumed, mostly because the word President appeared in the title. Certainly, a Vice President would have more power than a Corresponding Secretary. When election season rolled around, I re-upped all my sixth-grade campaign strategies. Then, I went further. I got out there and I talked to the people. Older, and more confident, I went table to table in the cafeteria, interrupting conversations to announce myself:
“Hi, I’m Andy, and I’m running for Vice President. Tell me about the changes you want to see at our middle school!”
Many kids were startled by the approach. At my middle school – like most – it was not so common to talk across cliques. But my classmates appreciated the opportunity to gripe about their school. I took careful notes and thanked them for their time and candor.
As the conversations progressed, one clear theme emerged:
The cafeteria food.
People really, really hated it.
Cafeteria food was not the kind of hard-charging issue I had been hoping to uncover – I thought it was pretty boring, actually – but hey, what could I do? The people had spoken. I began to think of a platform that would respond to their prevailing concern. How could I, Andy, Vice-Presidential nominee, spark meaningful change in the lunch menu?
Over the weekend, I developed a plan. I called it: Pizza Fridays.
Here’s the upshot: Once a month, Student Council would order Pizza and have it delivered to the cafeteria. Officers would sell the slices directly to students. We could even sell the slices for a slight profit, then use the proceeds to fund operating costs and sponsor other school events.
Pizza Fridays. What a plan.
The next Monday, I ran Pizza Fridays by Mr. G, the student government advisor. I was conscientious, and I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t over-promising. “Would something like this be allowed?” I asked earnestly.
I handed him my proposal, which I had typed out on my new home computer in an effort to be extra-official.
He scanned the page with his eyes and grinned. “I don’t see why not,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Seems like a great plan. Good work.” He handed the proposal back to me. I gripped it with glee and scurried off to class.
I had brought my draft posters with me to school that day. During lunch, I drew red-and-orange pizza slices on all of them. I was about to go back through to caption each slice: “Ask me about Pizza Fridays!” But I decided against it. Better to hold them in suspense, I thought, not quite parsing the difference between campaign posters and movie previews. I took my posters, each featuring a mysterious and enticing cartoon pizza slice, and hung them strategically about the hallways.
The following Tuesday, I sat on stage, facing the student body once again. I took to the podium after the secretaries and treasurers had given their speeches. I spoke about my experience as Corresponding Secretary, which had not only prepared me for Vice President, but had also opened my eyes to what Student Council could be. I spoke to the need for real action. For real change. I reminded my fellow students that throughout this campaign, I had approached their lunch tables, solicited their opinions, and heard their concerns.
“Which is why,” I continued, “if you elect me, I will work hard to make progress on the issue that concerns you most.”
Pause.
“You hate the lunch food.”
Laughter, applause. We sure do! Got that right!
“Now, that’s not a problem we can solve overnight. But I do have one idea to get us started. It’s a plan called…”
Pause.
“Pizza Fridays.”
Cheers, applause. Just at the name!
I could have stopped there. But I was conscientious. I reviewed the plan’s details and stressed its feasibility. I assured the crowd that I had already received encouraging feedback from administrators. I asserted my commitment to seeing Pizza Fridays through.
“I heard you, and I will deliver!”
Thunderous applause. They even chanted my name: An-dy! An-dy! An-dy! I walked away from the podium beaming. All those adults were right. I really could be President someday.
***
I won the Vice Presidency. My inside source confirmed another landslide.
I got to work right away. I brought up the Pizza Fridays plan at the first Student Council meeting, which was a month after election day, in early December. My fellow officers were supportive, and Mr. G was still on board. “You will have to bring it up with Dr. S, though.”
Dr. S was our principal. Easy enough. I walked over to the Main Office after school and asked his secretary for an appointment. She smiled. She was both warm and condescending. “Let’s see,” she said. “You know, Dr. S is a very busy guy. Especially around this time of year, with the holidays and all.”
“Oh,” I stammered. “That makes sense.”
She flipped through an oversized appointment book, running her forefinger up and down its green and white columns, thumbing through post-its as she turned the pages. “Yes, this meeting will have to wait until after winter break. Okay, sweetie?” She gave me a lunchtime slot sometime in mid-January. I was frustrated – a whole month lost! But I thanked her, politely, and hurried to lunch.
Over break, I proofread my Pizza Fridays proposal to make sure that it was Principal-ready. Mom read it, too, and approved. “Clear and compelling,” she said, before advising that I change the font from Comic Sans MS to something more professional (this is good advice, too – though I know how hard it is to see all of those fun fonts go to waste!).
I was ten minutes early to my mid-January meeting with Dr. S., but we started ten minutes late. “Very important call,” his secretary said, still warm, still condescending. Finally, she opened Dr. S’ door and motioned me inside. His office was impressive: big window, big desk, big conference table. Books everywhere. Dr. S. stood from behind a paper blockade at the far end of the table and waved me over. He shook my hand and smiled. “Mr. Vice President. A pleasure!” He shoved the stacks of paper to the side and gestured for me to sit in the chair closest to him.
“Thank you for the meeting,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
“Of course. I’ve been looking forward to it. Much more fun than the rest of my work.” He seemed genuine. Before getting to business, he said, he wanted to hear about my classes, my experience at school in general. I played along and answered his questions, but I was growing impatient. We had business to attend to.
Finally, he moved the conversation along. “So, what brings you here today? What can I help you with?”
I pulled a manilla folder out of my backpack, extracted the Pizza Fridays plan, and handed it to him. “I have this plan. For Pizza Fridays. You may remember from my speech?”
“Ah, yes,” he said, taking the folder as he reached for his glasses.
“I really think it can work,” I said. “It’s not so complicated. But Mr. G said I should talk to you, first.”
“Uh huh, uh huh,” he said, skimming the first page, then turning to the second, nodding the whole time. “Yes, this is very good. Very clear. You’ve taken a lot of factors into consideration.” He looked up at me. “I can see why you’re Vice President.”
“Thank you.”
“So, I definitely want to help you with this. But there are some things that we need to figure out. Contracts with school food services and permits and health codes. Complicated, boring things like that. Let me do some leg work on it, and then I’ll talk to Mr. G. Sound good?”
At the time, it sounded good. It sounded like a yes! “Sounds good,” I said. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”
“Of course, Mr. Vice President. Come by anytime. Can I hang on to this?” he asked, holding up the Pizza Fridays plan.
“Yes, it’s for you,” I said. “I have my own copies. Thank you again!”
“My pleasure. Enjoy the rest of your lunch.”
I went straight to Mr. G’s room to tell him all about the meeting. I told him he would hear from Dr. S on the details.
“Sounds great,” said Mr. G. “I’ll let you know when I hear.”
***
I didn’t hear from Mr. G, or from Dr. S., for the rest of that week. But Student Council was the following Thursday, so I figured the polite thing to do was to wait. I didn’t want to annoy Mr. G, both because I liked him and because I needed his support.
I added Pizza Fridays to that meeting’s agenda. When we got to it, I updated the Council on my meeting with Dr. S and asked Mr. G if he had heard anything. “Not yet,” he said, to my immediate dismay. “I think he is running parts of your plan by the Superintendent. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Okay,” I said. But I was getting nervous. It was almost February, and I wasn’t much closer to delivering on Pizza Fridays than I had been in November. Student Council was busy for the next few weeks, planning for a Valentine’s Day fundraiser – Mr. G’s favorite event – in which we sold red, pink, white, and yellow carnations for a dollar at lunch. Famously, you were meant to buy red for boyfriends/girlfriends, pink for crushes, white for friends, and yellow for family.
Once Valentine’s passed, I approached Mr. G again, too nervous to wait for the February Council meeting. “Any updates?” I asked.
“No. Sorry, Andy. No updates. I think it’s all still… being discussed.”
“Anything I can do?” I was desperate to make some headway.
“Why don’t you call some pizza places? See what they think of the plan.”
Excellent idea. I would do that, and more. I made a list of the top pizza places in town and researched their phone numbers. I thumbed through menus Mom and I had lying around the apartment. Then, I consulted the Yellow Pages (A truly ancient artifact, The Yellow Pages was a giant book that listed local businesses’ phone numbers. Back then, you couldn’t look phone numbers up on the internet. Moreover, phones couldn’t store phone numbers inside of them. Imagine that! Heathens, we were). I wrote out a 3-sentence pitch for Pizza Fridays and practiced it over the phone with Ashley. Then, I called each pizzeria, introduced myself, and launched into the pitch. I got transferred to managers, who were varying degrees of nice. They were mostly open to the idea, though they, too, had questions about these permits, which I still didn’t understand. They also wanted to know how the school would pay, and which adults I was working with, and other valid concerns like that. I took careful notes on everything they said and asked and typed it all up in my Pizza Fridays document. I even put a star next to pizzerias I thought would work best, based on their prices and customer service.
I brought the new plan to Mr. G., who was impressed. He suggested I bring it over to Dr. S. (Here we go again).
I went to the Main Office to schedule another meeting. “Three weeks,” said the secretary, somehow both nicer and more condescending.
February became March. Dr. S had to postpone a week. When we finally met, he was as complementary of my plan as ever. He appreciated my pizzeria research. “Such initiative!” he said.
But, he confided, his superiors were stalling. These darn contracts and permits. Don’t worry, though! He was still going to advocate for Pizza Fridays. And for me.
I thanked him and left. March became April. At that point, even I ran out of steam. Student Council met twice more that year. I did not add Pizza Fridays to either agenda. Nobody seemed to notice. We planned for Field Day.
Pizza Fridays, I concluded, was not meant to be. I was disappointed and frustrated, but I had tried my best.
***
A few months later, I was in eighth grade. It was time to run for President. With two years of experience, I was the clear frontrunner. The campaign process was familiar: I gathered my nominating signatures, drafted my posters, approached lunch tables to discuss the issues. Interestingly, almost no one asked about Pizza Fridays. For the few who remembered, I explained how hard I had tried. To a person, they seemed impressed by my efforts and understanding of the outcome. Adults, we agreed, rolling our eyes.
The student body had new concerns. Lunch food was whatever. The huge problem, now, was school events. They were stale. The dances, called Beehives, were especially dreadful. So, I built my platform around a reimagined calendar: fresher events designed with more student input. This was very compelling, I thought. And way easier to pull off than Pizza Fridays.
I charged forward. I finished my posters and hung them in familiar hallways. I wrote my speech. I practiced delivering it, nice and slow.
***
On election Tuesday, I took the stage, facing the student body for the third year running. The secretaries spoke, then the treasurers, then the Vice Presidents.
Up next was my challenger, Josh. I didn’t know Josh very well. He was in the Blue House; I was in Green. I knew he was smart and that he maybe did debate club. But he didn’t make me nervous. He had never campaigned before. And his posters were lackluster. Not a single bubble letter.
Josh took the podium. He had a confident, commanding voice. He introduced himself: grade, house, clubs, and so on.
Then, he attacked.
“You deserve an honest president. A president who keeps his promises. Unlike my opponent, who promised us Pizza Fridays … and never delivered.”
He turned backwards to face me. “Where is the Pizza, Andy? WHERE is the PIZZA?”
The crowd murmured, remembering my old campaign. They got louder. They started to have fun with it. They hollered, they jeered, they stood up in their seats. Josh continued, riding this wave of discontent.
“I won’t promise you pizza. Because I’m not sure that I can get you pizza. But I can promise you honesty. And THAT is something your president should have.”
Rapturous applause. They chanted his name: Josh! Josh! Josh!
My cheeks burned. I had not expected this. It was happening too fast. No one had complained about Pizza Fridays. No one. Not until this very moment. And I certainly had not expected Josh to lodge an incisive, personal attack. What had I ever done to him? This seemed mean. Vindictive. Unfair.
But I was up next. I had to think of something. My speech, as written, would not do. I took deep breaths and I walked to the podium. I avoided eye contact with Josh as he passed me. I stepped up to the microphone. A litany of booos. The crowd was still worked up. I breathed, over and over. Though the boos were unpleasant, I was thankful for them, in a way. They afforded me a few extra seconds, which I sorely needed. I was still figuring out what to say.
Just be honest, I thought. Just tell them what happened. They understood at the lunch tables; they would understand here.
And empathize, I reminded myself. Always empathize.
I waited until the boos were quiet enough. I took one last deep breath.
“I understand why you’re upset about Pizza Fridays,” I said, willing a confident voice. “I really do. I’m upset too. I told you I would deliver, and I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that.”
More boos. I waited.
“But where Josh is wrong, is that… well, I’m not a liar. I’ll be very honest with you, right now. I’ll tell you how I tried, even though I failed.” Good line, I thought. Good line.
I at least had their attention. I told them the story, as though I had prepared it in advance. The meetings with administration, the phone calls to the pizzerias, the permit issues. I explained all of it.
“I tried really, really hard. I promise you that. I just – I just couldn’t make it happen.”
Mr. G signaled my 15 second warning. I had used most of the time to improvise my defense. I rushed through my proposal for revamped student events. I stressed my two years of experience. I pledged my continued diligence and open ear. I apologized, one last time, for Pizza Fridays. I asked for the opportunity to make it up to them.
Time.
I breathed out and stepped down from the podium. I walked past Josh to take my seat. He smirked. I heard faint applause in the background. Nothing like Josh’s rapture. But not many boos, either. Perhaps my strategy had worked. I had definitely moved them, to a certain degree, in a certain way.
But it wasn’t enough. Over the loudspeaker the next morning, Mr. G announced Josh as the President elect. I was both crestfallen and unsurprised. I did not query my inside source. I knew it had been another landslide.
***
The loss hung over my head for weeks, like one of those personal cartoon thunderclouds. Part of the sting was, of course, that I hated to lose. That side of me had not changed much since fifth grade, when I came up short at The Annual Sugar Cookie Decorating Contest. And this loss was much worse. The cookies seemed juvenile now. A whole election? A Presidency? That was a lot to lose.
Part of the sting was the unfulfilled prophecy. I recalled all those times adults had cornered me, and looked me in the eye, and told me that I really could be President someday. With my first two campaign victories, I had been very much on track. Now, for the first time, I had reason to doubt myself. And I did.
But the worst part of the sting was that Josh – though obnoxious and smirky – had been absolutely right. I had failed to deliver. I had become one of those… well, one of those politicians. I knew those politicians, from watching TV and movies and the news. That kind who make big promises in their efforts to win, but who never come through in the end.
I was like them. Yes, I had tried really hard. But looking back, I could have tried harder. I could have pushed Mr. G and Dr. S more. I could have demanded more meetings. I could have learned more about those alleged permits. At the very least, I could have – I should have – told my constituents that Pizza Fridays weren’t coming together. I should have been honest and upfront, even if no one was asking me to be.
It’s no small deal, to break a promise. Let alone a promise to hundreds of your peers.
I knew myself to be a truthful, well-intentioned, hard-working person. I knew myself to keep promises. But Pizza Fridays was a broken promise. And I, like it or not, had become a broken-promises politician. Which Josh had revealed, in front of everybody, through his mean and honest speech.
***
In my first essay, about my first punch, I wrote that it can be hard to judge how important a single moment is to your life. For some moments, I think it is hard. Their impact can be difficult to trace. But for other moments, it’s easy. Their impact is painfully clear. Pizza Friday is one of those moments.
After middle school, I never ran for office again. I gave up on politics and the Presidency. Pizza Fridays is the only reason why.
To you, that might sound illogical, or harsh, or commendable, or crazy. For me, it’s just what is true. Even now, writing this, the memory of it all is harsh and grating. I cannot believe that I promised Pizza Fridays in Seventh Grade. And I cannot forgive myself, not fully, not ever, for failing to deliver.
