You headed to Yearbook for first period to see JFK frustratingly typing at a computer. "I told you to delete the spread. How does that translate to make 10 copies of them in Japanese and send them to the entire administration? No, I will not be your baka! Is that supposed to be funny?"
You furrow your brow as you take a seat at your desk. "It's the 21st century and people can't follow directions or use a damn computer," he mutters under his breath. He gets up from his seat, and he spots you, a smile melting onto his face. "Finally, something to brighten my god awful day."
You raise an eyebrow. "It's that bad?"
"Based on how incapable everyone in here except me seems to be, yes." He pauses. "But, of course, not you! You're perfectly fine, I'm sure you're doing great with those interviews."
"Yeah, I've got about three left. Oh, and then yours."
"Best for last as always. You're making great progress. You've got any of them this morning?"
You glance at your page. "I was hoping to do Kamala Harris' today."
"I think she's in poetry class at this time. Maybe you could drop in and talk to her if she isn't busy."
"Alright, I'll get to it."
"Good luck!"
You exit the classroom and search the halls for the poetry classroom. For once, you actually wished Lincoln would appear, so he could actually help you find it.
You round a corner and gasp as you slam into a figure. Your things clatter out of your hands, and you curse yourself for being unable to take care of them for like the thousandth time. Papers fly around you, and you almost think you're in a tornado.
The smoke clears, and a girl with dark curly hair, light almond skin, and a full pair of lips stands there with her hands on her hips. You can't stop yourself from staring, and you're pretty sure she notices.
"So, were you planning to just stare at me or...?"
You blink. "Oh, excuse me, I'm so sorry." You quickly get down on your hands and knees and beginning picking things up, and you realize you have a bunch of poems in hand. You pause and look to see her next to you, picking things up.
"Are you Kamala Harris?"
She furrows her brow. "Yeah, why?"
"Well this is embarrassing. You're running for President, and I'm supposed to be interviewing you, because I'm from Yearbook."
Her gaze softens. "Oh, what a coincidence. I just have to drop these things off at the class, you can come with me."
You nod as you continue picking things up. You manage to gather your things up and place them to the side. Your eyes can't help but skim over to poems, and even though you believe poetry is an incompetent and pretentious form of literature, you can tell that those are written beautifully.
"Did you write these?" you ask.
"Yeah, most of them anyway. It's nothing."
"No, these are actually really good. I've never seen anything like it."
She avoids your gaze and clears her throat. "Thanks."
"What do you plan to do with them besides y'know write them and share them?"
"Sometimes I publish them in small publications, keep them in my portfolio, and I... occasionally do slam poetry."
You notice she looks a little flustered at saying that. "That's really cool. Is there something wrong with slam poetry?"
"Well, no. But everyone makes fun of it and all." She stands up with her papers in hand. "But, uh, we should start moving, so I can drop these off."
"Of course." You quickly get to your feet with your things.
You follow her with her long strides and realize how fast she is. She must do a lot of walking! Perhaps she even posts videos of them frequently. Maybe with a counterpart, who knows?
"I realized I haven't seen you around," Kamala says. "Are you new here or am I just missing something?"
"I'm new here. I'm y/n."
"I guess I should remind you to be careful around corridors so early in the morning." She laughs.
You laugh along with her, because it's very infectious. "Sorry, Lincoln usually-- I mean, I usually have help getting places."
"I get it. It took me like a month to get the layout of this school."
The two of you make it to a class where the door is already wide open. The lights are dimmed as students sit at desk, and two of them stand in front of the class with animated gestures.
Kamala sighs. "We'll have to wait until they're done performing."
You tilt your head to the side. "Who are they?"
"That is Chris Coons and Tom Cotton."
To you, they just look like White Boy #1 and White Boy #2, but that isn't very politically correct of you! You watch as they perform their poetry.
"To the point where I don't even feel comfortable in my own skin!" they both chant at the same time. "In a world where identities are binary, how do I forge my own, a promised society for my future kin. How do I show I want to attempt these bids when--"
"I'm too white for the black kids," Chris Coons croons.
"And too black for the white kids," Tom Cotton squeaks.
"'Tis my dilemma," they both conclude with a bow.
You furrow your brow as you watch the class applaud. Kamala shakes her head. "Just go along with it. Poetry is a welcoming space, but it also can be... this."
"Yeah, I can tell."
Kamala strode over to a desk and dropped the pile of poems on it before returning to you. "We should conduct this in the hallway."
You head into the hallway as she shuts the door behind her. "Alright, let's get started."
"What are important issues you'd like to address?" you ask.
"I think we as a school should focus on fixing the internal issues like inequalities, discipline, and educational relationships. I think less money should be funneled to extracurriculars like football that already rack in money on their own. Strong reforms to improve student's lives is important."
"What made you decide to run for president?"
"I just believe I'd be the best candidate for static change that doesn't become a complete upheaval of our current system. I want the right people to receive the right benefits from what I have to offer."
"What is something that you're passionate about that is driving your campaign?"
"Well, poetry obviously." She laughs. "And that ties into my skills word words and understanding people, along with trying to empathize with them."
"Lastly, how will you increase the awareness of the significance of your position to a wide range of students?"
"I want them to understand that I'm there to lead them, but I'm also a student as well and understand what comes with that. I want to remind them all we're all on the same boat."
"And done!" You were finally hitting your stride with these interviews. "Thanks. Good luck and all."
"Thanks, but I hope I don't need it. Being President of the school seems like a big responsibility." She sighs. "But I've done a lot more."
"Like?"
"Slam poetry and all. It's hard performing in front of a crowd. I actually have a performance coming up at Lis Delis. I'll be doing most of the poems that I had to drop off."
You've never heard of that place before but nod along. "That sounds cool."
She chews on her bottom lip, and you see a question in her eyes. But it quickly disappears, and she lets out a laugh. "Yeah, it's pretty cool. But, uh, we're done here?"
"Yeah, that's all."
"See you then."
"You too."
You share a smile with her and start down the hallway. She was an enchanting character. Too bad the two of you probably would never align.
But who knows?
Lincoln slides next to you, whistling as you carry on. "What's up, buttercup?"
You raise an eyebrow. "I think I was great before you appeared."
"Rude. What've you gotten up to today?"
"I did Kamala Harris' interview."
"Kamala? Isn't that a woman's name? Ethnic at that."
"Yes, she is a woman and... ethnic. Why?"
He pauses to stroke his chin. "Do you know what I learned today, y/n?"
"What?"
"Many of the key issues in society can be summed up in 'gay son or thot daughter'. Personally, I'd pick the gay son, because women," he grimaces, "I'd rather not."
You give him a blank stare. He raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"And of course you're a misogynist as well," you mutter.
"No, I just firmly believe women should stay in their place and never interrupt a man's position. A woman running for president and hoping to win? A person of color as well?" He lets out a chuckle, wiping a tear from his eyes. "Laughable. Like Marx always said, 'Bitch don't wear no shoes in my house!' He fought for my right as a man to wear shoes in my own house in the Iraq War! I refuse to allow a woman to do the same."
You don't even know what to say to that. It seems it's easy for him to mix up Marxist theory, and The Box by Roddy Rich. You shake your head. "You have got to educate yourself some more."
"What? More? But I'm already the best version of myself!"
"You're not internalizing any of the things you learn, and you still don't show you believe in equality."
"What is there to internalize? I'm a ghost." He sticks his hand through a locker to prove his point. He frowns at your unamused expression. "You're so needy, you know. But whatever, I'll get out of your hair."
He dematerializes as you step down the hall. You glance down at your things and freeze in your tracks as you realize one of Kamala's poems is in your grasp. You hurry back towards the classroom, but the bell rings, quickly pitting the tides against you.
You sigh as you turned back towards your next class. You'd have to get back to her as soon as you could. Hopefully you could run into her before her performance at Lis Delis.