“Did you ever hear of Chappaquiddick?” I asked.
It was more of an exclamation than a question — the kind of thing only a self-appointed eighth grade political analyst would utter while throwing away his lunch scraps.
Standing in line to dump the remnants of my compartmentalized lunch tray, I blurted out the question, my voice cutting through the cafeteria chatter, as one of my classmates casually announced his intention to vote for Teddy Kennedy in the school’s mock presidential election.
“That alone should disqualify him from the highest office in the land,” I declared, tossing my empty fruit cup and chocolate milk carton into the trash. “The fact he tried to cover up that poor woman’s death after driving drunk tells me everything I need to know about him.”
“If he’s willing to go to such lengths to cover that up, what other secrets is he keeping?”
“Whatever happened to turning the other cheek?” William “Bill” Balin asked, glancing over his shoulder as he tossed his molded plastic tray through the return window. “I’m surprised to hear you say that, considering you’re the son of a minister.”
“What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?” I quipped, stepping into the gridiron baller’s escape route to make sure I got my say. “Being a Christian doesn’t mean I’m foolish enough to vote for someone who lacks moral character.”
“Even God expected a higher standard from the kings of Israel,” I continued, raising my index finger with conviction. “When they failed to meet those standards, they were punished accordingly. So, don’t try to drag me into a philosophical argument — you will lose.”
Bill glanced at his teammates — Robert “Robbie” G. Brough Jr. and Robert “Magsy” Magnifico — with wide eyes, frozen like a deer in headlights. He silently pleaded for backup, desperate for them to pull him out of the political rabbit hole he had unwittingly stumbled into.
“You’ll have to excuse Mark,” Magsy said, smoothly stepping into the imaginary wrestling ring to defuse the tension with a dose of humor. “He forgot to take his medication this morning.”
With a snicker from the self-proclaimed red-haired Democrat, my boon companions seized me by both arms and hauled me off to our six-seater table near the back entrance of the cafeteria.
“What’d you go and do that for?” I quizzed, blinking in disbelief as my feet barely touched the ground, still being dragged toward our table.
“In case you didn’t realize,” Robbie remarked, straightening my button-down dress shirt after the would-be mafia boss and his lead henchman set me down, “one more word out of you, and our friend and teammate would’ve flattened you like a pancake under the weight of your political discourse.”
“Geez Louise, we were just having a simple discussion.”
“Yeah,” exclaimed the black-haired Italian, steadying me as I sank into my chair. “A simple discussion that would’ve sent you straight to the nurse’s office — with a black eye as a parting gift.”
“You’re welcome,” Magsy snapped, flashing a smug grin, as if to say, “Next time, try a little gratitude.”
“Who knew you were so passionate about politics?” expressed the lad of Scottish descent, a wide grin spreading across his face as he slung an arm around my shoulder. “You should run for class president next year.”
“Since that’s nothing more than a popularity contest,” I chuckled, letting my disdain for the annual social status race shine through. “I think I’ll leave that competition to you sports jocks and the hoity-toity cheerleaders holding court at the next table.”
“Besides,” I continued, laying out my plan to pursue a different kind of campaign once freshman year began. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry — I’m setting my sights on running for president of my church youth group this fall.”
A week before voters headed to the polls for the Pennsylvania Primary on April 22, 1980, politics took center stage at Lincoln Junior-Senior High School. The entire student body geared up for a mock presidential election on Thursday afternoon — and this self-proclaimed political junkie had taken the public debate to a whole new level.
With a plethora of makeshift voting booths lining the Commons Area, designated members of the senior high student council ensured each registered young scholar had the chance to cast a ballot during their lunch period.
As another group of underclassmen filtered back into the dining hall after performing their civic duty, Mr. Frank Boots—cafeteria monitor and math teacher — gestured for the boys at our table to join several classmates down the corridor and let our voices be heard.
“Do you boys have your student identification cards?” Cheryl Selva inquired as we approached the registration desk in front of the trophy case, where the recently returned championship trophy —awarded to the 1944 Wolverines for their undefeated season — stood proudly on display.
“Crapola, I left mine sitting on my bedroom dresser,” Jeffery “Jeff” Olinger groaned, before storming off to one of the benches by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the school bus loading zone.
Hanging their heads in shame, Alan “Fud” Franz and Shane Spielberg trailed their comrade to the make-believe gallows, equally guilty of leaving their proof of identity anywhere but their wallets.
Panic-stricken, I yanked my billfold from my hip pocket, exhaling as my school-issued photo ID stared back at me through the clear plastic holder.
“Say, aren’t you the ones who recovered the school’s cherished football trophy on Monday?” Frederick “Rick” Roth questioned, glancing up after spotting our names on the eighth-grade voting list.
“Did you happen to catch our photo in the Ellwood City Ledger?”
“Who didn’t,” Rick guffawed, handing back our ID cards. “My football buddies and I were just talking about what an incredible thing you and your detective agency pulled off — for everyone involved.”
“But you look familiar for another reason,” he continued, leveling an accusatory finger at me. “Do you remember a bunch of Ellwood City Wolverines football players piling out of a Volkswagen Beetle to help push your station wagon to the gas pumps last summer?”
“You were the football player with the biggest muscles,” I gushed, slapping a high five with the soon-to-be graduate. “We were beyond grateful for all your help — honestly, we might still be stranded there if youns hadn’t come along.”
The room erupted in laughter at my joke, just as the young lady across the table handed each of us an election ballot.
After casting our votes for the Hollywood actor turned California governor, my friends and I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. In just four years, we’d finally have the chance to participate in a real presidential election—our voices would be counted for the first time.