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Prez High - The Children of Our Future

Chapter Text

[First Person POV – Barack Obama]

September 8th, 7:32am

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

First day in office. I understand what’s coming for me, and so be it if it’s truly my first day as student government president. Perhaps Washingcoln really does find me - a sophomore with these overlooked values to be really something. I hope I make a change. Just this one year of fame… this whole entire year…

The new freshmen are coming today. They’ve got a lot ahead of them, if they wanna be in my position. Let’s hope that I’m enough for them to bear, huh?

Oh, I see… Wait, what’s he doing with---

Never mind.

That senior over there with the glasses? He’s not a bad guy. He doesn’t really interfere much, but looks determined to win this. I hope everything furthermore runs well for him, seeing as he’s not a bad guy, at least... for now.

I should quit the lingering, Joe’s waiting for me.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

[Third person POV]

Barack Obama idly walked himself up the gently sloping road, where the trees beamed a passive orange hue. It was the eighth day of September, where fall had arrived early and Barack was looking somewhat forward to showing up that morning. It was nothing loud or obvious; it was a more of a sense of telling from the way the dark eyes shone in the frigid sunlight. His first true title as the student president had finally come, and was ready to take on the world – or in this case, school.

Having stopped for a bit, he quickly proceeded not long afterwards. He chatted to some classmates in his sophomore year on his way before nimbly rushing inside the school’s main building whereby his tie and blazer blew freely, unapologetically; in the wind's winding pattern. Barack was very liked so far and his policies were seen as pragmatic by many. His plan for the first ever day was to meet up with his fellow vice Joseph Biden, the vice president of Washingcoln High School – or how the students liked to recall it as – Prez High.

There was something that morning that disturbed Barack’s peaceful stroll, though. A young man stopping dead-still in the middle of the path leading to the school’s entrance caught the new leader's eye, the sunlight flickering from the back of his poise. He was of medium height, with short, dark hair in rigid curls and wore a pair of glasses. He looked as if he even had a subtle overbite. The boy’s eyes looked kind at first glance, almost having that implication they were always going to seem that way. The choice of attire was more casual than you would expect of a studious senior in a private school and his overall expression even came across as kind of sullen – yet not in an obnoxious way, of course.

It must have had been the peculiar spray paint he held so modestly in his fair hand.

This was Bernard ‘Bernie’ Sanders, a democratic socialist who wished to be part of student government someday. His general expression of the time told how he was probably disappointed with Barack’s current position, but that was not at all the case. He probably supported him more than some others would. He didn’t despise him at all; they didn’t even talk. Bernie was the one who voted for the democrat instead of someone like Mitt Romney, and now he had got what he had wanted... or did he? Generally speaking, he was a good man, a good person. A person who wanted more awareness of civil rights and equal pay for the lunch ladies, a person who deeply wanted to prevent possible corruption of future candidates and members in the student government. The individual was also somebody who protested for free school healthcare, in which he thought of as one of his main priorities. A person who you could’ve said how he really did, well, strive to care for the people. 

However, something was set alight in this young man's chest, as if it were telling him the outcome of the election just wasn't enough. This was a guy who was now in a sticky situation of deciding whether he should keep walking onward, or go back to someplace far, far away from the autumn trees beside the outlandish scene of Washingcoln High. This was a guy who was full-on stuck.

Something forced to avert his gaze. 

“The school does look pretty in the autumn, huh.”  the low voice uttered.

Chapter Text


September 8th, 7:55am


“Mornin’!” A warm Joe Biden chirped. “You got the placard?”


Barack softly beamed at his vice. People often recalled them as a balanced concording of cool and warm within their gentle companionship. Joe was about two years older than his friend, and even though they were roughly the same build, people still mistook Barack as the eldest of the two due to such differing demeanors. The Prez was the wooden, level-headed co-operator, while his vice was the behind-the-scene nice guy who despite his innocent ambiance, was not afraid to speak his mind. That was how it was then, in relative terms. Irregardless, the two got along like gold with their complimenting natures and positive outlook on life, hardly falling into any discourse.

“Yo, it’s time to greet the new freshmen. Should we get up and running?” noted an energized yet rational Barack, ready to get out and serve a warm welcome.

“Let’s do it.” Joe eagerly replied.

“Yeah, just please don’t stand too close to them or anything, bud.” Barack jokingly remarked. “We know how much you would love to sniff their hair.”

“Why, will you get jealous if it ends up with them liking the darn vice better than the actual man himself? Aww, haha, sorry it’s so hard for you.” the vice sarcastically retorted.

“I bet I’m gaining fans already, man. I don’t need your cheap sympathy or anything!”

The two boys laughed and joked down the school hallway with their new painted placard – 'Enjoy your stay at Washingcoln High with our freshly-elected VP and President, Joe Biden and Barack Obama. Can we move FORWARD? YES WE CAN!' and made their way to the outside entrance of the main school building. The exit was caked with morning September sunshine, and the two boys were eager to plant their introduction – with the entire situation almost looking like a metaphorical childbirth. (...or something among the lines of that.)

It was just then, a few seconds before confronting the exit into the campus where Barack and Joe notified a glum John McCain hanging up picture frames of Barack, Joe and some other new members of the student cabinet. He stood securely perched high up on a ladder, and the pair noticed how the sunlight diminished as soon as the previously-opened double doors swung into a close from a couple of students knocking into them. 

“How’s it hanging?” asked Joe, referring to the portrait frames taken that summer, resonating playful scorn.

“Your faces are hanging just fine, I guess.”

McCain was a student at Washingcoln the year prior, where he took part in the race for student government president, but unfortunately did not succeed in his initial goal. He was currently volunteering as a part time janitor for the school, which sounded absurd to new ears at first, however there was a complex reason behind it that McCain did not plan to disclose to anyone in the fullest extent. Albeit at the lower age limit, McCain didn’t back down. He and Joe had been friends for a year despite their differences in political views and subtle tensions; yet for Barack his sentiments stayed neutral. This was since they only had talked on certain occasions before he had to take him on in more weighty council debates the previous year, and this did cause some consequences.

“Heya John.” Barack quietly mumbled. His hands made their way into the pockets of his blazer, feeling about the soft fabric inside. Ephemerally, McCain flashed a smile and returned to his work.

“You met any freshmen yet?” the new Prez asked after a pause.

“Yeah, this morning when you kids were catching up on making that dumb-looking  sign that... really could do with a bit more work. No offense, Joseph.”

“…’Kids’…” Joe repeated with an uncertain laugh. “Didn’t know that entering the world of work could make you age forty cynical years.”

“…Dumb-looking?” Barack added, unsettled, yet not pondering upon it.

“I’m a member of authority now. Bite me. And the freshmen, they all seem like nuisances.” McCain furthermore scoffed. “But there is another newbie who I have thought of as a little interesting, mind you.”

“Oh?” Joe hummed.

“When I say interesting, I mean a total brat. And he’s not exactly a fourteen-year-old either, per se.”

There was slick silence. Nothing.

Joe and Barack stood in front of the closed doors awkwardly, exchanging glances before returning back to at the young adult. Barack fiddled with his placard while hesitating on whether he should ask more or not, with Joe apprehending how his friend was growing increasingly uncomfortable talking to one of his many former rivals. Very suddenly, Joe froze in his already stiff, gauche pose.

“Hey-,” Joe started to utter while McCain solemnly raised an eyebrow. Barack’s blood turned cold.

“OH SHIT! We're late to the greeting ceremony!” the Prez exclaimed, half cackling as he and Joe leaped out the double doors, leaving McCain sighing and shaking his head in the dimly-lit, morning corridor. 

The newly elected president and vice both scurried off outside the assembly hall, where after a half-minute of panting and laughing, managed to welcome the 9th graders into the introduction assembly they were required to attend. It eventually ended as if in a click of a finger. Time seemed to be moving swiftly, smoothly, and cooperatively. Everything was what an informal tone would class dandy; dandy like the September breeze that flowed within the several lively bodies, bodies littering the school playground bit by bit. It was as if dandelion seeds were being recklessly blown far, far off into the distance in order for them to find their way... sometime, somewhere.

Chapter Text


September 8th, 8:27am


“Wow, this place sure is big.” a freshman quietly whispered to himself. He had halted in the middle of the pristine school campus and darted his dark eyes of coal around the place, to and fro at other wandering students and back to the school fountain. Quietly admiring the pleasant scenery, his gaze landed on a boy around the the same height, the same level… perhaps a little shorter, with a water bottle clutched in one hand and his school briefcase tightly held in the other. He was sweating at the forehead and owned a perplexed countenance, a clear contrast to the nonchalant-mannered boy stood before him.

“Hey.” the boy calmly called out, eyes strictly meeting the other pair. “You look real worried there, man. Are you lost or something?”

“Well, I have Math... but the thing is, I have no idea where the room is. I-I, uh… have no idea where to go exactly.” the other haltingly spoke, looking as if he was undergoing some level of anxiety. 

The boy grimaced at his timetable, before hesitantly revealing it to the other freshman, now exhaling a steady breath. “Hey, look. I have Math too. It’s room A109, which is second floor in this block. Just follow me you squirt.” The two new students began slowly walking up to where their assigned lockers were, taking turns to awkwardly stumble or lag behind the other as they made their way to the alignment of red compartments. 

“Thank you, see, my old school had a different numbering system to this one. Oh, and I’m Marco, by the way.”

“Ted. Well, I have two names – one of which is Rafael after my father. But I’d sure prefer Ted.” the other fourteen-year-old replied with a wry smile. “That’s a big bottle of water you got there.”

“Yeah, and you have a weird nose.” Marco retorted, his lips moving only very slightly.

“Right.” Ted concluded, turning his head a little. “You running for school Prez?” he then inquired, dismissing the subject of his apparent nasal area.

“Yeah, I’m going to run for the republican council.”

Ted scoffed. Marco glanced at him briefly, before hastily facing away and rubbing the back of his neck. “What Ted, my boy, don’t tell me you’re a democrat.”

Ted scoffed once more, the release mirroring his first. His eyes remained pinned to the kitschy decorated walls of the corridor, before he squinted at his feet. “I don’t really associate myself with those kind of values. I’m just like you, unlike Mr. Prez over there.” he sardonically replied, pointing his somewhat greasy-looking thumb out the window over to where Barack and Joe were still answering questions with the freshmen and a few late-comers.

“Yeah, his friend over there looks way too happy. It kind of pisses me off.” added Marco. “Uh, you know, I don’t know if we should be talking dirt like this behind their back. One of them is a senior, you know.”

“Is that so?”

There was a short pause. “You’re from Texas, aren’t you?!” the smaller boy said out of the blue, noting on Ted's subtle southern drawl. 

“Y'all just realize? Yeah, okay – I said that ironically. Ha ha.” Ted put on his wry smirk and broke out into a small laugh, to which he avoided eye contact with Marco for a few seconds or more. Ted's timing was totally off, and he was far too awkward with his delivery to Marco's liking. 

Slowly squinting, Marco looked properly at the other 9th grader. He bit his lip with a stupid grin before declaring a joke of his own – a real doozy!

“You could talk a coon right out of a tree.”

“What?” Ted's expression stilled. 

“You could talk a coon right out of a tree.”


“You could talk a coon right out of a-

“Okay Marco, we get it.”



It was a few periods after the short ceremony, where Barack and Joe just so happened to be in their office at break time rather than outside making an appearance. Joe was sat down in a fancy swivel chair, and Barack was adjusting the American national flag that hung so lowly in the office room. Of course he respected the flag's presence and symbolism, but something about it made it so that he didn’t like the appearance of it, or the putrid stench of patriotism that was probably eternally embedded into the pale white walls. He had no choice though, and spent a good portion of the next minute glaring pensively at the limp flag, noticing how thin and almost irrelevant it appeared within the room. For decor it was fitting, but for a representation of Barack amongst the other object discoloration, it unnerved him. 

“Joe, who do you think McCain was talking about?”

“Huh?” Joe spun around, legs off the ground in his swivel chair. There was a fleeting moment of silence. “Oh, actually,” Joe added, perking up. “I did hear from one of the guys that there was a new rich kid turning a few heads.”

Barack looked unconcerned, smiling halfheartedly.

“Yeah, he’s the son of a real-estate developer. Apparently his father is a multimillionaire – everyone’s been talking about him.” Joe continued ecstatically. 

“Do you know anything more about this son-of-a-millionaire?” Barack asked his vice. Joe leaned back in his chair, clicking a pen in a monotonous rhythm before letting out an exhale.

“He’s running for student president. Came from a military school up in New York, quote – and I say quote; a ‘Ladies’ man,’ tall, blonde and rather tanned.”

In a low-key manner, Barack added a short: “He’s quite popular then.”


“Hell no! Pretty sure all my people still love me.” Barack noted upon Joe's silent smirk, playfully mocking the Prez's self conscious temperament. “I didn’t sound too pompous there, did I Joe?”

“No, Mr. President.”


At the time when Barack was running for the title of student government president in his freshman year, there was a strict policy that pupils could only have worn suits to Prez High. It had been like that forever. The head principals of the school, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, seemed unmoved by Barack’s policy of changing the dresscode to something more casual. Principal Washington and vice principal Lincoln, although both heads and founders of the school themselves, let the school presidents have their freedom when it depended on rules or policies that made a positive impact, or rather oddly, little impact. The overall intention and morale was to let their students transition into adults full of knowledge, passion, energy and liberty; but also be disciplined and moral. That was how it always had been.

The leader of student government before Barack Obama, his predecessor, was a junior, now a senior – by the name of George W. Bush. His family were known to be involved with politics, and had great expectations for him and his brother, Jeb Bush. Jeb was the younger brother of George and faced many protests in his sophomore year. And the reason for this, well; many did not respect his brother as the school's defining mascot. 

There had been a traumatic occurrence where a rivaling school had tried to set a grenade off in Washingcoln High right at the start of that previous year, and many of the students either immersed in conspiracy talk or those who never liked George decided to spread the notion that it was all George’s plan. No one really knew if it had been true, but there had been many, many fights the two schools had to face throughout that academic year. Behind the principals' backs, George was notorious for ordering unjust acts of violence, where a number of students would skip lessons and start brawls with other flunkers of schools that envied Washingcoln's high public image. Teacher conferences concluded that forcing George to step down was undemocratic, but gave him warnings and restrictions in order to try and make him stop. He did eventually drop sentencing orders, but students would, nonetheless, skip class and continue for the thrill of it. There were petitions to stop the fighting, which were usually held by diplomatic-type individuals and pacifists, however, George and his vice Dick Cheney still came to the highly controversial conclusion that upright confrontation was beneficial to their image. 

Sometimes Washingcoln’s students would play pranks, fire paintball guns and beat up the students of the rivaling schools, and vice versa. The rivalry hardly ceased, and was still proceeding that very day. This led to gangs within the other school to form alliances and send threats to those of Prez High, and many felt hapless. Some saw George as the war-starter, some saw him simply as pure evil. Others cheered him on. But with George stepped down from the metaphorical throne, people overall tended to possess an air of relief. 

Not everybody was happy, though.


The door of the office slammed open. There stood a tall, slim young man with a crooked smile and dark eyebrows. He had a plain white button-up shirt and black pants, and a pitch black tie perfectly planted around his stiff neck. Of course, Barack knew who this salty senior was.

“This is not over, Obama!” The figure smacked his ample hand onto the office door.

“Mitt, this is awfully ungodly of you.” stated Barack, trying his best not to seem too disdained at this mess of a Mormon.

“How ‘bout we do another match, eh? One-to-one?” Mitt jokingly positioned himself into that of a boxer, his fists punching the space in front of him as he dodged an imaginary blow. 

“That won’t change anything. I’m the leader now; you can’t change the system, Mittens." the Prez said patronizingly, intentionally attempting to sound like he was talking to a six year old. His conventional tone of voice shortly returned. "I would have expected you out of the rest of the republican council to be way more mature with this kind of thing.”

Joe sat on the large, black swivel chair, awkwardly peering at the miniature argument before him that was about to go down. “Roast him-” he discretely whispered, looking very pleased.

“Well,” Mitt then sighed, not listening to a thing his former rival was saying. “You two deadbeats were late to the ceremony this morning. Do you really think you’ll gain good punctuality like that? At least Paul and I are never late.”

“Good for you, Mitt.” the President responded in an uninvolved, sarcastic tone, writing a few notes in his notepad. “Paul actually came in this morning; he said something about lifting…?” he further added, looking up from the paper. 

There was an awkward muffled pause, Joe perhaps holding back some laughter.

“We can always make a deal together.” Mitt suggested, gliding behind Barack's seat. His eyes were then met with Barack's after a split second. “Why don’t I take over for one day, one teensy day, and my father can give you a paycheck. I mean, I darn get how we can’t work as a team, but if I can get one chance to sit in that presidential seat and keep it a secret from the teachers and other members of government then-

“Mitt, you look like you literally just came fresh from Mormon Church.” Barack joked, trying desperately to change the subject. Mitt momentarily glanced at his white shirt and tie of pitch black. “Or you know, someone that works at an ice-cream parlor."

“Did someone say ice-cream?” Joe quietly interrupted from behind them both, letting out a gasp. “What, Mitt, have you lost your binders all full of women?”

There was now a pause, that lasted at least a thorough ten seconds where it was obvious that the shared mood was the epitome of a 'kill-me-now' sentiment. The room of red, white and blue was dead with silence, with two of the three faces trying their hardest not to explode in childlike giggles. In subsequence, Barack and Joe failed boxing in their laughter, and Mitt stormed out of the room in a slightly irritated, eye-rolling sulk.

“Now what was up with that malarkey?” Joe bared his teeth while he let out another small snigger. Barack didn’t answer his vice, but kept laughing to himself while he steadily began to pack up his things. It was time for another class.


A few hours graded as trivial passed by. Lessons were not necessarily exciting, therefore breaks and free periods were the highlight of the school timetable. And like any other day at Prez High, the students lumped together inside the lunchhall like termites salivating for wood. The cafeteria was a total ruckus, a hectic get-together where the worn youths finally got their longest break of the day. In all honesty, it wasn’t at all pretty.

“Who’s that?”

“The new kid?”

“He looks so… cool!”

"...and, and... orange!"

There was a thickset, uncomfortable mass of teens crowding around a tall boy with a fine, fair mop of blond hair. He wore a plain retro basketball cap that was not doing a good job of hiding his face as he anticipated. However, the thing that stuck out most about the young man was his big, blue boxy suit contrasting with his incredibly saturated, tanned face and hands. At first sight he was pretentious and demanding, yet for certain looked like he enjoyed the attention he was attracting from the fresh bunch of spectators.

“Are you ready to Make Prez High Great Agai- hey, hey, hey! Hands off my shoulder there buddy!” the bold, throaty voice yelled.

In the meantime, Ted and Marco had feebly made alliances, and at this phase in time were stuck together like glue – attempting to find their way out the crowd full of blatant hazards. There had been a lot of pushing and shoving taking place, even by the main attraction himself.

“Excuse me,” he continued to exclaim in his harsh New York accent. Somebody had happened to lay down a ridiculous red carpet where there was the only sign of space, nobody knowing how it was attained or where it sprouted from. Bit by bit, more and more people began feeding the crowd just for the fun of it. People’s phones were even in the air, capturing the main figure's every move. Chairs and trays were being knocked over at an astounding rate, and it was incoherent whether a fight broke out or not, but in all seriousness, hell knew.

Surely there was no way out of something like this.

“You people get outta my way. Geddout of here!” the new student hurled at his crowd. There was a sudden shift within the chunk of people, and it was just then whereby Ted and Marco alongside many others started to topple over into a large, hefty heap of scrambling bodies.

“Good… good God!” whispered an unwilling observer, slowly revealing her eyes behind some designer shades. She stood by right at the back of the cafeteria with a few friends, back pressed up against the wall. The observer watched as the voices increased in audibility, the shoving grew in quantity, and as the faces flushed with redness. Quickly and abruptly, she took her legs swiftly outside the cafeteria block and headed towards the main, quietly-stood building.

“Hillary! What’s up? Where you going?” a girl beside her called out. But to her and her friends' dismay, it was too late for her to turn back.

Back in the cafeteria, Marco had now unsuccessfully been placed sprawled out onto the floor, with his chin just by his new friend Ted’s thigh. Ted was trying his best to stand up, and muttered a short ‘fuck’ as he comprehended how odd he and Marco must have appeared to everyone else. Not that everybody was was genuinely looking any more normal, that is. 

At that exact jaded moment, a pinkish hand greeted Ted's vision. With his eyes losing focus and his head spinning, he then slapped his hand onto the softer flesh, where he found himself and Marco being slowly pulled up by a figure around 5'10 compared to the two slightly shorter boys. Marco tried to call out a small ‘Thanks’, although before they knew it, the ambiguous figure of the young man had disintegrated far off to a place that was hard to pinpoint, a place where probably nobody knew. 

But what Ted did know, was that the guy had very distinguishable glasses.


Chapter Text

September 8th, 12:23pm 


Barack and Joe were in their office filling out some forms while they ate. It had been about eight minutes into lunchtime, and the two new authorities had to work overtime. It was their responsibility, their duty to stay behind, assist teachers, type word documents and observe pupils. The job may as well have sounded awfully mundane to the regular students, and especially stressful to the seniors and juniors preparing for end-of-year SATs. Seniors who were elected student government president had to remain in school for an extra year, taking an alternate course to the rest of the students, and the presidential title was put on their record as work experience. Many students received overwhelmingly high SAT scores in Washingcoln High – as it was one of the most well-known schools in town praised for its gifted students. Known for its many, many clubs; independent personalities, unique political roots and student government – Prez High, as expected, held a higher than plausible reputation… on the outside, anyways.

Suddenly, the Prez and his vice were startled among the ear-piercing sound the door emitted as it slammed open. There, stood a girl they both knew very well. She was in 12th grade, a senior, and someone who you could say was annoyingly experienced in many fields at Prez High. With a flushed, irritated expression spread on her face, her blonde curls began to fall from their original form to the front of her strong blue eyes.

“I’m sorry, Barry, but have you seen what’s happening over there?” the girl declared, folding her arms.

“Why, where’s the fire?” Joe asked, concerned.

"It’s not great to barge in like this, Hill, but since it’s you I don’t mind as much. Though you wouldn’t wanna get into a detention with Reagan or Roosevelt, it’s not good for your reputation." stated the Prez himself, almost humorously. “Sit down, tell me. Talk to us about it and we will try and get it sorted.”

“Man, you guys have sure turned boring since you’ve become leaders. It’s almost as if… you’re actually acting sensible! What the heck?”

“We don’t have the time to mess about now. Yeah, it’s a hard world.” admitted Barack with a sad chuckle.

“Well, anyway,” Hillary continued with a hyperloic guttural sigh. “There’s a huge mob in the cafeteria crowding around this new guy, and it’s starting to piss everybody off. People are getting hurt over there, guys, we need supervisors!”

“Damn, we’ll get right onto it!” returned Joe. Barack nodded in response.

“Thanks, Hillary.” Barack and Joe hurried out the office and quickly marched to the cafeteria hall, both together in freakish unison.

"Barry, we should sprint around the school block sometime." Joe laughed, prodding the other's shoulder. "You're not slacking, are you?"

Immediately, Barack quickened in pace. They weren't allowed to run in the corridors, but alarmingly quick walking was allowed. "Hell nah!" the Prez assured.

“Oh yeah, you should vote for me this year!” Hillary called out to the two pacing boys just from outside the office, with a cupped hand to her grinning mouth.

It had been a bit longer than four minutes since Hillary gushed the information to Joe and the Prez, but now it was as if the room had absolutely simmered down. The fuming Mr. (*Lord) Ronald Reagan had sent the seemingly obnoxious boy out of the canteen, before splitting up the mob that bunched and trailed alongside him. The setting’s aura had turned from being hysterically stirred-up in vibe, to more of a relaxing hot spring, still unsettled however, where people were contently eating, conversing, and minding their own business exclusively for Reagan’s sake. All in a space of four minutes, of course.

It had been an enigma to where the mysterious new boy was up to, as he had vanished to a place elsewhere. His fan-base had broken up; appearing puzzled as they all slowly dispersed into their own private friendship circles and cliques. Ted and Marco sat together with some other freshmen girls, with Marco sincerely patting down any visible sweat droplets. The atmosphere in overview was now fresh, seeing as there was a clean breeze from the exit sweeping through the hairs of the each of the youths. Every speck of this being, ironically, the complete contrary to Hillary’s outburst of alarm.

There was an intruder at the President’s office.

“H-hey!” a startled Hillary shrieked. She properly scanned the face of the trespasser, gaining a wave of discomfort, although her eyes hinted secretive stupefaction. It was that precise moment where Hillary began to feel a certain tightness in her chest, something abnormal. Something like – nostalgia?

“Hello to you too, dollface. I’m the Trump, Donald Trump.” the intruder responded after barging into the brightly-lit room. He didn’t hesitate to dismiss eye contact with the aggravated yet stunned young woman. 

Hillary pulled one of her disgusted expressions, shaking off the previous feeling of sentimentality. “Nobody cares what your name is, you just need to leave! This is the student president’s office, therefore you’re not allowed to- HEY!”

Donald scoffed, ignoring the girl as he began to rummage through a couple of draws planted at the side of the room. Before Hillary could restrain him, Donald had found exactly what he forecasted there to be in that exact spot - the freshmen’s middle school records.

“You’re not supposed to...” Hillary started to mumble, a little more calmly now. Her heart did not refrain from its quick beats however, which caused some confusion about what she was accurately feeling. 


“…Be here without permission.” she finished, taking a gulp.

“Oh, and you have permission, do yer?” Donald’s brows furrowed as he displayed a clear state of antipathy towards the other senior.

“Yes, you dope.” whispered Hillary, gritting her teeth. “Now just please, close that drawer and get-

Despite her softer tone, it was already far too late. Donald had snatched two of the record folders, and was just beginning to take off like a rusty plane down the hallway down the stairs of the building. Hillary stood barely outside the office, twitching with disgust at the sprinting figure. Her pale hand pressed to her forehead, where she let out a small, pathetically-charged sigh.

“How am I going to explain this to the others?”

Thirty seconds passed. The reverb of footsteps approached the corridor outside The President’s office, and in came in the two boys sharing identically bothered, identically exasperated expressions.

Hillary glanced up as her brows raised in hope. “Hey you two, that guy, the one that was causing problems in the-

“Why did you lie to us, Hill?”

“But Joe, that’s the thing - I wasn’t-

“But you were, weren’t you.”

“Don’t interrupt me, Barry! I need to explain-“


Hillary’s face had turned a flaming crimson.

“That cabinet… it’s open…” acknowledged Joe, eyes widening. “Did you do this?” he added, turning to Hillary in dismay. Hillary then frantically jolted out of her more slouched position she was originally in, before providing a sad attempt at explaining herself.

“No!! It was that new guy, Trump! He took two of the freshman’s middle school records and ran off. Like, didn’t you see him run past you while you were coming up?” Hillary insisted, clearly vexed.

“We didn’t.” Joe replied, his expression as still as ice. 

Slightly alarmed, Barack then questioned: “So you’re telling us that two of those records are gone?”

“But why would that newbie be up here if he was causing the upheaval in the cafeteria?” Joe asked Hillary. “That reminds me, there was none of what you were describing in the lunchhall in the first place. Are you sure you weren’t trying to get us out of the room, all distracted from one of your scheming plans?”

“Shit, he must’ve gone through the other exit!! Hold up, since when have I had scheming plans?!” a fueled, flustered Hillary protested. “How can you not believe your own close friend? ‘cause she damn well is telling the truth, you know!”

“But that’s the thing, Hill.” Barack began to laugh as he then continued to talk his talk. “Having been friends for a year or so, we know when you’re clearly lying to us. Face the facts. You're red as hell and you’re trembling like crazy, don’t try to conceal it. All we want is for you to give those records back.”

“And you’re smiling like an idiot.” Hillary mockingly uttered under her breath.


“WHAT, NO! This isn't good for my reputation at al---

And so after all the commotion at the first day back at Prez high, it was time for the regular school curriculum to draw to a close. Trees that shone their bright, fall glow balanced out the marble-textured building, while a pleasantly refreshing breeze accommodated the student’s lit grins. Crows and pigeons flew like paper planes across the school grounds, while the school disposed of its students steadily until they all scattered about like savage insects. Apart from the ones who were in clubs of sorts, it was time to commute home.

Indeed both Marco and Ted were exhausted, and even a little surprised with the way things went at their first day at Washingcoln in particular. They had become more familiar with each other as the day passed, especially as their awkwardly unfortunate lunchtime incident took place. Striding ahead, Marco bit the inside of his lip, and was of course wet with sweat once again.


Marco spun around to meet eye-to-eye with his new comrade, Ted Cruz.

“Which way is your house?”

“You’re kinda…” Marco began to remark. “Freaky…”

“No, I meant which way do you walk home? I was wondering whether I could have a companion with me.” Ted elaborated in more clarity. “Or do you take the school bus?”

“Ah, no I walk.” answered Marco, doubtfully taking a sip from his water bottle. “Should we start moving?”

“Yeah.” Ted chuckled.

“W-what’s so funny?” Marco sincerely asked him, his hand briskly touching the side of his own neck.


“Well what?”

“At lunch. I’m still laughing about how water takes up a third of your lunchtime meal.”

“I lose it all very easily.”

“I’ve noticed, bear with me Marco.” reassured Ted. “Oh right, what was with that senior? He looked like a real fucking ass douche if you ask me. Excuse my French. But it's justified man, he caused so much trouble..." Ted turned to the other boy, lifting a long finger. "Oh yeah…”

“Oh yeah what?”

“Sorry for the, uhh, thing. In the hall.”

“What are you sayin’?”

“Nevermind. Forget it.” Ted hastily shook his head as he frowned, as if he were trying to empty it from his already hazy memory. “This school is so serious and conformist. Although that Kasich dude was nice to us this morning, do you reckon it was him that helped us get up?

“No clue.” Marco lowly replied, suckling on his bottle. “But yeah, fuck that Trump guy!”

“Trump, huh?”

“Well, so I heard. Donald, I think it is.”

“So just because he’s rich, he gets fans just like that? Makes me sick.” shuddered Ted in disgust.

“Ted, near enough anyone who goes to this school is hella fucking rich.”

“Oh, yeah.”

The two freshmen had commuted about thirty or forty meters away from the school. They were silently accompanied with each other’s side profiles for a good two minutes until Marco jolted to a halt in the middle of the street, scattered with an assortment of colored leaves.

“You know, Ted,” he began to say. “Your eyes. That’s what I find freaky about you.”

“Well, excuse me.”

“I mean, I get that we’re both kinda Cuban so dark eyes are nothing special, it’s just…”

Ted let out a small huff. “It’s fine, I heard it all the time in junior high. To be really frank Marco, you still look like you’re in junior high. Just putting that out there.”

“Oh…” Marco whispered, his face sinking.

“What, did I upset you?”

“No, it’s just I too hear similar remarks. Plus your entire face makes me uncomfortable, so there’s that.”

“You look homosexual.”

“You look like a serial killer.”

“I know. I actually carry a penknife with me everywhere.”

“Wait, what?”

“Prez Obama is a right old commie, isn’t he?” Ted furthermore continued as a change of subject, stretching and yawning before half-grinning with his straightly drawn mouth.

“I-I think so.” supposed Marco, his head returning back to the floor. 

The jeering sounds out of the two conservative boys continued to ring with what seemed like no end. It came to a questionable point where one of them turned around, perhaps by accident, to be greeted by an older boy heavily panting just a few feet away. His hands were clutched on his bulky knees, and he wore a big, blue boxy suit along with a flashy cerise tie, contrasting with his face, hands, and unprofessional bearing at that strange yet destined, unchangeable point in time. 

“What-" began Marco, in an utmost realization. He and Ted tried to retaliate, but no other words seemed to escape from their lips.

Chapter Text

September 8th, 3:16pm

“Hello folks.” The boy breathily grumbled. “These things are yours, I see.” He presented two familiar papers in either hand, possibly displaying the smuggest smile Ted and Marco had ever witnessed. They sure knew what those papers were.

“What business do we have with you?” Ted hostilely reacted. Marco on the other hand took a few small steps back, thinking it would be the best choice to remain uninvolved with this peculiar student who happened to get his hands on his middle school record. As of yet his intentions were unclear, so much that it unnerved the pair of freshman to an extent. 

“I’m Donald.” he said, unmoved.

“We know that.” Ted sharply said in response, almost looking like he wanted to say something else, until Donald clicked his fingers to break the silence.

“You, over there, Marco.” Donald snapped. Marco jerked with fear.


“Why’re you pussying out of this?”

Marco’s arms turned stiff, jaw likewise as it clenched, feeling as if it were rejecting the words he wanted to utter from his mouth. “Sorry, but I just don’t think I should get involved with an odd senior like you, sir.”

“Oh, the records.” Donald remembered, on the verge of explaining the elephant in the room. “I stole ‘em from Prez Obama’s office. It was a lot easier than I thought it was gonna be, they should hire a new secretary next time. One that’s less of a sissy.” he clamored, letting out a rather ugly, throaty laugh.

“But why?” Ted asked, unimpressed and looking for answered.

“'Cause I heard from vice principle Lincoln himself that you two asses attended two of the most highly reputable junior high schools majoring in law and politics. You’re the best outta the new freshmen!”

“So?” Ted hesitantly retaliated, glaring at the rich mess that stood alongside him and the apprehensive Marco Rubio.

“Say, can I make you guys my sidekicks?” Donald proposed out of the blue, battering his lashes as if he were begging. The switch in tone was almost comedic, but at the time, it only irked Marco and Ted a great amount. “I’m new to Washingcoln high too, you know. It would be good for me to make some friends with some underclassmen…” expressed Donald, awfully attempting to sound sincere.

“What’s in it for us!?” Ted queried.

“Everyone will think you’re all cool when they see you with me. My father’s a millionaire, so you can get some dough out of it. You two are on the list for the candidates running in this year’s student election too, right? For the republican school council? “

“What puzzles me the most is how you know these things about us?” admitted a very tense, clammy Marco.

“I know a lotta things. I can sue anyone. I’m hella rich, come fight me.” Donald’s attempt at satire was for sure not quaint.

A fresh, autumn rush of air met all three of the boy’s faces, with orange-green leaves dancing along the shy breeze. Donald’s legs started shifting out of their staple proud stance into an even more complacent, brisk walk. Ted and Marco turned their heads a modest amount, viewing the back of Donald’s large figure bouncing along the sidewalk. A short distance away he stopped and finally faced them for the last time that day. 

“7:30am Wednesday - meet at this exact spot right here. Be late and I’ll sue you." he threatened. "You know what, have my number.” a small pair of hands passed Ted a piece of paper with a number on it, bold and stained through the paper. Yet before either he or Marco could even call out a reply, Donald had already dashed along the footpath into the far distance, his legacy at that point being nobody other than this mysteriously pretentious, invasive, yet oddly charming character.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Ugh…” grumbled Hillary. “Do I have to?”

“You do.” McCain insisted. “You two are lucky that Roosevelt or Reagan didn’t have to supervise you both, I can predict how fed-up you two would be if that was the case.”

“Us two?”

Hillary tilted her head until she came into contact with a classmate she happened to know moderately well. A cold smile tweaked upon her face as she walked up to the peer, her expression juxtaposing with his face radiating neutrality. The young man was reading a book with nanoscopic text crammed onto the pages, and as his eyes glued to the off-white paper, he displayed a tiny smile. He froze, squinting and processing the familiar voice. The boy glanced upwards at the lurking shadow in the corner of his eye, carefully adjusting his very distinguishable glasses.

“Hi, Bernie!” Hillary greeted.

“Hey, so what brought you here today, Clinton?” Bernie inquired, laughing while baring his teeth, possessing a sparkle in his eye as he did. The candidate was indeed one of by most standards, someone rather indescribable, rather unique. Alas, he wasn’t a very outspoken figure as of that point, hence the reason some esteemed him overlooked or an unmemorable choice of role model. Notwithstanding he had already made a mark that day, other than having a detention, fortunately for him. Bernard Sanders was not too cold or too warm of a persona, however there was a side to the young man that liked to spark every now and again, whenever he was passionate over a particular issue, he'd pinpoint that alright. After naming himself an independent throughout his stay at Washingcoln, Bernie was ready to join the democratic council in order to have a chance in the presidency. All this time underclassmen democrats admired him, but couldn't openly express their love for the senior of mixed-temperament in a way others could understand. Now though, Bernie hoped to captivate as many of the people as he could. 

Clinton? Heck Bernie, Bill and I aren’t married yet.” Hillary claimed along with a small blush.

“Will you quit with the jibber jabber?” McCain grunted from a fair distance. It had been as if he was edging away in order to leave the classroom as the seconds ticked by. “This is detention, not a day-care mothers’ meeting.”

“Don’t you have places to go, John?” Hillary heavily muttered under her breath.

“Yes, I do.”

“Miss Sarah Palin, is it?”

“Yeah, I have no idea what she wants though.”

“Probably something trivial. Man, is she a suck-up.”

McCain, beyond question exited without saying a word. The two seniors were left alone in the barren classroom. Hillary walked over to a desk next to Bernie’s, her white blouse more undone than usual and her feet red from wearing such high heels. It was blatant she regretted her decision of wearing such flashy attire for her first impression for the freshmen to capture. Nevertheless she considered it her job to impress, empower and look the part. She was Barack’s secretary, after all. Having been in various clubs of all sorts, ranging from Washingcoln’s PEP Club to the School Newspaper, Tuesday was her only day off – and it was so ironically incredible how she was to spend her first one of the year in detention. And unsurprisingly so, it was definitely not her first overall.

“There’s such a variety of Johns in this school.” Bernie let out a small chuckle as he glanced up from his book; elbows on desk.

“I know. Freaking weird, right?” Hillary half-chuckled in response. “But anyways, the reason why I’m here is because Barry thought I was rummaging through the drawers that stored the new freshmen’s junior high records. I was the one that ordered him and Joe to sort that jerk Donald out – and guess what, right, he was the one in the first place that came up to-

“Donald Trump? Ah, yes. I had to lend a hand to some of the new freshmen because of his extreme crowd. It was like he was a fucking magnet. It was a riot down there.” accidentally chipped in Bernie, cutting off Hillary mid-sentence. Hillary’s mouth was still clenched open, searching for the right words to convey her side to the story. Instead, the only thing that was let out was one shaky, aggravated sigh.

“Why did they even have those records anyways!?” Hillary angrily spouted, facing Bernie who couldn’t look any less bothered.

“Probably to get a gist of who they were, what schools they attended and so on.” Bernie coolly suggested. “But I don’t think it’s common in schools. Say, Hill, would you like some of my leftover honey challah roll?”

“How sweet of you to offer me some of your weird Jewish food, Bern. I'm all for cultural cuisine but I'm not touching that.” Hillary said in one of her more satirical tones. For the time spent sitting down she had been lolling about on her desk, looking very weary, tired, and missing her summer vacation. “So, why’re you here, Sonny?”

Sonny, huh? Yeah, I’m older than you, stupid.”


“Technically speaking, Washington happened to catch me with some spray paint and got the wrong idea. It wasn’t like I was planning to go all anarchy on him and spray-paint his ass pink.”

“Yeah, Bernie; I’m not sure that that’s what anarchy is all about.”

“Uh, ahaha, well, I’ll have better luck in the future.” jokingly added Bernie, growing quieter at the end of his sentence.

“Um, I’m in the anti-vandalism committee you know, so don’t even try it, boy!”

“Why in the hell is that club even a thing?”

“Uhh...” began a weak-willed Hillary. “I don’t even care anymore…”


“Whatever. You go get ‘em kid.” she incoherently voiced with a thumbs up.

“Go get what?!”

Bernie had a complicated relationship with Hillary. Even though they were both going on eighteen, they still managed to converse like angsty middle-schoolers. Whenever they had an opportunity in class, or when one of them, especially Bernie, was sat alone, one of them would pull the usual antic of teasing the other. Unmistakably they were friends, but rivals. Frivals. While also cold, commanding and strong, Hillary Rodham was a popular, preppy girl who always wanted to be down with what was up to the minute. As a former conservative, she had only identified as a pledged democrat for no longer than two years. In spite of the fact she was viewed as problematic to the general public of Prez High, Hillary genuinely wanted to succeed that following year. Succeed at becoming the first female school president that Washingcoln High would undergo.

Bernie didn’t necessarily get involved with Hillary’s personal life, but they would stirr conversation regardless if one of them were stuck in a passive aggressive temperament. He acknowledged how many of his underclassmen friends despised her, but that was okay. They were always totally different people. They had always been rivals; now even moreso when each of them discovered one another's intentions to sign up for next year’s president.

“Wow, you’re going for it again?” Bernie questioned in surprise.

“Yep! Consider us official rivals now!” Hillary replied optimistically, yet with sinister undertones. Bernie kept in mind Hillary's verbal ticks and way of speaking, and predicted she was going to add something in her usual fashion. But there was only silence, or what Bernie liked to consider awkward bliss.

“Ah.” began Hillary, breaking the quietude. “I need to call Bill.”

“Didn’t you say in social studies that he had the flu?” asked Bernie.

“Yeah, my poor little sweetie is sick, Bern! Can you believe it?”

Bernie did his best attempt to not cringe when thinking of the third party. “He’s a perv.” he mumbled, breaking eye-contact. 

Hillary ignored the comment and whipped out a costly phone, one that appeared ridiculously fragile that all the preppy kids probably carried around in their designer bags. Bernie shook his head and apathetically returned his book.

“Hey Billy… Have you been getting enough rest?” Hillary softly cooed to her beloved boyfriend.

“Yah,” replied Bill sheepishly. It had been evident that he had a blocked nose and wasn’t in his most aware of conscious states.

“I got some of your favorite candy with me, should I bring it over?”

“Gee thanks! But if you’re talking about my favorite type of sweet thang, all you gotta do is cooome as you aaare.”

Hillary blushed as she let out a forced giggle, ignoring the possible Nirvana reference. “Right. Hershey’s it is.”

“Yeah, a kiss?”

“Stop that, Bill.”

“Man, aren’t you sexy when you’re angry.”

“Hey, quit it! Oh yeah, guess what. I’m running for Prez again!” Hillary mischievously chanted, accompanied with a quick eye-roll from Bernie.

“Just as I suspected! When I get back I can see you wooing those crowds!”

Hillary’s smile slightly dropped, looking downwards at her knuckles. There had been a few exchanges of breathing on the line for a moment or two, perhaps a few odd noises heard from Bill’s end. All of a sudden, Hillary furrowed both her brows and spouted:

“Bill! Are you reading those magazines again? The really perverted stuff?”




Hillary burst out a short cackle, hand barely covering her mouth as she exposed a big, cheesy grin - teeth and everything.

“I… I love you, Bill.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Chapter Text

September 8th, 4:15pm


4:15pm. The end of all clubs and detentions, the end of student government and the very start of a warm, yellow sundown. With fall having come early that year, the trees shed their tawny leaves, with each one of them twirling downwards, as if it were this timed routine, onto the very last school bus that lay solitary in the parking lot. There were only two students, specifically brothers, that were present inside the vehicle, alongside an extremely wound-up Richard Nixon. 

"You ready to go?” bleated Nixon.

“Yes sir.” a single, passive voice called out from the back of the bus. At last the bus shifted its hindquarters and softly galloped to the main road which lay before them.

“So yeah, mom was worried ‘bout how you weren’t home, Jeb.” the second voice remarked. “You don’t have tennis today, do you? We tried to ring your cell but it was turned off, so mom made me come all this way to check what you were up to.”

“Tell her and dad I’m sorry.”


A period of quiescence took place shortly after the second boy turned away from his younger, sincerely apologetic brother.

“Hey, uh, George?”


“I volunteered to stay and study. So I could do mom and dad proud for once.”

“Whatever, you really don’t need to. We’re not even gonna start any tests from next week, for God’s sake!” shouted George.

"Bush! The older one! Quit your yelling!” Nixon yelled, mirroring George's amplitude.

After poking out his tongue in the bus driver's general direction, George obnoxiously snorted, facing away. “Yeeeah, kay!”

“I-I want to take my junior year seriously, not like you did. Besides aren’t you the one who tells me not to say God’s name in vain?”

“Yeah, yeah.” George replied, irritated. “But I was great prezzy and you know it. Heh. Hehe."

“Well, yeah. You are my brother after all.”

"I've been misunderestimated most of my life, so it's hard for me." George murmured, where he school bus proceeded to jolt and jive in a weaving pattern, clearly being the rigid consequence of Nixon’s distressed sentiment.

John Ellis ‘Jeb’ Bush was perched modestly on a seat in the far corner, where the largest window stood just beside him. His feet and body was positioned away from his older brother, slothfully spread out on the back seats as he messed about on his phone. Jeb was left to his own shenanigans, facing the window where his eyes bleakly stared out to the warm, yet frail and hopeless autumn scenery. He blew gently onto the glass pane while lifting a single finger, and impulsively rubbed off the moisture while his mind wondered into the deep dark pit of elsewhere. 

'Guacamole, guac guac-amole.... need to download that sometime.'


While George was goofy, popular and probably not the brightest bulb, Jeb was by far the gentlest yet cynical out of the two brothers. He also towered quite a bit over George in height, and had brown wavy hair and curved bangs that complimented his dark, beady eyes and brows. George shared the appearance in eyes, but throughout other fields the brothers held few similarities. Sure, Jeb was liked, but it was the way he appeared with such an intimidating stance at 6’3'' in height and having a special breed of resting-bitch-face that made him come across unapproachable. A few could even recall him as arrogant, which was quite surprisingly far from true. Deep, deep down, when he was alone, Jeb was simply just an introvert of low energy that, assumingly, didn’t really know what he was doing running for Prez in the first place.

And every so often he happened to hold this intuition that he was this sort of outcast, the least favorite of his parent’s pick; and it was indeed a sad thought to carry. Yet, he hoped this year was going to be different from all the rest. He would make something out of himself, surely. 


“Ey,” George clicked his fingers near Jeb’s pink cheeks. Jeb’s upper body jerked, fairly startled from having been interrupted from his daydream.

“George, do you honestly think it was a good move signing up?”

“It’s what mom and dad want, Jeb. And try and make some more close friends this year, alright?” George steadily said, scratching at his thick eyebrows. 

Jeb pouted in response and fidgeted in his seat, putting out an air of discomfort at his brother's demeaning statement. “I already have friends. There are even some that think I'll actually be the nominee for the republican council.”

“Yeah, but if you start talking with people, perhaps some other guys who are running… it will help you to get a whole lot further.”

“Right.” replied Jeb with a small smile, now a little more content. 

“Whatever, I’ll be rooting for ya at least!”

"Yeah, I'm Jeb exclamation-point proud to be a Bush! Well, I'll be glad to have such a great, rational speaker supporting me. Thanks bro."


"Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we."- George W. Bush, 2004


Chapter Text


September 9th, 7:33am


“Well, I’m here aren’t I?”

Donald, standing approximately where he took off yesterday, turned up to the others' surprise wearing a ostentatious military uniform looking as if he was about to proceed into world war three. Marco stood beside his new friend Ted in the usual state of clamminess, the latter looking as nonchalant as ever. There stood the iconic three, ready to make their way to school. Donald Trump and his new batch of increasingly reluctant sidekicks.

Ted owned a neutral countenance to his face, neither happy or annoyed in response to Donald’s harsh presence. He was dressed in a regular flannel shirt and black pants, laced-up shoes and a belt with a Texas buckle, whereas Marco wore an all gray suit, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The contradictory characters between the two were clear, although of course it was Donald who happened to outdo them all in regards to a different, eye-catching appearance.

“Wow, Donald.” voiced Marco, wide eyed, although trying not to stare to the point of unnaturalness. “You went all out today.”

“Yeah. It's my military uniform from my old high school. Sure to get us all noticed, ain’t that right? After all, it is my job to look the part as a strong leader.” conceitedly returned Donald. He coaxed the two freshmen with a brief hand signal until the three boys were treading up the sloping path – all at vastly differing paces. As Marco was doing an honest attempt at not to straggle behind Ted too much, he and Donald happened to exchange some mild small talk, while Ted decided to stay put.

“You’re quiet today.” Donald began to note, facing the more uninvolved brunet.



“Hey,” Ted’s face grew stony as he glared at his acquaintance, but it very quickly waned in severity. “Uh, apologies. Just please don’t call me that.”

“You look like a very composed guy, Ted.” supposed Donald, comically scratching his chin. “It makes you seem like a perfect role for a true psycho.” Ted didn’t bother to make eye contact, nor craft up a witty reply. Donald, however, resumed in speech, taking lead of the conversation. “Anyways, gang, us three are running for school Prez, no?” Donald inputted after smarmily grinning.

“Yep.” replied Marco.

“I was thinking - thinking of building a wall.” Donald told the rest of his group, with an ugly grin profoundly expanding as if it were a line of smudged ink. “Like a wall around our school to make sure no Mexican or Muslim students are gonna ever be applying ‘ere.”

“Wouldn’t that just stop anyone from coming in? I understand we need more restrictions but isn’t that totally extreme?” Marco asked, although not believing the older boy had any seriousness attached to his statement at all.

“Well, it’s one of those revolving walls that can detect your nationality.”


“Yer all know about that act of terror when Bush was around dontcha? Actually no… You’re still rookies here.” acknowledged Donald still facing Marco, with a slight adjust to the subject. 

“So are you, dumbass.” Ted heavily muttered, eyes still averted away.

“Yeah, but I know things. Besides. When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best… They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume are good people.”

“You’re an idiot.” Ted put forth, after a period of silence. Not long after, the group of boys arrived at the top of the slight angled hill, their breaths, footsteps and cracking of knuckles being lucid as the speckles of sounds swept away in the breeze.


Meanwhile, Barack and Joe were casually sauntering – paralleled – up to the main entrance opposing to where Trump & co. were ambling. They both looked prepared to take on the second day of school, working besides each other and constructing and exploring their new title. There were murmurs of ‘Look, it’s Barry!’ and ‘Wow, them two be looking fiiine today,’ from a few sophomore girls, supposedly fans of Barack. As one would expect, everything seemed to be effortlessly put together, yet all was to change as soon as the Prez and Joe happened to take a mere step past the school gates.

“Ah shit, RUNAWAY, CREW!” Donald exclaimed, eyes locking with the two leaders across the courtyard. 

Ted stopped in his tracks before coldly asking a shrill: “What, what’s the matter with you?”

“That bitchass girl from yesterday, what if she told them what I did?”

“Did what?”

“I went through that ass Obama’s drawer,” Donald explained, taking swift steps to his right as his two sidekicks followed, clearly disorientated from the interruptive outburst stemming from Donald's pursed mouth. “There was this blondie in the Prez’s office who was yelling at me as I retrieved your records.”

“Why was she in the Prez’s office?” questioned Marco as he took off his blazer, evident sweat patches forming beneath his underarms.

“Probably a girlfriend.” Ted coolly suggested.

“Yeah, she looked like one of them girls.” Donald assumed as he spaced out, squinting at the patchy sky of disjointed clouds and blue-gray tinges. The three had scampered to behind the school building, positioned in front the wire fencing and the grove of bowing trees. The back of the school managed to reverb the most uncomfortable air of mugginess, as if the students had been piled into an overcrowded room; the people replaced with thorny shrubs and a biodiversity of weeds of grasses. It was then 7:45, and fortunately there was no sign of any visible persons behind the lofty, towering mess of Prez High, which unusually but utterly happened to resemble Donald himself at that moment. The back of the building was essentially this small plain of cramped vegetation, a place where shadows were instantly cast, a place which the group had no plan or schedule to be trampling through during the early morning.

“This is stupid.” whined Marco, after a hefty three minutes. "Surely they’ve gone inside.”

“The squirt is right, Donald.” added Ted. He, like the others had gotten their calves wet from the morning dew that had settled on the thick strands of grass.

Very suddenly, an averagely slim figure ascended from a corner of the school building, perhaps from their left, his glasses loosely clutched in his left hand and spray-paint can in the right. As he wallowed through the verdant mass, he whirled behind him to spot a female student panting heavy breaths after stumbling through the progressively lengthy grass. It had seemed she was mouthing the word ‘stop!’, before the male figure accustomed to her presence and handed her his attention. 

“Oh, look!” called out Donald, pointing a stiff finger in the general direction of the pair. “It’s Obama’s girlfriend.”

“What!? Oh shit, it’s you!” The girl stuttered in horror, only then noting upon the others alongside the undergrowth. The outlandish size of the Washingcoln’s main building cast the area of wild greenery with an inky shadow; so furthermore identifying an unfamiliar person would be downright impossible. The overall view was murky and damp, and not very pleasant at all. Not as if Donald actually cared.

“Or did you dump him for mister delinquent over there?”

“I’m telling you, we’re friends! Bernie is a smart kid; It's just that I suspected he was going to do something dangerous out here. I should have known from your implications. Do you really want to be arrested as soon as you turn eighteen-”

Bernie calmly, but mostly unsuccessfully, halted the other with one of his staple hand gestures. “Thanks for the useless lecture, Hill. I came here to throw the can in the bushes. Nothing more.” With his mouth widened, he began to chuckle as he scratched at his short, dark curls of hair. Hillary continued to explain her view of the incident, disapproving of Bernie's attempt of silencing. Nearby, Ted and Marco eyed the two new characters that interacted with such animation, such ambiguous signals that it almost indicated they were arguing with each other. In fact, despite no noticed resentment between Bernie and Hillary, it was not clear as to if they were friends or not. 

“Are you sure you two aren’t going out?” Marco tried to get involved, steering towards the staple heteronormative suggestion, but was as uncoordinated with what was taking place as Ted did himself at that point, tensely standing and peering at the enticing discourse. Ted backed away slightly from the awkward circle that had sprung between the five of them, almost tripping on a stray bramble.

“No, he is just a... friend.” Hillary once more explained, putting strain on her last word. Her face fading from frustrated to neutral, she arched back her shoulders and took a few steps forward. “Say, you’re a cute lil’ pup.” she then started to smirk, facing Marco, although it came across rather patronizingly. “You too, over there,” she directed an unwilling smile to Ted, as if she were obliged. Ted's face didn’t alter drastically, yet the change in feeling was noticeable. In brief terms, it was confusing whether their reactions were positive or not. Marco remained fidgeting in his upright position, forehead slightly sweating and his big brown eyes darting side to side.

“Wow,” Donald started a slow clap in this hyperbolized satire, his face scrunching up into a taunting half-smile. “Tryin’ to hit on fourteen year olds now? Wow, Hillary. You pervert.”

“I’m sorry, but do I know you?” she uttered, hardly moving her fixed gaze. 

“Yeah. Everyone knows me.”

“You do realize it was your fault I got a detention? It hasn’t even been two days and you’ve proved to be such a pest, like, what the hell?! I feel sorry for your new friends, quite frankly.”

Ted and Marco exchanged a quick, interlocking nod of ‘she gets it.’

“What, you gonna tell the Prez, your mister on me?.” mocked Donald, intentionally as he clocked Hillary’s expression of disgust crescendoing into a scowl.

“Bill's my boyfriend, okay?! Now shut up, all of you! Bernie and I are leaving.” she spurted. Though she concluded they did not have any association her significant other, she still wanted to get a point across, over and done with so that she wouldn't have to interact with them like that for the rest of her life. Hillary impulsively yanked Bernie’s arm, but soon let go slightly before she skipped ahead. Bernie dropped his can in a daze, still trying to comprehend the interaction that took place. He shakily put on his glasses with his free hand, pushing the lenses up with his index finger. There Hillary was, on the verge of dragging her rival around the school building like an off-beat manic. Although her eyes were still latched onto Donald from a few feet away, she eventually faced forward and ran past Bernie, intending to return to the front of the courtyard.

“Oh, Hey! Hillary, Bernie!” Donald bawled out a second after Hillary escaped his eye-locking grasp. Hillary came to a stop and turned her head to answer the intimidating son-of-a-millionaire, but Bernie sprinted away with determination. He was a man built for running after all, and was a reputable figure on the school track team. 

"What is it now?” expressed Hillary. 

“I saw you practicing a speech in the school corridors yesterday, Hillary.” he then inputted. “You guys are running for Prez, aren’t you?”

“What? No way, how did you know?”

“I know many things.”

Hillary scoffed and walked away. Bernie trod around the corner before anyone could stop him, his last few steps more ungainly than his initial leaps. Meanwhile Marco and Ted also began to exit from the scene, avoiding eye contact with the strange girl that was either flirting with, forming a bond with, or mocking them. Undoubtedly for obvious reasons, they predicted it was all three.

“Oh yeah,” called out Donald once more, to Hillary. “You’re a pretty great speaker. I can see you’re a well-presented republican that can be able to attract all kinds of crowds, keep it up. I’ll be looking forward to debating you in the republican council!” he shortly dissipated around the other side, huffing and puffing as he did.

“B-but.. I'm a democrat!?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Ahh… document files really do make a great fan, you get me?”

“Tell me, Mitt – What are you doing here again?”

It was five minutes into lunch, and Barack’s office remained brimming with scattered papers, disorganized files and a sluggish Mitt Romney who had looted the fine space of the president’s swivel chair. Joe had left to buy sandwiches, and Barack chose to get back down to work, ignoring his fair privilege of an entire hour of break. It was his second day, but he simply could not get the place tidy as to how he wanted, and so instead focused himself on his work and hoped to leave at least some of the clearing up to Joe. Barack had taken his role of Prez very wholeheartedly, so much that even Principal Washington advised to take it easy once in a while. But Barack knew he was lazy, or at least he thought he was a slacker - and needed to get his act together.

There was a particular aspect in the way his face looked, something where one could tell something was amiss. His attitude contradicted heavily to the first day's facade, after all. It was manifest that Barack thought he wasn’t already doing a good enough job, but fortunate for him, he had Joe by his side to get him through those kinds of things. Every so often flashbacks of tension between he and other candidates would strike his crowded mind, furthermore reminding him how there really must’ve been many people who absolutely despised him as their leader.

But then wasn’t a time nor place for overthinking; this was just another standard day at Prez High.

Mitt overtly fanned his face, not because he was hot, but he was bored, and certainly felt bothered enough to compliment Barack's internal thoughts and feelings. He had been lounging in the office for a good few minutes as if he was waiting to confess something, with the Prez keeping a steady eye, anticipating Mitt's notification. He hoped it was nothing that would get him too worked up.

“I want to apologize.” Mitt finally stated, shifting into a more upright position on the swivel chair. He put down his substitute of a fan, pointing his feet towards his former opponent.

“Oh, it's nothing. I understand how the republican council must hate me for being their authority.” Barack responded, putting on a warm smile. To his dismay the smile was only ephemeral, and Mitt could sense this sudden onset of tension that lingered within the other. 

“You were right, Barack. I was being ungodly and I honestly hope no one saw that.” ad(mitt)ed Mitt.

“Ah, that’s alright. Besides girls are really into the fresh-faced rich Mormon boys, so you know, I reckon you have nothing to worry about with your... uh, reputation...”

“I’m not sure whether you’re complimenting me or insulting me.”

“Me neither.”

“Say, Obama…” Mitt began to mutter, considering Barack's discomforted air he had about him. “On Monday you seemed a lot less wound up than you are now. Does it honestly take an entire day to realize this title isn’t easy?”

“I haven’t been distressed over the paperwork.” Barack then answered, genuinely. His smile began to drop and he looked a bit melancholic behind the eyes, yet Mitt didn’t want to mention anything of it. “It’s me. I’ve brooded over whether I’d be a good leader or not. Say, if I could ever make a change to this school, how y'all are perceiving me, what my legacy will be like, matters like that. But it's not much of a big deal.”

Mitt returned a lukewarm pat on Barack’s back, who had now turned away. “You’re a cool black guy, it’s inevitable people are gonna love you.”

Barack didn’t cook up an immediate response. But after a short moment, he stood up from the computer desk’s chair and directed a doubtful, yet somehow warm smile.

“Thanks for being my rival, Mitt.”


Chapter Text


September 9th, 12:24pm


“Wow, and you didn’t get any for me. Righty-o, Joe.”

“Ahaha, sorry, I wasn't expecting you.” Joe said, forcing a kind smile. It was coherent that he and Mitt also had some tension from that previous summer, but hadn’t really touched upon the subject since one of the last days of the former academic semester. Joe could vividly recall specific disagreements that had last set him off, like on a rampage, loud, passionate and mocking - but the present moment wasn’t a time nor place... for that.

“Does anyone want ice cream?” Joe asked, baring the cones in his right arm and resembling the Statue of Liberty. 

“Yeah, buddy, you might wanna...” Mitt did a rubbing motion on his lip with his white knuckles.

“You never change, Joe.” Barack snickered as he took a sandwich and a cone from his vice’s grip. Joe bashfully drew his fist to his face, wiped off the excess cream, and reddened in his face as his mouth formed an endearing smirk. He sat down to eat, and the entire room’s atmosphere then obtained a mood more content. All was oddly nice as of that moment, even with Barack's buzzing of concerns it did not cease to be so bad as time fluttered past.

“Well, I need to get going.” disclosed Mitt after a couple of minutes, letting out a sigh of relief. “Let's bet I don’t run into that Trump again.”

“Oh, that guy? The rich one who’s getting into fights with people in the hallways?” Joe inquired. 

“I should probably start doing something about that.” Barack regarded, bringing his hand to his chin. Mitt started to take off, slowly opening the office door as it emitted a comical creak. Turning to Barack and Joe for the last time, he declared:

“We got into some brawl today, to sum it up. It’s not really much of a big deal.”

“Guessing you’re not gonna be voting for him, then.” jeered Barack, his mouth still full with food. 

“Absolutely not. Speaking of the upcoming race, who are you guys thinking of sucking up to?”

“We’re not so sure.” replied Joe, glancing back at the Prez. He mouthed a quick “Hillary?” in Barack’s general direction.

“Clinton’s girl? Haha, yeah sure.” Mitt laughed. 

Before Barack or his vice could say anything, Mitt was proudly striding down the school corridor, vanishing into what was to be a long-term irrelevance. “You losers have a nice time writing essays and all that flippity-flop."

“What even is Mitt Romney?” Joe let out a long exhale.

“Are you really calling us the losers?” Barack jokingly called out, poking his head out from the office door.

“Oh yeah, you’re right! I lost!”

“Flippity-flop.” repeated Joe. 

“Come on, now-

“Flip-flop. Etch a sketch. Binders full of women.” recited Barack. 

“No, shut up!”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

September 11th, Friday. It had been almost a full academic week since the students of Prez High had started the school year, and things, to everyone's accord, had been running rather smoothly. The first out of the five presidential debates were to happen at the end of October, and it was time for the students who had applied to start their individual campaigning. Some chose to sell gifts in the corridors, while others designed their idiosyncratic slogans on placards. Some even held rallies, advertising themselves and their speeches, their brand, about their proposals for making the school a better place. Washingcoln had a very rigid, restricted two-party council system that meant students were either to run as a republican or a democrat if they wanted to get far in their campaign. The green and libertarian club societies argued they were not given enough coverage by the school press and announcers in order for them to succeed, resulting in hoards of people believing they were bound to two choices. This sometimes caused problems for individuals who had more alternative political beliefs they wanted to apply to their regime, like right-libertarians or socialists, as they felt they had little representation.

It may have been classified as almost an extremity for the school to take grasp of such a system; nonetheless it had been functioning ever since Washington and Lincoln first started with the establishment. Students applied political theory to the way they thought things had to run in the school, and as leader were required to elaborate their belief system clearly to gain support. That was how it always had been. Washington secretly had strong doubts, but democratically went by the student majority where most opted the system to remain the same. Washingcoln High, although fruitful, feisty and free, could have been classed as a place that taught children how to be so highly corrupt and tight-minded in a span of four years. But it wasn’t, surely, it was full of many bountiful liberties… no?



“WHA- …oh…”

It was class interval. Ben Carson was slumped on his desk, looking as if he were full on baked, on the brink of dozing off until he jerked to the reverb of John Kasich calling his name. He hadn’t paid attention in the last ten minutes of class, and definitely hadn’t taken a grip onto what the answer to ‘Explain in briefest terms how caesuras in poetry or literature can be used as an effect.’ might have been.

“Oh John, It’s you.” Ben acknowledged, softening in his tone. He got out a thick book: ‘The Wonders of Neuroscience’ from under his desk lid and opened it up to the ninety-fourth page. Sheepishly glancing up at Kasich, he asked a small: “What’s up?”

“I heard from Jeb that you’re thinking of running.”

“Yeah! I hope to overthrow our current Prez by the end of thiss, he’s going dowwwn! Lllletssss put an ennnd to this polidicol correctnaz.” Ben mumbled in slurred speech, still looking and sounding half asleep. (make that three quarters) 

“You sure are seriously persistent for somebody who looks desperate for a bedtime story.”

“I have a terrible temper, John.”

“Of course.” Kasich shook his head after his replacement for a rebuttal. “But anyways, don’t you think it’s far too early for everyone to advertise themselves? It happens every single damn year and now that I’ve finally signed up-

“Ooh, iz that why yous came to talk to me?”

“Yeah. No. Well, sort of. We’re in a lot of classes together so I was thinking if it was possible if we could get to know each other a bit better before we end up dropping out because of dumbass discourse.”

“Waaahaha, I’m flattered.” Ben was lowly scanning his book about brains, head on desk, not making very clear eye contact with his classmate at all.

“This isn’t flattery, Ben. The people running this year sound like absolute maniacs, haven’t you heard?!” Kasich was now in a mixed state of forced laughter amongst a bad attempt of effective rhetoric.

“Don’t you think heated milk is such a delectable beverage? Especially compared to the cold stuff we get served in the cafeteria.”

“What the heck does this have to do with this year's presidency?!”

“Aha, sorry John. I’m just trying not to be negative here.”

“Geez oh man.”


Chapter Text


September 11th, 3:03pm


“Bernie,” called out Hillary. “Why didn’t you hold a party on your birthday? I would have invited so many people to attend. Also one of my friends thinks you're really cool and mysterious, so you’ll have that going for you.”

“Haha, uh, I only invited some of my close friends around, family friends, neighbors, and acquaintances like that. Plus I really wouldn’t say I’m looking for a girlfriend.”

“Yes, but why didn’t you invite me?” Hillary continued, jokingly fluttering her lashes as her mouth molded into a sharp pout.

“You literally said yourself you had a date with Bill on that day.”

“But you asking me would’ve heightened up my self-esteem, ya know?” she further quipped.

“You’re nuts.”

Bernie and Hillary were the first of the few to arrive at their then second detention of the year. Casually waiting outside their assigned classroom, they tediously loitered for the others expected to arrive. Both of them, using their sharp intuition, inherently predicted it was going to be nothing short of a disaster.

“To be honest, I’m a little paranoid about what my parents will say.” Hillary’s eyes sank as she spoke.

“Albeit it wasn’t entirely your fault, so keep that in mind. If I hadn’t gone over to where Donald was, for instance..." Bernie paused. 

“Yeah, you’re right! It was all your fault!” the other's eyes brightened like before, although her tone sounded almost forced. Bernie shrugged apathetically as soon as Hillary’s sudden croaky, throaty cackle resonated in his ears.

“You’re so fucking odd, Hill.”


“Ey, ey; you asses, where you think you’re goin’? Donald barked at the other end of the corridor. The final outcome was that the Wednesday morning of the gathering resulted in Donald, Ted, Marco, Hillary and Bernie all having lost track in time, and the lot of them were sentenced a warning in first class. Lates were a big matter in Prez High, as if you attended such a school in the first place, you were expected to be as punctual as could be.

“We might as well just go.” Ted dryly indicated, not sounding at all bothered.

Marco responded with a nod. “Yeah, I'm not up for a phonecall home, Donald.”

“Whatever, you gays.”

“You mean... do you mean guys?” Ted offered, slow in speech.

“Gays.” Donald persisted. 

“What even?”


The trio of boys redundantly dragged themselves besides the door to the classroom, whereabouts Bernie and Hillary were standing. A few moments of monotonous small talk and fidgeting between the two groups took place, only until Barack, the prime catalyst of the mix of people arrived, flung open the classroom door, and glided in without a word.

“Heyyy, Prez.” Donald loudly jeered, squaring his shoulders as he blocked the entrance of the room, the others scowling behind him. Barack nodded as a short reply to the somewhat intimidating greeting. “So, whatcha doin’ ‘ere?” Donald further questioned. 

“I’ve volunteered to supervise all of you.” Barack called out from inside the room. “I heard all of you were running for next year’s Prez, though please correct me if I'm wrong. How is everyone doing?”

“Obama,” began Donald, with an iconic purse to his lips before he spoke. “There’s something about you that just screams to me you’re a Muslim.”

Hillary whirled herself around, sharply glaring in Donald’s direction.“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It’s not like it’s a bad thing, Rodham.”

“No, but from what I’ve seen of you this past week, I can just tell you meant that in a prejudice fashion.”

“Shoosh, toots, you have no idea whatcha talkin' 'about, okay?” Donald hushed, as if he had just received his degree at the University of Mansplaining. “Speaking of lovely me and my proposals this week, we really do need to build a waaaaall. It’s gonna be huge.

Uncomfortable noises including sighs and shuffling infused themselves throughout the lifeless corridor, just until Barack shot a few eye signals at Hillary which were perhaps implying his first interpretation of the mess that stood before them – Donald J. Trump.

“Uh, aha, shouldn’t you guys be sitting down now?” Barack then asked quite abruptly, sitting informally on one of the class desks. “I won’t be too hard on all of you so don't expect any legitimate work or anything.”

The gathering of five strolled in and each sat down at a desk. Bernie immediately headed towards the back of the room, evidently trying not to be the center of attention at that very moment. He brought out a couple of homework sheets from his pocket and laid them out on the table, meanwhile Hillary, sat someplace in front revealed her smartphone while still feeling peeved at Donald’s remarks.

“Don’t listen to that idiot, Barry.” Hillary limply directed her hand in Donald’s general direction. Donald stuck his tongue out with strong contempt.

“Wait, guys-” Marco hollered, still carelessly standing up and aiming a finger to the back of the room. “Who is… that?”


There, at the right-hand corner of the vast, cold classroom, sat Jeb Bush with his elbow resting on his desk and his eyes softly peering out of the window, where a breeze started to occupy his gaze. He frankly looked as if he was the cool-headed protagonist of an anime; suspiciously pensive, yet probably not as deep in thought as people would mistake him for. 

“You see, children, that’s The Brother,” denounced Hillary in one of her strange voices. “We don’t talk about him.”

Ted, happening to ignore Hillary in every sense whatsoever, with an air of confidence walked up to the new character in the room in order to construct an introduction. Donald sat back and watched with his thin lips pursed, eyes scanning wickedly at the scene.

“Hi there, I know everyone in this detention may seem like complete maniacs,” he began, unnaturally pausing for comedic effect as if he had no idea how to truly socialize. His mouth opened wide as he spoke the next section of shrill words. “But allow me to introduce myself, and Marco here.” he continued. Marco inputted a small wave. 

“They’re my bitches- uh, I mean, sidekicks.”

“Shut up, Donald.” Ted scowled, but quickly turned back to Marco and his new ally.

“I, Ted Cruz, am running for Student Government president.”

“You sound like you’re trying too hard.”

“Shut up, Donald.”

Marco then decided to chip in to say his fair share. “Sup man, the name’s Marco Rubio.”

“Hey, um, I’m Jeb.” The low voice spoke. “And yeah, I’m running too, let's guarantee we get along.” Ted and Jeb exchanged an unusually formal, stiff handshake, perhaps with Jeb gaining a modest amount of sweat and grease on his right hand from the intimate encounter. Marco then finally sat down in a free space, heavily sighing as his eyes wandered around the distasteful classroom. The clock had been ticking slower than ever, or so it seemed at least.

“Wait, does that mean,” Bernie uttered from the very back of the classroom, having quickly been met by a few beady eyed acquaintances. To him it felt like everyone was programmed to look at him whenever he jolted a single muscle, considerably seeing as he hadn't done so since the detention began.

“What, Jew boy!?” obnoxiously screamed Donald from another direction. Bernie rolled his eyes and got back to speaking.

“All of us here in this room aside from Barack are running.” he finished. Barack, who was still sat on top of the central desk glanced to his left, showing a little ‘I probably planned this’ smile.

“Barack,” Marco began. “Are we here for a reason? All together like this?”

“Yeah! I thought bringing a diversity of students that are running for my title would be fun. Perhaps we can share our views, interests, compromise on things, etcetera.”

Marco pulled a countenance one would consider more than juvenile. “You don't mean that, you're looking for beef.”

“No, I wanted to promote peace and rational maturity.”

Bernie squirmed in his seat, slightly unsure with what the Prez himself was expressing. “I understand your objective, Barack, but how can't you predict the aftermath? A conversation on feminism would probably result in being a debate on who has better hair; you'll know what I mean.” he uttered, averting a stare towards Donald and Hillary.

Jeb underwent an awful attempt of holding in his laughter at the opposite side of the classroom. Barack, who was as well expressing amusement, stayed silent with a smirk planted on his face.

“Get him out.” Donald requested.

There was silence. “Bernie or Jeb?” Hillary then scornfully queried.

“Both. No, all of you. Every single one of you losers.”

“Great, we’d all be out of detention then.”

Donald turned himself back around; face still somewhat screwed-up in reaction to the others' amusement. They were deriding him. Why was it that in this case he had to be the one to look like the fool? Sitting stillly, Donald spent a short while sulkingly looking stupid as the rest of the voices extended their warbles and chattering. The tension presented in his frown worsened.

“Hey, you over there looking stupid.” yelled out Hillary, appearing sinister. “You’re looking all tsundere.”

“Hillary, are you using one of your foreign terms again?” asked Bernie.

“As you all can see, I’m a very cultured woman.” she said leaning back on her seat; nose high up in the air. “It’s Japanese. It’s a character archetype in anime-

“No one cares.” snapped Donald. “Ay, guy who’s trying to act all cool, uh, the guy with the dumbass hair-”

“Me?” Jeb’s eyes darted behind his brown locks towards Donald as if it was a reflex action. No doubt it was himself that the sharply-groomed blond was referencing.

“You can’t talk about stupid hair! Man, you look like a damn corn-on-the cob for gosh’s sake!” instantly laughed Marco.

Ted snorted, yet it was short-lived. “It does look like artificial, Donald. And your skin, it-”

“What, Ted, Marco? Marco? What’s with the sudden attitude?” Donald hostilely reacted, standing up from his desk. Marco happened to flinch a little, but Ted tried his best to appear unaroused on his exterior. Bernie felt an instinct to remain completely still, eyes reverting back to his homework he had barely started, avoiding making unwanted eye contact with the angered Donald. Likewise, Jeb quickly froze in his chair.

“Come, guys. If you want to be seen as a good leader while running, you all need to drop the immaturity.” Barack lectured as he hopped down from the desk. “Let’s break this down a bit.”

“You’re hardly mature, Prez.” said Ted, full of contempt as he took a seat. “You’re a meme.”

“Shut it man, at least I’m a cool meme.” Barack murmured, mouthing the words ‘thug life’ and holding up a few incoherent hand gestures. He then realized how embarrassingly context-bound it must have come across, and further sank back into an empty chair. “Let’s just, just break this down.”

“Drop the beat, am I right? Ahaha-”

“Haha- no, Hillary. Please don’t try to be down with us sophomores.”

Ted facepalmed. “You democrats are idiots.” 

“Okay, how about this: we cut the crap, otherwise nobody’s gonna get a word in by this rate. Obviously a spontaneous discussion was not a good plan to propose,” then said Barack, appearing sterner. “The only thing I can resort to is us sitting in silence. Study if you need to, but otherwise keep your damn mouths shut.”

“Why, it's not like you’re not a teacher that has dominion over this stuff.” Jeb pouted, crossing his arms and legs. “Uh, well what I meant,”

Donald, who had been displeased with everything that was taking place, additionally hurled a brief 'weakling,' as an underlying insult. He straightened his tie and pants vigorously, with Jeb letting out a small sniff as a more indirect response after failing to provide Barack a clarification.

“He means for everyone to shut the hell up!” Hillary assertively voiced. Everyone that sat in the eerily cold room slowly descended into minding their own businesses. At last they decided keeping to themselves was for the very best.

The room turned taciturn. Bernie guarded his personal bubble with a watchful eye, and Donald eventually faced forwards before handling one out of three of his expensive phones. Hillary leaned back on her chair, exhaling a long, deep breath, heels making a audaciously disturbing clatter from scraping along the back of Marco’s chair. Yawning, Jeb lifted his wrist to check the time and got out a few ceramic turtles from one of his shallow shirt pockets, where he prodded them with shy content. There was silence - although not quite dead silence.

Ted reached rigorously in his bag, where drew out a pocket bible with a silk bookmark daintily sandwiched between the chunks of pages. Marco eyed his friend’s unusually long, lanky fingers as he bit the inside of his cheek. His wry smile was a wide in length, but it was ambiguous as to what emotion Ted was ever conveying. Taking a few sips from his water bottle, his eyes glided towards the dark eyes that lay within Ted Cruz. It was odd; his face was so… unsettling. Uncomfortable. Yet there was something about the way he acted so formally and polite that somehow contrasted with his scripted, antisocial body language in such depth. Is this what a psychopath was like? Marco had read upon conduct disorder before and knew some of the cues, but there was something about Ted that did not fit the puzzle. What about his knife, he mentioned something concerning that? It was clear that Ted really, really took a disliking towards Donald, but did he genuinely want to be around someone like Marco Rubio as much? Heck, were they even friends? Did he even have any?

Marco jumped in his seat, his attention switching from Ted and the concept of antisocial disorders to the soap-white ceiling. Sweat beads yet again slyly stemmed at his forehead and made their way down his delicate facial frame like small streams. He stiffly settled into more comfortable position, and closed his eyes to this unfamiliar sound of nothingness. And then, without realizing, he found himself probing his eyes open to Donald’s thick shadow and voice booming over his relaxed state. 

“I wanna know why Jeb’s here.” Donald’s raspy voice fractured the dull tranquility that lay within the room.

“I took the blame for my brother this time.” he quietly protested after a moment, pushing his ceramic turtles to the side with his index finger.

“You puppet.” Donald jeered. “Yeah, yeah. I know all about your big bro.” he placed his phone onto the wooden desk as Jeb looked away.

“Why’re you all here?” asked Jeb, glancing around at everybody else.

“Reasons.” spat Donald, simultaneously avoiding having to face the boy.

“Hillary.” Ted suddenly called out. “You said something about Jeb being the… brother…”

“Yeah, George Bush is my brother.” Jeb calmly concluded. Bernie blinked, an eye slightly twitching from the mention of the name.

Hillary displayed a wicked grin. “He was the school Prez last year and he fucked up a lot of things; pretty much started a war between us and the nearby school." she explained in further context to Marco and Ted. "Not to mention he hangs around with my Billy lots, and it just ticks me off.”

“Says the girl who was in favor of carrying on the rioting.” stated Bernie, his tone of voice implying disappointment. “It’s things like these where I’m worried whether you’ll keep your progressive promises or not.”

“Oh Bernie…” began Hillary, a counterfeited sympathy in her voice. “Bernie, Bernie Bernie…”

“You know,” Donald sharply cut off Hillary, forming a solid 'O' with his index finger and his thumb as he spoke. “I think I’ll make Jeb my main target from now on.”

Jeb’s face turned vacant, as did everybody else's. “What?” he spouted. 

“You seem real low-energy. Sorry, man. It doesn’t click with me that you’ll get far in your campaign.”

“But my parents have put all my future allowances towards it.” Jeb lowly muttered, sitting back on his chair.

“Of course, you’re a puppet. Your stinkin’ rich privileged mess of a family are all like that aren’t they?”

“I’m sorry, Donald, but you can’t talk about rich and privileged.” returned Bernie, solidly directing a finger. “How about you stop insulting people and socialize like a regular humanoid, huh?”

“The commie is right.” Ted replied, a moment later.

“I’m socialist leaning, Ted. There's a difference.”

Jeb scooped up the rest of his turtles and slowly handled them in care as he dropped them back into his pocket.

“Well, I don’t think you act like a real human, Ted.” Donald hastily retaliated, resorting to another topic. As Ted flinched at his scornful words that came from the dry lips, Donald pounded a fist to his chest. “Why don’t you just go on about how my wall idea is stupid and how I’m an idiot, like the lil psycho you are?”

“I never said I opposed the wall proposal.” he calmly explained with a glower. “But I think all of us agree, that you are the single most obnoxious, arrogant son-of-a bitch we have ever had to fathom.”

Everyone in the room at their own paces including Jeb, Barack and even Marco nodded in a pure assurance. The stench of silence filled the air once more. Barack looked a little displeased, still internally debating what to do with the group full of arguing maniacs that were inept at talking rationally. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. No - it wasn't only not good, but a terrible idea.


“And you, Sanders-

“What is it, Donald?”

“Tell me, who are you? A socialist? Just 'cause you’re jealous of my money you’re ready to take it from me ‘nd other people?”

“That’s not what it’s all about. I will be happy to enlighten you with my opinions so you can see what I’m really like.”

“Be my guest.”

Clearing his throat, Bernie pulled a dramatic stance with one hand in the air, looking as if he was just about to address somebody’s death.

“This school is going to die unless we do not look out for the people!” he frantically declared. “The top one percent of teachers in this establishment earn too much, while the stark majority earn too little. Lunch ladies are struggling to put food on their own plates at home, while Washington and Lincoln are having it all! And don’t even get me started on the racial inequality of this school. We need to enforce civil rights in assemblies and spread awareness on LGBT communities. Oh, and our school healthcare – It should be free for all of us, I mean c'mon, it should be a fundamental right!”

Barack and Hillary slowly applauded Bernie from in front of him, incoherent whether sincere or sarcastic. Ted and Marco blankly stared at the preaching senior with confusion, with Jeb showing a less obvious yet similar response.

“That took ‘yer long enough. Thanks for the apocalypse warning.”

“Stay quiet, breadhead.” Bernie hurled back at the blond senior, who was beginning to frustrate him more by the minute. 

“Is there anything else you would like to spurt out, commie?”

“Oh, uh, and I really hate it when I don’t bunch my socks together when I do laundry, as I end up having to wear odd ones for the Monday afterwards. It’s hard to explain. You get me?” Many confounded facial expressions greeted Bernie’s more deadpanned smile. It was hard to make out if it was an actual complaint or not. "Look, it's something I had to get off my chest. Does anyone relate to me on that? Anyone?" Bernie proceeded, his voice heightening at the end of his sentences.

Ted sighed in joking dissatisfaction. You’re a nice guy, Bernie.” he admitted “But you’re like an extreme Obama. His views on healthcare in general are a disaster.”

Barack shyly scowled from a distance, eyeing Marco who was laughing in agreement. Scratching his neck, Bernie happily shrugged. “Well, from what I’ve seen from you three, you all clearly have contrasting views to me. It’s not a surprise.”

“Us three? Are we like, a thing now?” questioned Marco, scanning around at Ted and Donald who were comfortably sat nearby.

“Seems so.”

Marco took a few sips of water and rested his elbows on the desk as he arched forwards, silently ruminating on his status four days into his four years of highschool. Hillary, who hadn’t uttered a word in the past couple of minutes, felt the urge to barf up a goofy chuckle to spice up the mood full of cringe.

“Why don’t I tell all of you why I’m running for Prez?”

Donald ran his hands through his wispy wig-like locks. “I bet you play the woman card.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up.” Hillary shut her cerulean eyes and inhaled before her declaration. “As you all know, I’m a progressive-


“Sh-shut UP, BERNIE!”


“Whatever… I don’t care anymore!” she huffed, deliberately taking a shot at the back of Marco’s chair with her foot.

“Hey, what did I do? Wh-what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Marco, I just want to let you know-“

Marco gulped.

“-that you’re way cuter than Ted.”

Ted spun around to face the senior and pulled an perplexed frown.


“What even is this detention session anymore?!” Barack bleated, face burrowed in his hands. “I’m never governing something like this ever again, I swear to God.”

Donald pressed his lips together in smug delight, plotting what he was going to inflict next. "Well, you're gonna have to. You're the principals' bitch after all."

Barack suddenly paused, scanning Donald's words in pedantic judgement. “I’m sorry,” he then laughed and forced a small grin to spread on his face. “You know, it’s actually been quite lively today.”

“No shit.” mumbled Donald. Six or so seconds passed before he opened his mouth again. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” Everyone’s eyes sank in disgust as they realized to their dismay, Donald had not finished talking. “None of the other republicans are gonna beat me. I’m probably the best candidate anyone could ever choose. I’m sure to be the nominee, so yous better vote for me in the end. It’s inevitable.” Bernie looked as if he was about to crack from Donald’s pure idiocy he was presenting himself with. “And heeey, uh, Obama-” Donald droned onward. 

“What, what do you want?”

“Oh it's nothing, just I’m a bit worried about the origins of your real birth certificate.”

“Oh shut up, quit your bullying.” Hillary demanded. Her cheeks turned bright red, as she was also seemingly searching her pockets for something.

“Shh, quiet.” Donald demanded, with his small index finger help up to his thin mouth. “That attempt of trying to hush me is cute. C’mon you boneheads, what if Obama really is some sort of undercover terrorist from one of those shady schools? Haven't you heard the conspiracies?”

Jeb pulled himself out of his chair and hesitantly walked over to where Donald was now up and strutting, just beside a dull classroom display between the teacher’s laptop. Sticking up for Barack was the last thing he would want to be seen doing, but Jeb had to commit something so Donald could shut up. Everybody’s gaze then attached themselves to Jeb's towering height, each taking in how tall and even intimidating Jeb truly appeared fully upright. Donald’s beady eyes flashed at the sight of the displeased junior that stood before him, awaiting for the Bush to say his line.

“I think you’ve had enough screen time.”

“Hah, what the hell Bush? What’s a low-energy mess like you tryin’ to confront me?” Donald then held up his smartphone with an ugly pout. “Do all of you remember what date it is?” He shoved the dimly-lit lock screen in Jeb’s face.


September 11th


Jeb angrily gulped. His jaw and hands grew tense, clenched with annoyance, yet he restrained himself from using his fist on anything. “Don’t try and degrade my brother-”

Donald’s face stayed unchanged.

“Y-you can’t insult your way to this presidency, so don’t even try it!”

“I can do anything. I can build my wall. I can get all the Mexican students to pay for it. I can even sue you.” Donald then started chanting a haunting tune of exaggerated ridicule. “Jeb is a mess, Jeb is a waste. Jeb is a big, fat mistake.”

The time had somehow paced in a blink of an eye by this point. Barack had addressed another lecture going over how everyone was too overwhelmed with hateful chaos and controversy, while Ted, Marco and Jeb formed their own little circle and discussed current television shows, news articles, and other variants of media. Hillary on the other hand, happened to rend her boredom by getting out a worn blackberry phone, and sent out a few sneaky emails here and there. Bernie, as always, decided to procrastinate and slyly folded up his homework sheet before sliding it back into his pocket with caution, allowing a goofy expression to flood on his face and a short 'Never mind,' to spill from his mouth. In conclusion, after a long hour of insulting each other and not much else, it was finally time for the students to leave to go home.

“You know Marco, I like you, but you’re a total lightweight. I might call ‘yer Lil’ Marco from now on.” Donald presented, with Marco flashing an uncertain smile.

“What, do I get a nickname too?” Ted asked.

“Yah. You have a look 'bout you. You look like one of them filthy liars, so it’s gon’ be Lyin’ Ted unfortunately. L-Y-E-N… with a big- uh, APOSTROPHE!”


“Hillary is crooked, so it’s Crooked Hillary. Or Shillary, there's a wide range of choices-”

“Ah...” Ted and Marco gasped and nodded in united comprehension.

Meanwhile, Barack was edging towards the door in front of everybody else, only just finishing his conversation with Bernie from across the classroom. “Well, I gotta run. Joe needs me.”

“Vice President Joe?”

“Yeah man, he sent me this awful text.”

Barack hurriedly sprinted out of the room, giving Donald one last, glowering look as he skipped to the classroom opposite. Bernie and the others brushed themselves off and carefully pushed in their chairs under the desks, all except from Donald, of course. Moreover, one by one, the classroom emptied out the pupils of varying ages and agendas, a few instances of pushing and shoving sparking between Donald and Hillary. Jeb, Ted and Marco seemed to clump together from the barging like a waddling bunch of grapes as they walked down the lowly lit corridors. It was just then when Jeb felt a soft tap on his shoulder. He let his new companions go, and spun around to meet face to face with a curious Bernie.

“Jeb, I’ve took into mind how we barely know each other, but can I just ask you this one thing?”

“Sure.” he muttered in reply to the shorter 12th grader.

“Do you really keep a bunch of turtles inside your pocket?”

Jeb’s expression turned to blank, where he began mirroring Bernie's body language. “Y-yeah.”

“Don’t you think it might get hard for them to breathe in there?”

“Yeah. Poor turts.”



“Leeeet’s never speak of this again.” entreated Bernie, adjusting his collar.

“Please, let's not.” 


Chapter Text


September 11th, 4:05pm



“And now,”

Chomp chomp.

“I will demonstrate to you, Joe,”


“Why it was all Chris Christie’s fault that we both had to end up in detention.”



3:35pm. It was pretty much time to leave.

But to the Joe’s dismay, these two were far from leaving the room.

“Come on guys, quit this malarkey. Leave. Betcha had fun sucking the will and life ‘outta me this afternoon, huh.”

Randall Paul placed his unfinished pack of M&Ms on the table, finishing his small mouthful and planting a fist onto his desk. There he was, beside an even crankier Christopher Christie, both plastered with band aids and bruises all along their necks, hands and faces. Meanwhile, Joe was looking at them with a worn, stiff brow, sighing a few sighs of haplessness. 

“I don’t feel like leaving.” Rand proudly stated. Chris pulled a grotesque squint at the sight of the other's smug stance from across the room. “I still wanna prove my point.” further added Rand. 

“What point?” angrily voiced Chris, turning up his nose.

Rand was in search for some snappy comebacks, but he just couldn’t retaliate. Funnily enough there really was no point. Seeing as the two sophomores had taken part in a pretty major row in the middle of Science, from releasing themselves from their chains they inflicted an uncountable amount of cuts and bruises on each other. Rand perhaps had suffered from a nosebleed. But not because of ultra-mega-kawaii-senpai attraction this time. This was a serious deal, and it was neither one’s fault, rather, to say the least, it was both’s. They both chose to release their mutual contemptment in a way that imposed violence when either one could have easily backed out, especially since at least one of them was not of violent nature. Therefore Rand’s preferred conclusion was hardly needed, as Joe already had witnessed the fight with a more authentic and unbiased standpoint while he walked past the class that early morning.

And from the reader’s standpoint at this very moment, you’re probably thinking that there was no need for 45% of the previous chunk of text. And you’re right, Well done! *quiet applause**crawls into hole* 


Barack burst into the classroom, causing the door to slam against the wall and jolt back like a boomerang. “Joe! Are they bothering you? I got your text-”

There was momentary halt in the visible activity within the room as the door swayed back into place. Rand twitched.

“Rand’s blaming it on me again!!” Chris yelled to break the silence, perhaps a little too loudly.

“But you started it. So therefore it was your fault." murmured Rand. 

“Did not!"

“Did too.”

“S-sit down and shut up!”

“Rand, Christie; when will the time come where you realize you’re not freshmen anymore?” Barack chuckled with a sigh. Although his tone sounded lighthearted, his face awfully resembled Joe’s weary pout at that very moment.

“Well, Obama” coolly began Rand, discretely nibbling at an M&M. “I’m not one to get into fights with people. I just like dissecting things and being a chaotic-neutral libertarian; Christie here is the one you should be concerned for.”

“At least I don’t have a head full of pubes!”

“At least I don’t have to take up baseball to keep my weight down!”

“You’re so fuckin’ nuts, you know that?” Chris then snapped.

“These M&Ms have more nuts than you’ll ever have-” Rand held back his laughter, his amusement being visible in the crinkles of his eyes. 


“-and these are the original.”

Chris then got out his own unusually large M&M box from what seemed like thin air, and snatched Rand’s flimsy half-eaten packet from off the desk. He transferred every single piece of candy from the packet to the box, childishly tossing the thin wrapper at Rand’s cheek until he, unintentionally, formed a double chin from such strain he put onto his infamous 'Gotcha!' facade. 

If that wasn’t savage (not forgetting totally juvenile) enough of Christie, then what even the hell is?


Chapter Text


November 1st, 9:44am


Almost two entire months passed. The first of the Republican and Democratic council debates had been over and done with, and Prez High gradually welcomed the new faces into its potentially rigged, corrupt, loving arms. Certainly, running for the president of student government was far from easy, and along with homework, exams and afterschool clubs, the people who were truly dedicated to their campaign were ready to make sacrifices. They knew what they were getting into. In honest terms, the overbearing pressure was the main reason that few students were tenacious enough to take part in council debates.

Students such as Jill Stein and Gary Johnson could not have taken part in the debates initially, as their chosen parties were of lesser recognition and held overlooked principles. The green and libertarian club societies were to remain clubs, and could not interfere with Washingcoln’s student government unless they had a notably high support group. This was perhaps an unfair disadvantage, as independents and members of third parties were less likely to have much say in the assemblies or school newspaper to project their message. This made it dofficult, or even near enough impossible, for anyone other than an identified republican or democrat to win the presidency.

Seventeen GOP, or republican students throughout the school signed up, with this being one of the most the school had ever had. Yet, five dropped out before the first primary that October, leaving twelve in the race to prevail in this circumstance. This was a staggering contrast to those of the democratic council, which happened to be only five that got into the primaries. Hectic was an understatement when it came to the campaign managing, the immature squabbles, and the controversy it all caused at this time of year. The press was ready to gather any information they could about a character, even warping it into a partisan lie if they wanted to. Prez High was influenced by the political world to such an extent, where the repercussion at worst would be fighting, even school rivalry for the sake of a student deemed capable at representing Washingcoln. Washington and Lincoln, only by their allowance, let their students run the school in a sense, no matter how skeptical they genuinely felt behind the action. 


And two days after the first council debates, the first morning of November broke into the air, releasing a sharp wind into the region. It was a Sunday, whereby Donald lay in his expectedly large, boundless bedroom with his curtains drawn and his clothes scattered across his wide, vermilion floor. The floor itself reminisced that of the red carpets Hollywood celebrities would get laid before them, reminding Donald of the time where he was bombarded with people on his first day--- except there was nobody.

And besides, having a red carpet entrance from someone like Sarah Palin alongside random kids taking pictures of you was hardly something anyone would get in the real Hollywood.

Donald’s eyes fluttered open.


Scowling, he lifted up his curtain and peeped out of his window pane. All he could witness was gray skies, as it seemed the sun chose to not materialize that day. The former humid weather had then recently dwindled into something more frigid, so much until the sunny days decreased in frequency. Donald spied his dark, empty room with a loud huff; his ambiance mimicking an overworked man of middle age who was never to be satisfied with his life. It was an exaggerated gesture to most, but even so when stuck in a house that seemed so cold, so big, yet so delicate… it could feel a little alien to its inhabitants, Donald especially. But as one could gather, clearly; Donald never seemed satisfied.

He discovered a note stuck to his fridge after treading down the spiraling black and gold banisters leading to his kitchen. His siblings, butlers and mother must have been savoring their prolonged stay in bed, as no one had made Donald's small serving of a million breakfasts for him yet. The late adolescent's fingers quavered while scanning the post-it note, reading aloud the words scraped onto the white square of thin paper:

“Had to go to urgent meeting today w/ company. Won’t be back for dinner. Have fun with your friends. – Dad.”

This wasn’t anything new. Donald’s father hardly appeared to be around ever since his son had moved to Washingcoln High, even less so than when they lived in New York, which was still seldom. His parents patently had no idea what to do with him, as even his old military school had enough of his backchat and mischief. 

'Hold on dad, friends...? Oh right.'

Donald was going to meet Ted and Marco today.

Donald didn’t tell his family about his associations with people. He really should have, like most kids ended up doing, but he’d reckon they wouldn’t really think much of it, as if they did not have time or didn't care. It was a matter somewhat hard to explain at the time.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“It’s 11:23. Didn’t he say he was coming like, fifteen minutes ago?!” Ted grumbled at his watch, gritting his teeth. 

“Yeah! Why isn’t he here already?” Marco glanced at his phone once again, the cold atmosphere seeping into his fingers as he frantically tapped the screen. “I can’t believe my dad let me flunk church for something like this.”

“Me too, man.” Ted exhibited a half-eaten pack of gummy worms from the pocket of his jeans, and placed a red one between his teeth. He let it hang from his mouth for a while, until the sound of Marco’s perky voice broke the silence – in which he chewed and gulped it down.

“I just realized, you’re not wearing a flannel shirt today.”

“What, do I wear them that much?” the candy-bearer questioned, with a smile that for once seemed authentic. 

“Haha, yes.”

“You want one?” Ted then asked, offering his friend a worm. Marco profoundly accepted, and let it hang from his mouth as he mimicked Ted’s deadpan expression. Ted shook his head in response. Though ever so suddenly, Ted was in a position of witnessing a hoarse whisper cutting through his ears, and a murky presence which towered behind him. He had a strong intuition to who this may have been.


“Donald, what?”

“Dunno. Frankly I just felt like saying it.” Donald stuffed his hand into Ted’s packet without his consent and took out three or so worms while the other pulled a face of resentment. Marco scanned his surroundings where the group happened to be, just outside a large mall center, halfheartedly blinking in the crisp air. The three began to walk without any provoking, and Marco fastened his baseball cap before asking:

“Why didn’t we invite Jeb?”

“I don’t wanna be seen with such a low-energy debater who has spent tons on his shitty campaign recently.”

“Cmon, Donald.” Ted began, feigning sympathy. “Don’t be a douche.”

“Ah, yeh. Your birth certificate.” Donald raised a fair bushy eyebrow. Ted froze. “A lil' birdy told me you were born in Canada.”

"So what, that doesn’t exclude me from becoming Washingcoln’s Prez! They’re not that harsh on you, idiot!”

“Yeah, yeah. How does maple taffy taste, cankee?" Donald proceeded in an ugly guttural laugh. 

“Wait, so you’re Cuban, Canadian and Texan? Whaaa-?” jokingly queried Marco, hoping he wouldn’t get his friend too worked up. There was no reply.

“You know, Lyin’ Ted,” Donald started to voice sardonically “In the debate and throughout your campaign everyone sees you as such a calm, down to earth guy. But really you’re just a pissy lil’ twerp, and it’s hilarious.”

“Why do we hang out with a dick like you?” Ted heavily sighed, trying to keep his cool, which only angered him further. “WHY are we even here, Donald?!” Marco landed a hand on Ted’s shoulder, showing more concern in his eyes than previously. Ted replied with a silent, brief half-smile which was only a fraction sincere. “Are we just here for you to poke fun of, or are we gonna buy some clothes?” he asked in a much lower voice.

“Well, he’s not making fun of me.” quietly laughed Marco.

“That’s ‘cause you’re 1% more bearable, but you’re still a choke artist.” loudly stated Donald as a retort. “At least you actually have friends in the rep council, unlike Rafael the Canadian. That’s a start I guess.”

“Speaking in front of large crowds feels overwhelming to me sometimes. And so what if Ted doesn’t work well with other people? Sure, he and I disagreed on things, but I didn't think he did too bad of a job-”

“Lil’ Marco, you’re a lot less of a pussy than when we first met.”

Marco proudly grinned at the supposed compliment, possibly coming across a bit too happy.

“But’cha still seem like a smartass who tries too hard.” finished Donald, rolling back his right shoulder as he finished the last of Ted’s stolen worms.

“Let’s just enter inside. We’re at the place now.” Ted lowered his coal-brown eyes, his lips pressing into a straight line. His aim was to brush off every one of Donald’s insults whatsoever, but still naturally felt the need to clench his jaw and fists as an alternative to cooking up a wittier retaliation. The clothes store which stood before them appeared expensive and gaudy; something which looked high price even to two well-off youths like Marco and Ted. Donald must have shopped there constantly since he moved, since the mall was not for people of lower class, and was centered in one of the most economically flourishing areas of the region. Whilst the area was a twenty minute walk from the two Cubans, they never had the chance to truly experience it, so everything felt so foreign. Marco gawked wide-eyed at the blue sign and the limpid windows, which were in a multi-colored pattern that gleamed as if they were streaming with tears. Ted looked impressed to a minuscule extent, and his facial expression was still furrowed as they started entering inside.

Donald wore a dusty smirk. “If all of you shopped here for your blazers and ties, maybe people will take you more seriously as freshman.”

“I don’t get it, why are you helping us with our campaigns?” Ted questioned before eyeing a tailored shirt. 'Geez, this stuff looks stupidly expensive.'

“Don’t think of this as helping. I’m gonna win the nomination anyway, so this is just a bit of fun. Hey, what if yer like me better after we have a proper day out? You’re my sidekicks. And I get along with everybody, you see; and without me no one would even know who you two basket cases are.”

“That’s not true.” Ted dryly retorted, turning away.

“Haha, I’m so great….ladeedaaa..”

“’Just a bit of fun’, huh?Marco furthermore quoted. “Isn’t that what you said about the time you ‘endorsed’ Hillary?”

“She got $50 out of it. I told her to buy a new fashion sense.”

“That’s kinda savage.” laughed Ted, trying his best once again not to seem too impressed. His focus darted to another corner, dismissing eye contact with his new highschool companions. Marco and Donald snapped on at each other, both desperately trying to get the last word in their infantile debate they happened to spring up; something Ted couldn’t be any less bothered about in terms of paying attention. Nevertheless it was all in good fun. Adolescent banter.


Meanwhile, the air of late fall hadn’t changed. It really was, in the simplest terms – bleak.


“You’re still the same, George.”



“My derp name.”

“You don’t need a derp name, Bushie, people already know how stupid you are.”

“Eyy, touché.”

“I’m so funny; I could be a stand-up comedian!”

“Your entire presidency of the student gov. was already a sitcom, Bill.”

“I’d say half of it was a porno.”

“Wuw, Hillary-ous.”

“Shoosh, guys! I’m desperate for my, uh, double-whipped chocolate mocha frappuccino or whatever the freshman are into these days. So please, cut it out!” Hillary’s cheeks shone scarlet from the bitter cold behind her yellow scarf, striding faster and faster to her destination of warmth. Biting her lip in angst, she overtook the other two figures of Bill Clinton and George Bush by three meters at least, glaring at the opposite side of the street. Hillary needed her coffee, and she needed it now. Hillary didn’t need George here, and she especially didn’t need Bill fooling about with their past acquaintance. Like a range people Hillary made ties with, it was hard to say whether she and the elder Bush even were friends. Bill and George for that time being yapped on and on about things Hillary would not hesitate to call ‘dumb’ or even ‘fucking r*tarded’ if she were to be completely uncensored in terminology.

“Well, I gotta run.” George at last confessed. “But I’m telling y’all, I know that human beings and fish can co-exist peacefully!”

Hillary skidded to a halt as a sharp breeze beckoned, tapping her foot impatiently. Her eyes watered from the sickly chill, whereby the two boys were unaffected. “What in the hell have you guys been talking about these past minutes?”

“Stuff like, uh, the internets. Right Bill?”

“Pffftaaaahaha. Yah.”

“I need to skiddaddle. Funny seeing you guys ‘round this part of town!”

“It’s a date.” Hillary then asserted, irked. “C-can we please just go inside now?”

“Ah. Bye then. Jeb and I later are gonna have some uh, crabs.” George built up pace as he began to shuffle away. He help up the bag of groceries with the crab meat, serving as as an explanation to why he was at the high-class area. “It’s hard to be putting food on your family like this, ya get me?”

“Food on your family, wow what a wacky life you lead Joj.” Hillary joked. 

Bill did a half-smile, poking his tongue at his inner cheek before he prepared his next comeback. “Crabs. I think I came down with that once, not sure.”

“Yeh you’re a hoe Bill.” called out George with a dumb chuckle. He just so managed to knock himself into a lamppost shortly after his little jest, staggering after making an attempt at concealing his cloddishness – which transformed into a range of unclear mumbling and disorientated hand gestures. Hillary displayed a sad smile as she and Bill walked over and greeted the stumbling mess with a proper goodbye. She then promptly turned to Bill, drawing him close.

“Bill, please don’t joke about stuff like that. You’ve never had crabs or any STDs so hush your damn mouth!”

“Of course you’d know, Hilly!” George called from a few feet away, eavesdropping. Along with a rusty sigh, Hillary gritted her teeth. Bill only smirked.

“She sure does-

“BILL, for the love of God!"


The lights were atmospherically lit to an uncomfortable extent, and the coffee had tasted bitter. It was a mistake to order something so black. Sat right at the corner, Bernie felt a little shy to ask for another beverage perhaps a bit sweeter. Although he was tempted, he examined that stacking up on that much caffeine at noon surely had to be a sign of madness.

There was no way of telling if Bernie honestly was stressed out or whether he was just in one of his unpleasant grumpy moods, but he was sure persistent in his campaign at the time. He had a charm of a pure ambivert; someone who loved people, but also someone who genuinely savored their alone time in such clarity. But this alone time of his wouldn’t last for long.

He counted some change from inside his pocket and got out some gum and even a small pocket-diary from his bag, hoping others won’t stare at him for seeming too kitsch or old-fashioned. Hell, this was Starbucks – everything was full to the brim with hipster aesthetics. Bernie was so far sat alone in the artsy-adorned room, chewing on a piece of gum to the rhythm of ‘My Heart Will Go On’ by Celine Dion. After a moment, an aroma of cheap deodorant mixed in with hormonal sweat happened to waft in Bernie’s direction, before he suddenly glanced upwards to find it had been coming from somebody he wasn’t really expecting to be here at all.

‘Yeah, Hillary would bring Bill with her, wouldn’t she.’


“Bernie!” Hillary chirped.

“Wha-oh, yeah?”

“I thought this was just going to be us two, munchkin.” mumbled Bill, nuzzling his freckly face into Hillary’s scarf. He shot a passive glare at Bernie, squinting.

Bernie looked downwards to his knuckles, contemplating what Hillary’s plans were and why exactly Bill was here. Hillary went to Starbucks all the time with her friends, but why did she invite him to this particular one, at this time? Bernie wasn’t one of her girlfriends or Bill or Barack or Joe or anyone like that – he was now her rival.

'Could this be about… Donald?' Bernie thought. “To my knowledge I didn’t know you were coming, Bill. Should I leave?"

“It’s alright; I don’t wanna be one of them guys.” Bill assured, patting Bernie on the back somewhat redundantly.

“Bill, do you dislike my Bernie-boy?”

Bernie’s lips pressed together, raising an eyebrow. ‘Bernie-boy?’

“Nah, sugar. It’s just that I don’t wantcha to beat him…”

“Wait what? You’re rooting for me aren’t you?”


“BILL, I am so done with you, Jesus fucking christ-”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Of course you did it for the money.”

“Yes yes, shoosh now Bernie.” Hillary ruffled Bernie’s dark hair with her painted nails, a sinister smile spread on her face, aiming to switch topics from Donald’s shallow endorsement to the present moment. “I can’t believe we bought the same soy vanilla latte!”

“It looks like you just copied my order, to be honest.” Bernie remarked with a smile.

“Aww but you hang out with the liberal freshmen who may or may not be SJWs..."

“Nope, they’re all yours.”

Hillary’s face twisted into a moue. "The kids find you cool but I'm just an old grandma who wants to relate to the freshmen so they have a cool icon to look up to, okay?" she confessed, phrasing it as if it was a joke, which at the time she believed it was. 

“You jelly, Hill?” 

“Yes!” she laughed, until her face dropped into a cold, questionable neutrality. 

Chapter Text


November 1st, 11:55am


Hillary shuffled closer to her frival Bernie, holding up her phone that mirrored the fair faces. ‘Dammit,’ the young man thought to himself, rapidly blinking as his brown irises flickered towards Bill, finally having decided to get up and order after an indecisive six minutes. Bernie bit his thumb. ‘What if Bill assumes I’m trying to make moves?’

After she and Bill arrived, arising confusion between the latter and Bernie himself; Hillary succeeded in persuading them all to transfer from the corner of the room to the utmost front, close to the windows. The corner was a comfy, softly lit place which had a charming mysteriousness about it, but that solace had to leave Bernie. The new spot was exposing and bright, and what augmented its madness was Hillary's invitation to take a selfie with her competitor.'Yeah, good going, Bern. You sure do have fucking weird friends.’ Bernie internally laughed. 


“Aha, I think I blinked in that one.” Bernie commented. 

“Me too.” Hillary softly laughed in reply. She placed her phone down on the counter and fiddled with her finished cup of sweet beverage, seeming she had something else on her mind. Bill was still waiting for his order a few meters away; perhaps this could have been her chance.

“Bern, I need to tell you something.” she uttered as she tugged at Bernie’s sweatshirt, not at all making clear eye contact. It seemed like it was a big mystery to what was up, especially as it was so sudden.

Bernie moved his ear closer to her side-profile. “Go ahead.” he quietly voiced.

“Whatever people say about this email business, don’t get involved.”

Bernie knew of the context she was referring to; somewhat, at least. “About you… sending those dirty pic-


His voice lowered drastically, attempting to not draw attention in the moderately undisturbed room. After realizing this wasn’t such a good question to implement, he noticed Hillary’s wide-eyed expression as her eyelid twitched in unease. “Just... Don’t get involved with the baloney.” she then finished. Bernie nodded his head, saying no more and leaning back into his initial posture. “Now c’mon, you bleeding hearter, you – let’s capture another. Let’s make it lit.”

“Lit?” Bernie repeated, highlighting the forced attempt of using language which did not fit her matured demeanor at all. “Oh wow-"

“Whatever, just come!”


Well, at least it was something. A suspicious Bill might have cut his eyes at the scene from a fair distance, but he shook it off like it was no problem, which it wasn't. At last, they all had settled down and began a flow of conversation. Hillary led most of the threeway conversation, of course, arguably coming across as freakish to outsiders as soon as she began warbling the lyrics to Trap Queen with every drop of vigor she could muster. 

“Imma post this everyyywhere!” she squealed, before clearing her throat and looking around to see if anybody caught her acting in such a manner. Bernie snorted and shook his head, in addition to Bill leaning in for an icky kiss on the blonde's ample right cheek. Hillary put her phone back in her bag, spreading her now empty, pale hands onto the wooden counter in front of the others. 

‘Hang on a sec, she has two phones, right?’ thought Bernie, noting her use of an old Blackberry in their previous detention together; which reasonably seemed more like an insufferable dream rather than a legitimate event. ‘Wow, the things I could do with two phones-’

“I wanna crack down on the Trumpster.” Hillary then boldly stated while twiddling her white fingers.

“And I thought George went haywire with nicknames.” Bill added, happily sighing.

“That’s actually a good idea, Hillary.” responded Bernie, still in deep thought. “I thought of him as a literal joke at first but he’s starting to gain popularity fast. Let’s converse on this.”

“I’ll start.” Hillary inhaled, forming a proud bearing. “So, first of all, let’s start on how he uses blatant sexism in his rhetoric…”


“C’mon, bitches. We’re going to get coffee.”

“Please don’t call us that.”

“Shut up, lyin’ Ted.”

Donald, Ted and Marco heaved themselves inside the heated coffee-shop one by one, clutching their weighted shopping bags tightly, attempting not to knock into one another as they proceeded.

“Tell me again, Donald; how would your fingers even fit around a Starbucks cup exactly?” Marco quipped, heading towards a table and leading the group. He felt rather good that he was building some status of himself, not only within the trio but in the republican council furthermore. 

“Lil’ Marco, you’re acting cocky today. I don’t like it.” grumbled Donald. 

Marco paused and dropped his bags beside his designated table. “…Hmm.”

“I’m surprised you’re not sweatin’ your brains out at this moment.” 

“It’s too cold to be sweating, geez. I-it’s not like I sweat twenty four-seven or anything.” Marco heavily stammered, as a sweat droplet ran down his tepid face.

Ted smirked, meanwhile covering his mouth with his hand. “The irony…”


“You're not funny, Marco." 


“Aaand a big red white n’ blue umbrella stickin’ out of it. Make it tremendous. Make it huge.” Donald finally concluded with an unappetizing wink, having ordered his drink alongside Marco, and then Ted. He slowly leaned on the Starbucks counter while grinning at the unsettled barrister, her face wide-eyed in puzzlement.

“I’m sorry, sir we don’t do those…” she clarified. 

“Wow, Donald.” said Marco from behind him, grabbing a napkin for his forehead. He watched the senior point a finger-gun as he stepped back, undoubtedly pushing aside a few people in the line. Following an iconic and slightly embarrassing pause, Donald sentenced: 

“You’re fired.”


After were served their drinks of drastically distinguishable aesthetic, Donald looked to his right, and hoarsely gasped at the sight of his two opponents – and perhaps another widely known figure at Prez High. “Hah, well look who it is. It’s Shillary and two of her many boyfriends!” he dryly scoffed, out aloud. 

“Oh damn,” Ted muttered. Marco froze, scowling at Hillary while edging closer to Ted as a subtle call for guidance. 

“Oh lord Donald, please, I'm trying to discuss women's rights to this gentlemen," she pointed to Bill. "And this... guy," she motioned to Bernie, whose brows furrowed in reaction to the contrasting labels. "And of course, you have to barge in, looking all... looking all smug! Ugh!"

“She’s been t-talking about the history of feminism for forty minutes nowww…” Bernie stuttered in a sweat, head buried in his arms.

“H-help us…” Bill whispered in mercy.

“Wow, even your men cannot stand you. I’m not surprised.” Donald continued, almost in a taunting melodic tune. 

In reply, Bernie sighed as he envisioned how Hillary must have felt being ridiculed by the cartoon of a human, and decided his previous comment only made matters more awkward. “Feel free to return to your seats.” he said, straightening up. “Look, whatever, talk about us as much as you three want but just don’t do it here.”


“And don’t make my Hillary cry; otherwise I’ll give you AIDS, alright.”


“That really wasn’t the best thing to input, Bill.”

"I-It was the first thing that came to mind, o-okay? I don't even know, man." Bill laughed, wholeheartedly not taking anything at that point in any seriousness at all. 


Shortly after the students' interactions that really weren't at all planned, everyone had nonetheless simmered down and steadily began to keep to themselves. Things weren’t going too manic as of yet, and Donald’s squad of three were able to sit themselves by the window at a small table, which was designed for only two customers at least. Marco took a sip of his milky Latte Frappuccino and managed to get some froth on his upper lip. Donald heavily muttered a breathy ‘I want my money back,’ – incredibly displeased with his umbrella-less Venti Iced Mocha. Marco looked to his right at Ted pulling an odd assortment of faces, that was most likely reacting to the excess latte which dribbled down Marco's chin. Well, it was no doubt Ted’s expressions pretty much always looked strange to Marco, but it was more than obvious that he was the one looking abnormal this time.

“Don’t you like sweet stuff, Ted?” asked Marco. 

“I take my coffee black most of the time.”

“Like your men.” interrupted Donald.

Ted stirred his dark coffee with a gloomy set of eyes. “That punchline was both unfunny and uncool simultaneously.”

“Like you’d know what cool even is. You’re such a nerd in school; damn, you’re lucky you have someone like me who’s actually not afraid to hang out with you!”

“I wouldn’t say we’re lucky to have you.” Marco huffed, rubbing his chin. “Anyways, why are we your top choices for coming here? Don’t you have countless other ‘friends’ you could’ve gone with instead, like the ones in your dumbass fanclub?”

“I’ve already been out with every single one of my fans.” Donald lied.

“And I already feel sorry for every single one of them.” Ted interjected, hypnotized by the void of his coffee that promptly formed a whirlpool from the excessive stirring. 

“You know what, Rafael? I know what you are.” then said Donald, puffing out his chest. 

Ted gritted his teeth, plugging his ears with his fingers as a poor attempt of blocking out the ugly ken-doll of 12th grade. "Continue." he redundantly said, expecting some outrageous statement to spill from the pursed lips. 

“The Zodiac Killer.”

“You’re such an idiot!” Marco jeered, as Ted silently nodded in concord to his previous intuition. “The Zodiac Killer was around in the damn 60's you moron! U-unless that was just one of your more contextual slurs-"

“Nah, Marco. Don’t try and cover up his act. You know, I know. Everyone at school knows.”

“Funny how absolutely nobody in school has ever fucking said that.” Ted stressed behind his clenched teeth. But that didn't stop Donald. After letting out an atypically loud chuckle, the young adult stood up from his seat and bellowed out-


-and quickly returned to his seat, vacantly smiling.


Chapter Text


November 1st, 12:53pm


After having had a few stern words with an employee, Donald thereupon dusted himself off and arrived back at the table.Ted and Marco were looking as flustered as ever, wondering how on earth they got into this mess, subtly regretting the entire process of forming the bond with the uncensored, impulsive Donald Trump. From witnessing the outburst, Hillary spent a good portion of her time at their table, lecturing Donald on how candidly obnoxious and disturbing he was in the eyes of others in the room. The catalyst himself, however, only exhaled in disapproval.

“I honestly don’t comprehend your ignorance!” Hillary snapped while folding her arms. 

“Oh shoosh, Shillary. We don’t need to hear your talk.”

“Even though she’s being annoying as heck, Hillary is right, Donald.” Ted inputted in response.

Hillary bit her balmed lip, searching for other questions and inquiries about Donald which she believed needed to be brought to the table. “How are you even getting along with people so well? I-it just doesn’t make sense.” she stammered. 

“Charm. I’m really rich and I’m very highly educated. I know words, I have the best words. And like all my supporters, I feel the need to make Prez High great again.” proudly claimed Donald. The lighting in the room succeeded in making his skin appear the most grotesque hue of tangerine, to which Hillary winced in disgust. She placed a hand on her hip, and lowered her voice:

“Highly educated my ass-"

“I will build a great wall – and nobody builds walls better than me, believe me – and I’ll build them very… inexpensively.”

Bernie was examining the scene carefully from across the room, while his foot tapped a monotonous rhythm.

“I will build a great, great wall around our school gates, and I will make Mexicans pay for that wall. Mark my words.” Donald further said.

“That doesn’t make sense. Would that not prohibit anyone from coming in and out?” Hillary asked, almost laughing from how stupid the concept sounded. "Or if you're gonna go on about that detector CCTV to see who comes in-" 

“Shut up, I’m brilliant and so are my plans.”

“Okay Adolf, we got it.”

“What oh-so-great ideas have you came up with then, huh?” Donald then questioned. He pulled a grimace when slurping his drink of caffeine, preservatives and sugars.

“Bernie and I stand by the people. We don’t believe in dividing people like you three.” Hillary assumed. 

From a distance, Bernie smiled in very subtle conceit. Although it very quickly faded.

“We’re for racial equality and women’s rights. Like, we’re liberal and shit. Not that cons don’t support all that, it’s just, you know.” she tried to appear nonpartisan, in which the facade was working. 

Bernie bit at his nails. He riveted towards the group of four, barely blinking.

“A-And you’ll have to work hard towards getting the minorities voting for you, Donald. Because if we require a representative democracy, you for the time being do not have what it takes to lead in a way you cater to everybody.” Hillary stuttered, feeling a protruding sensation of mixed emotions within her chest.

“What?” Donald turned up his nose, only just tuning in to what Hillary had been saying all that time. “People love me, I love people. For example – I love the poorly educated! And I have a great relationship with the blacks – I’ve always had a great relationship with the blacks.”

Shaking his head, Bernie averted his attention back to Bill who had been staring into space for the last few millennials, blocking out the discourse that followed their own conversation. Marco, not caring to share Ted's exterior demeanor of a smirk, tapped his foot and bit the insides of his mouth. Ted presumed he was signalling he was ready to leave.

“When are we going? I spent almost $300 today and I don’t think my parents will be that happy…” Marco uttered.

Ted then sighed, ever so coolly. “And the coffee was hardly a percentage of it.”

“And women, I love women and they love me!” insisted Donald who did not cease to justify himself to Hillary, his voice almost deafening while his rhetoric being unusually persistent.

“Wait, he’s still talking?” Bill grumbled. 

“Sarah Palin, she loves me. Megyn Kelly, heck, she would love me but she has too much blood coming out of her, uh, wherever. You know actually, she’s a bitch. Fiorina--- well, I don’t know if she loves me but she should.”


“Did someone mention my name?”


From what seemed to be out from nowhere, a girl with midlength mousy hair stepped out from behind the Starbucks counter, over to where the commotion persisted to take place in the hazy coffee shop. Dressed in a barrister’s uniform and equipped with trays, she slowly blinked a pair of eyes appearing worn to a degree, but at the same time content. Her poise was straight and she held her head high, looking a little insecure and not knowing where to mark herself, almost regretting her outlet of inquiry. Her eyes widened, accustoming to the range of familiar faces scattered around the musky room, prolonging focus on Hillary, Bill and Ted in particular. But this really was inevitable, surely. The Starbucks was local to Washingcoln and therefore it would be known to its students, especially those of the likes of her opponent Hillary and former student president Bill Clinton… or even… Donald?

“Wow, I’m actually not surprised Carly works here.”

“Cut the crap, Hillary.” Carly Fiorina calmly asserted. “Uh, guys… It’s a part-time job, just to get some bread. And Hillary, stop lying to your supporters. They’re gonna catch you out one day, you know!”

“Oh no, you’re the liar here. You’re totally fake, Carleton. Face it.” Hillary voiced, leaning back on the table before aiming a look at Bill. “Bill, how about we leave?" 

“You know, I would’ve dumped Bill long ago! I mean if my boyfriend did what he did, I’d leave him.” Carly snapped, but immediately began to shy away from the dispute. Hillary briefly stuck out her tongue, which was not the most mature comeback to have resorted to. She hastily spun around and held her head down, thinking through what Carly had just insensitively brought up. For all she knew, perhaps it wasn’t so insensitive at all, but rather... a truth.

Instantly, a voice reverbed from across the room. Although shaky and not at all intimidating, it most likely meant business.

“Let’s stop fighting!”

John Kasich stood alone at a table the gathering never knew existed until now, with a fork in one hand and clenched tension in another. He put his fist down, giving the stink-eye to Donald, until he sat down and continued to eat his pizza with the unconventional choice of utensil. 

Bernie gulped. “Kasich? What are you doing here?”

“Wow, would you look at that. It’s Kasich.” briefly mentioned Ted with his eyebrows raised.

“My friends went off without me, aha. Oh, uh, hey Bernie." Kasich calmly said. He beamed and casually waved at the curly-headed senior, who was appearing increasingly off-putted by the minute.

“H-hi John.” Bernie replied, feeling as if things were now getting a bit too trippy for his liking.

“Damn. This has turned into a hellhole.” Carly remarked before slowly deleting herself from the array of events, as if she had pressed the Ctrl+Alt+Del keys on a HP computer. Everyone's fixation then dispersed from Kasich, leaving him to eat in peace, and returned back to their own hellish businesses. 

“Well, imma catch up on my saxophone practice. Don’t want Jefferson scolding me again.” Bill declared after a moment of silence. With a gormless expression, he skipped outside the door as Bernie and Hillary soon followed. “Seey’all!”

Strutting along after Hillary, Donald stashed Carly’s hands with a hefty $11.65 tip before sassily ordering her to buy a new fashion sense. He hummed his way out the door, head up high and all. Carly, almost like a HP printer, tried to process what the extended realizing sentiment of ‘why the fuck is everyone at my school here’ ,before slowly drawing her observation back to her work. Her glower waned into a gentle gaze as she set her eyes upon Ted, who was still sat with Marco.

“Marco, should we leave?-"



Kasich was therefore left alone in his chair, head lowered before letting out a single whisper:

“I got no attention, man!”


Chapter Text


November 1st, 1:21pm


Flumping onto his bed, Jeb had found his low-energy self unusually weary from his strange stroll out in the streets, all alone except for the accommodation of eyes belonging to a diversity of passerbyers, alleyways, parking lots, and trees. He knew he should have been working on his History assignment he hadn’t started, or perhaps on cleaning his room, but there simply wasn’t enough time for all that when such thing as sleep existed. The outdoors recently had been harsh and blustery, and its weather and the outskirt-like feel to it was nowhere reminiscent of his home state of ample Texas or that of Florida’s beaches.

Jeb adored Florida. His family would often go during summer vacation when it was hottest, moreso when he was younger. Ever since they were small, George and the rest of his siblings swam or surfed in the sea, but Jeb didn’t like getting wet so much. He was the one to be all by himself, searching for sea turtles at the shore which never to his dismay legitimately washed up from under the thick waves of Miami’s coast. But that was all okay.

‘I’ll hold a real turtle someday.’

His hands reached out to his stuffed turtle he had ever since he was three – unnamed – but still looked oddly brand new. Jeb’s arms wrapped around the soft plush fabric which had that plastic shop-smell to it, pressing his upturned nose further into its warmth and security. The crisp locks which usually covered his forehead were swept aside, as he lay on his side, lost in the scattered thoughts he could never believe to unravel to their full extents…


“Jeb, I need you to get some groceries! Come down this instant, please.” his mother, Barbara called out from downstairs.

'Dammit. Why can't I have rested for at a few minutes at least?' he thought, clutching his tense forehead. 'Looks like I'll needa go out again.'

“MOM’S CALLING YOU, JEEEEB!” screeched George from the bathroom. Jeb recoiled at the thump that stemmed from the other side of his wall. It was true; George wasn’t only destructive at school, but more so at home as well. 

“I know, I know! Shut up George, why don’t you go back to your cheerleading practice?”

“Maybe I will!”



“JEB GET YOUR BUTT DOWN HERE!” Barbara barked. As expected, Jeb did just so. 


“So, you really got C and D for the majority of classes in your midterms?” Barbara noted, sitting at the large, gaudy kitchen table. The house's interior was quaint and pretty, with family photos and exquisite vases and ornaments scattered here and there. Although it wasn’t as homely as their one in Texas, it had the familiar wealthy feel to it seeing as it was still large and luxurious for a home of the local area.

Jeb looked down at his feet, frowning. “I’m sorry mom.”

“You darn well should be! My, why can’t you be like your brother? You do know why he was such a good student president don’t you, Jeb? It was because he studied and listened to his mother.”

“I’ve been studying more recently, honest. And about George; he doesn’t listen to you at all sometimes, actually.”

“Quit your jibber jabber, Jeb!” George yelled from upstairs.

“No, you’re right.” Barbara’s voice softened.

“And please, stop acting like George is your only son.”

“Quit your jebber jabber, Jib!”

“Stop the backchat.” she promptly snapped, as Jeb counted up the grocery money on the kitchen counter. “I love all my kids equally. Now run along, we don’t want to be left without a salad tonight. And tuck in your shirt, Jeb, for heaven’s sake.”

“But do I have to tuck in my shirt, though?”

“Quit your jibber jebber, Jab-"

George did not stop. In fact, his incoherency was becoming insufferable. 

“SHUT UP GEORGE!” Jeb hurled from the kitchen. He halted as soon as he noted his mother's beady glare from the corner of his eye.



“A-alright, mom.”


Before Jeb set a singly foot out from the insulated house, he shifted his body so that it faced the stairs, directing his voice at the kitchen where his mother remained.

“Mom…?” he called out, tapping his fingers on his thigh.

“Yes, dear?”

“Dad's gonna be home for dinner tonight, right?”

“Of course. Why would he not?”

“It’s nothing. I’m going out the door now.” Jeb stammered, eventually dragging his heavy, weary body out the house once more. The shift from warm to pinching cold was ever so frustratingly prominent.  

“Later! Dubya loves you!” warbled George.

“Yes, buh-bye sweetie...”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The automatic doors shifted, synchronizing with the gust of wind and rain which came with it. People were scuttling in and out of the store as if it was rush hour, yet it was nowhere near. Did people honestly need their garden salad that badly? Jeb tensed up from the cold, his grip on his grocery bag tightening whereby shielding his face from the spitting rain with his forearm. As he walked apace outside the store, he knew he’d done something immensely stupid.

“Oh man, I knew I shoulda brought a coat.” Jeb said to himself.'Of course God chooses to piss his load at this hour. Shoot. Darn it. Damn.'

Ignoring the traffic lights, Jeb dashed across the street to the opposite side of the asphalt. His mother would have killed him if she’d known he was that stupid to have not brought a coat. Not even his favorite hoodie in the most divine shade of navy. Despicable.

“Wait-" He stopped, and set his piercing brown eyes upon the object that had just slid in front of him from the wind. ‘An umbrella? Ah….Well, it looks like it’s clean and doesn’t belong to anybody…’  Jeb handled the umbrella of deep pine, and after a few failed low-energy attempts, he eventually managed to get it open. Not long before the droning wind blew even louder, his 190cm-tall figure shot off down the street within the landscape of gray, dusty, melty drizzle

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Hey, isn’t that Jeb?”

“You’re right, Ted.” Marco cut his eyes at the figure from across the street, attempting to scan through the thick sheet of rainfall. “He looks like he’s in a hurry.”

“Jeb! It’s us, Ted and Marco!” Ted bawled. The grainy silhouette halted from the other side of the street, and after a few seconds of bargaining, replied with an unobvious wave.

“Can we walk under your umbrella?!” requested Marco, who was also near enough yelling.

“It’s not mine but go ahead!” Jeb assured, waving around the suspected form of an umbrella in front of the boys' vision, as if it were a signal for them to beckon further. Marco and Ted caught up, abandoning the trees' shelter from the other half of the sidewalk in order to get soaking wet from the bout of rain. Ted noticed Marco’s teeth chattering. But Jeb remained strangely nonchalant.

Ted hastily took off his gray sweater and turned to the jittery other, who had his eyes glued to the smoky-hued sidewalk. “Maybe all that coffee wasn’t good for a time like this.” he laughed.

Marco’s eyes darted towards the Texan. “Hm?”

“Donald was right, you’re a lightweight. With politics, coffee… and I bet alcohol too.”

“Alcohol, huh?” Jeb uttered to himself as a smile curled the ends of his lips.

“Is this your attempt of socializing?” giggled Marco, restraining himself from going too high pitched.

Ted shrugged before handing the freezing boy his sweater. “Take it.”

“But that’s so gay!”

“I know, but your teeth are getting on my nerves.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Well, basically,” began Ted, leading the conversation after an interlude of dawdling communication and small talk. “Marco and I were made to go on a day out with Donald and it was pretty weird – like, we ended up seeing more people than we bargained for.”

“Don’t you two hate the living shit out of him? Why did you go along with it?” inquired Jeb with a weary smirk.

“Nah we don't hate him. I only went because Ted agreed to it.” Marco insisted. “We still got some nice clothes though, right? And to think someone like Donald actually chipped in a few bucks just for us…”

“You know, it’s pretty hard to explain. We just hang around with him sometimes, right, Marco? He refers us as his sidekicks but we just spend three quarters of the time insulting each other.” Ted furthermore explained, chuckling as he did. 

Jeb answered with a slowly delivered nod. “Aha…”

“So, Jeb,” said Ted, his gaze shifting away from Marco. “Tell us a bit about yourself.”

“Uh, I’m sixteen, in 11th grade, and I’m studying business management and history which are popular at the moment. Uh…uh… inside of my locker you might find a Super Girl poster because I think she’s really hot. Like, really hot. You get me?”

Marco pulled a look of confusion, Ted likewise. They began to ponder upon what was up with the guy. In school he was the cool headed rich kid as a complimenting polarity to the other wealthy student that was Donald Trump, but now he was not as calm and collected as people once perceived him at first glance. To Ted and Marco, he was a badly-timed, awkwardly poised nerd. Not that either one of the freshmen were necessarily on the popular scale so far, because they genuinely, to say the least, weren't; but they could certainly judge apart smooth from gauche.

“I saw an ad about Super Girl while I was working out one morning. I don’t know when it’s on but I’m looking forward to it!”

'Wait, did this guy just say he works out?' Ted thought to himself, striking an expression of raised brows and lips. 

“I really like turtles, too. When I was younger and my family went to Florida for vacation, I would always try to look for them.”

“My home state is Florida!” chipped in Marco, beaming. He happened to look ever so dapper wearing Ted’s sweater.

“Lucky. Miami is so great.” Jeb forwarded a smile more vivid than usual. 

“You betcha!”

Jeb peeped out from the deep green umbrella up to the rather juxtaposing, pale sky, a moment before another awkward declaration. “Oh yeah, I like Mexican food, especially guacamole-"

“Alright, we heard enough. Thank you for the autobiography, Jeb.” Ted remarked, trying his best to sound polite. However, that did not stop the rambling Bush. 

“My favorite use of punctuation is the exclamation mark-"



“Oh, yeah… You probably heard-” Jeb proceeded after an ephemeral pause.

Ted 's eye twitched, with his face showing small sign of concern. “Huh?”

“My last name-"

“Don’t worry, we understand.” Ted assured, giving Jeb a soft pat on the back, although akin to all the other intimate interactions he had with him, it only came across as uncalled for.


“If we were in Washingcoln when your brother was running, we’d deffo vote for him over that other guy Al.” Ted exclaimed in confidence. Although to his surprise, his target of approval did not look as pleased as he had liked.  

“Uh, thanks?” The end of Jeb's wording heightened in tone. 

“Same.” inputted Marco.

“Yeah, we don’t believe in that climate change theory he kept going on about.” disdainfully commented Ted, gazing towards Marco. 

“The climate’s always been changing! Right?” Marco then interjected, using head gestures to get Ted to nod in agreement.

“I-I see.” Jeb swerved around a corner of the street, whereby the smaller bodies of Marco and Ted trailed behind him like two lost ducklings. It almost reminded him of those times where he’d walk with his two younger brothers to the stores and back, albeit it felt wholly strange comparing his own siblings to both the dry yet mellow Ted Cruz and the more upbeat, reactive Marco Rubio.

“Say, Jeb, you have a great poker face.” commented Marco out of the blue.

Jeb replied with a redundant smile for comical effect. Marco meanwhile kicked at a puddle, splashing some icy water onto Ted’s calf, to which the latter lagged due to the shock he received. “Have you heard of the Miami Dolphins by any chance?” Marco then asked Jeb. 

“Yeah, sure have! I’ve always wanted to go to a game someday." 

“Ugh, I’d die for it.”

“So, is that what you’re interested in? Football?”

All of a sudden, Marco’s eyes lit up. He straightened his posture and laughed a little before proudly stating: “Yup, I used play with my older brother a lot whenever he visited. I’m hoping to join Washingcoln’s team when I get in 11th grade, but not now seeing as I'm not developed enough. Not forgetting the fact I have a campaign to manage.”

“Good luck, Marco.” granted Jeb, twirling the umbrella slightly. A few droplets of water flicked on Ted’s ear, to which he showed a small scowl. “I’m in the tennis team.” Jeb then chuckled.

“Maybe Ted and I can watch you play sometime?”

Ted faced the two boys, directing his attention while rubbing his ear. “Wha- oh… sure.”

“Cheer up you turd. Smile.” Marco mockingly jeered.

“I-I am smiling…” Ted gritted his teeth in response to the lucid reminder of how ambiguous his staple expressions were. 

“Sorry Ted, are we leaving you out here?”

“It’s alright Jeb.” he muttered in dry monotone. “As for clubs, I’ve been interested in a bit of everything. I’m quite a persistent, ambitious person so it’s hard to stick to one thing. Drama looks great, I guess.”

Although it had only been approximately twenty minutes, the three meandered around various streets and boulevards for what seemed like an hour. The periods of rain had been capricious, which was a bother as Jeb had to close and reopen the umbrella so frequently – undoubtedly bopping at least one of the others in the nose every single time.

“So, who was there at your trippy day out at Starbucks? Anyone I know?” asked Jeb, growing increasingly curious. 

“Well,” Ted began. “Donald, of course.”

Jeb pressed his full lips into a pout, shuddering at the mention of the name. “Psh, that douche.” 

“Hillary was there with her boyfriend. You know her, right?” asked Marco.

“I sure do.” Jeb responded uneasily.

"To be honest, I’m kinda scared of her.” Marco then sheepishly admitted. 

“Me too.” concurred Ted.

“Me three.” Jeb said along with a low, grim laugh. “She is unusually smart and experienced, mind you. It’s been a popular thing where people have been predicting it’ll be me versus Hillary by the end of it all.”

“That would be awkward to watch.” Ted sighed. “You know, I have this theory.”

“What’s that?” Jeb drew himself closer, noting on Ted's faded amplitude of secrecy. 

“Before Hillary came over to our table, I caught Donald looking over at her more than three times.”

Marco gasped, and made a range of scoffing noises with his lips. “What? Nuh-uh, no way! Now I can see why Donald calls you a liar!”

“Way. I bet Donald actually likes Hillary. Besides, he's always talking about her.”

“I ship it. Dollary; the most patronizing couple in Prez High.” jokingly mentioned Jeb, before a couple of muffled chuckles followed his words.

"That's more of a Trump and Palin thing. Hate to say it." Ted muttered. 

“Oh yeah, who else was there?” mumbled Jeb. 

“Uh, you know that weird dude in detention with us? Bernie?”

“Marco, you’re sweating again!” teased Ted, aiming his index finger.

“I-I’m not! It’s just the rain!” Marco faltered, stepping in closer towards the shelter of the umbrella. 

Jeb pulled a face. “How are you sweating in this weather? The fuck?”

"It's the rain, my friends." assured Marco.

“I was joking, pshhh.” then murmured Ted under his breath.

“Remember that I’m not the one with a freaky-looking face like you!” Marco taunted before scoffing, as Ted's complexion lowered in slight shame. “But yes, Bernie was there.”

“He seems kinda grumpy and his hair doesn’t really stay in its place.” Jeb presumed. “He liked my turtles though.”

“Carly is actually working there – you know, at Starbucks.” Marco chipped in.

“Wow, I never knew.”

“I like Carly, I’ve spoken to her a few times and she seems like an intelligent person.” assumed Ted while he clicked his fingers to an erratic rhythm.

“She is, she’s in my business management class.” Jeb mentioned.

“She seems to be wherever Marco and I are, though. It’s a bit uncanny.”

And as Ted and Marco dismissed to mention a single word of their decently-willed upperclassman John Kasich, Jeb eventually bid farewell at the end of his own street. The rain had then ceased for good, and Marco and Ted were able to walk home freely without any one of them getting soaked. Before their departure, Marco skidded to a halt. He wore an energized expression that seemed a bit too merry to Ted's liking; displeasing the other who was stuck with his dull, unsettling smirk.

“Here’s your sweater.” said Marco, arching his upper body forwards as he flung it off.

Ted bared a brief smile. “Thanks, squirt.”

“So, Ted?”


“What did you think of Jeb?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“He sounds like the guy whom would cause everything to go wrong as soon as he’d walk into a room.”

“Bernie, are you saying Jeb is a curse?”

“No! Well, can’t say the same for his family name.” Bernie’s voice rang throughout the desolate park full of shimmering puddles and the aroma of thick, sweet petrichor.

“No no, Bernie. His surname is ‘!’ remember?" Hillary chortled beside him.

Bernie let out a similarly delivered chuckle, exhaling shortly after. “He has this clumsy vibe to him, that’s all. He may seem like the play-it-cool arrogant kid but we all know what’s under there.”

“I should’ve known. That whole passive-aggressive twitter squabble Jeb and I had was almost as bad as the shit that comes out of Donald’s mouth... or twitter account, rather. But mouth mostly… and hey-” Hillary’s tone dropped. Their eyes suddenly magnetized, and Bernie began to sense something amiss with his competitor. “I-I’m sorry about Bill.” Hillary uttered, her voice cracking slightly.

“Don’t be." convinced Bernie. "But I honestly don’t get why he gets so protective even though he’s a total flirt himself, it’s totally hypocritical.” There was a strange sight of sun breaking through the aluminum-toned clouds after the rainfall, which cast shadows around the park filled with almost-bare trees. Bernie rose from the park bench, lazily dusting off cookie crumbs towards where the pigeons pecked at the stale ground. Every time he would go to this park, birds would always waddle after him everywhere, especially those from the pigeon family - although never quite a dove. It was quite peculiar, to be fair, but he didn’t especially mind.



“Is everything okay with your dad now?”

Hillary rolled her eyes. Tapping at the bench with her nails, she finally opened her mouth to speak. “It was just a small argument, that’s all. It’s why I stormed over to Bill’s house to bring him along with me today, so I could feel more at peace with myself.”

“You sure do use each other a lot for things. But yeah, seeya Hill.”

“I genuinely wish Barry and Joe weren’t busy today, you know?”

“Yeah, it would’ve been fun.” Bernie flatly said with melancholic eyes.

“Well, I’ll be going now.”


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Chapter Text


November 15th, 6:05pm


It was an average silver day of November bitterness, where Barack trod through a local neighborhood on his way back from his date with Michelle Robinson, a new girlfriend from another high end yet local school. It was only after when he decided to take a route towards Joe’s house; not that he was planning to see him, but for the fact it was rather desolate and enigmatic, and certainly not a place where many Washingcoln students had the potentiality at spotting him. To add to that, the Prez wasn’t exactly brooding nor pondering; but ‘thinking’ seemed to be an understatement at that hour. He acknowledged his mother would be preparing dinner soon.


Barack then discerned the odd presence behind him, to which he shivered and laughed a little, but not to the degree of lucidity. He could tell who it was exclusively from the very tone of the familiar inhale. “Joe? Is that you?” he asked, before turning around and proudly nodding at his precision.

“Gee, I’m sorry Barry. I suppose I have a problem with standing so close to people.” sighed Joe, tucking his bare hands under each of his arms and letting his visible breaths heat the surrounding air.

“You do.”

“Uh, well,” Joe’s eyes drifted elsewhere. “I was gonna surprise you.”

"You really weren’t.” conjectured Barack.

“What are you doing ‘round here, anyways?”

"Walking.” stated Barack, ever so unconcerned. “Michelle and I went to see a movie together.”

Joe’s steps began to change in pattern, as an icy wind accompanied his movements. The Prez's mouth changed from a resting poise into a warm smile, which looked as if it could ease the weather a little, before continuing to muse over his day. Barack really, really liked Michelle.

“Well I just came back from a day out with your best friend McCain.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Barack rolled his eyes of deep russet, before asking his vice a genuine question. “Hey Joe," a sonorous sincerity glided through his words. "Would you consider I’m lazy?” There was no peep from his vice at all. “You see, I’m considered one of the chillest presidents right? But then again there are those republican council members who think they have beef with me? All these things they are coming up with, say; that I’m bone-idle or weak, stuff like that… I’ve been thinking about it. There’s something I haven’t told anyone about what I saw on our first day back in September, and it’s screwing with my head. It's Bernie, he had a can of spray-paint---" A single taciturn breeze filled Barack’s nostrils, and nothing much else. “Joe?”

Eyebrows furrowing, Barack stepped back and sought to where Joe could have dissipated off to. Then, in a mere instant, Barack was met eye-to-eye with Joe only a small distance away, having stopped to pet a passing yellow border collie. There was a small child with the owner, and it seemed Joe cooked up a small conversation between each of them. It wasn’t much of a surprise to Barack, considering how Joe was quite the social butterfly who loved small things like baby animals; and, well, babies themselves.

“Heehehe. What?” Joe looked up at the Prez, pointing at the dog and mouthing 'doggo!'. 

Alongside Barack snickering, his vice poked out his tongue before greeting the passerbyers goodbye. “Typical Uncle Joe, huh?” Barack then remarked.

“I like kids more than I do people!” interjected Joe, full with pride.

“Are you trying to say kids aren’t people?”

“I mean, they’re a lot like their own species, you know?”

“I don’t know, Joe.”

“Wait, were you asking me if I thought of you as lazy?” Joe then asked, with ambiguity. “Well, yeah.”

Barack’s face turned stony.

“C’mon, man. I’m not being that savage.” Joe tried to reassure. 

“Not as savage as that time you had to debate Paul Ryan.” brought up Barack, more lightheartedly. Joe sheepishly smirked while vaguely recalling the wacky vice council debates in his junior year.

“But I wasn’t that savage though, was I?” Joe asked the Prez.

“You sorta were.” he jokingly wept in response, feigning melodramatic offense. 


Joe had only met Michelle once, yet forevermore held a positive impression. Ever since he first talked to her, that time when she congratulated Barack on his work for the last two academic months, he had always known she was perfect for him. Smart, dependable and full to the brim with aspiration. Joe was finally seeing his YG grow up. (yes, I did just type that.) 

School rivalry, however, had still been commencing to a degree, with doubts that it’ll stop soon steadily increasing. Figures in the republican council weren’t helping, either. Obama was prone to all sorts of blame and conspiracy theories being made of him, similar to the last Student Gov. President – but somehow everything was all different. Perhaps it was good for him to have had someone by his side like Michelle. No, it was definitely good. But if she was here, then what importance other than a vice-commander would Joe be? 


“Oh yeah, Barry-

Joe’s words came to a halt as he began to feel a subtle tightness within his chest.

“What is it, Joe?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” he began. “But I have a crush on someone.”

In a blink of an eye, Barack decided to bleat some of the likely possibilities. “Warren?.... Pelosi!”  

“No and No! Don't you remember? Liz and I were a thing last year!”

A thin smile appeared on Barack’s lips. Joe never really talked about himself, so this enigma of a crush was unearthly enticing.


“Considering how good friends we are, I suppose it’s a wonder why we haven’t been dating by this point. But no, keep guessing.”

“Well, you know,” Barack jeered. “The only option for you I have left must be…”

Joe for certain knew what was coming. “Oh lord…”

“Sarah Palin.”

“No. Damn. Way.”

“She once blurted out in class how Kodiak was the largest Island in the US. As someone born n' raised there, I was kind of offended.” recalled Barack, placing a palm to his forehead.

“I think I remember her forgetting Principle Washington’s actual name once.”

“There was also this one time she couldn’t stop talking about how great Alaska was.”

Once more, Joe was stunned of the Prez’s classmate’s sheer examples of vacancy. “I’m convinced she actually lives in an igloo.”

Barack let out a muffled laugh beneath his coat. “Oh, and after that I think she muttered a racial slur at me under her breath, thanked me for some strange reason, and then went on about how she was gonna make that Donald her new boyfriend.”

“Aren’t they going out already?”

“I have no clue. They’re a perfect match if you ask me.”

And speaking of perfect matches, Barack’s mind was certainly not primarily focused on anything other than Michelle. He really was crazy about her. Their date earlier was probably the most wildest thing, it was this uncanny connection Barack couldn't get his mind off of. Thoughts were racing, but so was the time he had on his hands. Although he already acknowledged how constantly blabbering on about the one you’re infatuated with was not very socially acceptable, his external emotion was clear. However, he didn’t want to perhaps irritate Joe at this moment.

“Hey, Barry, I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

Joe’s eyes lost their vibrant sparkle, and his face hardened in suspicion. “Who exactly is Donald Trump? Where did he come from? Say, I’ve heard that his father is a wealthy real-estate developer, who sent him here from his old military school… because?”

Not long after Joe spoke, Barack directed a comforting gaze towards him. “Personal reasons.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Does this guy even know anything about our Student Government Elections, though?”

“Good question.” said Joe. “He doesn’t seem very knowledgeable about our school politics at all and near enough everything he says is a bunch of malarkey.”

“Don’t worry, Joe. He may have loads of friends now but it’s not like he’s going to get far. He’s a total dickweed.” Barack sighed.


The two youths had seemingly stopped in the middle of the boulevard. Then ever so suddenly, Joe managed to lose his grip of his phone, with it landing on the cold, stony pavement. Fortunately enough, as soon as he impulsively picked it up, there was no damage. He pulled a face in Barack's general direction as if he were about to reference something, before opening his mouth to talk. 

“Thanks, Obama.”

"Oh god, not you too…”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


“I’ll always be the no.1 meme queen, just let that sink in.” then boasted Barack. The current conversation had seemed to erratically shift to a completely different theme.

“If Hillary heard you say that she’d have something to say.”


New message.


‘um Barry dont ever forget that im the biggest boss ass bitch meme queen around here

I now h8 you more than mustard’




“Hang on, seems like I have an unread message from Mitt.” Barack then mumbled. He tapped onto Mitt’s message from his inbox, with him and Joe slowly leaning in and carefully reading the sparse chunks of solecism-filled text.


‘Hey Bama it’s me, Mittens. I dont wanna sound all homo but i like have this rlly big thing to tell ya and i was hoping youd pass the message on because its omega serious

im leaving washingcoln bcos I literally cannot stump the trump

having someone whos richer and scarier than me is like impossible and he keeps on saying weird shizz in the hallways which is totes wrong (idc if its his opinion its wrong OK)

im going to another private school but its not local. You can get there by bus tho

hopefully i’ll buy some new binders for some stuff for safekeeping. tell washinton, lincoln and lord reagan I love them

farewell my rival


((oh yh on my fb account I shared this rlly funny video its this guy that shits himself while running but my mom told me to turn it off lol. you should see it its so funny))’


“Joe, what the fuck was that?”

“I-I don’t even know…”


Chapter Text


November 19th, 3:38pm


The 20th was the date marking the second ever primary debate.

And there, sat in one of the lesser known music rooms – one which Mr. Thomas Jefferson didn’t go on about how he helped with the production of the school’s supply of swivel chairs – was an almost solitary girl. Almost alone, almost silent with her breathing. An acquaintance watched from in front, arms wrapped around their bass guitar while halfheartedly listening to the familiar melody of Chopin’s Nocturne, in E flat Major, Op. 9 No. 2, which the girl played on the piano.

Her white fingers glided along the keys, reminiscing on her one love whereas also holding no idea if there was any mutual feeling. She wouldn’t dare to ask him, but to watch him from afar was exhilarating enough. While he was younger than her, it wasn’t necessarily a downside per se. And besides, he was one to act unconventionally mature for his age. Relatively speaking, it was almost alarming how bad he was at fitting in. But all she knew for now was that tomorrow’s republican council debate was going to be it.

In the meantime, the outside was full of chilly winter afterglow, and the icy sunlight pricked the almost solitary girl’s eyes through the windows. And just like that, the melody came to a soft, slow end.

“Well, Huck, what do you think?” she asked. 

“You did great, but it was just a little out of time.” the voice replied, cocksure of himself. 

“What would you know? You don’t even play classical.”

“You asked, Carly.”

Mike Huckabee didn’t really know exactly why he stayed back to listen to his classmate and competitor play a piano composition dedicated to her new crush, but he did nonetheless. And oh boy, did he have a swell time talking his talk.

“Speaking of love-” he began.

Carly glanced upwards, still not seeming too impressed. “What, are you and Kim still together?” Her smirk widened, whereas Mike’s face turned graver.

“Yes, Kim Davis is my love and my joy and she is God’s gift to this school.”


“Occasionally we stay up together talking about how much we hate the homosexuals. You should try it sometime.” Mike boasted, although it was rather obvious to Carly that it wasn't an utterance of complete authenticity. Rapidly blinking, Carly turned on her seat so that she faced away from the piano and her patronizing peer.

“I broke her out of detention like no other! God bless!” Mike whispered, holding his hand to his heart that he believed the so-called evil homosexuals wanted to steal. 

“Yeah, uh, I’m gonna leave…” Carly stammered, rolling her eyes. 

“No you’re not.” said Mike.

Shuffling on the leather seat, Carly peeped towards Mike from the side, behind her center parting. “Oh, yes. I need to tell you who it is.”

“Alright, continue.”

“He’s an outsider when it comes to Washingcoln's government. I have a feeling he doesn’t like it too much.”

“Is it Bernie? The one with all those young, radical Marxist fans?” Mike asked, eyes squinting in scorn.

“NO! But still, isn’t he a 'democratic socialist'?”

“Carly, no one really knows what a socialist is anymore. Commies, Marxists – us conservatives* just bunch ‘em all into one presumed criteria. It’s a written rule, okay?”

As the two juniors laughed in unison, the echoes increased in apparency. The room was especially cosmic in size, and was not used too frequently, with it only being for after school practices. Bill occasionally brought Hillary with him to woo her with his excelling saxophone tunes, where they would often gossip without any members of their social circle butting in. And seldom; rather rare was it where they would engage in a deep, passionate embrace, a kiss even. Those definitely weren’t for empty music rooms, but making out in the familiar yet bleak building was an act that, to their ideals, was oddly satisfying.

“He’s quite a bit younger than me.” Carly then pointed out, continuing to hint at who the mystery man was. Mike’s smile, however, dropped for the second time.

“Oh gosh, it’s Alex…”


“Alex Jones. He hates the student government.”

“Nuh-uh, never heard of him.

Mike shuddered in a second-hand embarrassment. “All the memories are coming back to me now.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

[Throwback to the previous Tuesday]


“And this is your school announcer, Mike Huckabee with a smooth… funky record from 1979… nah, screw that. Here’s my personalized cover of Hello by Adele. Remember to vote for me; don’t follow into any of that horseapples. God bless you. God bless everything.”

“Wow, Huck.” the other announcer, Bill O’Reilly noted. “That took a strange turn.”

As the cover began to to fill the corridors, the two conversed over things inside their dully lit studio, perhaps with O’Reilly making one of his typical ‘you can’t explain that’ arguments. Mike rested his headphones of pitch black around his neck, before both of them recoiled to the sudden ear-splitting knock on the door. No, this was for sure none else than full-on banging.

“Come in!” O'Reilly yelled. 

A young, fair, stoutly statured boy rushed into the studio. There seemed to be approximately two people behind him, although not as observable as Mike and O'Reilly would have preferred. Extremely flushed in his face, the boy took a brisk march forwards and placed his hands on his hips.


“Uh… who are you?” O’Reilly inquired in a tone of disdain, scratching his ears to check for potential deafness from such interjection. Alex happened to be clutching a few papers in his hand, perhaps a script, and owned a voice loud enough to possibly shatter the eardrums of a small, hapless child.


“Right, yes, yes… read it out.” Mike hushed unwillingly. 


“Go on.” Mike uttered.

“AND HIS BOYFRIEND MICHAEL.” further continued Alex.



O’Reilly laid a hand on the freshman’s broad shoulder filled with all kinds of manic tension. “Look, we would love to blurt this info through the speakers every morning. But we can’t have Washington scold us for being too partisan. Frankly you sound a bit crazy but, like, right.”

“Buy my product. It’s great.” Alex then randomly brought up in his natural voice, eyes then blank, acting as if they knew what his context-bound speech was offering.


“Buy my product.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

[Current setting]


“Um, Mike?”

“Oh, sorry. I just spaced out.”

“I’ll tell you who it is for good, now.” Carly insisted.

Mike quickly raised his dark eyebrows before responding with a rusty sigh. “Okay.”

“It’s someone you’ll probably disapprove of…”

“Just tell me, Carl.”

Mike was now edging closer, towards the more solemn Carly. After a fleeting matter of time, she took a deep breath, and with sad eyes, she finally spoke:

“Ted Cruz.”


Chapter Text


November 23rd, 12:22pm


“Hey, I’m Rand and I’m running. Hell yeah. My name should be Rad Paul because I am radical and better than toast.The constitution is important to me, as well as libertarianism. I’ll probably drop out first because no one wants to hear a sensible candidate, plus I’m not that popular but hey, at least I’m rad. Passing it on to my good bud Teddy-”

“-Thank you Rand. My name is Ted Cruz, and the constitution is my precious. I think the US constitution can inspire us to make school government fair and orderly, as it’s a total mess. The glory of God helps build a strict foundation of liberty. I don’t know if what I’m saying is legit or just me trying to sound legit because I’m a bit tired with life right now. Sigh.”

“Yo, Chris Christie here and I think I should be the next leader of student government. Starting a lit fight with other schools is great. Also put me in the ring against Vlad-Vlad since he wants to take my dearest bro Donald away from me. Sometimes I look at my friend Donald’s shoes and have a deep desire to kiss them; probably lick them, I dunno. I wonder what they taste like.”

“Hello, I’m Ben Carson and THANK YOU FOR INCLUDING ME. Abolishing this politically correct system we have is a great idea. It reminds me a bit of Nazi Germany for some reason and if Obama was Hitler then that would fit really, really well. Although sometimes these thoughts scare me and I have to take a nap to calm down...”

“The name’s Marco Rubio, and I’m running too! Let’s dispel this fiction that Barack Obama doesn’t know what he’s doing; he knows EXACTLY what he’s doing! My goal is to really make our school live the American dream. This notion that Barack Obama doesn’t know what he’s doing is just not true. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“Hey I’m Jeb, I’m a very nice child although I am the brother of a destructive one. Don’t let that bring your hopes down about me though, even though I seem apolitical I’m very knowledgeable and have spent so many dollars on this too. If you ever threaten me my mom will know about it. Slow and steady wins the race. Please clap.”

“Hi, I’m John Kasich,”

An eerily unsettling silence wafted through the canteen, especially among the huddle of candidates.

“I… I eat my ice cream… with a fork..”

Rand buried his face in his hands. “This was a mistake.”

Chapter Text


November 24th, 8:44am


Martin O'Malley peeped from the changing room door to be greeted with the airy hallway. His wide eyes reflected the corridor’s penetrating lights, nonetheless his whites showing no discoloration or tears from the harshness. As he stepped forwards shyly, everything, to his apparent knowledge, was on full display.

“Omigosh! It’s the O’Malley! So exposed too?”


“Don’t you guys know? He’s really cute and he’s running for Student Prez!!!”

“Yes, but why does he have his shirt off?”

It was not a very well-known fact that Martin O’Malley was a real person that actually existed, but to a certain small group he was a lot more than just another pupil.


[Yes, this chapter will be explaining to you all about Prez High’s weird collection of organized fanclubs consisting of girls who have nothing better to do than fawning over candidates they find hot. And for a pretty good reason, too.

Now, you’re probably wondering why Martin has his torso on show, and we will get right into that…]



“Marty?” voiced Bill from across the corridor, poking his head out from his locker. He looked to be somehow late for class seeing as almost all the sophomore boys had finished dressing for gym. He closed his school briefcase, but kept an eye on the two separate groups of underclassmen girls who just so decided to spend their free period roaming school grounds. Whilst, however, it was only one group who intended to snoop on Martin and his business.

“I-I heard something went wrong in the gym hall. I’m sorta half-dressed right now but the others have gone right to work with setting up stuff- oh, hiya girls. Free period for all of you?” Martin chuckled.

“Yes!” the first group all chorused, appearing delighted. “Look, his abs are on show!” a girl from the gathering whispered, discretely.

“What was that?” then asked Martin, cluelessly. He had now transitioned into a phase less concerned for the said upheaval in the gym. Bit by bit, in fact, it slowly dissipated from his mind.

“I have a free period too, ladies.” quickly mentioned Bill, from afar, with a queasy grin.

“Sorry, Bill. We’ve only got our eyes on one democratic candidate. Your time is up, you should have called us over two or so years ago!”

Martin took piecemeal steps away from the small conference, not wanting to interfere any more than he had; primarily for the fact he had little motivation to dive into what on earth they were talking about. Or, at least, he didn’t especially want to know. Leisurely disappearing from the scene, Martin reversed back into the hot, clammy, near-empty changing room.

The second group hovering about in the thin corridor then spoke up. “We have a fanclub too, you know! And this boy is sooo much cuter.”

“Why, who it is?”


And so the battle began.

“Nooo! Marty is way better than that slimy, repetitive choke artist! Our Martin has glistening teeth and abs, while your idol is only glistening because of the sweat on his forehead!”

“Well at least people know who Marco is! You’re only voting for Martin just because you like his looks, how superficial. For a matter of fact, it’s clear that you boneheads are his only supporters!”

“Actually, we see him for what he really is: a great choice for Washingcoln. Plus, it’s not like Marco can beat his sexiness.”

“Um, excuse me, Ru-bae-o has the eyes and smile of a pure angel!”

There was a pause.

“Aw, I wish you girls were fighting over me.” quietly uttered Bill before huffing. “This brings back memories of those overly-avid Paul Ryan fangirls…”

“GO TO CLASS, BILL!” both of the feisty groups of girls shouted in a unified chorus. Suddenly, they turned their heads towards the direction of a prominent voice:

“Martin! Where are you?” it boomed. 

“Wait, it that Mr. Roosevelt? He's calling Martin!” one of the girls noted.



“At least I’m not a four-foot midget!”

“At least I don’t suck the dick of a candidate who acts like a toddler!”




Chapter Text


December 11th, 3:11pm


A few more debates had passed. Tensions were getting higher, and rumors had been floating about the school corridors as if they were petals getting carried by a sick wind, absolutely remorseless. If only the imagery was that beautiful.

Ted, Marco, Jeb, Kasich, Carly and Rand got along together within the republican council. Sometimes they would ditch their own friends at lunch and all meet up at this one table in the corner, making witty retorts and planning for the upcoming debates. Rand, as he predicted, had dropped out of the race at this point as well as Carly and many others too. Albeit Rand stuck around anyways. He spent his time casually flipping everyone off when he needed to; often mumbling to himself about either the fourth amendment or Ayn Rand. Moreover Carly would mess around on her HP laptop occasionally, eagerly trying to get Ted’s attention. It was kind of funny – some could say that it’s even ironic how during the debates that they alongside other students would become so enraged and argumentative. Such patent competitive nature seemed like their true colors, while in reality it really wasn’t like that at all. Everything seemed as if they almost had to put on that side of them just to entertain their animated audiences.

At times it was even present in the democratic council. Bernie was still in contact with his supporters, and didn’t back away from striking up a conversation about some kooky topic. Whereby Hillary, as spiteful as she would seem, would quickly wave to Martin and Lincoln Chafee in the corridors even though she didn’t want anyone see her do it. Even tough-guy Jim Webb (he beat up a guy in ‘nam) was able to dismiss the post-debate grudge in her.

Donald was still roaming the school as if it were his mansion, and Ted, Marco and Jeb still had to put up with him. Barack spent his days lounging at his office desk, deep in thought while Joe kept a watchful eye on him and his work. The positive ‘we can do it!’ vibe had dimmed but hopes were still high. Perhaps for a fleeting second, both their eyes would meet, and each were able to tell within each other’s irises that something in Prez High was straight-up wrong.


‘Yeeee- okay Ben, take a deep breath. There’s nothing to worry about, no one has taken in account the fact that I slept with my eyes open throughout half of the last debate.Therefore I shall be fine.’

“Okay everybody, today marks another debate from Washingcoln’s republican council. Put your hands together for the prayer- uh, I mean, for everyone that’s still involved in this race for the Student Government Presidency this afternoon.”

‘What was with that formal kind of speech? Oh no, I hope they don't ask me a useless question on economics again.’

The curtains were then drawn to expose the stage and podiums.

“Chris Christie! Please come out on stage.”

Chris sassily walked on the stage, as usual looking as if he wanted to start a fight with somebody.

‘My turn!’

“Ben Carson.”

‘Hm, well, if I wait here I could get more attention. More attention that I had gotten in any other debate.’

Ben decided to come to a halt in his tracks, to which he showed a sweet yet low-key sinister expression.

“Ted Cruz.”

Ted marched onto stage, noting on Ben’s placement and how he was now peering out of behind the stage’s curtains. He shrugged his shoulders as he flashed a puzzled smile, expecting the elder boy to follow him. But no.

‘Oh, Teddy. If only you knew my scheming plan. Lawl.’

“Go on!” a student behind the curtains said, motioning for Ben to move.

‘Hmph. Don’t tell me what to do.’

“Donald J. Trump.”

‘Has Rand dropped out? What? Is anything real? I don’t even know anymore.’

Peeping out from a corner, Donald subsequently strutted and stopped to where Ben was standing, seemingly for the same reason. “The girl messed up.” He commented, referring to the announcing.

“Marco Rubio.”

… Marco just kind of, well… strode past.

‘At least Donald has stood with me like the fine gentleman that he isn’t. Through the discourse of this debate, I’ll truly be the center of attention and no one will know my plot! I’ll just tell them I didn’t hear my name or summin.

“Jeb Bush.”

“Wait what?” whispered Jeb, standing behind Donald and Ben in a nonplussed sweat. After trying to converse with the boy behind the curtains, he quickly walked past them both, attempting to show a glower of disdain at Donald while shoving past. If only he could have pushed him over. Seriously though, what the heck was going on?

‘I think Jeb gave Donald the stink eye there. Hm. Wait, isn’t Trumpster the same guy who called me pathological? O-oh well, he’s my friend now.’

“J-John Kasi-


‘Oh darn. They forgot John! Or did they? I feel tired… no, I really shouldn’t. I’ll walk on for real now. Thank you, God. Thank you America, God bless you. Thanks everybody. Fuck you Thanks, Obama.'


Chapter Text


December 16th, 12:18pm


“Donald, please tell me why on earth there’s a rumor going ‘round about me being the Zodiac Killer?”

“Frankly I dunno, Lyin’ Ted. Maybe it’s because you are? I bet yer pops is involved in planning to assassinate Mr. Kennedy. Thankfully he didn’t get too close; John is still breathing at least.”


Christmas was nigh, and since the last council debate of the current year had passed, campaigns settled down to a degree. The current academic week ran antithetical to the one before in an almost peculiar way, to which none of them really minded. In actual fact it was more than pleasant.

“What the frick are you talking about?” Marco jokingly asked them, chewing on his water bottle cap. “Don’t tell me Ted’s at it again.”

“He is. I saw this candid photo, believe me. Ted’s father was planning to sneak up behind Kennedy and scream ‘gotcha!’ and uh, get out one of his Cuban rifles and shoot him or summin’.” Indicated Donald. His mouth twisted into a cat-smile, and he kept his ears open for what kind of comeback Ted was going to snap at him. Yet, there was only quiet laughter, which was still kind of shrill.

“Let’s just get lunch.” Ted uttered with a small beam.

“Yea, I wanna see my babe Sarah already.”

Ted looked across Donald to Marco, at first observing his rather large water bottle which he had probably reused about a hundred times now. His eyes then shifted upwards, noticing his button-nose and full lips, but promptly turned his head away. Marco marked Ted’s brief stare, and soon came to realize that his cheeks had become unusually – but ever so tangibly – hot and clammy with sweaty confusion.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Mr. Jefferson’s 12th music class was sure (slightly) deplorable.

Washingcoln’s idea of making music compulsory was an absolute out-of-this-world idea.

Every Wednesday, last period, the class would either use the room for instrument or band practice. Some would even slack off and choose to listen to their own music instead, which wasn’t exactly comparable to that of Chopin or Tchaikovsky.

It was a free period-slash-lesson which took the worst of turns, and possibly had the worst combination of well-known political figures from all the students in Prez High.

Along with the rest of their peers, Hillary, Bernie, Donald, Bill, George, Joe, Jim Webb and Jill Stein walked into the hazy music room of death.

But this time, it was different.

*cue dramatic music*

“Who’s that?” asked Hillary, pointing at an unfamiliar man stood beside the teacher’s desk.

“A substitute? But Mr. Jefferson is always in!” Bill noted. He and Hillary had linked arms and were all up close in each other’s faces, as usual.

“Good afternoon, seniors.”

“What kind of accent is that?” George hoarsely whispered to Bill beside him. Many other whispers also began to fill up the room, with most being from behind George, Bill and Hillary where some of Donald’s friends were now gathering.

“My name is Mr. Garcia, I’m new to the school and I’ll be your substitute for today. Which in simple terms means you kids can do whatever. Adios.”

Bernie, who was sat down alone, pulled a goofy smile. “I, for one like this man so far.”

“WAIT!” indecently spurted Donald, spinning around from his circle of friends. “Ey, man, do you come from Mexico by any chance?”

“I do. I mean, I was born here, it’s just-”

“Get him out.”

Joe’s face sunk. “Here we go.”


Although it sounded like Mr. Garcia wanted to just leave everybody to it, he took into mind that it was probably an appalling stance to take. Therefore with no rush, he sat down and was browsing his school email to check if any teacher had actually set a legitimate plan of paperwork, since active learning was out of the question. He seemed so immersed in his emails that he wasn’t tuning in on any of the action outside his bubble at all.

George skidded behind Mr. Garcia, puffing out his chest as if he was trying to impress. “What are yah looking for, sir?”

“An email to see if your class was set any work.” He calmly replied with his eyes glued to the screen. From across the classroom, having stacked a few chairs on top of each other, Donald kept his ears open.

George glanced over to Hillary before chuckling rather sinisterly. “Do you… think it might’ve gotten deleted?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hillary did it! She knows all about deleting emails!” Donald tumultuously butted in.

Hillary calmly rolled her eyes. It was pretty patent she’d gotten used to her enemy’s jeering by now, although she strangely felt the need to hold on tighter to Bill. “Donald why don’t you go back to building your –

The room stopped. Everything stopped. The universe, time, space, movement – stopped.


“EXCUSE ME; WE’RE TRYNA START A REVOLUTION OVER HERE!” Bernie bawled, his Brooklyn accent now being especially lucid.

“Hillary. Please quieten down. Bernie and I are trying to speak.” a soft-spoken member of Prez High’s Green club – Jill Stein – asserted from afar. She was sat near the back on a spare table, near where Bernie was also.

“Who are you?” questioned Hillary, pulling a face.

“Not a liar.” The voice replied.

“Seriously, who are you?”

"Not a mess.”

Bill frowned, and then pouted. “Stop passive-aggressively bullying her!” he quietly whined.

“Jill’s only joking, Bill.” Bernie assured with a somewhat wooden smile. Jill shrugged before nodding her head, and placed one of her earphones in her right ear.

“Maybe we should do something about Donald trying to construct a chaotic mess of a barrier between us and Mr. Garcia as his friends cheer him on?” she rationally suggested, as her fair blue eyes squinted at the sight of Donald hurriedly grabbing seats from all angles.

“I’m kind of liking how he’s the only one actually involved building it.” laughed Bernie.

A voice from another clique spoke up. “Why doesn’t Joe sort it out? He’s the Vice President, after all.”

“I think Mr. Garcia should at least take notice of what malarkey is going on right now.” Joe then announced, who had just noticed that his own chair had been ‘borrowed.’

“C’mon, Joe.” George said, failing to pass as just a bit condescending. Joe happily sighed, while tough-guy Jim Webb was close to walking out the actual classroom.

“George you’re the one that’s been standing beside him this whole time talking crap about the damn internets!”

“See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda.”

“W… what?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“It looks…”

“Huge, I guess.” finished Ted. He and Marco peered at the haphazard mass of chairs which Donald called a wall, ever so halfheartedly.

“I wudda though you all would be a lil’ more impressed! This wall took effort!” barked Donald.

“Yeah, but…”

“It’s just that it really wasn’t necessary?” dryly suggested Marco.

“Shut up, lil’ Marco. It was good practice for the future and I had a lot of fun, too.”

Ted turned on the heels of his cowboy boots, and started to slowly walk away down the corridor. “Marco and I are going to walk home with Kasich. Wanna come?”

“Kasich? More like Basic. He should even be called CAKEsic for all he eats. I’ve never seen anyone eat in such a disgusting fashion. This guy takes a pancake and he's shoving it in his mouth, it’s disgusting! Do you want that for your president? I don't think so. And he takes all the plastic forks from the cafeteria, like what’s up with-

“Count to ten, Donald.”


Chapter Text


December 17th, 3:14pm


Jeb took a deep breath, giving way for the frosty air to sting his nostrils. His campaign so far was built on his entire allowance, stupid bets with friends and pretty much any spare change he would’ve found around the house. Sure, if he spent all the money he could on ceramic turtles, clothes which didn’t possess too much of the dad-aesthetic and placards with red exclamation marks, he would win this. It was what was expected of him by his entire family; especially so by Barbara.

And if he were as weak as Donald said, surely he would’ve suspended by now? Anyways, why should he spend his time sucking up to what the chaos candidate thinks?

Now in the numbing-cold air, Jeb stood alone in the middle of the tennis court. Soon Ted, Marco and---

‘Fuck, he has challenged to play against me hasn’t he? For pete’s sake.’

Marco and Ted were coming to watch Jeb play tennis. They were going to watch him prance about like a fuckwit in shorts in the stupidly cold weather. And better yet, he was playing against an even bigger fuckwit whose self-confidence weighed more than both his brain and hands put together.

Yeah, Donald had challenged Jeb for a match.


“Believe me, I know all about tennis. I’m friends with tennis. I know tennis better than anybody.”

“So basically you’ve never played an official match in your life. Lovely.” Ted concluded in his sardonic tone.

“Ugh, it’s so cold!” moaned Marco from behind the zip of his puffy coat. He was desperately trying his best to keep up with the other two, but just couldn’t seem to waddle fast enough.

Donald happened to ignore Marco in every sense whatsoever, Ted likewise. Fortunately now they were almost at the court. The candid wind was irksome to a degree, and Marco simply couldn’t pat his loose strands of hair in their right places. Luckily for Donald, the majority of his hair was hidden under his ‘Make Prez High Gr8 Again’ cap which weirdly enough was able to have gotten produced. He wore it on most days, to which Ted shuddered in disgust at the sight.

“This is like, the coldest month on record. We could use some GLOBAL WARMING! AHA!” Donald blurted, deliberately taking a shot at the back of Ted’s head.

“Now, how does one implement something that doesn’t exist? Qué? Cómo?” asked Ted, hitting him back.

“Exactly, China invented it. It’s a hoax. China, China, China!”

“That’s not exactly what I was trying to say, but okay.”

As his face screwed up, Marco stopped in his tracks. “I’M REALLY COLD OVER HERE YOU PEOPLE! I’M ONLY FRAGILE; I HAVEN’T GOT ENOUGH MUSCLE TO FIGHT OFF THIS WEATHER!” he whined. “You’re both just such argumentative people who repeat themselves and think they can speak a language when they really can’t! That’s what you are!!”

“Marco, si quieres ... ahora el mismo díselo ahora, en Espanol, si quieres.”

“Let’s dispel this fiction that China doesn’t know what they are doing; they know exactly what they are doing!”

“I will cut you both with my protractor, I swear.”


“Heya Jeb!” called out Marco, frantically waving his hands like a total lunatic. With a sturdy fist raised up in the cold air, Donald began his yapping.

“Let’s get this show on the road!”


In disdain, Donald hastily slid his hands in his blazer pockets and turned up his nose at the mousy-haired boy who ought to have been freezing in his rig. “I would’ve brought all two hundred of my other friends here, but there doesn’t seem to be much room.”

Jeb blinked at his competitor, showing little emotion. “Yeah, yeah; of course.”

“And frankly I don’t want to be seen with you, Jeb. But if I do win this match – which I will – I’ll make sure all of it gets recorded and shown all around the school. Marco, hold my phone.”

“Yikes.” whined Marco under his breath, handling the phone with shaky fingers. Jeb trotted off elsewhere with his racket in his right hand, not expecting much to come out of this game in particular at all.

“How hard can tennis be, anyways? Never played a match in my life but I can pick up sports like I do women.”

“So you don’t pick up sports very well, I’m guessing.” Marco suggested. Ted's lips curled to form one of his wry smirks.

“Look, you lightweight. Sarah’s my babe. I'm on the baseball team. Not forgetting the fact I’m in the football squad and you’re not. Ted looks like he can’t play sports to save his life, and my opponent Jeb is a tremendous mess that fails at everything. This is going to be easy.”

Shortly after Donald’s crude insults, Jeb turned his head slightly from across the court. He frowned his usual frown, flipped Donald off, and got back to his feeble attempts of awkward warm-up exercises.

“Well, Donald,” began Ted, squaring his shoulders a little. “I play basketball you know.”

“You know who else plays basketball? Obama.”

“What’s your point? Sarah’s on the girl’s team.”

“He’s better at basketball than he is at being Prez.” chipped in Jeb some distance away, where all four of them nodded and laughed.

“How is he so annoyingly charming? It’s like Clinton all over again. I heard even his enemies liked him to an extent.” muttered Ted, seeming irritable yet unusually calm within his words.

Jeb raised his eyebrows. “Who, Bill?”

“Yup. He was so charismatic. But as a former member of the Dem council, I’d suppose he had to be sorta shit.”

Marco perked up, now trembling a little. “The Republican Council can be charming too! Look at me; people say that I’m very fresh and charismatic!” he bragged.

“Maybe it’s because you’re the best-lookin’...” Ted coolly said, averting his eyes. However, to be exact – none of his peers were turning their heads away in the slightest. “Um, did I sound homosexual then, Jeb?”

“Not too much.”


Everyone’s breathing was visible. The vapor puffed itself into the slick air, like that of wispy spider-silk; and Jeb’s grip upon the tennis racket hardened. His opposing mate hadn’t cared to exercise beforehand, or change into suitable attire. His eyes were piercing, while Jeb’s were deep. Donald’s hands were surprisingly still tan even during the blue weather, as Jeb's skin was that of a more rosy complexion. He flinched. Jeb was way, way too cold for this.

“Alright. Ready!”

The two hit the ball back and forth for about twenty seconds, until it happened.

“Fifteen-Love!” Jeb’s eyes glittered, but it was quite clear he was feigning a cooler expression. Had he really won the first point? Well, of course he had – he actually knew the valid rules of Tennis. But with Donald having beating him in popularity, confidence and (let’s face it) energy, was it really so inevitable?

“What? That’s not fair!”

“It was totally justifiable, Donald.” called out Ted with a smarmy smile. He gave a thumbs up to a slightly off-guard Jeb, who grinned in response.

Donald skidded on the turf, now looking fairly vexed. As the ball shot up into the air from Jeb’s hit, he cut his eyes. It seemed to have slowed down, almost dissipating…

“Thirty-Love!” Marco hollered, his smile expanding by the second.

“Haha, who’s the mess now?” cackled Jeb, possessing some rare, full-on confidence.

“It’s still you, Jeb.” Ted retaliated. Now seeming a bit less in touch with the game, he grabbed his school briefcase and rummaged through it.

“Oh, come on!”

Ted paused within his searching. His dark eyes flickered upwards, and he slowly tilted his head. “Donald, how on earth are you not sweating from all this?” he then snorted in his staple, quite unsettling laughter.

“It’s the spay-tan clogging his pores!” Marco jeered, now having sat down. He leaned back on the green fencing, next to Ted who appeared awfully blank, with his right hand dead-still inside his briefcase.

“You’re not the one to talk about sweat, Marco!” yelled Donald. He gritted his teeth, before clenching his muscles and swinging his racket once again. Perhaps it was good none of his other friends came to watch.

“Forty Love!” called out Marco. He stopped recording the scene on Donald’s phone, and placed it in Ted’s coat pocket. “Hehe, you have Trump cooties.”

Ted frowned. “What are you, a grade-schooler?” he whispered. 

“Ey, ey! Whaddya think you’re doing?!” snapped Donald.

“Donald you might just give up, I’ve already won.” calmly said Jeb in response.

“Thanks, Obama.” Donald grunted. “Whatever you fuckin’ mess, just one last shot. Got it?”

Jeb hit the ball one more time, where it brushed pass Donald’s peripheral vision as if he had completely spaced out. His small irises rapidly darted to the ball, now just about to hit his ear. There was a student walking nearby the court, looking in their direction. In reaction to this, Donald staggered about and unsteadily flumped onto the ground, where he quickly positioned himself in a more natural pose. With his hand on his hip and elbow digging into the turf, ever so melodramatically, he pulled a seldom pout.


“Guys, I think Jebra is on her period.” Donald suggested in one of his softer, snootier voices.

Ted, who was now immersed within the pages of one of his bibles, glanced up and noted what had just happened.

“Donald. This book. Take it. Now.”

Chapter Text


December 18th, 12:17pm


The last day before Christmas vacation. Yay.

It was a half-day, and everyone was ordered to leave Washingcoln at around the beginning of lunchtime, where they all were flushed out of the school like the little sh*ts they were. Today marked their first ever snow day, and it did look relatively beautiful. The school buses had thick sheets of snow layered on top of their cuboid-like frame, the fountain was near frozen and every single inch you would’ve glanced at blinded the eyes with illuminating whiteness.

Barack was also pleased to find he had the day off as President. He and his vice decided to stick around for a while, as it would take too long to commute home first if they wanted to see the new Star Wars movie. Michelle had planned to invite Hillary and Bill for a double date, with Joe unfortunately being a fifth wheel. Barack insisted he shouldn’t go to make Joe feel better, but he was furthermore reminded by his vice that he should consider Michelle’s feelings too. This was not a bros before hoes situation, you know? Besides, nothing was getting in the way of the Joebama bromance. In fact Michelle and Hillary loved poking fun at it – sometimes even Vice Principle Lincoln, too.

In the midst of the scuttling swarm of students, Barack and Joe were casually talking, just waving goodbye to some of their social circle and members of their student cabinet. Barack was layering a few handfuls of snow on top of each other, and formed a few separate mounds within a square meter’s space. Joe then perked up. He could hear a light pitter-patter of footsteps coming towards them both.

It was none other than the Prez’s secretary, Hillary Rodham.

“What are you building there?” she asked in sheer curiosity.

“Ahh, I don’t know.” laughed Barack. “I just got bored.”

“How can you be bored when there’s snow?! It’s like flavorless ice-cream that falls from the sky, like damn.” Joe – quite rightfully – stated, as he stuck out his tongue. “Ngyaaaah! Ow, I can tasthte the thnow! Tho colwd!”

“Wooh, it theels nithe!”

“What, you too Hillary? Stop it, you guys!” said Barack, before pretty much joining in.

“You hypocrithh!” the other two chorused, as the Prez idly shrugged.


“C’mon Joe, it’s our last day in Washingcoln before the New Year starts. Why don’t we build something?” suggested Hillary, finally speaking normally. “Gosh, it might as well be our last snow day, too!”

“You guys are such kids.” Barack shook his head, smiling. “I love you both so much. No homo, Joe."

“Oh, really now? Kids? Don’t get me started about your freshman year, Barry.” Hillary scoffed. “Ever since you became a sophomore you’ve been acting all formal as heck.”

“I had to tour you around the school on your first day, remember that?” hinted Joe. “It’s how we first became friends.”

Then, out of the blue, a rather low voice chipped into their conversation.

“I remember.”

Standing there; was John McCain and Lindsey Graham, having stopped their laid-back saunter mid-step.

“McCain, where did you come from?"

“My mother I think.”

“S-same.” returned Barack.

“He’s just pissed because he has to work overtime; don’t you John?” remarked Hillary, her words ranging from being under her breath to crystal-clear.

“Joe, looks like you’ve been dumped for Pillsbury Doughboy.” another voice stated behind them.

“Hey! That’s not nice, Barry!” said Hillary, putting Lindsey in a friendly headlock, to which he scowled.

“I didn’t say that!” Barack then admitted. “Wait, then who did?!”

“Goodbye.” Said McCain flatly, quickly turning around and leaving along with his flushed friend.


Bernie was walking nearby, almost looking a bit lost as he wore a sullen expression. His kindly-lit eyes flickered towards Hillary, before slowly realizing what her sinister half-smile was denoting. He twitched, and then sprinted away in his staple, ungainly manner.

“Nooo! This happened last year when you and Bill took advantage of our half-day and dragged me out on one of your freaky dates! It was so cold!” he yelled as he ran.

Hillary caught up to him and yanked Bernie’s hood, which belonged to a rather cheap-looking coat. “Hm.”

“Look,” he began. “ – Yeah, okay. It was me that mentioned the doughboy thing. Nobody was meant to hear it.”

“Your voice is kind of loud though, Bern. Maybe it’s a Jewish thing.” commented Hillary. “Say millionaires and billionaires again. I like how you say it.”

Bernie’s face then went red a little, before finally giving into Hillary’s command. “Wha – you do? Ugh, okay. Millionaires and-

The two seniors noticed a brief, fresh wind hitting their cheeks which was caused by the remotely large figure of Donald Trump bouncing by.

“What kind of radical statement is Sanders spurting out now?”


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“You asses got my invitation, no?”

“Why do we always have to run into each other? Why us eight?” Joe spoke, in a rather unexpected, feeble tone. He was also now starting to feel the cold seep in, as well as Hillary who was looking more animated than usual. Perhaps she had her fair share of coffee today after all. Grimacing at Donald’s coolly-hued eyes, she snapped once again. “What invitation?”

“C’mon, you lightweights. We’re gonna build a tremendous waaaall.”


“I didn’t hear anything about this.”

“Bernie, everyone apart from us did, to be fair.” Ted inputted, a fake smile drawn upon his sheer complexion. “Half of the republican council didn’t even bother showing up. I don’t blame them.”

“Okay, the Dem council on one team and the Rep council on another! Blue n’ red, Donkey and Elephant, let’s do this!” Donald spouted, marking a large pitch in the snow with a stick.

“But… we only have three members now. Everyone else has dropped out.” noted Hillary.

“It’s not our fault that a million people signed up to the republican council this year!” Jeb huffed, his cheeks turning incredibly pink behind his navy hoodie. He was looking like the biggest dork on campus, let’s be fair… if only it wasn’t for Marco’s unreasonably boxy coat that was about seven sizes too big, of course.

“Well if you think about it, Martin would be the only one on the blue team. I’m technically an independent and Hillary is trying real hard to fit in here.” jabbered Bernie, unzipping his coat slightly. He positioned his feet so that he was standing more at ease, and rubbed his hands together for a while to engender some comforting heat.

“Oh, haha.”

“I’m not joining.” Martin called out in the distance, being hardly audible.

“W-what? But your muscles will come with great benefits! Ugh, you’re such a joke, Mart! This is why no one votes for you.”

“I need to get home. S-sorry Hillary.”

Donald faked a throaty cough, and directly under his breath, he decided to refer to the polls in the most Donald-type way possible.“*cough*One-percent.*COUGH**COUGH*”

Marco’s face sunk. “Well how’s this going to work?” he asked, buried beneath his coat alongside the multiple layers of scarf enveloping his small frame.

“Fine, Joe and I will go on.” Barack insisted, with Joe now walking in headstrong.

“BILL!” Hillary screamed, with her hands cupped to her mouth. “GET YO ASS HERE, I NEED YAH!” Her voice echoed in the near-unoccupied space. Truth was, school grounds only seemed empty because nobody really wanted to be near any of them at all.

“Well for the red elephants, it’s either Kasich or Ben.”

“I’d rather watch.” quietly declared Kasich, smiling. “Ben?”

It was only just realized by the two teams that Ben was resting his head upon the other boy’s shoulder. It was incoherent whether he was napping or not, but what was blatant was Kasich’s sweaty void of a poker-face.



“OKAY! IT’S DECIDED!” delivered Jeb, his temper now shortening. “George, come.”

“Who knows what kind of destructive things he’d get up to? Oh boy, the snow’s seeming rich too!” giggled Marco.

“Rich like me.” inputted Donald, gormlessly smiling.

George pranced past Jeb, Marco and Ted, as his younger brother looked almost painfully embarrassed from his brother’s presence. Why did he have to act like such a dunce? And why did people like him for it?

Bill gulped. “Woaahh, this is a tough team to beat.” He said, before pulling a stupid face and muttering a small ‘here goes nothing,’ to himself. He sheepishly waved at George as the baffled Bush’s stiff body staggered onto the pitch.

“Don’t sweat it, Bill. The blue donkeys will show ‘em.” The Prez returned, with an aggressive thumbs-up.

“Can we really do it, though?”

“Yes we can!”

He knew how to compete. He was the damn president of the Prez High, for meme’s sake. Barack knew basketball and he knew how to competently prepare speeches. I mean, he was an excellent talker and memer and…




“Y-You mean, we’re gonna build our own walls out of the snow? Pffft, this isn't thought through for shit.”  stammered Joe. 

“Not surprised.” scoffed Barack, diverting a sulky gaze back at his vice.

“Why don’t we scratch the whole team idea and just build one together?” politely suggested Hillary, trying not to seem too soft on her proposal.

“What? You’re actually going through with this?” Bernie disappointedly whispered to Hillary, his throat coarse.

“Don’t worry, I have an idea. Tell Billy-boy and Barry n’ Joe, okay?”


Hillary didn’t know exactly how the climax of her plot was actually going to turn out, but she had something in mind that was, well, to an extent entirely catastrophic. No, scratch that – she knew exactly what she was doing... Sort of. 

Following an infantile attempt at reasoning, the rowdy group of ten eventually agreed that the team idea should be killed off. Donald focused on George with a watchful eye, glowering at him in revulsion and muttering indirect slurs. Bernie, Hillary and Joe were the least dispersed around the pitch, as Barack was positioned in front of Donald and near to where Bill was also lingering by. Ted and Marco exchanged frequent, clammy glances, yet with Jeb not so much. Everybody was in their positions, and all were in for building a giant snow wall due to the whims and commands of Donald Trump. This was going to be cheap.

If anyone viewed this as a more cooperative, diplomatic option of constructing something so incredibly trivial and (let’s face it) stupid, they were wrong.

After a hefty and rather argumentative hour, the wall was approximately one meter in width, a meter tall, and owned length spanning from the left boarder of the pitch to about a third way into the middle. There was a bountiful amount of glistening snow, which was strangely harsh on the eyes, but it came with great advantages at the time. Kasich and Ben eventually left. Other than the squabbles, the rest of the action consisted of Donald taking charge of the design, with his sidekicks Ted and Marco doing most of the dirty work for him. Marco would whine and Ted would slyly utter things under his breath, probably murderous things; who knows. Often snowball fights broke out, sometimes with little warning. Barack, Joe and Hillary stayed in one group while Bill and George slacked off for a grand total of seventeen minutes until they were bribed by Hillary to help. Meanwhile Bernie and Jeb unintentionally knocked into one another from time to time, and exchanged awkward glances and brief apologies.

“It’s starting to look flimsy near the middle.” whispered Joe to Hillary, with the latter nodding. She briskly walked over to Bernie and threw a few hand-signals at him, as he couldn’t look any more clueless. He froze. He gulped. His smirk widened.

“So, I should kick it over now?” Bernie asked, drawing closer to Hillary so no one would hear. “But why me? You’re the smallest. It’s more likely no one will catch you out for it.”

“But you’re faster! You’re on the cross-country team, for god’s sake. C’mon, Bern… You know how much you want to do it.”

“Pssshh, okay. Whatever you say.”

Shortly after Donald and the others began to throw snow at each other quite barbarically, Bernie discretely scampered away behind the wall. While surprisingly being hardly visible, he fly-kicked the mass with an incredible force before dashing around to the other side. Then, very rapidly, the wall started to tumble down with great velocity. Everyone shrieked.

“Nngyaah! Ow!” moaned Marco as a large portion of the snow fell on top of him. He struggled to lift himself up while trying his best not to seem too much of a weakling, but the pressure was too much. As Donald began to laugh, he slowly realized Marco was probably not exaggerating at this moment. His bouts of giggles thus didn’t last very long, and the others had turned dead-taciturn with shock. Especially Barack, Joe, Hillary, Bill and for sure Bernie – who wore nothing but expressions of ill, shaky remorse.

“Oh shit!” gasped Barack, with a hand covering his mouth. He ran over to where Marco had fallen, but Jeb got there before him. He pulled Marco up from the snow, and while he wasn’t at all crying, the crippled Cuban still happened to limp on his left leg. From something like building a snow wall, this aftermath was not a laughing matter.

“Are you hurt badly?” Ted asked, his droopy eyes turning glossy. Marco noticed the way his dark eyes reflected the snow slapped on the side of his face and neck. He ferociously shook his head, and his eyes were stuck to the vividly pale floor. Ted noticed that his friend’s actions appeared a bit too ungenuine, and he too hastily turned away. In a flash, Jeb walked Marco over towards the main building. Jeb's exceeding height came as a benefit, as he really was the perfect thing to grab onto at a time like this.

Hillary’s face screwed up, holding her hand in the crisp air as if she were about to call out to Marco. “Sorry, Marco… I-I really am-” she whispered, unnoticeably. Everything turned still.


Chapter Text


December 18th, 1:29pm


“Do you feel better, Marco?”

Marilyn Monroe, Washingcoln's nurse, walked a shivering Marco from the corridors to her office. As she opened the door and looked around, it was realized that a few papers had been moved. There seemed to be an unusual, invisible presence in the room, too. Something like that of a breeze, perhaps. Marco held his hot water bottle to his leg as he sat down, awfully tense. He noticed the room smelt pungent, like of dish-soap and not much else. At least it wasn’t as bothersome as the swelling.

“I-Isn’t this what girls use for their p-periods?”

“It works wonders for some other things too, you know.” Marilyn replied with a gracious smile.

“O-okay.” He further stammered, teeth chattering. ‘She’s so pretty…’

Shortly, a young man who possessed a cheery grin glided into the office, owning an air of happy nonchalance. Marco picked up on his familiar face, one which everybody had seen around school at least once or twice. The man was moving unusually close to Marilyn, as if they both knew something was up.

“Oh, John! Hi!”

“Heya, Marylin. Needing some painkillers.”

Marilyn’s hand brushed against his cheek in a secretive fashion, as if she were edging away from Marco’s vision. “Is it bad?”

“Hmph.” hummed Marco in disgust, now properly turning away to face the blue walls. He clutched onto the hot water bottle even more yearningly, squeezing it so hard as if he wished to for the heat to transfer to every nook and cranny of his body. If only it was his actual water bottle.

Meanwhile Marilyn and Mr. Kennedy flirted in almost identical manners, looking around every now and again as if they had something to hide. Shortly, booming footsteps were heard nearby, outside of the office room. They became louder and louder until a bold, grand figure emerged from the corridor.

“You have spouses, you know! Kennedy you womanizer, go home already! Marilyn! There’s a dying child next to you!” commanded Principle Washington with a blank glare. “Now, where’s Abe?”

“I’m not dying!”

“Children are the world's most valuable resource and its best hope for the future.” stated Kennedy, forming a proud poise while sounding as if he was commencing a speech, placing a hand on Marco as he did so. “We need to protect this dude!”

“Um, sir-”

An ear-piercing, sudden movement caught each of the teachers’ eyes, as well as Marco’s. It came from one of the ancient closets the drama club used to store their costumes, and while it was handy as the room was right next to the office, both closets were usually barren. Notwithstanding, however, this closet was definitely not vacant.

Hillary and Bill flung out of the cabinet before toppling over each other and splatting onto the cold, hard floor.

“RODHAM! WILLIAM!” barked Washington, aiming a finger. Luckily for the low-key disquieted duo, his face began to soften into a wry smile. “…wardrobes aren’t for doing the do, you know.”

“WE WEREN’T DOING THE DO!” angrily protested Hillary, her face flushing. Bill still was face-down on the floor, giving a thumbs-up to notify that he was (most likely) okay.

Then, ever so randomly, the second near-empty closet opened. Vice Principle Lincoln appeared before everyone’s eyes, with his top-hat on fleek and his towering, rail-thin form stepping out from the stuffy box. He briskly walked out of the closet with a smirk planted on his face.

“What? Abe!?”

“I think there’s some symbolism here.” slyly mentioned Kennedy to Marilyn.

Marco froze, silently pondering on all the weird things he just witnessed.

“What the fuck.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

[Let’s skip back a few minutes!]

A hot and bothered Bill fidgeted within the small space, pushing aside a couple of wiry coat hangers. “Sugar, why are we in here again? Is this world-war-three or are you actually wanting my rod this time?”

“Bill, shut up. Marco’s hurt and I feel bad!”

“Don’t feel bad. It was Bernie who did it, not you.” He consoled, with a hand resting on her. He slid it downwards towards her hips, whereby she slapped his wandering hand in return.

“Yeah- I mean, if he refused then none of this would have happened. And really now, we didn’t know anyone was going to get injured in the first place.” stated Hillary, turning away. Maybe it was a positive that both were hardly visible to each other, considering Hillary’s hair was a total mess from the apparent static electricity.

“Yah, it’s a Macbeth kind of situation. Oh gee, I hope Marco wasn’t beat-up too badly. Perhaps I’m not taking this sensitively enough.” Bill mentioned before sighing.

“I just don’t know what to think.” his girlfriend then answered, also with a sigh. “Oh well, I’m meant to be running against him. There’s no time for sympathizing with those who should be my oppositions. Ted, Donald, Jeb etcetera… they could be the next president of our student body! Where does that leave me?”

“Re-taking 12th grade so you can run for president again?”

“Exactly!” Hillary stomped her foot. “Besides, Marco isn’t even that cute. Ted’s starting to grow on me though.”

“You know what’s starting to grow on me?”

“Hoe don’t say it-

“My dick.”

“Shi- someone’s coming!” whispered Hillary, tugging on Bill’s tie, to which he jerked in response. They both held their breath, eavesdropping on what was going on outside for what seemed like a tense, hefty five minutes. Breaths were taken in between, but it was patent they couldn’t keep this up any longer. Bill stumbled a bit, and the weight of his body caused the unlocked doors of the cabinet to fly open. Grabbing onto Hillary’s arm and dragging her with him, both of the youths fell to the ground.



. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Barack soon said a polite goodbye to Marco who was ready to go home alongside Ted, Jeb, Bernie, and Donald as well. They all began to depart from the school, with Marco and Ted walking down the hill together and Jeb taking the school bus. Donald got into his Mercedes his father bought for him as an early Christmas gift back when he was fifteen, with the thing almost on its second anniversary. That lucky sucker.

At this moment, the setting of Washingcoln from the front of the building looked rather dull, as the bulky clouds blocked the sun from cutting through. Everything had undertones which resembled pure silver, perhaps even a very soft blue if one looked closely. This dullness was strangely beautiful, and its form became even more so as soon as Barack noticed a special somebody stood before him. No one other than Michelle LaVaughn Robinson.

“Barry, hey!” the tender voice spoke. “Late, as usual.”

“Ayy, you good? Joe’s gone back to the office for a bit and Hillary and Bill are getting lectured by Washie, hope you don’t mind waiting.”

“Of course not, although I must admit I’m so pumped for this.” Michelle said, stretching her joints before shivering. She bit her lip from the cold. “Don’t get mad if I blurt out some tunes with Hill and embarrass you lot. It’s not like it is intentional or anything.” she then giggled, menacingly, but also managing to keep a neutral face.

“Now I know why you and her get along.” laughed Barack.

“The movie’s gonna be gre-e-eat.” Michelle hummed in the tune and rigid rhythm of 7/11. Her eyes locked with Barack’s, and her face turned a subtle tone of stern. “What’s happening with all the… you know…”

“Presidential campaigns? Well, they’re far from presidential.” Barack scoffed.

Michelle’s expression changed to one that appeared a bit more relaxed, and intentionally nudged the boy’s shoulder. “Pssh.”

“Cruz can’t stop being so petty with my beliefs on healthcare, and Trump is getting way too much attention. Not forgetting all the other shit the republican council makes me go through.” he then sincerely claimed.

“I’ve heard way too much about that Donald Trump. The fact he lingers ‘round our school gates too, it’s just terrible. Which one’s Cruz again?”



The two were dating, sure. But Michelle was no naive girl, and she wasn’t superficial when it came down to love. Having promised herself and her family to focus on studies rather than boys, she later discovered her relationship with Barack so far had taught her more than she bargained for. In actual fact, her parents would have been proud for her to be dating a guy from such a school as Washingcoln High – especially as he was the president of its own student government. Plus, he wore pretty neat sport jackets.

Michelle met Barack when Hillary introduced her to him sometime in the October. It was handy how Hillary stuck around near the all-girls' school to meet up with some childhood friends, as due to certain mutuals it concluded with her and Michelle having finally met. There was an interesting ambiance to the school in particular; the fact that it didn’t clash with Prez High was interesting. (Some of the boys found it as a resort for if they ever needed to find a mate, which was probably a major factor.) Nonetheless, it was certainly full with all types of girls of all different ambitions, plans and… qualities…


It was not long when Bill and Hillary caught up, alongside Joe who was warbling an ambiguous theme tune, supposedly one of an anime. Subsequently, they started to stroll ever so leisurely away from the building after an atypically long delay, and Michelle decided to bring up a topic she’d wanted to discuss for some time. “Say, how’s the new lunch curriculum project going?”

“We had meetings in gov. about it, and the petition for healthier lunches has been signed by so many people now that it might actually become a reality.”

“Well that’s great!” Michelle responded ecstatically.

Barack beamed, his atmosphere seeming shyer than usual. “Aw, I’m so lucky to have you and your ideas, Michelle.”

“Aha…” With soft eyes, she directed her gaze downwards. She hadn’t realized that she was in fact resting against Barack’s shoulder as they walked, and the withdrawal of her sappy, somewhat subconscious actions were obvious. “I guess I’m the type that wants to do something with my ideas. You know, nothing will stand in my way to get what I want.” she stated, with her tone sharpening.

“You talkin’ ambitious makes me feel kind of fuzzy, yah know that?”


While Hillary, Bill and especially Joe playfully teased their friends’ puppy love from a fair distance, Principle Washington declared his final goodbye to his students. At least the last of the calendar year, anyways.

“Goodbye, all. Barack, make sure you remind ‘em of the major New-Years’ meeting on the 5th."

“Bye, principle. And yeah, I wILL-HEY!” he screeched, as he began to acknowledge himself slipping on the barren, icy floor. All caused by no one other than Joe; yanking at his coat, of course. As the Principle’s mouth twisted into a cunning smile, he strolled back inside the heated building. He suddenly caught sight of his beloved vice and best friend, Abraham Lincoln, who was also dawdling about in the still, desolate hallways. They each received a manly hug from one another, in addition to a pat on the back. What was most peculiar was how nobody was aware of their hidden feelings for each other. Obviously, they were able to hide it reasonably well considering they had been secretly in love for a total of almost twenty years now.

“Abe! I must say that was a doozy. Wasn’t expecting that.” laughed Washington, referring to Lincoln’s absurd live-action ‘joke,’ as he’d like to call it.

“’Afternoon.” calmly greeted Lincoln, in a sonorous voice. “Isn’t today just grand?”

“Yes. My mutts love gamboling in the snow, too.”

“Are you talking about your 9th grade homeroom class or Sweet Lips* and the lot?”

“Nice one, Abe.” Washington gritted his teeth, somehow smiling at the same time. After his vice wrapped a willowy arm around his more ample neck, smirking, the principle let out a huff.

“What was with you back there? Lincoln asked. 

“In Monroe’s territory?”

“You had a bit of a harsh attitude.”

“I do not have a bad attitude!” insisted Washington, with a bad attitude.

“They don’t call me ‘Honest Abe’ for no reason, you know.” Lincoln dryly cackled, dissolving into laughter. “George, I’ve been thinking,”

“What is it?”

“The kids. What are we building them up to be?”

“Slaves of the two-party system out in the real world?”

“Alright, George. We know how much you hate it. Why don’t we make the Green and Libertarian club part of government?”

“It can’t just be done in a click of a finger. I’ve been skeptical of breaking tradition; besides how will the school react to it? And our budget? All these students protesting for free school healthcare too… It’s all too risky.” Washington suggested.

Lincoln raised an eyebrow, and he placed his left hand on his top-hat so it would conceal his forehead, only tilting it to a small degree. “Why is it we do not have free school healthcare, mind you? It’s not expensive but it is just a total bother.”

“We have to live off fees, Abe, you and I. The dough surprisingly comes down to a lot first-aid wise. It’s almost like the more kids get hurt, the better. It’s ungodly to think that way.” The principle glumly expressed. His companion nodded.

“This school has always been a strange one. Those school fights resulting with smashed windows among the demand for band aids made the money fly out the window, and then pile back up again. Our presidents of school government always lead us to end up in debt one way or another. It’s just so out of the ordinary and it fascinates me how we got this far with it.” Lincoln further stated. “But really, George, I’ll ask it once and I’ll ask it again. What are we building them up to be?”

The two men looked dead-straight into each other’s glares, with Washington squinting slightly as if he knew exactly what the Vice Principle was going to inquire. After an awkward quiescence, Lincoln spoke up:

“Leaders or dictators?”


Chapter Text

January 5th, 6:00am



‘Ugh.’ thought Barack, noting on how it was already 6:00am. His eyes quivered, not taking long for both to open. He looked at his phone, which for a reason he forgot had its alarm ringing. ‘Why is it set so early?’ After heavily expiring, he turned over his puzzled self onto his back and continued to sleep. As his warm blankets submerged his toes to his chin, his mind was now drawn to more happy thoughts. Some were audible within his room and even outside it, too. ‘Oh, Michelle… basketball… bagels… half-assed assemblies…’


Beep. 6:15.

“What? Ugh, you know what – fuck this…”

“Barack,” a voice called out, probably from outside of his room. “Come, let’s play baseball together! My, haven’t you grown.”

“Who… Dad?”



“Barack!” his mother called out, knocking on the door. “You need to be getting up! I have to go out around now, please hurry.”

Not taking in what his mother was saying, a half-asleep Barack mumbled a simple ‘Yeah,’ in response. He spent a few seconds blinking, feeling some sort of oddity as his gaze turned wet and warm. Furthermore, he shut his dewy eyes without a second thought.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The house was freezing, the kitchen even more so. Barack spent his morning talking in the mirror, just like Joe always did; yet for Joe it was like a necessity. He did have a slight stutter, after all – and especially when speaking in front of large crowds. Twiddling his thumbs, Barack was now leaning back on his chair at the breakfast table. He took a sip of tea, and the almost satisfying scalding sensation shook hands with his taste buds. Barack shivered, moreover coughing as he glanced his way around the room. It was noticed that the radio, as usual, was turned off.

‘How long ago was Christmas now? Man, that was wild…’

From across the room, the calendar was met with a pair of dark, tired eyes.

“NO!! NO! …AHSHHH…shit.”

Yes, poor little Barry was meant to go to school that morning. And yes, he was going to be late for the school government meeting. He was going to be late. He was going to be late. Fortunately he was already dressed in somewhat appropriate clothes, but showering was out of the question. Hopefully nobody would comment on the extra flies during the meeting, right? Barack pouted at his single slice of toast, realizing the shameful deed he would have to commit next.

“Okay, I gotta do this.” He unwillingly uttered under his breath. Gliding out the door like a Segway PT, his toast slice wedged between his teeth, he began to sprint. “I’m late!” he bellowed down the street as if he were an anime girl, his legs taking long, brisk steps.

*And of course, as the damn president, he did 75 back-flips because he could. Yeah, you read that right: 75. He gracefully dodged the cars as if he were an s-class ninja, his teeth forming sparkles from the car’s headlights that were for some reason still on because IhavenoideawhatsourceoflighttherewouldbeonaJanuarymorning. Finally, Barack Obama got to his school gates on time, as his intuition told him so. He gulped down his cooked, buttery carbs and walked with Joe Biden into the school. Ta-daa.

Aha, but that’s what the media wants you to think.

In actual reality, Barack was in fact a minute or two late. He ran to school just as any other fifteen-year-old boy would do, being extremely short of breath. After he finished plodding up the gently sloping road, the trees gave way to the slender form of a dim-eyed, sadly smiling Joe Biden.

“Late, as usual.”

The words stuck onto Barack’s mind like gum. That was Michelle’s catchphrase.

“H-hey, I’ve only been late to meetings once…”

“Twice, now.” said Joe. He happened to be wearing a wool hat, to which Barack thought of as somewhat dorky, somewhat adorable. Joe paused. “Not forgetting that greeting ceremony and all those times you lost track of time in the office.”

Joe silently motioned the Prez to follow him inside, where Paul Ryan was leaning beside the gaudy entrance. A faded image of Mitt seeped into Barack’s mind. Very suddenly, within the unsettling moment of clarity, he could almost feel a certain temperament within Joe. It was something cold, something wrong; yet Paul was just like he always was. A flash of golden hair and tan skin accompanied their vision for about three seconds, and Barack started to wonder deeply of what Mitt Romney was doing – thinking even, at such a miserable, unfulfilling point in time.


Chapter Text


January 28th, 12:32pm


“I have never seen a human being sweat like this man sweats… It looked like he had just jumped into a swimming pool with his clothes on!” – Donald Trump

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“He was having a meltdown. First he had this little makeup thing, applying like, makeup around his mustache because he had one of those sweat mustaches,” – Marco Rubio

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“He has really large ears, the biggest ears I’ve ever seen.” – DT

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Donald is not going to make Prez High great*; he’s going to make Prez High* orange.” – MR

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“He wanted a full-length mirror. Maybe to make sure his pants weren’t wet.” – DT

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“He’s always calling me Lil’ Marco. And I’ll admit he’s taller than me. He’s like 6’2″, which is why I don’t understand why his hands are the size of someone who is 5’2”!! Have you seen his hands?! They’re like this. And you know what they say about men with small hands? You can’t, uh, trust them.” – MR

[These are actual quotes from their campaigns. **Apart from these bits. Replace Prez High with ‘America;’ then bingo!]

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The year had begun with the usual, angst-filled hormonal disagreements, with both councils along with the rest of the student body yapping at each other for starters. Ted, Marco, Kasich, Ben, Jeb and Donald were still in the fight for the republican nominee to represent their council, yet (only) Bernie and Hillary for the democratic nomination. Donald was leading – of course – with Ted’s popularity rising. However it was unclear for Hillary and Bernie, who despite their rivaling friendship happened to tie, to each of their dismay.

There was a lot of controversy surrounding the poll numbers in Prez High. Some believed that back when he was a freshman, Jeb would manipulate the ballots so that his brother would win. It was evident in the current setting, too; for example when Donald would moan that the popularity numbers were rigged by Hillary and the student government, as she had been part of it and all.

As a matter of fact, it was manifest that Hillary wasn’t very trusted at all, leading her strong portrayal to be demeaned on occasion. To everybody else she was just this intellectual yet cold young woman that was part of the newspaper team who had a sex-pest as a boyfriend. Hillary Rodham was another one of life’s great mysteries. Her exterior, blatant self was certainly intact with everybody, but the emotional side was almost unknown. Well, you could say almost. She was a subject where everybody would assume they knew everything about her, and the opinions were not what you’d call positive. It would go back to a time when former Prez Bill Clinton was the bold statue, and Hillary was his shadow. A very protruding, deep shadow.

In basic terms, her school life consisted of scandal after scandal, and there was one in particular she would rather forget, if anything.

See, Donald was seen as this buffoonish jock whose bullying tactics made him appear to be awfully outspoken. The school newspaper would recite his outrageous lines in their articles, making him to become the new face of Prez High. He was in overall terms built up to be a narcissist who made preposterous claims about women and minorities, who was seen as having little experience of the outside world. He could have even been deemed a populist, with Bernie at the far opposite end of the spectrum. Donald J. Trump was the talk of the school.

But people like Ted and Hillary were different.

While contrary in nature, Washingcoln found it equally hard to relate to them, as their proposals happened to appeal to certain ‘groups’ of people. Bernie was trying to pave the way for a more liberal atmosphere – a school revolution – because he wished that was what a certain majority needed. Donald also desired for drastic changes, although this happened to be a war against what some would call 'PC culture' with his alt-right rhetoric. He would talk with such a manner which would surprise the average person and prove himself to be rather inexperienced political-wise, which would all benefit him in the long term. To his supporters, he was the average Joe who couldn’t have cared less about politics, but wanted action. Fast.

People hated Ted because he lied a lot. People hated Hillary because she lied a lot. He was said to be sleazy. She was said to be experienced. He was a loner. She was loaded with friends. He was a bible-thumping extremist. She was a… criminal?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“So Bernie, I forgot how to find the area of a circle. I know I sound so dumb right now but you’re the only smart-looking one in the library and-

“It’s the glasses.”

“Yeah, but all I’m saying is-

Ted took a shaky breath. The library reeked of dust and soap, and the lighting possessed a strange yellow undertone. Absurdly, it seemed kind of beautiful regarding its warm, cosy atmosphere. Besides, Washingcoln was that of a big building, so it wasn't like the room's capacity was to its limit.

Physical Ed. teacher Theodore Roosevelt’s distant relative, Franklin Roosevelt, had gotten employed as fellow library keeper and taught English and History. He sat at the library’s office, typing away and checking in now and again. Ted glanced at his English teacher with a neutral face while exhaling a more melancholic breath. Hopefully he wouldn’t see him before starting up a conversation about America’s depression again. Edging himself away, Ted began to contemplate.

Now, he had told his friends he had something to do alone, but clearly now he had forgotten. What was he meant to deliver? What was he meant to be reading? Well, it for sure wasn't a bible, as he already kept that with him at all times. Really, what on earth was it?

Was it to see Marco?

“Squirt, are you actually doing homework?” a familiar tone of voice asked. Marco turned around on his chair, realizing that Ted had found him out. Ugh, of course a nerd like Ted would be in the library. He should have known better.

“’Needa to catch up on math.” He muttered in reply, almost in embarrassment. “My mom wants me to study more ‘cause my knowledge in geometry is plummeting. She and dad kept saying how I was better back in 8th grade and that now I’m focusing too much on managing my campaign.”

“It’s the tough thing with going to an uppity junior high. I went to one of those too.”

“Yeah, it’s how Donald sniffed us out.”

“I’m starting to wish Obama locked those drawers.” disclosed Ted, taking a seat.

“He would still know who we were, it’s just he would only see us in the debate hall and we wouldn’t have to be his unwilling sidekicks. Sounds like utopia, doesn’t it.”

“I’m starting to wish Hillary shooed Donald off in time.” Bernie added, with a lost look to him as if he wasn’t quite taking part in the conversation. A throwback of the detention on his first day then set into mind. “That phone call was certainly summin'.” he mumbled, with the words being vague.


“Well, I’m starting to wish for Mitt to come back. I liked him.” admitted Marco. His eyes skipped around the library, from its computers to its categories of books, new and old. The clock was engendering this awfully monotonous ticking noise, acting as a reminder of how stale time had to be. All of a sudden, a specific sound of breathing filled Marco and Ted’s ears, and Bernie who was sat opposite raised his eyebrows.

“Aw, me too.”


Jeb gauchely stood behind the small group, not knowing where to put his hands. His eyes looked low-key bloodshot, and his face had his staple blank look. Then, from out his briefcase, he revealed a lunchbox that had the bold words in black sharpie 'love from momma,’ to which Jeb desperately tried to conceal by handling it so that his fingers covered at least a fraction of the writing. “Hey. Ted, I was thinking of studying with you some time. I-I know it sounds embarrassing but you’re way better at pre-calculus than I am.”

Ted was feeling acutely uncomfortable from the request. After a moment of pause, he lowly shrugged. What did Jeb see in somebody like him? Couldn’t he have asked Kasich who was actually in his class?

“I see you a lot in here!” Bernie mentioned to Jeb, putting on a friendly smirk. “Except I’m not the one studying, aha. You can call me the most unorganized procrastinator you’ll ever know.”

“Nah, man. I get you.”

“Get this, it’s known that Obama never studies but still happens to get perfect grades.”

“I’m here right now, actually.” laughed no one other than Barack himself, walking over to the group. Marco frowned at the Prez, and then quickly let out a grunt. Joe then quickly came into frame, and the aura turned unsettled.

“Oh man, it’s happening again, isn’t it?” sighed Marco.

“Donald, quit following me! It's super rapey!!" Hillary whimpered at the library’s entrance, with Donald lingering behind her as if he were ready to pounce.

As he deadpanned, Ted felt his eye twitch. “Yeah, it’s happening.”


“We need more welders and less philosophers!”

“I really hate the sound of your voice, you know that Rube?” sneered Donald, of course wearing his military uniform. While Hillary attempted to creep away in disgust, Donald darted after her with a hideous, open-mouthed bellow. "Ey!"

As Donald and Hillary from afar appeared as if they were playing a game of kiss chase, Bernie, Ted and Marco decided to cook up a conversation. Well, it was more of a political debate from where Marco left off, but it slowly dissolved back into small talk. Bernie eventually revealed the answers to Marco’s questions he was hiding for the key reason of annoying him, while Ted briefly talked to Jeb about how he should ask someone else in respect of his studies. Really now, Ted Cruz had a presidency to win.

“Hey, Cruz…”


“Are you wearing eyeliner?”

Ted’s blood turned cold. “Tsk. Look – I get how I look fuckin’ bad. My droopy eyes, my weird nose, my mouth; I know. Heard it all before. Please, don’t be making this all about appearances.” snapped Ted. He hit the table with his fist, and an unsettling glare spread onto his face.

“Oh... I’m sorry. For one, I don’t think you look creepy. It’s the things you say that’s creepy, in my opinion. You, Marco, Jeb… I could say loads of bad things-”

Ted was still sulking. His thin arms were now draped around his shoulders, and his elbows were leant on the table. As Ted lowered his head, Bernie decided to speak again. At least this time it was more positive.

“U-Uh, if it makes you feel any better, I like your choice of flannel. It’s goals.” he complimented. Ted’s lip wavered, and Marco's under-eyes wrinkled as if he were laughing in scorn. However, it was prevalent he was restraining himself since he was making a few muffled hums which sounded (just a bit) stupid.

“Yeah, right. Ugly plaid shirts and Texas belt buckles. Oh, and those braces you wore on our first day made you look like a real dork...pfftahahAHAHHA!"

“You know what, Marco? You’re the one that’s making this about appearances. I mean take Donald, for example. Someone posted you straight-up roasting his appearance on Snapchat at your rallies.” asserted Ted.

Joe happened to be holding back a goofy chuckle, and while Barack nudged him with his elbow in order for him to stop; he began to fall into the trap. Hell yes, they knew what Ted was going on about. Meanwhile Ted himself was also trying to resist giggling. Marco's expression, however, did not change.

“Donald makes fun of everyone though? Why should my jests be focused on?”

“It don’t bother me. I have plenty of things to say about you, Marco.” Donald chipped in, a fair distance away. He and Hillary happened to bark at each other for a bit, yet luckily for them (and everyone else who was trying to read/study in the damn library) the upheaval eventually simmered down. Although it was noticeable how Donald looked like he wanted to impulsively blurt out a thing or two, it wasn’t very comprehendible whether he was going to do it. Though it definitely… seemed that way.

Hillary’s mouth turned into a firm grin. “Hot-sauce in my bag, swag.”


“Oh Yeshua.” said Bernie, in Hebrew. He didn’t mean to say it. Heck, he didn’t even know Hebrew. But he for sure knew exactly what Hillary was bringing up.

“He’s trying to steal my hot-sauce! I feel so attacked right now!!”

“No, I’m just walkin’ in the library. Don’t listen to Crooked Hillary’s spoken propaganda, folks.”

Silence. Sweet, uncomfortable silence.

Donald’s futile statement then managed to slip out and infuse within the still, dusty air:




“Jeb, you understand you’re not meant to eat in the library, right?” remarked Joe. Jeb had made himself at home on a beanbag, shoving in his lunch at an oddly quick pace.

“I don’t care.” he bluntly replied, body faced away.

“If only Lord Reagan was here. All you guys would be toast.” sneered Marco to Jeb, as well pointing at Donald and Hillary who were – still – making noise. Ted nodded, frowning.

“Hmph. Lord Shmord.” jeered Bernie in response.

Barack’s subtle daydreams faded away, and his mind then clicked to the rhythm of the current moment. “Well, I was only sent here because Joe and I were assigned to re-arrange some archives.”

He noticed the familiar gathering had all formed a weird semi-circle, and also realized how none had their ‘usual’ friends with them. It was ironic how the eight in particular out of all students ended up bonding together in the most unconventional ways possible.

“No one really asked, though.” muttered Ted.

“Mr. Adams did say we didn’t have to do it, Barry…”

“You mean you asses are doing out of choice? Hah. You insiders.” Laughed Donald, as if he knew what he was babbling about.

Bernie was cleaning his glasses while quietly whistling Dancing Queen by ABBA (unironically). He thought it was strange for such a cool, mysterious rebel-slash-studious student to like kitschy stuff like Celine Dion and even that of Beethoven, too. People would’ve associated him with bands like Green Day or some other punk rock, but he really just preferred Motown, Disco; whatever would be seen as dated or cheesy. (You do you, Bern.)

“Is that Dancing Queen? Wow, you’ve hit a new low.”

“Hill, just go back to your shitty vaporwave!”

“But-but… A e s t h e t i c ?-”


“Speaking of music, Marco’s stuff is a bit…” Jeb began, with a mouth full of food.

“Look, I happen to find Nicki Minaj very talented, okay?”

“She is a nice piece of ass.” Donald regarded.

Jeb smirked. “Mhm.”

“Oh darn. Oh gee.” Joe sighed, his voice being especially brittle. Barack likewise looked done. So, so done.

“…same, Joe. Same.”


“So, like, at my recent pep rally Paul was all like…”

The Prez intended to lead the conversation with his own experiences, as if something like Paul Ryan’s ripe, fifteen-year-old pube beard was interesting to them. Then, unexpectedly, a solid tone of voice shot through the air.

“Marco! I am so disappointed in you.”

There, burrowed in a crevice between two book shelves by himself, was 11th-grader Rick Santorum reading a coverless book. He had cropped dark hair and retro-looking glasses, and his face was awfully familiar. Barack and Joe hastily turned away, knowing what was about to spill out from the boy’s lips. His run within the council debates this year was a short one, but all of Prez High knew the kind of things he stood for. After squinting at Marco with pure scorn, his look flashed towards Ted then back to the smaller boy.

“Huh? Oh, Rick? What did I do?”

“Homosexuality is a sin!”


“You know what I mean!”

Bernie somehow knew exactly what the hardhearted homophobe was referencing. He leaned over to Ted and whispered a quick ‘don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody,’ into his ear. Ted pushed him away, not showing any emotion. It was uncertain whether it was a joke or not, and it accidentally happened to be audible to that of Hillary and Jeb. Did it honestly seem like Marco and Ted were more than friends?

“Well, Marco; there seems to be another person with glasses here but surprisingly he doesn’t seem to be the logical kind you’re looking for.” Bernie laughed.

“Perry, is it? No… wait…”

“Nope! That’s the ass who wears glasses to look smart!” retorted Donald, who just so happened to have been lolling about on an empty study table while reading a porn magazine somebody probably left lying around. (Seriously, why was nobody noticing this?)

“They’re related, then?”

“And you, Sanders! Your atheist, homosexual, communist rhetoric is so toxic!” whimpered Rick, as if he was the one being attacked. All of a sudden, Barack snapped.


Joe placed a hand on Barack’s back, aiming a sweet smile to the rest of the group but also feeling as if he wanted to get up and leave. “I don’t know if you noticed, Barry, but everyone kinda hates each other here.” he then turned briefly to face Donald, and then Jeb who had pretty much dissipated from acknowledged-existence by this point. Roosevelt stuck his head out from the office, and deeply sighed.

“Ugh, and you!” Rick limply directed his hand towards Joe and the other dems. “And Obama and Killary! You too! You are against God with your hideous propaganda.”

Unsurprisingly, Rick was now being completely ignored. As soon as the group started another horrendous conversation, something odd caught his eye for a split second. Were those… binoculars?

He looked to his left once again, except this time everything seemed normal. However, he soon found his gaze being locked with Carly Fiorina’s, behind a bookshelf while peeping though the sly gaps which poked their way through each book. Rick’s mind went blank, and he scuttled across the library floor as if he were a rather large, prominent beetle until he drew his classmate close behind the shelf.

“Quit being such a creep!”

Carly hastily put the binoculars behind her back, and her eyes widened in shock. “I-it’s really none of your business as to why I’m doing this.”

“Too bad, because I already know. Mike told me aaall about it.”

“EXCUSE ME?!” exclaimed Carly, raising her voice before Rick promptly hushed her. “You mean, Huck told you about Ted?” she asked, more quietly.

“Mike tells me everything.”

“No, he tells Kim everything.”

“Look, I’m all for hetro romances but you can’t just stalk Ted wherever he goes! And he’s probably doing some sinning with Marco so your chances are at an all-time low.” Rick angrily assumed, turning away.

“What makes you think that?”

“I think about homosexual deviancy a lot.”

“I-I’m sorry, say that again?”


“Go home, Rick. Go home.”

“Well, if it isn’t Santorum!” Roosevelt’s voice loudly remarked, taking bold steps towards the two. “Yeah, I agree with her. Get out.” he laughed, with Rick letting out a childlike huff before quickly scurrying away.


Meanwhile, our gang of eight had managed to each settle down in the spare chill-out area, where barely anybody ever sat. There had been a rumor going around where ex-president George had cursed it with extreme bad luck, so it was rarely used. Surprisingly, they all happened to find comfort with being away from all their usual friends, and apart from Donald telling a few racist jokes here and there, their little conversations were eerily refreshing. It went on for about ten minutes at the most, and each and every one of them even agreed on meeting each other in the library sometime again. Of course to an extent, to each of them it felt almost a little wrong. It wasn’t like all of them were friends; they were far from it, if anything. But it did appear to be rather eerie for them to be getting along with a group of people where half of the group were supposed to despise the other.

Washingcoln liked to do this thing where they set a surprise mini-test at a random point in the month for all students, usually scored out of twenty marks. It was a homeroom thing, a lot like a pop-quiz but with a lot more general (and political) knowledge thrown in. Since the days of these tests were so unpredictable, studying was out of the question, so students didn’t get too overworked about them. Frivals such as Bernie and Hillary, however, loved to make it a full-on competition. Well, it was mostly Hillary, but Bernie didn’t mind. Donald, on the other hand, preferred snooping through other people’s papers rather than evaluating his own. But hey, it was all in good fun.

“20/20? Are you serious?” Bernie felt defeated. How on earth was he meant to up his game with a measly seventeen? It was those tricky economics questions, undoubtedly.

“Well, sonny – uh, Kid.” Hillary began to say. “As a cultured woman, I just know my stuff. Try better next time, chump.” she giggled, ruffling Bernie’s hair and sticking her tongue out.

‘cultured woman… tsundere…’ noted Bernie inside his mind. September 11th. That day rang too many bells within Prez High, and for obvious reasons too. Yet this wasn’t that point in his junior year, this was...

The mood very quickly changed, and Bernie realized that something really needed to be addressed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The whole of lunch was almost over, and it was time for their next lessons.

“Oh man, I need to finish this paper! Lunch is almost over.” pointed out Marco. Scratching his head and ferociously sweating, he turned towards Barack. He was just about to tap at his shoulder, until Barack spun around from the younger boy’s apparent, wet, clammy presence.

“Hey Prez, you know what you’re doing. Remember that dumb-looking placard at the greeting ceremony; whatever it said…”

“Dumb-looking? Oh? You making this about appearances again?” laughed Joe, quite mockingly.


On purpose, Barack made his expression turn blank. “A bit of a shitty request, but okay.”

Silence started to linger, and Marco was not taking this as a joke.

“S-sorry, it’s just that we are all having fun seeing you flustered. It’s kind of like what we do with Hill.”


“Y-yes we can.” Barack and Joe chorused, hideously out of time.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The bell rang.


“Bernie? What is it?”

“September 11th, last year.” he said, grabbing Hillary by the arm of her matching pantsuit.

“When?” she inquired.

“You were lying about your friends, weren’t you.”

Hillary frowned in response, turning up her nose. “I don’t know why you’re spouting in my face like this.”

Bernie’s glare turned soft, yet it was a sad kind of soft. “You said you would have gotten many people to come if you knew I had something goin’ on for my 18th. You implied they had a good impression of me, didn’t you?”

His fair-faced opponent had a still look to her, and her climate was that which screamed uncertainty.

“It was all a lie. I know it was.” Bernie continued without eye contact, hurriedly walking out of the library in a sulk. Hillary confusedly followed, but her footsteps were way more sluggish. Her intuition told her that Barack and Joe behind her were wondering what was up. She let them pass. Marco, Ted, and a vacant Jeb Bush followed, as well as some others. Then, at last, a wig-like mop of hair came into perspective, and the tanned face turned around to glance at the now wet-eyed Hillary Rodham. His face showed no emotion, which was unexpected. No, it was wrong.

‘Hurry, Donald; reveal your comeback already,’

But no words escaped the blond’s mouth.

Donald disappeared out of the library in the blink of an eye. The footsteps boomed as he plodded down the stairs – one by one by one.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Hang on guys…” Ted began to utter to Marco and Donald by his side, a moment before departing to each of their lessons. “I now know why I came to the library in the first place.”

“Pft. Go on, Lyin’ Ted.”

“I-I had homework t-to do…”


Chapter Text


February 1st, 6:43am


“The people are sick and tired of hearing about yer damn emails!”

“Thank you; me too, me too! Nghahaha…”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Even though Bernie’s words reverbed feelings of comfort within Hillary, she was still contemplating over what he had said to her in the library prior to that. His two segments of speech began to bind together; their ballad-like sense making none. Her head started ringing like a Geiger-counter, and it was as if Bernie’s words were the thing setting it off. Maybe she should call Bill.

No, at a time like this? Knowing him, he’d still be sound asleep and she’d just be a bother. Speaking of time, didn’t she have to leave in two minutes? Three? Let’s make it eight.

Sat on her bedside, her fingers traced along a worn Polaroid of her and Bill on her homework desk. The desk, room and bed likewise were spick-and-span as always, just how Hillary liked it. Before getting up to stretch, she looked at Bill’s cheery face one last time set in the blue-toned frame. If only she could clear her head as efficiently as she could her room.

‘I’m not Barry’s secretary anymore… ah, Friday was my last day. The farewell party was fun. Good luck, Kerry; you sucker.'

After quietly giggling to herself, Hillary suddenly caught hold of herself within her full-body mirror, and wryly smiled. The false smile soon became faint as soon as she noticed the state of her hair. She frankly looked like she had a Donald Trump-styled wig on with way too much product – what was going on? Hillary didn’t even use product.

‘Anthony did say he liked it without the clip.’ She thought, rigorously adjusting the front of her blonde hair. ‘But Debbie said she likes bangs better? Psh, I won’t even look good in bangs.’

She placed one of her sketching pencils on her top lip and tried to balance it.

‘Why do I even do this? I used to barely wear any makeup. And since when did I care so much about my hair? It looks on-fleek… um, or whatever the freshmen say.’

Her eyes flickered towards the drawer she kept her old blackberry phone in, and she reacted by heavily shuddering. Hillary couldn’t help but to examine the wooden thing, as it lay alongside strictly identical drawers – on the exterior, anyways. The bottom one was for sure different.

‘Bill doesn’t think I’m a try-hard, does he?’

Her breathing stopped, then began to take pace again.

‘Why the hell am I thinking this shit?! Sigh. Who cares what anyone thinks. I’m acting like such an early-2000s white girl.’ then thought Hillary, as the Caucasian female she was. Hillary stared back at her mirror, with her reflection grimacing right back at her. Bleak, pale and…

Valentine’s was about to come up, and Hillary certainly was not broke. Her eyes hooked to the draw once more, and she went over and opened it to look inside. There it was, the cold, metallic dollar notes held together by a single, rubber band. The blackberry phone beside it wasn’t Hillary’s main interest anymore; it was now the batch of money which lay so still before her. It was the only thing other than the phone in the clean drawer. What was it, $50, $40; in the form of single $1 notes? Well, only Donald would have known for sure. He was the one who gave it to her after his false, sarcastic endorsement. The notes were different from her other crumpled notes she left lying about in her wallet and secret safe. Those were the product of her bribing her friends and making deals with shady students of other schools, something she actually was not proud of. Really, why did she do it; why did she do it?

The green bunch of fortune glared back at her. The piled notes were so alien, so neat, and so lovely. They were so fresh, with not a single crease to be found. It was just that moment when she began to feel a certain tightness in her chest, something abnormal.


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Ted didn’t seem any happier since he turned fifteen back in December.

It wasn’t that he was a mundane persona; rather it was this absence of feeling, this sense of belonging you get on birthdays and Christmas. It wasn’t there this year. Instead it was lacking, deeply.

Drama club was going exceptionally well, and auditions for the summer production of Romeo and Juliet were in full swing. Sure, campaigning, tests, and putting up with Donald were stressful enough, but Ted didn’t see the club as a burden. It was a break, a source of leisure. Besides, Mr. Hamilton, the fresh-faced, spontaneous club adviser always had something up his sleeve when it came to wacky club activities. In brief conclusion, it wasn’t all that bad.

Ted rummaged within his deep jean pockets, feeling around his penknife. Frozen cold, but present. Fastening his bolo tie and sport jacket, he walked into the bathroom in a flustered rush. He wasn’t sure if he was looking forward to school that day or not. Ted applied some aftershave, afraid that he probably smelt bad when in actual fact he didn’t. It wasn’t long before a sappy smile spread on his wet face from thinking of some amusing thing Marco had told him in homeroom… and it was just then he properly caught sight of himself within the stale, bathroom mirror.

Ted began to blink rapidly, and he rolled his shoulders forward as if he were cringing. His dark eyes skipped to the wall decor above the mirror, a crucifix which hung so lowly although so high up. It had been there ever since he could have remembered, and had gotten dusty in recent years. It looked as if Jesus was looking down on him, yet his eyes had a certain oddity to it which Ted just couldn’t describe. The bathroom froze. The Lord was vulnerable, and Ted repeated to himself in his crowded mind that he should not think otherwise.

“My dad – hah, what does he know about acting?” the nasally voice echoed. It was a small echo, and Ted was more than glad none of his family could have heard him. Silently yet quickly, he put the aftershave back in the cupboard.

Thoughts of Hollywood then bombarded into his consciousness and overwhelmed him. California to him was a daze. A long, liberal strip filled to its brim with dumb-to-the-core celebrities and establishment-whore actors with nothing better to do. But it was marked with a red thumbtack; you could even see it for yourself – a lone map on his bedroom wall which spanned fifty square centimeters approximately. Even though its culture unsettled him, his hopes and dreams couldn’t help but subconsciously persuade him to yearn to live there one day.

Ted flicked his hair, pretending he was smoking a roll-up. “How ‘bout… I quit being so stingy, babe.” he coarsely whispered, not making eye-contact with himself within the mirror.

Who knows what the time was. He didn’t care if he was late and his dad smacked him across the face like the last time he got detention. He didn’t care.


But wait, he did. This wouldn’t be what God wanted from him, nor Jesus. What? What the heck was he even thinking? Before stretching his joints and walking out the door, he took one last sharp look in that metallic bathroom mirror, the form of the crucifix which somehow disturbed him also. If anything, he’d much rather wipe it from his mind. A vivid image of razor blades for one reason or another intruded his thoughts, and a grainy face of Donald began to settle in. In a click of a finger, it all went, and Ted was left alone with his dull reflection placed in front of him.


And he really, really despised what he saw.


Chapter Text


February 8th 12:20pm


Marco tiredly pulled out a chair and sat down, wiping the sweat from his brow as he hugged his school briefcase. He rested his chin on where the handle was, chatting with a few boys from his grade across the lunch tables which were pushed together to form a giant one. Ted soon came and placed himself on a chair opposite, looking eerily flustered. They were pooped. Sincerely. Classes really were nothing but repetitive, tedious, drabble.

The boys perked up from a sound of a familiar, shrill voice, melodically ringing nearby.

“Hah, you shoulda seen me when I was a brat – I could see Russia from my house!”

Feathered hair as if her bangs were truly wings; big, round brown eyes which glinted in the cafeteria’s fluorescent lighting. The eyelashes were long and feminine, whereby the clothes were mismatched although surprisingly suiting to the character. There was a cheesy, wry half-smile present and her saunter resembled that of a teen pageant. After waving a temporary farewell to friends, Sarah Palin strutted over to her usual spot in the lunch hall. Yep, here she was. Up-in-your-face and ready to ramble in her Alaskan-type articulation. Marco gulped.

“Hello my fellow mavericks.”

“You’re sounding like Hillary.” scoffed Ted. Sarah’s smile, on the other hand, widened.

“Oh no, no. The difference between me and her and Warren and all the other Marxists is they would say ‘Hello my fellow kids,’ since they try so hard to fit in with the liberal-freshmen agenda.”

“Just sit down will you?” Marco rolled his eyes, mockingly. Although it wasn’t that he wished to seem too disdainful, it was just that Donald’s girlfriend had gotten a bit too rambunctious. And that was the last thing anybody wanted.

“Where’s Donald?”

“He’ll be with you soon, just be patient.” confessed Ted, opening a packet of chips.

“Oh I’m too buzzed, dontcha know. Me, Sarah, endorsing my Donald J. Trump – the one who’s going to make Prez high Gr8 again?” Sarah gushed. Both Ted and Marco, however, could have not looked any less pleased. “Puh-lease. That’s so amazing. Heck.” She incoherently finished, taking a seat next to Marco without asking and unzipping her light-blue parka.

“Psh. Well someone’s happy.”

“Yea, yooou betcha!” she babbled, eyes half-open.

Between the three, not much other than erratic small-talk seemed to commence. It had been roughly four minutes of chip-eating, awkward pauses, chair-sliding, and barely anything else until a few of Ted and Marco’s friends began to take on board why the pair had their faces turned back to them.

“What’re they doing talking to a sophomore like that?”

“She’s crazy, but damn is she hot.”

“She’s doing it with orangey though. Tough luck, Scott.”

Muffled giggles filled the cafeteria hall. Marco too laughed it off, but Ted kept fidgeting as if he was seriously unfulfilled. He made some awkward eye-contact with Marco, and instead of looking away, his facial expression suddenly changed.

“Do any of you young’uns like huntin’?” queried Sarah, checking her phone to check the time. 12:27.

“Marco wouldn’t know.” snickered Ted, covering his mouth with his long fingers.


“Well, I don’t know how you’d enjoy ‘gator meat.”

Marco turned to face his friend, puzzled. He shook his head, and his position turned more relaxed as he rubbed in the sweat that was happening to seep from his forehead, as one usually would on a day in freezing February. Maybe the best scenario would be an altered conversation subject.

“Wasn’t the super bowl great?” Marco sighed.

“Haven’t you said that to like, everybody in our grade by now?”

“Well, I did see it for myself…”

“No waaay!” loudly chuckled Sarah, now tip-toeing off elsewhere, supposedly to scavenge for Donald. Then, just like that, the seventeen-year-old himself was seen bouncing into the cafeteria with his swarm of obnoxious fans huddled behind him. Donald shooed them away in time, before hopping over to Sarah and grabbing her by the pussy waist.

“How’s it, my bitches?” Donald hugged Sarah from behind, feeling her miniskirt before aiming finger-guns at his mob at the other side of the room.

“Oh you.” squealed Sarah, bopping Donald on the nose with her finger.

“Me and Sarah are gonna be hangin’ elsewhere. Suck each other’s dick for a change.”

“I have literally no idea what you are implying and I don’t want to know.” Ted grumbled, plugging his ears with his hands.

“Well, Trump and Palin are the duo of incoherency, Ted.” Marco laughed in a subtle awkwardness.

Truth was, almost every lunchtime break had been like this. Donald would complain about the Mexican food on the lunch menu, as well as bugging his so-called sidekicks about how tremendously well his campaign for school president was coming along. Meanwhile Sarah would stick by him yelling questionable content to the entire school. Jeb and Kasich said their hellos, but further departed to sit with their own friends. Jeb hung out with a different set of people from his brother and his peppy insiders, possibly what one would call inbetweeners. Sometimes he sat with nobody at all. At times even Bernie sat alone, doodling in his notebook and making unnecessarily long conversations with the lunch ladies, as he would. Barack and Joe would come up with ideas of all-sorts in the office, but the plans would slowly dwindle in quality as time went on. Mostly due to distractions and laughing their butts off whenever Joe recited a meme they had both seen and made an inside joke out of, if we want to be real here.

Barack, Bernie, Joe, Ted, Marco, Donald, Hillary and Jeb would scatter around the library like their first horrific, unarranged meetup only when they had nothing better to do. Social cliques were a real enigma, so it felt nice to be honing their debating skills with people other than their usual friends. No doubt that it felt unnatural to be almost getting along with their rivals, but even so once they started messing about, they just simply couldn’t leave one another alone.

These lunch breaks may have been annoying. They could be classed the most jarring thing – excluding the aim to become Prez – to ever come out of a school such as Prez High. Regardless of this however, they really were unforgettable.

And deep, deep within them all, lunch breaks truly were a gem of their teenhood.


“Oh, uh, Ted?” Marco called out.

“What’s up?”

“I’m broke. Could you buy me lunch?”

“Didn’t you bring anything from home?”


Ted sniggered. “Darn, I guess I have to skip poking fun at how much space Marco's water takes up today.”

“Fuck you, man.” muttered Marco in reply to the inside joke, elbowing him. “Just get me something I like.”

Ted walked over to where the lunch ladies served the food. Few minutes passed. He looked back at Marco for a rather short moment, before calling out to him for the last time. A real, real doozy.

“So, which section is the alligator at again?” he laughed. 

“Stop, for your own sake.”


Chapter Text


February 9th 8:38am


“Big-time Dick.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Heh. Hehe.”

The damp undergrowth gripped onto the ankles of George Bush and Dick Cheney as they trod through it. The shadows felt uncomfortable. Hopefully the CCTV wouldn’t catch them here, at least.

“Why are we skipping class again?” asked a rather dazed George, laughing a little.

“I was, you just followed.” the former VP snapped.

“Ahehe, oh yah.”

Both of the boys crawled between a large hole in the wire fencing, perfectly covered up by a huge bramble bush. Some thorns scraped at their legs while they clambered with cloddish uncertainty, panting heavily. George was sure he came into contact with something like metal of some sort… perhaps an aluminium can, before trudging along without a word. The trees which usually stood subservient to the main building were now in both of their perspectives, forming a thickset, woody grove before them. As they scrambled further, George started to sweat as he began to recognize the exact setting. It had been so, so long. Nine months, in fact. 

That’s right – this was the place where the direst of bloody school fist-fights and disputes once took place.

“Quick, take this.” Cheney handed him a mini paint-ball gun, before revealing another one of his own from his school briefcase. Taking a quick look at George, Cheney forcefully nudged him, eyes hinting rage. Were they… really going to take part in another violent brawl?

“C’mon, not this again.” George quietly moaned, scratching his neck.

“Why not? Those were good times.”

“We almost got suspended twice!” exclaimed George. “Mah momma didn’t put any cookies in my lunchbox for a month!”

Forcing the gun into George’s arms, Cheney let out a grunt. “Stop with that shit.”

“It’s our last year, Dicky. Daddy tells me I should spend the time in class and studying.”

“It’ll be fine, this is just aiming practice. Just in case we ever need to toughen up our game during this school election. Everyone is getting real tense about it.” barked Cheney, under his breath as he gritted his teeth in his Dick Cheney-like way.

“Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?”

His stiff brows furrowing, Cheney looked over to George. Turns out he was still talking.

“I mean; you teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test.” said George. Cheney emptily blinked in reply.

The pattering sound of feet against earth resonated within the not-so-leafy grove. It had been no more than thirty seconds until George stopped, rubbing his chin as if he were in deep, pensive thought. Gazing at the stale surroundings, his vision returned to his former vice.

“I wonder if I could pass a literacy test.” he mumbled, dumbly deadpanning.


“Someone is coming!”

“Shit! It’s a kid… not one of ours, I bet.” Cheney responded, fretfully. “That’s it, W! Aim west!”

“Hey! Did someone mention my beautiful, righteous name?”

The voice was lacking authentic vibes, and instead possessed a rhythmic, sonorous sound. Two of the trees to the left of George and Cheney acted as a gateway, welcoming a young boy dressed in all-black clothes with deep, radiant skin. His face was awfully neutral in tone, with his hoodie hanging over the tips of his eyelids which were concealed by shutter shades that looked costly, but were probably bought at a local dollar store.

“Who are you, punk?”

“I’m the number-one living and breathing rockstar. I am Axl Rose; I am Jim Morrison; I am Jimi Hendrix.”

George bared his teeth as he awkwardly smiled. “What brings yuh here?”

“Ugh, I know you!” the rockstar interjected in disgust. “Ew.”

“Yeh. You probably heard of me. Hiya.”

“The reason why I, Kanye Omari West; am here and not at school is because I am sick but I’m not hella hella sick so I am able to come out with my fresh Adidas and look at this building.”

“Sorry, are you talking, rapping, or chanting?” asked Cheney, confused at the boy’s unintelligible statement.

“Who knows, my friend.”

“Pfft. Does this guy have a girlfriend?” Cheney nudged George with his elbow, turning to him and pulling a typical ‘who does this kid think he is’ face.

“I do, actually. Myself.”


An awkward silence remained, until George began to back away a little.

“I am going to be running for president next year. Fo sho.” Kanye then bragged, climbing upon a stale tree branch.

“Oh, you’re still in junior high I’m guessing?”

“Why you asking me this?”

“Aint you gonna be a freshman at Prez High in September?” asked George.

“Hah! Who said I was running for Washingcoln’s crusty president?! Imma be running for real!”

“Y-you are only like, what, fourteen?” mockingly laughed Cheney, eyeing at the braggart tween up and down in scorn.

“Thirteen. But I’m so popular, it’s unreal – everybody gon’ be voting for me. Yolo.” Kanye yelled from up the tree, making a kawaii peace-sign.

“There isn’t even an official election next year…” sighed Cheney, face-palming.

“Who cares about your opinion??”

“I am so confused.”


“Hey Condi.”

“You and Cheney were flunking class again.”


Another break. Condoleezza Rice was sat in her 11th grade literature class finishing off some written work she didn’t want to be doing, sadly sighing to herself before the heedless George W. Bush barged into the room with a twisted smirk. Apart from him almost ripping the door off its hinges, knocking into the teacher’s desk and falling over, the greeting was fairly conventional.

“When will you guys start taking life seriously?”

“As soon as Jeb passes two or more of his tests.” George laughed.

Condi frowned, turning a page of her literature book. “Stop that. At least he tries… uh, hard.”

Scribbling some more vague sentences, the room fell quiet. George and Condi were the only students left, since the teacher had just left to walk to the staff-room. The only irksome noise to come from the broad room was the clock’s ticking and the sound of Condi’s pen; back and forth, hyphen, up-down. Period.

“He’s been feeling kinda blue lately.” Then shyly admitted George, avoiding eye-contact.

“I’ve noticed. In Spanish he was looking sorta weary. I would not be surprised if it’s something to do with you-know-who.” Condi motioned towards an orange display on the wall, and then made her hair into that of atrociously slicked-back bangs which mirrored Donald’s head of locks. “How ‘bout you talk to him?” she suggested, placing a hand on his arm.

George bashfully shrugged, his body language seeming as if he didn’t want to take part in this conversation. The underclassmen’s frown returned. “Wait, don’t you get even worse grades than your bro?”

“Mom don’t think so.”

“Yeah, why is that? It’s like there’s a complex between you two. There is such thing as a favorite Bush – I know so.” Condi asserted, crossing her arms and legs. George’s lip quivered, beginning to sense a certain wetness dripping from his sinuses.


Condi’s eyes widened. Blood.

“George… your nose…”

“I-I have to go.”


Chapter Text


February 9th 12:30pm




“You and Joe not on duty today?”

“Not really. Just bored.”

“Yea, same.”

Bernie and Barack never really used to interact or interfere with each other’s businesses. Well, technically they still didn’t – it was just a humble friendship the two had formed as they began seeing one another more frequently. To Barack, Bernie was someone who represented the utmost secrets of the world. He never said much about himself other than the usual tedious homework trouble or his questionable morning routines consisting of brushing before eating, showering before brushing, hot-footedly putting some mismatched (clean) socks; subsequently putting on some baroque-like melodies to awaken the dull morning mood. Because as we all know by now, Bernie doesn’t do things the usual way. You see that popular book you’re into? Yeah – he liked it before it was cool.

But Bernie’s view of Barack was different. His perception of the cool-headed, athletic president was fairly good, but like a lot of individuals, Barack was by no means perfect. He was still a bit inexperienced but had a lot to do, causing his once childlike climate to change to something more mature and rigid as the months passed by.

Bernie had always heard about the Prez and his charming speeches while he was still enduring his freshman year; how he beat Mitt Romney to a pulp when it came down to the results. And while he was contented with his successful bid, he just couldn’t help but look at him as some sort of child. He still couldn’t help but think of he and Joe and Hillary as people who he didn’t intend to associate with, but here he was, becoming friends with them all and exchanging numbers as if it was nothing. Bernard Sanders was not one to get along with people who referred to themselves as populars, preps, or those who crowded around Barack’s lunch table whenever he did manage to emerge from that office of red, white and blue.

But what would Bernie know about Barack Obama? Initially, they didn’t even talk.


Donald had barged himself into the library, using hand gestures to communicate with a few friends which were supposedly demanding them to ‘get out.’ Bernie was busy reading a chunky book, and Barack and Joe were making casual conversation with each other, with Bernie briefly joining in every now and then. Jeb was sat further away in his usual spot, his school briefcase on his lap as he contemplatively scanning through some textbooks.

“Selling these alien birthpods is so fun.” Donald spouted, walking up to Barack, Joe and Bernie as he threw an indirect glower at Jeb.

“O-oh, you have some?” asked Joe, pulling a fake smile.

Barack’s face mirrored Joe in expression, but his tone was more of pure disgust. “What on earth?”

“Shut up you illegal, go back to Kenya.”

“Who was it exactly you were talking to?” retaliated Joe in contempt, along with a quick, throaty laugh from Bernie.

“And you, Sanders; don’t you have some SJWs to chat up with your girlfriend Killary?”

“The buzzwords just never stop coming, do they.” retorted Bernie, his voice still heightened from the previous bout of amusement.

“Hah! You asses think you’re so great hanging out in this hole.” yelped Donald. “I, on the other hand, have friends.”


“Good for you.”

At that moment, a youthful voice penetrated everyone’s ears, potentially dismissing the ‘No Shouting’ display right behind him.

“Hey, Donald, allow me an alien wontcha?” Marco Rubio bounced into the library, walking energetically towards the usual corner whereby Ted lowly followed, aiming a cool wave. Roosevelt poked his head out of the office, yelling something among the lines of: “You don’t want Mr. Reagan to give you a lecture, Rubio, you *unintelligible sounds*

“Excuse me! You have to pay up.”


“This is a business. I’m selling them for profit. If you don’t pay, I sue you.”

“Oh my God.” quickly muttered Jeb, surprisingly not acknowledging how he said God’s name in vain.

“I am the greatest businessman on this planet. You all jelly?”

“No! We can buy that shit anywhere.” barked Ted, irked.

“Life as a businessman is tough. We need a Prez who is tough. I have been profiting throughout my teenage years.” Donald softly moaned, as if he was scavenging for pity within the unmoved characters of the library. He inputted a melodramatic pause before starting again, the tip of his index finger placed on the edge of his thumb in the shape of an ‘O’. "It has not been easy for me. And you know I started off in 9th grade, my father gave me a small loan of a million dollars-


“Jeb, when will you quit eating in the library!?”

Everyone was now turned to Jeb, now having spat out his drink all over the floor as Joe shyly mopped it up with a clean (not anymore) napkin. Just after Jeb apologized, he turned to face all of them and let out a soft laugh. “As soon as I pass two or more tests.” he said, sadly smiling. His voice happened to crack from how subjective the words may have come across. Was his dad joking when he said that? Was George joking when he said that?

Meanwhile, Donald grittily chortled in response. “He will never do it. Jeb is a mess, Jeb is a waste. Jeb is a big fat mistake. His brother is one too, believe me. I’m at forty three percent, he’s at three-

“Donald, please shut the fuck up.” Ted requested, twitching and looking as if he were about to murder a man.


“Yooo my fellow… uh…” cheerfully greeted Hillary from the library entrance, ferociously deadpanning before blurting out her next word: “Bros-”

“Hillary, don’t you start.” uttered Barack with a discrete laugh.


The lot had set off to the chill-out space, each of them sitting together (rather sparsely) on the largest table.

“Wait, so you’re telling me you are out of cash too?” Marco asked, to Bernie.

“Yep! Completely, flat-out broke.”

“I thought everyone who went to this school was rich.”

“Yeah, me too. The fuck?” wryly laughed Ted, before raking his hands through his greasy hair.

“Everything isn’t as it seems.” Bernie beamed, yet made little eye-contact as his brown irises had continued to hook to the pages of his thick, coverless book.

“Bernie and Marco’s parents are well-off enough to pay fees, obviously.” our president calmly evaluated. “It’s just that other stuff that can become a problem financial-wise.”

“All this doesn’t help when I’m failing economics class.” mumbled Bernie. All of a sudden, he felt a nudging sensation at his side, before facing to his right to find Joe handing him an off-brand drumstick-like ice cream cone, in an aluminium wrapper. It was a good thing the wrapped cones weren’t scrapped in order to make way for the new, healthy lunch menu.

“Here.” the gesture was unanticipated, but genuine.

“Joe-” whispered Barack, albeit lightheartedly.

“What?” giggled Joe. “We're in the chill-out area, not the actual library! Does anyone else want me to buy them one?”





“Are you all really that poor?”

“Hush Donald, you’re in the one-percent. Your privileged ass doesn’t count.” Bernie jokingly snapped, prodding at Donald’s cerise tie. The latter backed away, yanking his tie away from Bernie’s grasp and directing a glare – although it seemed a lot more sincere than usual.

“Donald?” called out Joe slowly, with an uncertain look to his face.

“Nah, I’m cool.”

“Haha, let’s walk down together, guys.” 

“Jeb seems immersed with his lunch, so we’ll leave y’all to it.” Ted concluded, walking through the chill-out space to get to the stairs which lead to the noisy cafeteria along with the others.


Eight minutes had passed. The six of the fulfilled bunch had returned up the stairs, and sat themselves down again within the almost-empty chill-out room. It really was a wonder as to why nobody, especially the freshmen, ever came there. It honestly was such a lovely yet secretive place which Barack just couldn’t put his finger on why it made him feel so wistful.

As each of them settled down once again, Barack glanced over to Bernie who could not have looked happier, yet seemed so alone. He knew both the democratic socialist and former secretary Hillary hadn’t been talking. He shortly spotted Jeb, looking even more desolate.

Eventually, Barack murmured to the others beside him.

Whispers of allsorts began to rustle like dry leaves inside the room. Everyone had taken direct notice to how odd Jeb came off to each of them lately; how his eyes always looked bloodshot, how he used to let out this sort of sad laugh at the most pettiest of things, how defiant he had become, and most of all – how lonely he appeared. Marco and Ted had asked him countless of times regarding his many retaliations in the latest debates which as well had altered in tone, mostly aimed at Donald.

Marco’s eyes of brown-hazel widened. He walked over to Jeb as he fiddled with his own fingers. “Uh, Jeb, what’s been up lately?”

“I’ll say.”


“My dad is running for senate.” Jeb confessed. The others noticed that he was definitely less dazed than he was on other days. Still melancholic, though.

“What’s the negative here?” questioned Bernie, trying not to be too forceful with the boy who looked as if he were about to crack.

“He used to be a teacher at this school, right? He was good friends with Mr. Reagan. McCain told me all ‘bout it.” explained Joe with a smile, placing a hand on Jeb’s shoulder yet hastily drawing it away.

“That’s… right.” Jeb’s gentle gaze came into contact with Donald’s. “The reason it’s bad is… uh,”

“Spill it, Bush.”

“Because it just further reminds me that I come from a family of politic-obsessed people and nothing more.”

A deadly, alert silence kicked into the once lackluster room, lasting for a good seven seconds.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Ted then asked, shattering the quiescence.

“Not really.”

“Something else is wrong.” supposed Donald, turned away as he preceded to slyly text something on his phone. Although he certainly knew he shouldn’t have, Barack took a quick look at the screen:


Sarah: I miss u.

Donald: look if u want to come up here whenever u can bbe. just not now im a busy man. gotta sell these aliens believe me

Sarah: lol. K as long as i can come along like tomorrow. What do u want to do tonight?

Donald: we r gonn b doing sum TREMENDOUS freaky shit tonite I kno it ;)

Donald: fuckkkk everytime i say TREMENDOUS it corrects it to caps lock

Sarah: omg lol betta sue the liberal shill apple company s00n


Barack shuddered. It was an abomination witnessing his crazy classmate with someone like Donald, but damn – it was just too cringeworthy. If Sarah had to come, then hell would break loose. Anyone but Sarah Palin, please.

Barack checked his own phone. One new message.


John (Kerry): Lincoln asked me to tell you and Joe to get to the office. p big issue.


“Catch you later, Jeb. I just got a message and Joe and I need to leave. Hope it gets better soon.”

“Sh-shut up.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

After some amount of time, Donald and Jeb were the only two left in the space. Barack and his vice had to go to sort out what lecture they were going to send out to whom, while Ted and Marco disappeared rather abruptly after that. Hillary lingered in the library area for a bit with Bill, taking small glances here and there across the room, near the free space. All was very unsettled.


“Say it, Jebra.”

“Now why would I tell you? Somebody who has attacked me and my family?” bitterly retaliated Jeb to Donald.

“So it really is about your family. Huh.”


“I can repeat the things you said in the last council debate. You said you were sick and tired of Prez Obama blaming your brother for all the problems that he has had, isn’t that right?” returned Donald, his voice lowering. “And that your dad to you is the greatest man alive in your mind. You’d take a bullet for him. So tell me, what is your problem?”

“I also said that my mom is the strongest woman I know. And you said-”

“She should be running.” The son-of-a-multimillionaire finished with a breathy giggle.

“I just don’t get it. One day my mom is pressuring me to carry on with my campaign, next thing she’s telling teachers how she advised I shouldn’t have ran in the first place.”

“It was as if you were lying when you said those things on stage. Psh; weak.”

“Don’t tell anybody this, but um… I’m afraid I’ll be forced to go into something like business or politics when I am older.” admitted Jeb, crossing his arms.

“Business is a plus, politics not so much.”

Jeb inhaled, glancing at the faraway window panes as he thoroughly did so. “I just feel such immense pressure from my parents, making me feel like George’s shadow and all. My brother has always gotten on my nerves but he has also faced a lot of shit. Still don’t get how he is the favorite, though.”

“It was obvious. The way your bitch of a mother talks to you is proof.” grunted Donald, looking at him up and down.

“H-how would you know?”

“I know a lot of things.”

“And since dad is barely around anymore it feels like… fucking shit.” Jeb buried his face in his hands, before locking eyes with Donald once more. “What the fuck is God planning for me?” he hoarsely cried, trying not to be heard. His opposition replied with a pair of sad lips pressed together, as if he was appearing pensive himself ever since the word 'dad' was mentioned. Looking each other straight in the eyes, the junior trembled at the sight of his elder opponent, until Donald began to talk in an unearthly, hopeful tone.

“Well – why should you feel obliged to live up to your parents’ expectations?”


Jeb’s eyes couldn’t resist from welling up, and they certainly did not falter.

“It’s your life. Just do what you wanna do, Jeb.” Donald’s voice then softened, almost seeming empathetic. “No biggie.”

Jeb felt like screaming. He just wanted to blurt out how no – it was a big deal. What would Donald Trump know about pressure; his family probably let him do anything he wanted. Jeb had to follow his parents’ expectations. He just had to.

Donald slowly departed himself away from Jeb’s table, not turning his head a single inch. It was noticeable he had his head down, though. While searching through some pockets as he became smaller and smaller in Jeb’s peripheral vision, Donald flexed his hands behind his head and escaped out the door, and Jeb was left all alone. Hillary sadly looked over to him for a couple of seconds, but hurriedly turned herself away as soon as somebody called her name.

Jeb sat still. Donald’s words stuck with him for the rest of that day, and possibly the rest of his life for all we know. They were the words which spoke hope from a mouth so impure. Juxtaposition. Oxymoron. Whatever he could grasp from the English class he was failing in. They were the words which lingered; the words which resonated.


Chapter Text


February 10th, 2:33


“… to get back in the business of creating a more peaceful school.”


“…Please clap.”


Okay; Jeb would have said that as a harmless joke on occasion. He even made it a thing with a small group of classmates. But really? Really? The absolute death of his campaign? ‘Please clap?’ Please Clap™? He was out-memeing both Prez Obama and Donald Trump at this point.

Now, at the bittersweet end of his campaign, Jeb really was… well, a mess.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Sanders! Are you off-task again?” Mr. Ronald Regan’s voice wandered its way into Bernie’s ears in the middle of an oh-so-usual last period. Slumped forward with his head on his desk, Bernie’s gaze connected with one of a rather intimidating Reagan.

“No, sir. I was simply just looking out the window.” insisted Bernie coolly.

“Sit up. Continue question two, we don’t have all day.” Reagan tapped the desk. He peered around at the rest of his senior economics class, barfing up a rusty chuckle. “This guy, I bet he’s planning something dangerous.”

“No sir, it’s Ted Cruz that’s gonna start the school shooting.” a student insensitively joked.

“Dangerous? Does he even know Orange McGrinch face?” another one scoffed.

“Hah! At least he’s not as bad as Crooked Hillary!"

“Quiet, class.” yelled Reagan. Unluckily for him, the interjections proceeded to flow.

“Well, I’m sure wantin’ to make Prez High Great Again!”

“Am I the only one rooting for Kasich?”


The volume of the once cackling classroom slowly withered, perhaps with Bernie making a few fake coughs on purpose so not everything was to Reagan’s expectation.

“Thank you.” quietly grunted the authority, furthermore keeping an eye on his textbook. “So, as I was saying. As we can draw from the question, The United States is a nation that is a free country. Everybody acknowledges-

“Sir, but we are not entirely free, are we?” Bernie butted in, now standing up from his desk with a wry, toothy smile on his face. It began to wane as soon as the entire class hooked their eyes onto his now vulnerable form.

“Sit back down.”

“Well, considering the government’s role in controlling wages, nothing seems to be fair. Nobody who works forty hours a week should be living in poverty, for example. And if we were born free, then surely we shouldn’t be in chains… you know, the class system?”

“This has nothing to do with the overall topic. This is economics class, not debate club.” said Reagan, now seeming colder.

“I-I know, but it does relate to it, kinda.” Bernie stuttered, rubbing the arm of his sweater and pulling at the wool. “What about college and healthcare, shouldn’t they be free in order for us to be free? And of course – our school healthcare? I mean-

“You don’t know a thing you’re talking about.”

“That’s rather condescending to say, Mr Reagan. I didn’t even finish.” sadly affirmed Bernie.

“Now, sit down. Otherwise you’ll be getting your umpteenth detention in ten…”

Bernie began to lower himself, until slightly rising back up again with a frown. “No, I won’t be silenced. What about this fucking school’s dirty system?"

“This’ll be good.” sarcastically whispered Reagan under his breath. “…nine,”

“I can’t even go to the bathroom without a teacher allowing me. That’s one right taken away.”


“What, a fifteen-year-old running the damn school?”


Bernie’s hands were now fully karate-chopping the air at high speed. “Don’t you all realize how rigid it is? Don’t all of you see how substance-less, how superficial it all is? It is a carbon copy of the real system out in the real world, and to me as somebody who wishes to be president of the student body or at least be part of school government, it seems all wrong.”

“Preach!” a person from the front row yelped. Bernie aimed a finger at the student, almost in appreciation, yet hurriedly returned to his speech.

“The inequalities in the candid, real, world are present in here. The passive-aggressive greed and corruption is present in here and people like you pretend it isn’t happening. The wars out in the candid, cold, real world are happening in here. We know world peace won’t happen until these things change, so why are we puzzled when realizing our school is in a state of discord?” Bernie’s adrenaline was pumping its way through his dialogue, going on and on about whatever unreleased thoughts and feelings his mind had been keeping. This was different from his usual pep-talks and rallies. This really was about the people. In fact, he did not care if he came across as nonsensical or dramatic or angry or whatever some may title him as. All Bernie needed to do was talk – nothing more than pure speech.

“…six,” Reagan continued to utter, not backing down.

“Which brings to another point: the two principles are gaining all the wealth but the nurses, lunch ladies and even some teachers have to suffer? I DON’T EVEN HAVE ANY BEEF WITH THE PRINCIPLES! HONEST!” bawled Bernie sarcastically, almost letting out a distressed laugh as his hands flung in the air.


“There is a serious wealth gap. Which brings us to questions concerning the real world – why do we crave money so much? Why are we never satisfied? What is this culture of materialism?”


“YOU, US, ME; WE ARE ALL TRAPPED! WE ARE NOT FREE!” the democratic socialist now was mesmerizing his peers. Even some pledged republicans fell into a silence. They all knew this was not a joke, because Bernie was not about jokes as all. Everybody did not notice Mr. Reagan slowly turning paler. “A-and all you’re doing is counting down and expecting me to sit back down, Mr. Reagan… damn, you don’t even answer me.”


“You treat us like kids. You think we will suck up everything and not say a word against it. Or maybe… perhaps… you don’t, you just were conditioned this way. Not just you, sir, but a lot of adults.”

“..three,” Reagan carried on, yet his breath got in the way of his words.

“You’re wasting your time. I’m not obeying.”


“I… I hate you… I HATE THE ADULT WORLD! I HATE EVERYTHING IN IT THAT DENIES OUR FREEDOM AND PEACE YET MAKES THEIR ETHOS ALL ABOUT THAT EXACT THING; THE THING THEY ARE AGAINST!” Bernie snapped, now fuming hot with rage. Bill shuddered in alarm in his desk to the heated Bernie Sanders, facing his head down so that his classwork was the only thing his vision could be exposed to. Bernie was never, ever this angry.

“One.” ended Reagan, taking a deep breath

“We… are at war with ourselves.” muttered Bernie before falling into his chair; staring into space with glassy eyes protruding from behind his lenses as if he were about to cry. Reagan, who was wearing a solemn expression, walked up to him and made sure the class was minding their own business.

“Get on with it, kay?” Reagan lukewarmly said, patting Bernie’s arm and pointing at the workbook. He promptly started to explain question three on the old blackboard, as if the latter incident ever happened. The gesture was kind in tone and the now simmering young man could not figure out if it was patronizing or sincere. Did Bernie look like a fool or did he make everybody in the lifeless room question everything? This revolution he wanted… was it honestly a revolution? What made it a ‘revolution?’


The time flew by in the form of a subtle wind wafting through the only open window, right beside Bernie. It was like time stopped; similar to if it didn’t even exist. The scenery outside really was beautiful and enchanting, but Washingcoln’s building was just a blockage. The windows acted as the gaps between prison bars, but definitely more quaint. Everything else was just a barrier, like that of a large, imposing wall…

‘The school looks pretty in the late winter too.’ thought Bernie, tearing up for a couple of seconds. He cupped his hands and placed them onto his eyes. ‘I-I wonder why Hillary is not present today. What’s she up to? Shoplifting?’

A tiny flicker of mustard yellow greeted Bernie in a daze.

“Is that a bird?” whispered a girl a few seats away from Bernie.

“Oh my god! it is, Karen! Guys don’t scare it, it’s only small.” the girl’s friend replied, in addition to the entire class becoming drawn towards how an actual bird managed to fly through the one hardly-open window. The ethereal structure of the bird happened to land on the edge of Bernie’s desk, with the boy pensively warming up.

“Now you see, this lil’ bird doesn’t know it.” softly chuckled Bernie, a warmer feeling in his heart beckoning. He lay a finger out, gently and slowly, until---

The bird perched itself into Bernie’s finger, and the class began to cheer and clap in amazement. Mr. Reagan likewise applauded with a reflective smile.

“I think… I think there may be some symbolism here.” continued Bernie, eventually looking each and every one of his classmates and teacher in the eye individually as he beamed. Bill twitched, feeling as if he should have been happier at that moment, however not dismissing that something with himself was up.

The bird vanished in a flash, out the window and back into the mix of open, concrete, tree-scattered wilderness.

“I know it doesn’t look like it, but that bird is really a dove, asking us for world peace! Yeah! Feel the Bern!”

The roaring sound of cheers and whistles reached a certain boy’s ears just outside, his back leaning on the building as he listened to the words which escaped from the open window. This was somebody who had stopped beside the hardly-open window of room 096 ever since he first heard the booming vocals of Bernie Sanders. The eyes widened and the pink lips quavered – stunned – he was full-on stuck.

“B-Bernie…” Jeb whispered to himself, inspired by his words of what it meant to be free. And just like that, with his deceased run for Prez now finally making sense, Jeb scampered away. He felt the gust of the wind no longer stinging him, the scenery no longer looking bleak like it always used to, and his weak status felt like it was no more.

His campaign was over, but it truly felt wonderful.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Jeb nimbly hopped up his stairs before peeping into George’s room to see what current wacky painting his brother was working on. Vladimir Pootie-poot, this time? Yeah.

Steadily laughing, the younger brother dived onto his bed feeling refreshed and cozy. Even if it was temporary, the sentiment was still there and there was nothing that his parents or even Donald for that matter could do about it. Sure, he certainly wasn’t converted from conservative to socialist in a blink of an eye, but the idea of being human… being free, being at peace: it was all coming together on his last day of being sixteen. Everything was going to be okay.

“You know, I think I know what to call yah.” Jeb held his stuffed turtle in his arms, childishly biting his lip. “I’m gonna call you… Bernie. Yeah, Bernie. That’s it.”


Chapter Text


February 10th, 12:29pm


“Would you say I’ve grown since September?” an unsure Barack asked the boys behind him, scattered liberally around the free space which was more busy than usual. Barack stopped typing away on his laptop, being eerily focused on his assigned task, and instead stood up straight and tall to reveal his slim, almost six-foot figure. 

“I’m not certain.” answered Marco, glancing up from a vintage sports magazine.

“Looks like it.” shrugged Bernie. He sat further away than the rest, with his pair of mahogany eyes scrolling through one of Noam Chomsky’s works while nibbling on some off-brand cheetos. It honestly was unknown whether they were allowed to eat in the chill-out area, but the people who often did come took their coffee or hot chocolate from the cafeteria with them as they worked on their laptops, and Prez Obama did not seem to object anything otherwise.

“You’re catching up.” detected Joe with a swagger. He adjusted his horrendous ice-cream-patterned tie before walking over to his friend, with everyone eyeing it unappetizingly.

“It’s not like it’s an accomplishment or anything, Prez – people grow all the time.” scoffed Ted. “Well, Marco ain’t grown an inch since he was eight, presumably, but that’s not the problem-

“Oh hush, psycho-pants.” stammered Marco, possibly suffering from some sort of verbal tick as he, Ted, and everybody else knew the last remark did not sound natural.

’psycho-pants...’” quoted Ted, sardonically nodding slowly as he glimpsed at Marco’s sweaty forehead. 

“Psycho pants?”  repeated Bernie, uncertainly letting out a laugh.

“Psycho pants.” Barack nodded, whacked Marco on the back and nodded in sarcastic approval. “You are one intellectual, buddy.”

“Hey!! Shut up!”

“Pet-name ideas 101!” warbled Hillary, gliding into the space looking as if she should have been armed with a 90s beat-box and an embarrassingly cliche snap-back on her head at that moment.

“H-hillary, where did you come from?”

“Yeah, I’ve always seen you lurking around here on your own. What’s up with that?” asked Jeb.

Donald’s voice wandered into the area, until his buttoned-up body of red, white and blue came into perspective a few seconds later. “I bet you she’s huntin’ down the hidden porn mags.”

“Hell no!” Hillary angrily said, trying to keep her cool.

“They’re a real easter-egg.” Joe murmured in Barack’s ear, before the latter turned to him with knitted brows.

“Oh my gosh you guys, why does it matter?”

“Nah, it’s cool everybody. I will tell all of you what Hill gets up to.”

“Barry! Don’t!”

Barack opened a new tab in his browser, opening his Tumblr account and typing in the search bar ‘cuteboyshipsandfanfics,’ scrolling down to the most recent post on its dashboard.


Cuteboyshipsandfanfics: okay hello my fellow kids so there’s these two cute boys who are in the first year, i’ll call them T and M. i saw them helping each other with homework and I CAN JUST TELL there’s romantic tension between them like ???  has anybody else had this experience?

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“Th-three hundred… followers?” spluttered Ted, looking as if all his blood had drained from his now lifeless face.

“Well, that explains it folks. Hillary is a right-old stalker pervert.” called out Donald, his pursed lips letting out puffs of amusement, yet not possessing a single clue that ‘T’ and ‘M’ referred to his own two disloyal, untrusted sidekicks.  

“Ohh my gooosh.” whined Hillary, also muttering an indirect ‘sorry’ to Ted and Marco. By justifying how she did not technically reveal their names in addition to how it wasn’t to be taken seriously, she knew she was relatively safe. Marco laughed it off, rightfully calling Hillary an idiot, yet Ted said nothing.


Barack scrolled down to expose a one-shot crackfic posted around a week prior. His eyes briskly flared in shock, steadily clocking the title:


Trubama – A Story of Barry and Justin <3


Everybody stared at the hazy, eye-piercing text depicting the president of Washingcoln’s student body in love with his Canadian pen-pal, Justin Trudeau, in deep, utter dread.

“Who’s Justin?” whispered Marco to Ted. Ted shrugged, but looked intrigued nevertheless.

“Look, it’s just crack fanfiction. Do not take it seriously by any means.”


“Crack! It’s crack!”

“Are you on crack?” questioned Donald, his face displaying a mixed state of disturbance and amusement.

“NO!” Hillary bleated.

“I AM SO CONFUSED HERE!?” barked Bernie from further away in pure horror, only just reading what Hillary would have titled the ‘good part’ of the one-shot fanfiction.

Jeb was in a laid-back position; emitting monotone, muffled giggles. “You know, I actually think Prez and Trudeau really do have somethin-

“Lord, God; please send the holy water. I think my friends are going mad.” Barack pressed a palm to his forehead.

“Why are you asking the Christian God?” Donald asked Barack in strong contempt, possibly denoting something somewhat ruder.

“Hold up – friends?” stuttered Bernie, from behind the pages of his book.

“Oh…” voiced Joe, a little flustered.

“Well, I wouldn’t call all of you my ‘friends.’” Barack’s voice cracked doubtfully. “Aha sorry, I…”

“We should get together sometime, Obama.” Donald acerbically interrupted.

“Bruh. Please don’t tell me this is actually happening.” The Prez groaned, finally shutting his laptop.

“My father owns a tremendous golf course. Two, actually. One even is in Scotland, believe me.”

“Are you saying-“ Barack paused. Didn’t Donald mention something related to his last statement on his thriving, cuss-filled twitter account? Something among the lines of: ‘If Obama resigns from office NOW, thereby doing a great service to the school – I will give him free lifetime golf at any one of my courses,’ – yeah, that was it, right?

“Why not, Prez? I would love to play one-on-one with Jeb again and see him fall to the ground like his campaign did.”

Jeb faced Donald, directing a sullen pout to where he sat. “Meh, it don’t bother me. Those people making jokes about me and my turtles and whether I’m on suicide watch or not are irrelevant at this point. I’m just living in the present.”

“Suicide watch, huh? That’s a new one.”

Jeb’s smile suddenly turned wry, urging to get a reaction out of the son-of-a-multimillionaire. “Donald, I don’t mean to be obnoxious but you look like an orange-dyed prune.”

“Excuse me!” quickly snapped Donald, his face scrunching up to resemble an orange-dyed prune.

“Hillar- DELETE THAT NOW!” screeched Ted, lunging to grab Hillary’s phone where a snapshot of him and Marco had been captured.

“What’s done cannot be undone.” she snickered. Marco’s face went slightly red, and he too began tormenting Hillary by yanking at her arm. As soon as they noticed how manic they appeared, a profound wave of laughter overcame the three before they decided to settle and quieten down for good. Jeb plugged in some earphones, but kept his eye on what Hillary was just about to reveal.

“I’ll show you boys something reeeal good. Promise not to tell Donald, kay?”

“Depends what it is.” Marco said with a sense of lure.

Hillary opened her camera roll and scrolled for a bit, until both Ted and Marco were greeted with a candid yet non-consensual photograph of Donald and Russian exchange Vladimir Putin strolling in the school halls – with pink flowercrowns and love-hearts edited into the image.

“Shit!” coarsely whispered Ted, thoroughly amused.

“Yeah, I’ve seen that. It’s not pretty.” confessed Barack in a shy, dry tone of voice.

Whilst the jibber jabber with Hillary, Ted, Marco, and a sarcastic president of student government had been commencing, Donald – who hadn’t been in the spotlight for exactly a minute – caught the others’ attention. He had been talking for no less than forty seconds, with the rest of the squad more enveloped in whatever mess Hillary was displaying on her phone. “You all are sheeple, not even listening to me. Humph. SAD.” Donald droned. 

“What were you saying?” asked Hillary, hovering her blue gaze onto the broad, bellowing boy who was now stood fully upright.

“My sideman Lil’ Marco and commie-bum Bernie should come golfing too.”

“First it was psycho-pants, then commie-bum.” unintelligibly mumbled Bernie, still reading his book.

“Everybody here is inept. It’s official.” Hillary concluded, standing up and reaching towards the shelf to grab a book. She looked at Bernie, but did not receive a look back.  

“You’re quick to judge.” rejoined Jeb, while Marco spat out a quiet snigger at his mellow retaliation. He stood up to rummage through his school briefcase in order to take out his water bottle, but was promptly distracted by his friend Ted’s eyes gliding over him in wonder.

 “Wait Marco, you seem taller today. How un-prosaic.” noted Ted in a formal tone, shifting his coal eyes side-to-side wondering whether if that specific term was the correct one to use or not.

“Oh do I now?”

“Shit! I mean, wow, you do!” Joe examined Marco fully, but tried not to be obvious with it.

“Rafael’s words ‘musta triggered some growth hormones.”

“Yeah, I learned something like that in Biology once.” muttered Joe as a phrase of sarcasm, now filling out some papers as Barack returned to his laptop. 

“By the way, Lyin’ Ted, you won’t be coming.”

“Who said anybody was coming? Nobody has even consented yet.” Hillary huffed, not reading a word of her book at all as she intended.

“Neither are you, nasty woman.”


“You see, I have high standards. Liars and nasty, nasty women like Crooked Hillary and bimbos like Megyn Kelly do not have a bigly role in my life.” said Donald with a conceited poise, as if he was stood on a pedestal.

“Well, they kind of do. One of them is your opponent.” returned Joe under his breath, displeased.

Hillary closed her book. “You make your entire twitter about the people you hate though? And what about Rosie O’Do-


“O-okay Donald,”


“Hey Donald, hey, hey, Donald. Loook, I’m triggered, make fun of that insteeeaaad!” sardonically cooed Hillary with an unearthly straight-face, but only with the intention to stop Donald yelling and to draw his attention away from the subject of 10th-grader Rose O’Donnel.


“Are you finished?” Barack slowly asked Donald, making his words fully comprehensible to a tee.

“I rest my case.” he responded.


“Now I’m going to laugh about Hillary being so trigg-

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Your shoes.” marked Joe, pointing towards Marco’s feet, revealing a pair of stylish, extended-heeled boots. 

“Myyy what?” Marco cutely drawled on, with his hand to his ear. (Seriously I can imagine his mannerisms being so adorable at this moment)

“It’s your swanky new boots that makes you taller! Lit! Holler!” ecstatically boomed Hillary, as if she just discovered Pythagoras’ theorem from scratch.

“Well, okay. Yeah. You got me.”

At this point in time, everything was in fact a blur. It’s wasn’t like they were ditching their own social circles, but something was growing inside them as a group. And while even though both Hillary and Bernie were currently distant, and even though Donald had converted back to his staple braggart attitude towards Jeb; they all still felt at ease in each other’s company. Donald wouldn’t stick around for long, as he had plenty of other people to please. Oddly enough, It seemed his words had become less acrid to the bunch as time went on, slowly molding into that of juvenile jokes that just augmented his immaturity. Barack was recognized more as a regular student as opposed to an authority, and Hillary was perceived as less cold and patronizing, and instead as a girl who really did have (while a remotely bizarre one) sense of humor and emotion.  

“You know, it’s my birthday actually.” mentioned Jeb, taking out his earphones.

“When?” quietly asked Joe.


“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” lukewarmly replied the Birthday Bush.

The atmosphere switched to an unforeseen uneasiness, quite suddenly too.

“Screw this, I’m moving.” grumpily moaned Bernie, whose chair made a god-awful screeching noise as he rapidly got up.

 “Wait, Bernie,” called out Hillary, frowning. “We can shut up, right guys?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Bernie monotonously answered, his head turned away.


.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

‘Wait, what is this?’

Friday 12th. Valentine’s day was the following Sunday.

 Ted’s gaze met with a pocket-sized bag of chocolates from within the depths of his locker of blood-red, his eyes blinking in confusion. The label read: hap happy valentines.’ along with a poorly drawn smiley face, as if the writer had an unsteady hand – but no name.

Who would have sent him something like this? He was hardly what you would call popular, and even though the freshmen girls didn’t mind him from time to time, Ted thought he must’ve appeared as a soulless freak to them. Maybe Marco would know.

“Ted! I’ve been looking for you all over!” Carly called out as she nimbly ran over to her underclassmen friend, coolly showing a smile. “Hi, Mr. Hamilton told me to pass this onto you.”

“What’s this?” inquired Ted, as Carly handed him the post-it. He read the good news, his eyelids flaring in exhilaration: ‘Congratulations, Mister Cruz. You have been elected for the part of Romeo Montague in our school production held at the end of the semester. Signed: A.H’

*cough* witch-faced freak*cough*” Hillary murmured as she brushed beside the small group, her arms linked with Bill’s. “So, our date on Sunday,-”

“Ew, if it isn’t the girlfriend of a perverted buffoon.” Carly turned up her nose in scorn.

“So you and Donald have been going out. I knew it.” sneered Marco, walking up to his locker five spaces away from Ted’s, even though he clearly knew it was Bill in which Carly spat her antipathy at.

“You all know who I am talking about! Bill is a sick-

“Stop.” cut-in Hillary, condescendingly.

“I actually got the part of Romeo! My gosh, this is friggin awesome.”

“That means there has to be a Juliet.” claimed Bill, trying to plaster on a fake smile towards the gathering.

“Oh, there’s another reason why I wanted to speak with you, Ted.”


Carly’s head lowered bashfully. “I-I got the part of Juliet.”

“Pffft.” Hillary snorted.

“Hillary, go away.” Marco shooed.

“Hm…” hummed Ted, looking at Hillary, and then back at Carly. “I want to see you two on a day out with each other.”


“Marco and I always have to go out with Donald all the time.”

“I just stick around ‘cause he has money.” uttered Marco from the corner of his mouth, thereupon laughing.

Bill let out an unsure chuckle at the mention of his girlfriend’s opponent. “If my pumpkin ever had to put up with Carly for a day, it will end in tears.” he said, hugging Hillary tight.

“No it won’t! I’m stronger than that.”

“Make it a bet. If you and Carly come to reconcile with each other, I’ll buy you something that will cost more than anything that Donald will spend on anybody. You don’t, well sweet-cheeks, I guess I’ll have to break up with you.” laughed Bill. Although a joke, Hillary did not withdraw from frowning and lowering her head at the remark.

Carly’s face turned sour. “What do I get in this?!”

“A potential friend.” quipped Marco, who was only half-involved with the discourse.

“I’ll do it on one condition: Ted has to come with us. Shopping.”

“You did start it, Raf.”

“Tsk. I’m only doing this so I can prove I can be stable and not lose my head in angsty situations unlike this email-deleting bitch.” Carly expressed, in a less bitter tone. Ted subtly rolled his eyes, profoundly taking the situation as a joke.

Hillary’s expression modified to a pissy, flustered glare. “Oh shut up, you c*nt-

“Now, now, ladies…” Bill drew Hillary away, putting on a cinematic smile which turned out to be just clenched teeth. Cat-fights like this would have gotten him excited, but this was his girlfriend. This was Hillary along with somebody who really thought ill of him. And he knew why, and deep within his soul, Bill just couldn’t let the reason go.

The class interval had seemed oddly longer than usual. Hillary and Bill walked away, and Marco scurried off to scavenge for some friends in his upcoming class.

Ted, still by his locker with Carly, tucked in his lips. He clearly knew something was up whenever she talked to him. Could it have been – no, surely not, right?

“Also, Ted, happy Valentines! Sorry I couldn’t get you anything. Oh – uh, I mean I know we aren’t dating and stuff; i-it’s just I always give my friends gifts.” loudly chirped Carly as if she were out of breath, a plastic grin spread on her face.

“That’s… fine. You don’t have to say sorry, Carly.” confirmed Ted coolly, acknowledging Carly’s absurdly hyper fits of giggles.

So it wasn’t Carly who sent the chocolates after all.

“H-how’s your part-time job? Is it still going okay?” Ted stammered, changing the conversation topic from the present day’s theme.

“They haven’t fired me yet.” joked Carly. “Ted, you should come sometime. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

The couple of students talked for about a minute, with Carly telling a short anecdote about one of her co-workers slipping on spilt coffee at her workplace. Ted tried to keep up with the pace of the conversation; however those chocolates did not stop barging into his thoughts. He ended the discussion stuttering all over the place, with Carly gaining all the wrong connotations from it.

‘He’s getting all shy,’ mused Carly, stepping back a bit. ‘Maybe it’s my perfume.’

She stopped. She inhaled.

“Ted, I-


The bell for the next lesson resonated, setting off a bumble of footsteps to make their way across the halls.

“Uh, bye. I have Government class around now.” declared Ted.

“Nice, I have Business. See you after school for our first rehearsals, I guess…”


A pair of forlorn eyes flashed towards Hillary arm-in-arm with Bill among the hallway of high-pitched ringing, his dark, curly strands of hair falling in front of his smooth gaze. The boy was almost admiring the notable girl from afar, with his legs all of a sudden trembling like mad, and his mouth sharpening into a pursed lip. After a few books dropped from his damp hands, he picked them up in a flustered daze – only to find Hillary glancing straight at him shortly after.

She swiftly faced herself away, now building up pace in her strut while Bill’s tall, slim figure hunched over to tickle her stomach.

“Tim!” a boy shouted from behind him. “You’re gonna be late for class, you know.”

Tim Kaine then lifted his legs to walk the opposite direction with his friend, to class. “Hillary…” he whispered behind his shoulder, softly blinking at her from far, far away, out of his grasp.



Chapter Text


February 15th, 3:39pm


Barack Obama skipped delightedly out the office. Another day over, finally. Even though Joe had petitioned to stay behind and do the rest of the slightly thankless tasks, Barack just couldn’t face leaving it all to his vice. Besides, Joe was immensely pleased to leave early, and if Joe was happy, Barack was happy. But there was more to it. Something like some sort of secret his vice was hiding from him, something indescribable in a sense where Barack could not help but indirectly swerve towards questions of “So how are you? Like, really?” as well as “Is there something you need to address?” and such.

Joe was most likely more enigmatic than most would think.

Yet now, the Prez known for his optimism and authenticity was becoming somebody who tried to challenge these enigmas. He was becoming somebody who was on the brink of his comfort zone; stepping out of his more passive nature until he mustered up the courage to question. He began to question on the things that truly mattered, as would… well, nearly everybody, right?


“Long day?” Barack asked John McCain, slumped on the school bench alone while on an unearthly late lunch-break.

“That’s what I should be asking you.”

“It’s been alright. You on a break, huh?” Barack struck the part-time janitor’s arm with a boyish punch.

“Hey, that’s no way to treat a member of staff, Barack.”

“I don’t see you that way.”

“I don’t see you as an authority, either.” grunted McCain.

“That brings me back to my first day when you were flaunting your new, well-paid job in this flourishing environment. ‘I’m an authority now. Bite me.’” Barack quoted teasingly, referencing their first encounter of his sophomore year.

“You sure have a good memory.” McCain monotonously chuckled.

“I… was so naive back then.” he said, thinking back on his year as student government president. Michelle, Joe, Kerry, Hillary; there were so many people he had developed relations with, and doing just about anything with them made him glow with joy. Especially Michelle. There was just so, so many interesting memories with heap-loads of connotations attached to them like Velcro. Thoughts of Joe, thoughts of Mitt, even…


“Say, John,” Barack uttered quickly. “May I ask you a question?”

“Be my guest.”

“What does it mean to be… an authority?”

McCain gave the younger guy a blank, half-surprised look. “I can assure you, Mr. President; that there cannot be a simple answer for that.”

“I mean, my role as a leader and all that. What qualities are you expected to have?”

“You are halfway through your term and you are asking this now? Perhaps they overestimated you. I guess intelligence, competence, consistency, confidence, and power are crucial.”

“Well, do you have all of those? You are a member of authority, right? Sure, you are low on the spectrum, I guess-”

“I’m not the president of a student government.” interrupted McCain; a drone-like attribute to his voice.

“But you did run for it.”

“Those days are behind me.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re working part-time because-”

Barack then thought he probably shouldn’t say anything more. He furrowed his brows, remembering how he had once mentioned something concerning USN seal training. Now thinking about it, does he still hold that dream? Is he working on it? Did he wish to do it for the thrill or does he aspire to protect people in the inevitable future?

Barack couldn’t even be brave enough to bring up such things, since he too knew what it was like to be stuck. Maybe John’s role as a janitor was him going nowhere, or simply just for some money on the side. In definite terms, such an old soul like McCain could never, ever be fully explored down to his roots.

“We have lost track, haven’t we.” Barack hummed a shaky laugh. “What I'm asking is – how does my title differ from a teacher?”

“Presidents govern the school’s rules and reputation, essentially. But not in the way you’d expect.”


“Technically speaking, the President has the power, but the power he possesses has been granted by an even bigger power.”


“The teachers are just for teaching purposes, but what the Prez does is according to the wants of principles Washington and Lincoln.

“Wants, huh.” echoed Barack, taking in the janitor’s words. “But what I do doesn't seem to be what they really want, does it.”


“So, what you are saying is, even the principles do not know what the school needs?”

“It may be so.”

Barack’s thoughts slowly deepened, contemplating the school’s mascots of the donkey and elephants and clocking in on how vague and restrictive the two-party rule was. “Now thinking about it, a lot of people must hate the system.” he reckoned. “There has been a ‘lotta complaints from both the Green and Libertarian club in which Hillary and Kerry have addressed via email. And, something else I want to bring up – I’m a nice guy, but my reputation always has to be put on a pedestal, as if I am special. What’s up with that?”

“You were chosen to be special. You worked for it.” affirmed McCain with a subtle cacophony to his words.

“But are authorities meant to strive to look good and be worshiped, or use their power to provide for the people?”

“Nobody worships you, Barack.”

“Yeah, I get that, but perhaps that’s another reason why I am disliked; the idea that I need to be everybody’s superior.” an unsettled Barack mumbled.

From this, McCain all of a sudden released his shoulders from their overworked, tense state, as if he just made a discovery like never before. “That’s all an authority… really is, I’m afraid: somebody who has power over you in a certain field. It is like me with care-taking, for instance.”

“Holy shit. You’re right.” uttered Barack beneath his breath, in a sheer realization. “Some people in this race just want to be seen as superiors. They don’t want to be leaders, they want to be dictators.”

“That’s how it always has been.”

“Is that what corruption is like? Messing with kids’ egos, the children who are going to be the future of society? The children of our future?

“That’s how it always has been.” repeated McCain, now dropping his voice and tilting his cap.

The temporary pause which followed must have lasted a lifetime. All that was on Barack’s mind was questions. Questions. Questions as to why, what, who, how, where – any questions – he didn’t even care if he received no answers, he just wanted to purely ask.

“But whose fault is it?” Barack further added. “If the principles have no idea what they’re doing, then where did this almost transcendental barrier between a Prez and the student body begin developing?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions. I-I can’t answer that.”

“No, it’s fine John. We’re overthinking this now. I’m not sure if I’m even making sense anymore.”

“Honestly, I’d say not.” chortled McCain, now lifting himself from off the bench and dusting himself off. He picked up his bucket and mop, and trod slowly indoors in the direction of one of the corridors.

“Catch you later.”

John McCain made his way into the building after aiming a wave, his coverall as dull in color as always. Barack slowly tip-toed as if he were following the janitor, just about to put his spare quarters in the snack vending-machine only to discover it was jammed. Perhaps McCain was better at cleaning and being a background character than working on technical tasks.

“It’s out of whack.” he called out, without turning around.

“Okay.” coolly uttered Barack in reply, a faint smirk printed on his face. Before Barack faced away, he swore he could have seen perhaps a classmate – Sarah Palin, even; dashing up to the janitor as if she were crying in frustration in the most discrete corner of his eye. But before he could react to the situation in terms of why she was at school so late and what was actually wrong with her, Barack’s legs jogged themselves back outside once again, appearing rather aimless in body language as he leaped away.


Barack was about twenty or so meters away from the school, before noticing his current lab-partner Rand Paul on the other side of the thin street. Perfect timing.

“Hey, Rand?”

“Oh Prez, it's you.”

“This is totally out of the blue, but do you have those Biology notes from today’s class? I’ll hand them back tomorrow, really-”

“Slacking off, are we?”

“No! Your notes are just… better. And we were lab partners, after all.”

“Who knew the School President would be asking a delinquent for help?” Rand jeered, calmly walking over to his classmate, taking out his Biology book from his briefcase and handing it to Barack. They both started to take a swift turn through the entrance of the playing fields where the tennis courts stood, where the gate just so happened to be open due to after-school activity.

“You’re not a delinquent, Rand. Stop trying to sound cool.”

“I’m a delinquent by this school’s standards.” guaranteed Rand, with an acidic look. “Face it. My consistency in the Sciences and Government class is soaring. I know the entire constitution off by heart and take the pledge of allegiance seriously as fuck. But skipping trivial classes, chatting back and actually thinking for myself are the things that get me nowhere.”

“You don’t play by the rules.”

“You do though.” returned Rand, engendering a sharp silence to follow as they walked further.

“C-can I ask you something?” Barack’s crisp voice heightened, the derelict air blocking it from becoming an echo. “What does it mean to be… free?”

Rand rubbed his chin. “That’s a rather subjective question.”

“How does one become satisfied?”

"Honestly, I feel like I should know the answer to that. Aaand I do not.”

“What do you want to be in life? What makes you itch?”

“Working in the medical field, like some sort of doctor. What about you?” quickly voiced the curly-headed boy, his rosy cheeks complimenting the grayer breeze.

“No idea. Sorry, I’m just asking unnecessary questions.” Barack mumbled, averting his eye-contact from Rand's side-profile. 

The shy, dancing breeze developed into that of a much harsher wind, detangling Barack’s textured head of hair only slightly. Rand’s curls stayed put, yet did not restrain from flickering into his shallow teal pools of irises. “I’m not sure if my dream is achievable though.” Rand then admitted, strained.

As the pair of boys eventually walked halfway across the ridiculously cosmic playing field, two more figures became prominent within their vision. They looked to be on Washingcoln’s baseball team, and their build was self-explanatory; they were jock-types for sure. Fortunately so, they were far away enough to not take notice of the sophomores having stopped dead-center in the plain. Rand and Barack’s stances froze, quickly taking into mind the two familiar individuals: teammates Chris Christie and Donald Trump.

Barack’s gaze narrowed. “Wait, is that…”

“Yep. We should probably keep our distance.”

“Are he and Chris close?”

“With that orange-faced windbag, it’s hard to tell who his genuine friends are. If anything, he would be the kind to hang with someone who fundamentally misunderstands the Bill of Rights.” snarled Rand as he eyed Chris, before looking down. 

“He appears different today.” stated Barack, noticing how nonchalant and almost inept Donald’s throws were.

“Yeah. Didn’t you hear? He and Sarah broke up. On Valentines, too.”

The faint noise of Chris laughing rang in the wind as he missed the ball, followed by an ‘oh my god’ as well as some bouts of cursing. Barack smiled, reassuring himself that the capricious Chris Christie really did give him a hug one time. Currently seeing him with somebody like Donald wasn’t much of a shock to him. In fact, the fickleness reminded him of Mitt whenever he flip-flopped on an issue, or when he happened to burst into the office on those tawny September days. But then he at last became a dandelion seed… recklessly being blown far… far---

Rand waved his hand in front of Barack’s face, aiming for his attention.

“O-oh. That sucks.” blandly responded Barack, a bit startled. Although he didn’t mean what he said, he could not help but keep an eye out for his jarring acquaintance from across the field.

“I’m going to skedaddle if that’s cool.” Rand declared, sighing.

“It’s about time you did.”

“Eat shit, ‘Bama.”


‘Huh, who is that?’ wondered Barack, watching over an odd figure far across the field near where the entrance was. The person seemed to have been facing Chris and Donald, however this was not certain from such an unclear distance. 

“I’ll get you Christie… one day.” The figure shortly spouted under his breath, teeth gritted and all. The body of Mike Pence then spun around, forming a pungent-navy silhouette as he fastened the hood of his coat before his matching legs of denim strode far, far away from the scene.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Wait… Rand?” yelled Barack, about a minute later. He noticed the awkward space formed from the departure, and quickly ran over to Rand to undo it.

“What is it?”

“Didn’t your dad run for the school presidency one time or was that just a dream??”

Rand wryly deadpanned. “The Mandela Effect.”


“…The Mandela Effect.”


Chapter Text


March 4th 9:21am


“Hold up hold up hold up; so you’re telling me what?”

“There are two different Donald Trumps.” explained Ben, adjusting his glasses as he pulled his know-it-all grin. Both of them were using their study period for, well, studying, although things began to wander off task as soon as the topic of Donald leaped into the conversation.


“One time, he picked up my eraser for me backstage.”

“That’s nice.” replied Kasich, feeling apprehensive on the subject. “What if he heard you say there was ‘two’ of him, huh? A Gemini like him would go batshit, trust me.”

Ben all of a sudden decided to tweak on his initial statement. “I-I don’t think there’s two Donald Trumps. I think there’s one Donald Trump, but certainly, you have: ‘look, all of this,’” he waved his hands around as he desperately tried to alter his relaxed expression into something more exaggerated, yet to his dismay it did not end up as effectively robust as he’d liked. “And you have somebody else that sits and reads and thinks, and I’m a thinker, and I have been a thinker. And perhaps people don’t think of me that way because you don’t see me in that forum, but I am a thinker. Imma a very deep thinkerrr. I know whatz happeningggzzzzz.”

“What in the…”

“I dunno about you, but I think he’s trying to say is he is a thinker.” a student sarcastically butted in, to Kasich.

“You are so confusing.” Kasich shook his head at Ben as he rocked back and forth on his seat, biting his pen. How he was so hungry at second period was an absolute mystery. If only he could snack on a sub-sandwich… or the cafeteria’s pancakes… or fried chicken, even.

“Yeah, he is.” the student added before walking away. Kasich noticed that Ben’s substitute for a World History learning source was a Bible, among his personal favorite: The Wonders of Neuroscience. Kasich found it incredibly perplexing as to why his peer was so book-smart in so many areas, but lacked some of the most commonplace logic. It was almost amazing, in a way.

“Egyptians based their remedies on the Nile, right? Something about applying Nile’s channels to the body, I heard.”

“I’m not too good on this era.”

“We’ll study this then. I’m not too great on it either.” proclaimed Kasich, flicking through his History resource book and eventually landing on a page. “Hmm. They were a fan of using honey it says.”

“Milk and honey – now that’s what I call delicious. You get some hot milk and add a spoonful of honey and you get to sleep right away! A warm body temperature in fact helps your brain to adjust to sleep, as it says here.” The brain-obsessed bibliophile pointed to a page inside his book on neuroscience, which also happened to be open. “I sometimes have soup, too.”

“I eat my soup with a fork.”

“Huh? Doesn’t it just spill everywhere?”

“I’ve had lots of practise.” assured Kasich, causing a rough silence to follow. “A-anyways, back to world history. What are your ideas on-

“Joseph built the pyramids to store grain, right?”

“Why would you think that?” Kasich inquired, screwing up his face and lifting his shoulders.

“Uh-I um, I’m just asking for a-a friend.” lied Ben.

“I give up.”


“I-It’s my theory, okay?!”

“I. Give. Up.”


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Hey, Jill,” Libertarian Club member and presidential candidate Gary Johnson called out to rivaling candidate Jill Stein, who was part of the Green Club next door. An orange flicker of meek winter sunlight danced in his vision as he stepped forwards out of the club-room. It was past what one would call normal school hours, since the clubs ran significantly longer that day than usual for some reason or other.

“Yes?” Jill voiced in response, halting her steps, expecting Gary to make that same ‘Shouldn’t I be in the Green Club since I actually smoke it?’ one-liner he always said to her. But nope.

“I’ve always wondered something.”

“What is it?”

“Explain the whole student government presidency to me. The course of the race and how it works, that is.” solicited Gary, his ‘t’ and ‘s’ sounds being lucidly sharp. He and Jill eventually trod down the stairs together towards the entrance, which also happened to be the place students would exit out of at the same time.

“Why, you asking for a friend?” Jill then laughed, glancing at Gary who had now pulled out a notebook and a three-inch, overly-sharpened pencil.

“Uh, ‘summing like that.”

They started to stroll out of the main entrance, walking along the front of the school. “Oh alright, alright. Firstly you will have to sign up for it the year before, preferably in summer, so you can start your campaign in early September. Those who would be seniors have to take their SAT exams in their junior year so they won’t end up off-task. Some do not choose that route, though; and pick the hard way.”


Jill and Gary were confronted with the building’s corner, and proceeded to turn.

“When you sign up you will either have to join the democratic council, republican council, identify as an independent and pave your own path, or be part of the green or libertarian club society. Only members in the democratic and republican council will debate on the school stage as they are…” Jill all of a sudden paused, and somewhat clenched her jaw. “… the most popular. Well, a rather large number of students are independents and do not wish to be part of such corrupt and inefficient –


“Sorry, I was getting carried away.” Jill ran her hands through her hair before carrying on. “Pupils of Washincoln can watch the debates live on stage after school, which occur on Fridays as you know, and can even take recordings if they wish. You got that down?”

“Why yes, I have.”

“All the debate stuff on snapchat and vine is basically how our school turned into a meme. It’s rather sad, actually.”

“My favorite is that I’m a weed-smoking bum who has no idea what he’s talking about.”

“Aha! See Gary, that’s because it’s true!”

“Exactly!” Gary replied, dumbly smiling as he aimed a finger-gun with his free hand.

“Wait, what’s this?” A spot of metal caught Jill’s eye. She walked over to the furthest bush behind Washingcoln’s building where it had seemed to have been coming from. “A can, huh? Well that’s not very eco-friendly, this can be easily recycled. Ugh, it’s so annoying how I have to pick up all the trash around here.”

“It doesn’t look like a soda-can, though.” commented Gary, as Jill nodded. “Quick, I think Mr. Adams is around. We don’t want to be seen around here at this hour. Do you think he will search my pockets for dope again?”

“Yeah, quick, let’s go.” ordered Jill with her voice down, as the two of them sprinted to the other side before walking out of the gates for good. “Are you still writing?”


“Hmm… I wonder what else. You will drop out of the race if your popularity is low in the polls or if you don’t get enough delegates to back you up. Otherwise, your campaign will continue for the entire year until all the ballots are collected one week before the last day of school. The results are revealed the Tuesday after.”

Gary's pencil made one last pecking sound, notifying the final period. He gave Jill a fist-bump. “Thanks Jill, you’re a real bro.”

“So, what friend is it? Are they interested in coming to this school?”

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“Your friend you’re writing those notes for.”



“Oh no, I genuinely didn’t know how any of this works before you told me!”



Chapter Text


March 16th, 10:17am


It was dandy day at Washingcoln High. Ted Cruz was in the midst of a day of continuous campaigning, and oh boy was he enjoying it; winter was at its last legs and things were, slowly but undoubtedly, changing.

The fight for School President was getting tight, as only Donald, Kasich, Ted, and Marco remained for the republican nomination. Ben Carson had managed to suspend and instead decided to follow his dreams full of haphazard neuroscience and to be known for being the sleepy, politically-incorrect guy with the mindset one would call totally bizarre. Fellow classmate John Kasich would often whisper to himself in complete bewilderment: ‘How did I even get this far? I still get missed out on the class register for fork’s sake!’ and things, for certain... likewise.

However, at that point in the election, it seemed to be a perfect time for another candidate to steal the spotlight for a short while. Both an anarchist and friendly fascist, to be guaranteed.

Ted ambled himself up the stairs to attend class, with a slight bounce to his walk which was highly atypical, until he was brought face-to-face with an obscurity of a student. Holding an alarmingly striking toothbrush about the same height as his build, he was armed with few dubious-looking pupils, stood beside him and ceasing to make noise. Ted considered in a startled surprise he ought to have been a real wellington-boot enthusiast, for the first part. I mean, he had one on his fucking head. Really, I’m not making this up.

“Ted Cruz! How you doing? It’s really good to meet you.” greeted Vermin Love Supreme, holding out a hand. He was dressed in several layers of coats, scarves and loose neckerchiefs, owning a rather untrimmed goatee that oddly suited his wacky get-up.

“How you doin’.” calmly asked Ted, yet overwhelmed on the interior. He had seen this guy before, and knew he was running for Prez; however his status and real name seemed to have been relatively ambiguous to pretty much everyone.

“I have to ask you, where do you stand on free ponies for all students?

‘Ahh I get it. It’s one of those independents or something who think they can get popular by being goofballs! Hah, I’ll show them my intellectual ability.’ he thought, folding his arms. “I-I think ponies are wonderful, I’m a big fan. Applejack is my favourit-” ‘NO! WHAT AM I SAYING?! NOBODY CAN KNOW THAT!’

“Thank you.” Vermin quickly uttered in response, already taking note of it. “Now where do you stand on the mandatory tooth-brushing law?”

‘What in tarnation? Well, I better buck up ‘round now. Ahem.’ Ted cleared his throat. “You know I actually believe in individual liberty, so I don’t think we need the student cabinet restricting our freedoms.” His half-smile planted on his face straightened. ‘Yes! That did it!’

Leaping away, Ted took hasty steps towards his classroom, but Vermin failed to catch up before he made an attempt at asking his last question.

“How do you, how do yah, uh, can yoUASDFGGFNDSUIOTHSUEWSzzzz… yeah, he’s gone guys.”


“… and then he asked ‘what do you think about mandatory tooth-brushing laws?’”

Surrounded by some supporters of his campaign, Ted leaned back against the canteen’s pale wall, lodged in the corner of the room. He continued to tell his fans about his awkward interaction with Vermin in a pretentious manner. Continuing to share his anecdote, the conservative freshman formed a smug smile before declaring his next big thing.  

“And I said: ‘You know I actually believe in individual liberty, so I don’t think we need the student cabinet as a nanny state brushing our teeth!’ Haha! Yes! Vote for me!” Ted’s gathering began to cheer and raise their arms into the air while Ted tucked in his lips in pride.

 “I can’t believe he thought we were being genuine.” muttered one of Vermin’s campaign managers from afar, standing next to Vermin himself.

“He’s actually a fucking idiot.” laughed Vermin in reply.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

After lunch, as soon as Ted began to commute to his next class, he had to cope with the cunning candidate stalking his shadow as he vaguely attempted to ask more questions. ‘When will he stop?’ thought Ted, avoiding eye-contact with the guy yakking beside him.

Ted at last darted into his class in a rush, slumped in his assigned seat, and let out a long, harsh exhale. He noticed from eyeing above his desk that no teacher had come yet; the tips of his fingers almost touching the floor from how low his body was positioned. Very suddenly, Ted found himself recoiling as a reaction to the head of Vermin Supreme poking out the classroom’s entrance, clutching a megaphone. Honestly, where in the world did he get that from?

"Come out with your hands up and your pants down, we have you surrounded!”

“Wh-who the fuck is he talking to?” snorted a kid to a friend behind his desk as the rest of the 9th grade class exchanged looks and whispers of perplexity. Ted froze.

“Don’t ask me.” his friend responded, in confusion. 

‘I SWEAR, I WILL KILL THIS GUY.’ Ted was fuming. He knew exactly that it was him the anarchist was targeting. ‘THESE KINDS OF CANDIDATES ARE A BUNCH OF FUCKING MORONS.’

“Follow me to victory! Bwuahahaha!” Vermin shouted though the corridor as he started to pounce away, his cackling echoing profoundly causing the sound to bounce off the white, polished walls.


Chapter Text


March 22nd, 8:02am


Michelle was exhausted. Two times she had to face harassment from immature students from Washingcoln when she dropped by that Thursday, and now, the morning after; she had the usual homeroom ruckus to deal with.

Of course, seeing Barack was a delight as always. He and Joe would cook up a cute little extravaganza of playful chat whenever she came to visit and it really was wonderful. It was wonderful to receive free access to the school after conventional school hours just to see her boyfriend, her best friend, even – and of course Joe, who felt like no one other than a brother to them both. But something just didn’t feel right.

Michelle had always contemplated whether she was doing something wrong. Not to Barack in particular, but the feeling of guilt persisted to pound in her chest whenever she heard comments on something as petty as her appearance. It didn’t make Michelle upset, but the mere thought of being unpresentable was overwhelming at most. Barack would make things difficult and assure everything was going to be okay even when she knew his sugary, nimble words had no impact. Michelle frowned from just thinking about it.

It was apparent she doubted her adequacy and began brooding over her schoolwork and the countless arithmetic problems and law essays. Will she be successful? Was it wrong to form a relationship with Barack so soon? Is worrying about it all just a waste? It was natural, surely – Barack worried all the time, for instance.

But the thing she couldn’t help but simply notice yet not speak of was the fact that Barack was indeed a speaker and a thinker, but not a doer.



Hold up, where did that voice come from?

There seemed to have been a stupendously beautiful, youthful girl sitting near the back of her homeroom class, looking as if she should be in a fashion catalogue of some sort. Actually, she probably would be doing so in the future, as she’d been modelling since the age of five and next year formal commercial work was to be expected. Only recently immigrating to the United States, the girl had settled in at her new school especially well with students merging from acquaintances to friends like lightning.

The long hair with both the texture and colour like that of caramel hid her face from the side. Cute stray eyebrows and electric blue eyes dwelled beneath the locks. Currently in that clean desk of hers she happened to be working on some English homework – to prepare a persuasive, compelling speech of a chosen topic. Michelle leisurely sat down beside her, and she too got out her English work that needed to be finished.

“Oh, Hello Melania. How are you?” Michelle asked, with a small smile.

“I am good, thank you. What about you?”

“I’m great! It’s nice to see you making friends at this place, you know.”

“Yes. Everyone is very lovely here.”

Michelle began her next segment of small-talk, whereby Melania cut in and tried to apologize in regards to her broken English. One by one, their sentences began to overlap until nothing but a long, unsettled silence remained between them. All was seemingly awkward.


Michelle slightly jumped in her chair. “Oh, sorry. What is it?

“Did I ever tell you about my new boyfriend? He is from Washingcoln school and I am so proud of him. He’s a great leader. I’m very proud of him.” exclaimed Melania with a beam.

“That’s nice!”

“We began talking at the gates where he would offer me a ride home in his car. He’s a hard worker, he’s kind, and he has a great heart. He’s smart, he’s tough… he’s a great communicator. I’m very proud of him.”

“Cool…” Michelle drawled, growing in suspicion. She took a swig of water from her bottle.

“Did I mention that I was proud of him-

“Yes, yes; you certainly did.”

Melania put on a plastic-looking smile before taking a deep breath. “And his name is Donal-

“PFFFFTTPLLLFJGURTJUHUUUUH.” Michelle spat out a large fraction of her water, curling onto the floor in disgust as she coughed. A few classmates faced the pair in confusion, wondering if they should call for help.

“Michelle! Are you alright?” spouted Melania in stupefaction.

“I… n-need air…” she gasped, looking half-dead, half-weary.



“No. Freakin’. Way.”


“No way is Donald Trump going out with such a sweet girl like you! I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s very rational to tell people who they can and cannot date but in this case I think you should stick to the books, hun.”

“He is misunderstood! Really!”

“Girl, his comments on Mexicans and Muslims alone are degenerate. Apparently he even mocked a disabled individual recently. If that were my boyfriend, I’d leave him.” advised Michelle, while her expression turned uneasy. “Look, I’m sorry. I know he must mean a lot to you at the moment but perhaps you two need to go slow with each other. You may wanna consider getting to properly know each other and talking things through.”

“I will try, Michelle. I know he will listen.”

“Whatever you say.” she sighed, bringing a hand to her head. “If anything happens, call me. Okay?”

Melania’s mixed expression switched to a sulkier demeanour. “I will be fine… I am going to meet some of his competitors for president soon. That will be fun.”

“Really, where?”

“His father owns a tremendous gold course out in the rural areas near here!” gushed Melania, her use of ‘tremendous’ being a blatant fault of Donald’s.

‘Geez, Barry mentioned something about tagging along with Donald recently too. I wonder if they are talking about the same thing.’ Thought Michelle. “Well, whatever.” she said. “I hope you have fun, stay safe on the subway. In these outskirts it’s a lot different than Slovenia, you know that, right?”

“Everyone is going in his car actually! Not the Mercedes, the big one.”

‘Man, they just have the whole lot going for them don’t they.’

Michelle looked up towards the lights, fully knowing they’d just irritate her vision and cause dizzy spells. She never had a huge amount of friends in her homeroom class, so the usual adolescent discussion was replaced with reading, work, small-talk, or solely staring into space. It was comfort. 


“Oh, uh, yes?”

Melania for some odd reason did not speak a single work, yet instead motioned for her peer to move her arms from her work. Michelle drew them away diligently, with nothing but a pensive frown remaining.

“You… just wanted… to see my answer.” stuttered Michelle. She let out an exasperated sigh, and laid her head down to her desk so it made a moderately-loud ‘clunk’ on the wood.


Chapter Text


March 22nd, 5:04pm


Barack: 2 attachments sent

Barack: remember when the office xmas decor fell on you that one time? well i kinda took a snap of

that idk if you ever saw it but here it is lol

Mitt: golly barack u got the wrong number. Nice pics though haha joes f@ce 10/10 relatable

Barack: o shit

Barack: hello mitt

Barack: that rhymed

Mitt: how did you mistake me for joe?

Barack: both joe robinette and mitt romney are next to each other on my contact list when u type ‘ro’ (yh he goes by his middle name on my phone because I know how much he hates it when I call him that)

Mitt: oh goody

Mitt: wow robinette what a dumb name

Barack: whatever you say Willard

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Mitt: why do you have peoples full names in ur contacts WHO does that

Barack:   :( 

Mitt: oh ye ur a president  

Barack: yeah also on social media I have to act classy cause I’m representing washingcoln ygm

Mitt: does washinton ever have to look thru ur phone to see if ur talking crap about him?

Barack: Mitt he’s not part of the gestapo jfc

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

March 24th, 6:53pm


Barack: let’s go see the book of mormon!

Mitt: what

Barack: let’s go see the book of mormon!

Mitt: ???


Mitt: the day you stop bullying me will be the day I die in peace

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

March 25th, 5:38pm


Barack: oh yeah did I ever tell you I have a gf now?

Mitt: oh boy thats swell is it that girl whos always with you on your fb?

Mitt: I always reckoned you were homosexual but it doesn’t matter if u are I love gays one even voted for me last year

Barack: Lmao whatever

Barack: But yep, that’s her in those pics. Michelle. smart, strong and caring <3

Mitt: pfff whatever its not like I cant get a gf I have loads of $$$ chicks dig me

Barack: I never asked but ok x’D


Barack: that kinda reminded me of trump ngl

Mitt: DONT

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

March 25th, 9:15pm


Barack: your contact name is now Mittens

Mitt: well i changed ur contact name to stupid democrat HAH

Barack: hilarious

Mitt: your sarcasm doesnt faze me m80

Barack: no really that was such a constructive, revolutionary joke FULL of wit and intellect.

Mitt: why do you do this to me

Barack: im actually sending it to the late night shows rn


.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

March 29th, 10:10am


Mitt: okay so im trying to get this girl to notice me at skl? any tips fly guy?

Barack: well um I used this epic one-liner when I was trying to woo michelle

Mitt: jeepers

Barack: Yeah. Basically you go up to her and be like ‘you’re next in my binder, sweetcheeks.’

Mitt: k thanks

Barack: wait what


Mitt: update… it didnt work… she got confused and walked away


.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

March 31st, 8:59pm


Barack: 1 attachment sent

Mitt: why are you sending me a pair of flip flops wtf

Barack:   :) 

Mitt: istg im gonna hit yuo

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

April 2nd, 9:22am


Mitt: going out with paul today

Barack: Wow so you two really are out of the closet finally

Mitt: eww homosexuals

Barack: Mitt you literally said yourself you liked gay people

Mitt: im a changed man

Barack: 1 attachment sent



Barack: yeah have fun tho

Mitt: thanks

Barack: I’m going out today too… with someone I happen to really dislike…

Mitt: why

Barack: Long story haha

Mitt: lol okay

Chapter Text


April 2nd, 10:45am

As the first day of the ample, two-week spring break beckoned, set plans inevitably unravelled. Barack eventually gave into the idea of golfing among people he still struggled to find much in common with. He, Marco, Jeb, Bernie and Donald. What an odd mixture, huh.

Meanwhile, Ted and Carly were supposed to be elsewhere. They somehow had finally settled an arrangement to meet at the local shopping plaza with Hillary, identical to the place Ted had been with Marco and Donald the previous November.

That day brought back various memories for Ted. He could vividly recall Marco picking out the cheapest dress-shirt in the shop, which was a size too big but weirdly enough suited him. He could picture Marco sipping his frothy milky latte, letting out breathy giggles in response to Donald comparing him to a murderous criminal in the late sixties. Ted could picture a lot of things, really.


“So, what’s the plan? Do we just wander?” Ted inquired, with his hands shying away into his pockets. The familiar shop windows from within the mall gleamed multi-coloured light which reflected off his almost-black irises.

“I want to do something worthwhile. We’re near my workplace, so we can drop off there if you’d like.” spoke Carly. Her tangy vocals managed to compliment the buzz of the flourishing mall.

“It’s not just up to me.” Ted shot a sour glare that lacked eye-contact. “She’s coming too.”

“I wish she hadn’t accepted. It’s just going to make things difficult… and I really do not want you to see me angry.”


Carly elongated the pause that had followed by taking an awful long time to search for the right words to say. She rolled her shoulders, until she stuttered: “It’s a bit like a date, isn’t it-

“No, Carly. It’s not.” Ted quickly reacted, his voice turning shrill.


The proposal was to meet up with two girls who pretty much hated each other and expect good to come from it. Ted could have been spending this time working on his campaign, or practising for the upcoming production of Romeo and Juliet, or even be studying his ass off – but no, he had to be… burdened with this. And really now, Hillary was certainly no Mercutio.

“Hello.” a voice murmured. It was Hillary.



Carly was at the brink of retaliation, until she noticed her enemy dyed head-to-toe with an enchanting bohemian aesthetic. Hillary had come with no makeup, which was common up until her second (current) presidential campaign. She wore a pair of glasses, indicating she would normally have worn contacts. Her hair was a bit tangled but it made her look comely to an extent, and her clothes made her look as if she could pass as a hippie fresh from the seventies.

“Wow, who woulda guessed she wore contacts?” Ted scoffed.

“I like your choker.” Carly grimly added, cutting her eyes slightly.

“You two are making up already!”

“We were never friends in the first place! snapped Hillary at Ted, stomping her foot.

“Well, I’m awfully cynical so you two should be grateful I’m saying words of optimism.”

“Um, was I late by the way?” asked Hillary bashfully.

“You were, but your fashion sense is even later. You needn’t worry.” Ted laughed. Carly rushed by his side as he took off, walking in the direction of a bland bookstore. Hillary humbly followed, but hid behind her blonde hair as she let go of the strap of her handbag and instead tucked both hands beneath her underarms, where she took off and ever so subtly – smiled.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“You said to wait at the bottom of the hill. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem is that you asses actually had the spunk to come.”

Small specks of blossom pricked the air, littering the wind with a scattered pink tinge. The petals seemed to have been coming from one tree in particular, a cherry tree, which ever since late March had managed to mangle into something straight out of a shoujo anime. Donald boldly stood right at the foot of the gently sloping road, fastidiously tapping his foot and readjusting his Make Prez High Gr8 Again cap every five seconds. Shortly after he was greeted by a cool Barack Obama, continuing to feel indifferent to the Prez’s statement, Donald began to turn on his heels as if he were to walk away.

“Hey, you were the one that made me wait for what, nine minutes?” grunted Barack. Donald froze. “Well, it’s too late to turn back now, Donald. Look, your sidekick Marco is here.”

Marco waved anxiously as he trod over towards the conflicting duo. The scenery looked different; way different from what he could recall back when he first walked to school with Donald and Ted in early September, where the tangerine-tinted leaves would trickle among the wind as the crows cawed, reminiscent of paper planes having no boundaries. That gentleness of the early autumn was interrupted with this gusty, deadly cold winter – but now the sort of meekness had returned.

“Want a tissue?” offered Barack, handing a Kleenex to Marco for the prominent sweat droplets gliding down his forehead. Now that the weather was turning warmer, Marco would have to get used to not wearing oversized winter-wear for the rest of the break.

“Thanks, Obama.” Marco sneered in reply, pinching the tissue from Barack’s lacklustre grip. “Aw look who it is! It’s Jeb! And my favorite communist-”

“I’m a democratic Socialist.” cut-in Bernie in an ambiguous mock-voice, rolling his eyes.

“Sup, y’all?” called out Jeb, about as uncharismatic as ever.

“Psh.” Donald swung around and stared deeply at the opaque windows of the Cadillac. “Ey, you can come out now.”

The car door opened. The slim, freakishly-tall structure of Melania Knauss stepped out, with her presence causing her audience to gasp, wide-eyed and all. She looked about fifteen, and was wearing extremely feminine sports wear which revealed her long legs. She really was… well, the stereotypical beauty to say the least.

“Hello.” she said, sweetly grinning.

“Geez, are all of your girlfriends top models or something?” Bernie reacted, trying his best not to ogle the girl.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she.”

“Nice to meet you.” Barack greeted, holding out a hand. Melania accepted his warm welcome and shook the smooth, warm palm. Meanwhile, Marco whispered something in Jeb's ear, with the older boy bashfully reacting with a sinister half-smile.

“Ey! You lightweights betta not be talkin’ about my girl!” yelled Donald, pulling a typical alpha-male stance. He raked his fingers through his locks. “Come inside, all of yer.”

One by one, the five boys and Melania each clambered inside the roomy, six-seater vehicle. It was hard to grasp that someone like Donald legitimately had a license to drive this thing. That’s rich people for you.

“Well, this is… nice.” remarked Bernie, glancing around and repositioning his glasses.

“Yeah, it is!” Marco said, wide-eyed. 

“Fasten your seatbelts, bitches.” Donald ordered.

“I wish you would stop calling us that.” muttered Bernie.

“I’m with you on that one.” Jeb groaned. He turned to the Prez, who had unwillingly chosen a spot beside him. “Uh, could you perhaps budge please?”

“Sorry about that.”

“Bernie, could you put this in the cup-holder part?” requested Marco, inappropriately waving his water in front of Bernie’s vision. The latter silently nodded and seemed to do what Marco solicited, but was awfully happy to delay the task by playing around with the bottle. He glanced back and forth to see if Marco was annoyed by this, but the younger boy took no notice.

“We ready?” Donald yelled.

Donald’s question was met with a few dispersed, drone-like ‘yes’s which caused him to muster up a wicked grin. “Let’s get this show on the road!” he exclaimed. He twisted the ignition key, and it was not long before the bunch began to set off.

‘Guac-amole, guac guac-amole…’

Jeb’s position in the car mirrored that time on his first day of 11th grade when he stayed back, when his mother ordered George run errands and search for him. Back seat, left side; staring out the window. The car was striding faster than the bus ever dared to, which made the scenery more blurred than usual; a lot like Jeb’s life at that moment.

Barack, sat next to him, was sat reading a book and sighing once in a while. Marco fidgeted all over the place as Bernie unsuccessfully read his book, constantly losing focus and switching it back and forth from the pages to the windows. Melania and Donald chatted in the front two seats, where Donald wouldn’t entirely let go of the wheel, but was for sure close to doing it.

Donald at last turned his focus on the road, watching how his car swallowed a portion of the viewable highway every second. He thought of what he always thought of while driving: things like his belongings, the status he had built up in the infamous school of Washingcoln High, his fans, and worst of all, his campaign. ‘Wow. Man, what does it all mean?’ he thought, as if he were expecting an answer. The car was accelerating.

“Dahnald, I think you are going too fast.” suggested Melania.


Jeb spun around as if it were a reflex action, though heavily restricted by his seatbelt. “Hey, is that-

The blood had drained from Barack’s face. “Oh fuck, it is-


“The cops! They’re onto us!” shrieked Marco, eyeing the car mirrors.

“Slow down you fool!” shouted Bernie while kicking Donald’s chair. “Pull over!”

The flashes of red and blue got more and more prominent. The car eventually pulled over, the unintelligible yelling died down, and nothing but held breaths remained.


Chapter Text


April 2nd, 10:57am


"As I said, I’m the biggest meme queen there is. And I will be the first woman president this school has seen! Booyah!”

“I’ll say one word.” Ted granted.



“Ugh.” Hillary huffed, going red. She had already taken into account how much Ted loved teasing her about Donald and his shenanigans, especially with the entire Pepe meme, or as she liked to call it – the new face of white supremacy. “Ted, you know, I really don’t get you.”

“What is there to get?”

“I’m not sure but there’s something about you that gives me the creeps, like; sometimes I wonder if your presence is human or a legitimate demon. You’re like an accessory to the presidential campaign – as in you know you won’t win but you stick around anyway, let ambition get the best of you, and try and be relevant.”

“What’s with all this all of a sudden?” questioned Ted, knitting his eyebrows. “Damn, you can talk. I know people who wouldn’t back down from calling you the Antichrist, you know.”

“I think… it’s the same for all of us.” suggested Carly, speaking up for the first time in a while.


“All the political figures in Prez High are loathed by at least one particular group of students.” she further added.

“Not Bernie.” Hillary interjected. Her eyes drifted away sullenly.

“Yes Bernie. Definitely Bernie.”

The three began to tread down the steps of the bookstore from the top floor to its bottom one. Turns out the place was pretty neat, and way more idiosyncratic than the outside. It was about a strong twenty seconds until Hillary’s words released themselves from her un-glossed mouth.

“Hold up, who thinks I’m the Antichrist?”

“That kid Alex Jones keeps talking about a New School Order where popular kids like you and Obama and the school government are involved in this brainwashing organization or something. He’s spurted out some shit about that during class but I don’t try to pay much attention to him.” admitted Ted with a sly chuckle.

“Oh, I heard all about that already.” said Hillary.

“I don’t think you’re evil.” Carly quickly said, looking down. “Just wrong on many issues.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad we can agree on something."

“Is that Orwell?” asked Carly, peering over Ted’s shoulder to see what he was reading. Ted didn’t bother to utter a response, or change his damp void of a facial expression.

“A psycho like Ted actually has interests? Has the universe shifted?”

Quite suddenly, Ted replied: “I have many interests actually, Hillary.”

Hillary dryly cackled. “Video games?”


“Call of duty, huh?”



“Donald?”  Ted very quickly countered, tilting his head and directing a wicked stare. He really was getting into the groove of the whole Dollary thing.

“Sh-shut up…”

“Marco…?” repeated Carly, looking suspicious.

“Speaking of the Rubiobot 3000, you two haven’t been talking as much.” brought up Hillary, with a couple of odd looks from the bizarre nickname she used to refer to her opponent, acquaintance, and friend; Marco Rubio. Ted hurriedly planted his gaze to the ground.

“Yeah. At a time like this in my campaign, he’ll only get in the way.”

“Wait, what?”

“No, I agree. It’s getting tight. Ted needs to work on the production and his bid for the presidency, which I totally know he’ll win.” stated Carly, gloating over her younger friend’s recent success.

“But, Ted – you and Marco are always together.”

“Quit making stupid assumptions.” snapped Ted. “We share a lot of classes and have common friends but that’s about it.”

“You seem to be the one trailing after him, though-

“Shut up. Just shut up.” he barked, although timidly

Ted placed the book exactly in its destined spot, yet Carly could not help but acknowledge his veiny hands as if he were storing some kind of tension. ‘What is it with that Marco?’ she thought. “Oh, hey – there’s Hot Topic.” the uncomfortable junior aimed a finger at the store as they exited. The ideal thing was to change the subject; whatever it regarded. “How about we walk over?”

“Let’s do it.” answered Hillary while tip-toeing to Carly’s side and offering a smile. Carly took her eyes off of Ted trudging behind the pair before softly smiling back. Although rather awkward, it felt… appeasing.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Well that’s just great. It's not even noon and I have to witness an idiot getting fined.” Barack lamented, allowing a sigh to whistle through the crevices of his pearly teeth. He eyed the police climbing back into their car from across the large street which was wedged between two suburban open areas of land as the group walked on. The entrance to the courses was very shy and beautiful; having a kind of appearance which shone with simplicity yet was highly appealing to the visual senses.

“You chose to come, yer douchebag.”

“He’s the douchebag?” Bernie all of a sudden shouted, a little too loud. “How about you quit making a fool out of us. ‘This guy over here told me to;’ what, did you think they were gonna let you off that easy? You’d have to be stupid to believe that. In fact, once in middle school a kid went up to me and-

“Let’s just be grateful Donald hasn’t got himself killed, at least.” sighed Barack, soon after he motioned for Bernie to quieten down.

“Well, if we’re talking about death by car here, Ted once said something pretty great about what he would do to Donald’s vehicle if he spotted him while reversing.” Marco snickered.

“Ted can’t drive yet, idiot.” Jeb joked, although his tone was harsh.

“I’m just mentioning what he said. Calm the fuck down, this is getting real heated and I-I’m trying my best to stay calm here.” Marco stuttered, fiddling with his clammy fingers. His breathing turned rapid, and Melania silently comforted him by placing a cold hand on his back. It was a wonder to why she didn’t speak up – and Barack noticed, a hell of a lot. Michelle would not let him do this.

“I find it amazing how someone like you is talking ‘bout abiding by the law like that, Bernie.” The Prez observed, referring back to the other curly-headed boy’s outburst.

“Why, what’s so funny about it?”


Bernie continued to stare at Barack and the way how his body language turned aloof after his utterances. He then let out a short utterance himself: “In Finland, they fine you according to your quantity of wealth-

“Here we go, talking about those Slavic socialist countries again.” Jeb complained. A few other eye-rolls and groans accompanied his reaction, and Bernie’s words dissolved into no more than a mere, tiny whisper:

“You deserve more than you got, Trump.”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Here it is, folks. Look at that. Beautiful. Tremendous, believe me.”

Jeb pulled his cap down so that his bangs reached his eyes to block the sun. “What course do we go to then?”

“This yuuuge beauty right here. I’ll go get the stuff.”

“Aww, I thought it would be like mini golf or something.” Marco groaned after scrutinizing the chosen area. The lot began to walk over quite shortly.

“Hey, this is not your usual Walmart edition, Lil’ Marco. I know all of you may not be used to this kinda thing unlike me, a very rich, handsome, rich, rich man.”

Jeb suddenly drew his hand away from his cap. “I’ll have you know that my family makes-

“We don’t need to hear how much, Jeb.” coolly murmured Bernie. He pulled out a golf club from Donald’s bag and examined it, looking as if he were to trip up from his continuous plodding. Barack was right at the back of the group, walking the most leisurely next to Melania. He happened to catch her from tripping up from Donald’s golf club dragging upside-down behind him, with the boy not taking one glance at his girlfriend as he ambled. Melania thanked Barack bashfully, with the latter feeling unused to looking at a female other than his own girlfriend without peering down. Melania was perhaps an inch or two shorter than Barack, near the same height as Michelle; about 5’10.

“So, you looking to be the next first girl of Washincoln, huh.” mentioned Barack with a warm smile.

“Yes. I will be partners with my amazing boyfriend – he’s strong, he’s smart, he’s tough, he’s a great leader.”

“Are you proud of him?”

“I’m very proud of him.” Melania claimed, very sure of herself.

“Right.” Barack ungenuinely nodded. “Do you have any aspirations?”

“I do. To make a change”

“Change is a funny word, isn’t it.” quietly uttered Barack, as an awkward pause began to creep up on them. “Changes to what?”

Meanwhile, Donald began to speak as he loudly stretched and cracked his joints. “I have to say this, it’s great not being out in the open rather than under the eyes of the…”

“Cyberbullying.” Melania sincerely stated. “As the first girl I want to do things such as to meet with people and spread awareness of it.”

“…crummy school press. The Washingcoln Times is simply…”

“Are you honestly considering that?” asked Barack.

“… partisan in favor of all the big shills on campus, I can tell you that. I will have them out the office when I’m president, believe me…”

“I am.” affirmed Melania.

“That’s a bit strange coming from you. Oh well.” Barack uncertainly laughed, barely moving his lips.

“… and there’s nothing that Obama can do about it.”


“Finished?” then asked the Prez, to Donald.

“Hah, what book were you reading back there in my car, Barry? The Qur’an?” Donald teased.

“Yes, of course. As a Christian, of course I was reading the fucking Qur’an.”

“Well, you’ll have to say goodbye along with all your Muslim and Mexican friends when I’m in office.”

“It will never happen.” a small, low voice called out. Donald jerked at the statement and turned his head. It was Jeb.

“Jeb, please remind me – you said you’ll support the republican nominee no matter who it is, right?”

“Yeah but it won’t be you, moron.”

“Pfft. Your love for enchiladas and quesadillas makes you sicker in the head than I-

“Hey! I happen to enjoy Tex-mex, mind you.” Marco interrupted.

“Yeah me too, cut it out.” an annoyed Jeb returned.

“Except when you all get the runs, it comes out of your mouth instead of your asses. It’s so obvious.” retorted Donald, digging himself into their personal bubbles and exhibiting the ugly pride knocked into his expression.

“Wait, what’s Bernie doing?”

For the past minute, Bernie had been guiding Melania through the not-so-impactful game manual as they wandered away from the rowdy circle consisting of tasteless remarks and Mexican food. Melania, for some reason or other, looked so innocent and vulnerable as if she had no idea what to do with herself. So much that Bernie felt obliged to step in and give some accommodation.

“I decided to skip your squabble and instead, um, actually play the game.”

Melania grinned. “I think I understand it now, Bernie. Thank you.”

“Ey, I taught you many times before, babes.” loudly yelled Donald, yet going quiet near the end of his speech.

“Okay, should we play in teams?” suggested Barack, taking the lead. Bernie’s mouth formed a slight scowl.


“Hey, Jeb,” began Bernie, leaving the others to join the unaccompanied Jeb Bush. “You and Marco have a lot in common. Funny how I only realized that until recently.”

“Ahh, yeah. Well… I’ve become a bit like a mentor to him, although not for academic purposes. We’re both incredibly dumb at that sorta stuff.”

“Is it more of a republican council thing, then?”

“Dunno. Teaching him how to survive out here, I guess. Ted seems to handle it absurdly well.”

“I don’t think he’s handing many things well at all.”

“You could be right. I shall not judge, after all.” Jeb briefly smirked, thinking thoughts of whenever Ted happened to wind Bible verses into his sly dialogue. What Bernie was saying was perhaps true – maybe Ted wasn’t as put together as he liked to believe. He and the freshman had little to no conflict; however something about the boy would discompose Jeb at times, almost like he wanted to say something but was keeping his mouth zipped. Sure, Ted rarely liked talking, but the words that did manage to spill out had a feel which foreshadowed something potentially dangerous. It wasn’t the substance or terminology used per se, but the tone, body language, sound…

“Nice Bible verse. I like that one.” The Jew sarcastically replied after a short pause. “What was that about enchiladas?”

“Donald once said earlier in the race that the reason I disagree with his wall plan is down to my love for Mexican food.”

Barack and Marco looked up from the game manual and their bags as a pause settled in. Then, at once, a reverbing laughter began to affect each and every one of them but Donald and Melania, with Donald pulling a half-smile; the other half probably forcefully burying itself into the pedestal he called inner dignity. Melania’s usual expression remained.

“About Mexico… I’m going there in the summer!” cackled an amused Jeb, his smooth voice beginning to crack here and there from the period of laughter.


“Ohh right, you were chosen for the summer trip to Mexico to learn about development.” remembered Barack, pulling a face which couldn’t look any less moved.

“Yeah, I’m going to build houses and do charity work and shit. It’ll be fun I guess.” Jeb shrugged. “Or maybe it won’t.”

“Who knows, you might find your future wife there.” Marco then submitted, reaching for his friend’s shoulder which seemed to be about seven-hundred feet higher than his own.

Bernie withdrew his focus and eye-contact from the bunch, but happened to compliment a simple: “Just make the best out of it, man. You’ll do great.”


“Maybe we should get on with, you know, the actual game-



“Sounds good to me.”

“I’m in.”


“Let’s go.”

---Donald, Melania, Barack, Marco, Jeb and Bernie said (in that order.)

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“That was the most punkish store I have ever entered.” a worn out Ted huffed with bare hands, a clear disparity to the gaggle of girls beside him whose fists were packed with shopping bags.

“You obviously have no experience of punk.” coldly laughed Hillary.

“I couldn’t give a shit, really.”

They each sauntered calmly through the mall, keeping away from the middle where it seemed a few kids were cooking up a row or at most, a fist-fight. Hillary daringly skipped over to a bubblegum dispenser and loaded the machine with three quarters, gaining a more sophisticated and cinema view of the action. She gawked sarcastically, and ran back with three bubblegum candies in her pale hands.

"Thank you." Ted and Carly said, their faces stony but appreciating Hillary's offer.

The three came across a rather imposing-looking store, with an obnoxious sign and cheap accessories displayed in the windows. Assumingly, it was intended for fancy dress, and if anything; Prez High kids would be full-on dead if they were seen laying a single finger in there.

“Wow, this place looks fucked up.” Hillary manically giggled.

“Damn, haha.”



“Hooooooold on, Hill. Are we sure we wanna go?” asked Ted in a rational tone while his finger remained hooked in Hillary's shirt, prohibiting her from darting inside.

“I wouldn’t mind Ted, I mean… you gotta let loose sometimes, you know? You’re always so hardworking, n-not that that’s bad or anything, it’s just… I-I-I…” Carly hesitantly stammered.

“I’m a dweeb, that's what you're trying to assume."

“Nooo! That’s not-

“Yep.” assured Hillary with a cool expression. The other two smiled unsure smiles, and then broke out into a state of subtle amusement as they collectively walked into the atrocious shop.

Chapter Text


April 2nd, 11:23am

“Me, Melania, and Bernie on one team,” Donald lazily clamored. At long last, the gang began to quieten down and convert their mindset into a more ambitious, competitive one - one which was a state of mind they were all certainly used to by now. With Jeb wanting to make his family proud, Marco wishing to experience his American Dream, Barack wanting to have impact, Bernie desiring to make the people's voices heard, and Donald lusting for a ginormous wall around the school's gates and for Megyn Kelly among various other school news reporters to shut up; each were by far ready to compete. Except something was wrong.

“Hang on, Dahnald." Melania spoke. "What if I want to choose?"

"I'm sorry Mel, but your boy Donald is not known for allowing a 'woman's right to choose,' you know." quipped Bernie, with Barack grinning in amusement. Melania raised her brows looking lost and confused, and the other pro-lifers Marco and Jeb didn't bother to react.

"Cmon! We are the anti-establishment!" Donald proudly wailed as if Bernie was siding with him all this time.

"Yeah, and I'm anti-you."

"Would anyone else like Bernie's ass handed over to them?" Donald pathetically sighed to the others, his eyes closed and his wrist limp.

"Nah, he’s all yours.” insisted Marco.

“Wait, but that means…” Jeb began. He and Marco flashed a glance towards Barack.


“Thanks, Obam-

“That joke was funny in the first semester and it won’t be funny again.” Barack cut-in, concealing his face with his palm.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Ted,” Hillary called out, bringing a hanger containing a vampire costume next to her mischievous face.

“No.” he said, dead-panning.

Carly then bared her teeth as she laughed. “We dare you.” she coaxed.


Hillary waved the hanger in Ted's face, and while Ted did a sad attempt of ignoring her, he snatched the thing nonetheless. His face twisted into some sort of an 'I'll get you back for this!' kind of expression, thereupon lightly running over to the men's fitting room without any emotion.


The girls sat down on a leather seat positioned beside the changing rooms.

“Hey, Hillary, you wanna go to my workplace after this?”

“I wouldn’t mind. Remember that time when you saw me with Billy-boy and Bernie and got all salty?”

“Mhm. Sorry about that.”

Hillary's heart stopped for a second, and she started painstakingly examining every interaction with Carly beforehand within her aching head. There was the time in her sophomore year when her Bill was Prez, where she would try to snap at Carly to stop talking about the situation that was such an ominous situation, especially as it would shape her emotional state and public persona. In her junior year, she would barge past Carly intentionally and turn up her nose, while Carly did the same. Senior year was full of unnecessary disputes and name calling, and honestly, it was more immature than Hillary could imagine.

She fiddled with her hands and engendered a sad and guilty look before taking a second glimpse at Carly. Carly knew Hillary was acting differently, but why was she acting so differently?

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Hillary solemnly asked after the momentary interval in speech.

“I don’t know. There’s something about your look that pisses me off less than before.”

“Right, that’s awfully specific.” replied the blonde, taking into mind how unforeseen the answer was.

“Um, about Bill…” continued Carly, after a short pause.

“What is it?”

“Are you guys all good?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”

The junior fidgeted in the leather seat which was only physically soothing, and tensed her shoulders. Her mouth did not dare to spill out an exact answer.

“No really, what are you saying, Carly?” Hillary sternly asked before her eyebrows began to knit.

Carly's eyes narrowed and mirrored Hillary's facial expression. “Maybe it’s not appropriate to bring it up, but do you really forgive him?”

“Look, I tagged along to have a good time. Not to be asked questions about that one petty incident.”

“That petty incident was hell for you.” rightfully added Carly.

“Don’t mean I wanna talk about it.”

“Sometimes it’s good to talk about things.”

“Why, what about your love life? Tell me everything you know, Juliet.” demanded Hillary, now turning pink from aggravation. .

“Fine – I will.” Carly loudly sneered. “I happen to like Ted. A lot.”

“There we go! And so explicitly said with no fucks given, too.”



“Aren't you seeing the irony here?”

“My situation is deeper. If I don’t want to speak about it freely then I shouldn’t have to.”

A large portion of the background noise turned faint, yet to Carly, Hillary's shallow breathing became almost palpable. Ted, lingering puzzledly outside the changing room in his costume consumed parts of the exchange of words, very vaguely, but it was intelligible. He grabbed a sponge and some face makeup from behind the pair and dashed back inside the changing room. He could have sworn Hillary looked dangerously melancholic.

The elder girl turned taciturn. She stayed reticent for a thorough twenty-five seconds until Carly (spontaneously as if without thinking) gently asked:

"Does… it still hurt?”

Carly's stomach turned when she noticed Hillary's still eyes going glossy.


“Bad? Really bad?”

“...yes." Hillary repeated, burying her chin deeply into her neck and gently removing her glasses.

A sentimental silence remained between the two girls, perhaps some emotional tension too. Carly was honestly feeling bad for the thing Hillary had to go through, but for some reason the pity was expressed as dire loathing all this time. It made Carly think. She thought about why the hell some girls, no – people, chose to turn bitter towards those they felt for.



11:40am. A few minutes had passed. Hillary rubbed her eyes as she docilely carried out what Carly had asked, studying her expensive phone case with a blank facade. Looking up, the ends of her mouth tightened into a curled grin, seeming like she were about to burst with emotional laughter.

Ted was covered head-to-toe in a kitsch Halloween get-up – where the purple glitter of his cape twinkled within the obnoxious lighting as his face possessed an opposing aura. He was in a mixed state of ticked-off and amused, yet it was hard to detect due to the addition of face paint and makeup the boy decided to put himself through. Ted Cruz frankly looked like a horrendous Twilight OC sculpted by a troubled fanatic in their early teens.

“Another one for my collection..." Hillary chuckled; taking a picture after Ted struck a melodramatic pose. Of course, it was patent Ted had a lot of practice in doing them, considering his love for drama.

“Fuck all of you. Seriously.” the fifteen-year-old brittly laughed, feigning a disgusted tone yet happy he was able to make Hillary smile after what he briefly witnessed. His bright eyes hooked with Carly's, before she blurted melodically:

“Give us a twirl, Drac.”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

The air was buzzing with bees, singing with the trees, and dandy as could be. Two boys in their pastel shirts and neon jerseys tied around their waists briskly walked through the golf course, their pale skin glowing ivory in the meek sunshine. A huddled crowd caught their eye, with the elder one recoiling and causing the other one tense up from the ripple of surprise.

“Oh! Jeepers! Golly! More rich kids!” whimpered Mitt Romney, dropping his golf club and (almost) his coffee.

“Mitt, please calm down.” student body speaker and former VP pick Paul Ryan said assuringly. He picked up his club while Mitt brushed himself down, tucking his $600 shirt in and rearranging his belt. Paul was strolling ahead, and as soon as Mitt caught up with him, the two boys' faces turned white with surprise.

"Barry?!!" voiced Mitt, with a stale smile. Barack's eyes widened. So this was the place Mitt and Paul were going out to.

"M-mitt? Paul?"

"Damn these people don't even lift. Let's go to the other course, Mitt." Paul boyishly laughed after he used each of their biceps as his focal point, ignoring the fact he was, like, lacking an entire backbone.

"Trump..." Mitt uttered, aiming a crusty finger and ignoring his friend. "You're a fraud and you know it! A phoney, a fraud! That's what you are!"

"Paul." called out Barack.

"Prez." returned Paul.


Donald and Mitt continued to yap and warble at each other, the noise becoming louder and harsher every second. The rest backed away, not wanting to get involved but each having their own individual, entertained look planted on their faces.


"WELL, THIS HAS BEEN A NICE, PRODUCTIVE TALK." Barack yelled in an ironic manner, trying to speak over the bundle of bickering 12th graders.

"YEP, HOPE TO SEE YOU AT THE NEXT GOVERNMENT MEETING - IF YOU SHOW UP, THAT IS." jeered Paul, also putting his hands to his mouth to make his words crystal-clear. He tried to restrain himself from bringing up an argument regarding healthcare, as well as pretty much anything else. Paul Ryan could even debate about yogurt if he wanted to.


"Oh, you wanna start this, Romney?"

"Whatever it takes. Trump? More like, uh, uh - CHUMP!"


Paul started to look uncomfortable, his eyes blinking rather frequently at Mitt. "I'd better take him away-

"Yeah, please do."


"You're doing swell, Marc." complimented Jeb shortly after Mitt and Paul escaped to another course, peering at the scoreboard on the notepad which was recorded by a watchful Melania. "Dangit, I better up my game."

"Jeb is a mess, Jeb is a waste," began Donald, building up a rhythm.

"Put in your all." Melania cheered.

"Jeb is a big, fat mi-

"-stake. Yeah, we get it."

"And he tells me I repeat myself!" loudly joked Marco. Barack narrowed his eyes and wryly smiled, bringing the notepad with the scores jotted down up into the air so that Marco could view it.

"You know, I honestly have no idea what I'm doing." Barack started to say, waiting for a reaction.

"NO! That's a lie! you know EXACTLY what you're doing!! You’re doing better than me for the love of God! Let's dispel this fiction that Barack doesn't know what he's doing, he knows exactly what he's doin-



"You're laughing at me, aren't you." groaned Marco.

"Marco." Bernie warily called out. "What is this American Dream you want, huh?" he asked, wanting to start a conversation. The younger boy’s face suddenly lit up.

"Well, the US is a free market system that allows you to succeed economically, and leaves your children better off than yourselves. Or at least, that's what my parents tell me. I want to kind of have that individual-success-type attitude applied to our school environment, as in we will study for ourselves by using the teacher's information and advice to add to our own knowledge about the modern world. We will use that to achieve what we'd like to achieve."

"And yet you were the one who asked me for help on your math. How individualist of you." Bernie then quipped, though lightheartedly.

"I prefer theory, not math-y academics or any of that compulsory literature crap."

"Economics is based on math, Marco. You should know that. And theory doesn't just apply to politics, it applies everywhere."

"What are your parents like then, Lil' Marco?" asked Donald, intrigued.

"I love them a lot. I know it's not a popular thing to admit that nowadays, but they sacrificed their jobs for me to go to this school. My father used to be a bartender but he scratched that and got an office job along with mom just so we could afford fees.” he announced. “Um, you see, mom and dad grew up in Cuba, and I have to stress that even though they are immigrants, they value America instead of that wasteland. They value my education and my right to prosper from my own hard work, and that's why I love them."

Bernie neutrally raised his brows. "Interesting."

"So, does hard work mean slacking off in class? Yeah, Ted told me all about it, you know." interjected Jeb.

"Why would Ted tell you that? It's not like you're close or anything."

"They're probably fucking." mumbled Donald, to Melania who immediately appeared scarred from such a statement.

"Who said we weren't close? Quit acting like he belongs to you."

"We have a bit of drama building up." nervously laughed Barack, trying to stay cool. His jaw grew tense.

"They're definitely fucki-

"Donald, will you shut up?"


Marco spent the next hour contemplating what he disclosed to the others. His parents genuinely cared for him in every possible way – and him sleeping in class and skipping homework was not necessarily doing them proud. He took a long, hard look at everyone’s feet, staring downwards as everybody continued the game, which shockingly enough was flowing notably smoothly. Similarly, he took a long, judging look at himself, evaluating all his negative properties… properties? Marco was thinking of himself as if he were some sort of object, some sort of complex material he could not grasp. He was flighty, a nervous wreck, mocking and superficial… superficial. Material. Exterior. Shallow. Lightweight. All the things a certain other probably noticed, and strongly disliked. Marco Rubio, like light was defined by dark; was literally defined by none other than Ted Cruz.

He felt like he was about to throw up.


After a while, it was time for their last break. Donald and Barack were tying in first place, with neither of them appearing to be backing down. Marco and Melania slyly filled the spaces for second and third, and Bernie and Jeb came fourth and fifth. All however, received unusually higher than average scores, and while they did feel the competitive fire rise within them they all knew it was in good fun. The mood was dubious though, and even though these highly skilled kids were experiencing some familiar tension between themselves and their rivals – this activity was different from that of their high school political life.

Here they were able to be themselves. They were able to be themselves with none of their friends judging them for whatever interactions they had with people they supposedly ‘disliked.’ The barrier between enemies and friends had been blurring into a cloudy marsh where clarity within its water was, so, so scarce, and now it was more equivocal than ever before.


In the misty midst of their break, the spring heat petting their heads like a prideful owner; Barack noticed Marco. Beforehand he spotted the wide spread of land, the pathway they had stuck to, and the swaying trees which were perfectly groomed to a voluptuous, verdant form. Marco (contrarily) was looking ill and sweaty; with the uncomforted state growing more and more apparent by the minute. “You alright?” Barack whispered, confused. Marco didn’t answer. Silence.

"Why don't you tell everyone that story about you hitting that kid with a football at your uncle's barbecue?" suggested Barack, directing a friendly smile as an alternative to an additional snarky comment.

"Please don't remind me. I get 'nam-type flashbacks just thinking about it." Marco shuddered just from the mere slither of thought. To his dismay, everyone had now taken deep interest in the subject which was evident by the turning of heads, and Marco could not help but give in. "Aw, alright."

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

"And that's how my friend hit a kid with a football at his uncle's barbecue."

Ted, Hillary and Carly had stopped off at Starbucks to have a chat as they ate snacks and drank coffee. Both Hillary and Ted were introduced to one of Carly’s co-workers on her break, and it seemed like they spent at least an hour babbling about nonsensical, trivial things. Hillary and Ted often found trivial things to bore and irritate them, but this was more comforting than they could ever imagine. Especially when Ted expressed the details of Marco’s accidental hit, which all of them found utterly hysterical.

"Oh no! Poor boy! At least he wasn't seriously hurt." said Carly’s co-worker to Ted.

"Well, we need to get going.” concluded Carly shortly after noticing Ted’s watch. “Thank you for serving us!"

"No problem. Visit anytime, it was nice meeting both of you!"

"You too." Hillary spoke, pressing her lips together to form a modest smile.

"See you at my next shift, mkay?" Carly chirped. 

Hillary thought about a lot of things that afternoon. She thought thoughts about Bill, thoughts about herself… thoughts about Bernie, and thoughts about Donald. Not all of them were negative. She would sit in the coffee shop, coldly gazing out the window into the suburban world of what seemed like despair.


Bill had always felt guilty about what he had done and of course he loved her, he really did – but there was something about her life that did not quite fit the puzzle. There was still something missing from her life, stealing potential fulfillment. Something tremendous yet latent, something that felt far from Hillary’s reach, but it was still something she could sense.

It was possible this was not going to fill the void, but maybe what she really needed was a running mate.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Chapter Text


April 2nd, 6:39pm

The afternoon came to a close, and the spring-lit sky made way for dusky hues to settle in. Melania and Donald found themselves returning back to the latter’s house, whereby the others managed to commute back home safe and sound. Carly and Ted made their own ways, and all was left was Hillary – having spent the rest of the day wandering through the high-street, alone, and after some hours she discovered a wide, lonely river separated by two hills. Some familiar convenience stores were scattered along the horizon on each side.

Hillary took her time stepping through the grass, blankly staring at the other identical mound as she threw some stray stones into the twinkling river. She looked behind her shoulder every so often in order to view another field, one which sparked feelings she couldn’t understand, yet she felt highly compelled to look at it. She had certainly been here many times before. Then, after a rough few minutes, with the girl sat in a random spot on the hillside, the quiescence was disturbed.

“Hey, so what brought you here today, Clinton?”

Wait. Hold on. That voice was familiar… so very familiar...

“Clinton? Heck Bernie, Bill and I aren’t married yet...” Hillary whispered the recycled words, her voice cutting off slightly in between vowels. She cautiously turned around, and was hardly surprised from the figure standing before her – his feet submerged within the sea of long pastures – his smile unique.

“May I sit?” Bernie gauchely asked, not knowing where to put his hands. Hillary nodded. Bernie noticed she was wearing her glasses and was makeup-free, to which he perceived as odd yet nice. Only an awkward and taut atmosphere remained.

“I’m here because…” Hillary started to say after ten rigid seconds, shortly after Bernie sat down.

“Another argument with your dad?”

“No. Well, I-I don’t know...” Hillary at once realized, as if she hadn't known why she was there in the first place. Perhaps she genuinely didn't.

“Thinking about Bill?”

“Could be. I don’t know.”

“Should I leave…” asked Bernie, his left hand caressing his upper arm. He put pressure on his legs as if he were close to standing back up.

“No, please stay.” replied the other.

There they were; two misunderstood students propped up on a steep hill in the early evening and communicating. Bernie and Hillary hadn’t talked in such a long while, so it felt a little unnatural getting into the flow of speaking each other and recalling each other’s individual verbal ticks and tone of voice.

“Why did you do it, Hillary?”

“D-do what…”

“I got the notion that they liked me.”

“Who are ‘they?’”

“Your friends. You lot have been degrading me in your stupid private chats and you know it. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be accused of being sexist?” Bernie spat. “You know, it was February. I remember, in the school halls when you were holding your conference Bill said how I was… angry.”

“I-I…” Hillary gently stuttered while backing away.

“And he’s correct – I am angry. But the way he and all your buddies are putting it is hurtful to a degree. I don’t think you’re realising it.” declared Bernie, his face conveying frustration, however his eyes hinting forgiveness.

“I never knew you were the type to be so sensitive.”

“I'm as flammable as hydrogen gas. You heard what happened that day in economics a couple of months ago? Shit, I bet the reason why you weren’t in was that you were sending those risky emails to-

“Stop.” cut-in Hillary with a shaky voice. She brought her knees to her chin and heavily sighed. “Why… why does this election have to end in us hating each other?”

“It doesn’t.”

“You’re pointing out all the wrong I do, but do you ever look at yourself?” she angrily persisted.

“I try. I’m sorry.”

“We have hardly talked since that day in the library.” Hillary softly said. “And the first thing you address me by is Clinton.”

“Mrs. Clinton. Sounds weird, doesn’t it.” considered Bernie, among the atmosphere fading into a bittersweet emptiness.

“For some reason, I can’t see it happening.” proclaimed Hillary, her oceanic eyes sinking into new depths.

“You and Bill really need to sort your problems out. At times like this when you’re obviously feeling so low, it messes up my mood too.”

“You have this emotional side to you, Bern. You’re an old soul too, which is a strange mix.”

“Yeah. I hate it.”

“Don’t hate it. I wish I could express my emotions as freely as you; all I’m known for is a fickle, cold-hearted bitch who likes money too much.” Hillary groaned.

“And I’m known as a guy who sleeps in his shirts and spouts grumpy shit like some sort of old man.” asserted Bernie, placing a hand on Hillary’s shoulder. “I get called angry, you get called a liar… we are both pretty flawed people. We are both broken people. We are both sensitive people. We are both people.”

“I feel funny.” Hillary admitted, but her mood was hopeful. “Are we friends?”

“Hey, if I drop out one day due to some sort of stupid deed I'll end up committing, I’ll back you.” Bernie replied in a similar tone, not entirely answering the question but able to make his classmate obtain a gist of what he was saying.


“Yeah. I’ll betcha all the money stuck up both you and Donald’s asses.” Bernie snickered, causing Hillary to do the same.

“Well, speaking of my campaign, I think I have a VP pick in mind.” announced Hillary.

“Who is it?”

“Tim Kaine. He’s a junior, brown curly hair, sorta awkwardly loud, goofy; Bill introduced him to me.”

“Doesn’t sound too familiar, but I’m assuming he’s a part of your friendship circle.”

Hillary rolled her eyes and straightened out her legs, where shards of grass delicately nested her knees. "He has always been on the outskirts, I suppose. I only got to know him properly recently and he seems like a really nice boy with great ideas for our school. We had brunch at this hella lit dank café, and-

“Hella… lit… dank… café.” repeated the eighteen-year-old, on the edge of sarcastically clapping. “I’m actually cracking up.”

“Anyways! Haha,” preceded Hillary, violently nudging her frival. “Tim appears as if he is my admirer or something. He’s a docile lil’ pup, but he has already claimed he doesn’t have a crush on me.”

“How do you know he’s telling the truth?”

“Tells these goofy dad jokes too. But as a person he’s hecka woke, if you ask me.” then continued Hillary, avoiding Bernie’s enquire.

“Hecka woke. Heckawokeheckawokeheckawoke…” repeated Bernie, making the words sound incomprehensible and also rather foolish until the phrase was a swaying string of noise.

Bernie and Hillary took their time and exchanged bits of small talk, but for the majority of the time after that, they stayed silent. The state of simply 'being,' simply sitting and watching the river float by was euphoric. It wasn't long until Hillary raised her voice once again, though this time it made her frival flinch.

“The grass looks so beautiful, doesn’t it.”

Bernie traced his gaze south before looking at Hillary again.

“I think there’s something else that’s even more beautiful in this space.” Bernie then commented.

“The river?”

“Yeah." he lied.

“You know that field behind us?” Hillary then pointed a finger at the flat, capacious green plain behind them, separated by a fresh concrete path. They both stared at it for a moment and began to absorb its alien vibes.

“That? It looks almost empty if it weren't for those dandelions. The grass is greener though, I guess.”

Hillary slowly blinked as her blonde curls fell in front of her eyes, examining the area. “Exactly. I come by here often just to look at it, seeing as it never fails to make me feel nostalgic.”

“I kind of see what you mean. Did you go there when you were a child or something?”

“I don’t know. It feels like I once met a person there… someone who I cannot recall, somebody who has been wiped away from my memory. All that remains is a feeling.” explained Hillary, fiddling with her thumbs.

The pair was left glaring at the field behind them, still perched up on the hill, their faces content. The amber sun sank lower into the hazy horizon, with the sky possessing a matching orange hue. Singing birds fell quiet and shop lights switched on. It was getting towards evening.

“I have to get going. It’s getting late.” acknowledged Bernie, dusting himself off as he stood upright. His body felt achy and numb, so perhaps what he needed was some quality shut-eye that night.

“Me too. You don’t live near here, right? Why did you stop here on your way back?”

“To appreciate the scenery. I was feeling frustrated.” Bernie redundantly revealed, averting his gaze without hesitation. “Do you want to come back with me?”

“Alright, just for an hour or two. I don’t want to come home so late that I catch my parents bickering again near the front door.”

The young man felt the salty spring breeze gliding through his nostrils, and the grass mirrored this motion by gently stroking at his legs. The river sat tranquil, hardly flowing. Everything about the atmosphere was near perfect, but Hillary's statement cut through the jaded calmness and gave Bernie a sense of cold anxiety. Therefore, he backfired with an air of warmth.

“That’s okay.” assured Bernie. “So yeah, I live in an apartment complex. It’s a pretty run-down place, if that’s alright with you.”

“It’s fine." said Hillary. "Thank you."


Chapter Text


April 16th, 9:57am


Two weeks passed, spring break was over, and a flighty Joe Biden awoke on a Saturday morning to be greeted by his sweaty limbs. He had been tossing and turning all night from a nightmare and now he was officially drained to his core.

Rather than a consecutive sequence of events, the nightmare was constructed of flashes of unpleasant occurrences building up a crescendo of severity. One occurrence was his stammer getting the best of him at a government meeting, (his stammer had been fading, especially in recent years) the second was a video going viral of him getting awkwardly close to someone when it wasn't his intention, another was him not getting into college, and the last was too disgraceful to think about – Michelle dying in Barack's arms.

He woke up with tears escaping his eyes and Barack's voice ringing through his head, muttering something off-topic from the previous traumatic episode. It was most likely supposed to be another occurrence meant for his dream, but his eyes opened before it could continue, and only three sentences could be properly clarified:

"I want you to be there at four, okay? Brace yourselves though, they look mighty tough. Call me if you need company."

Hang on. That was something Barack did say - he said it to a few boys in the office who wished to get revenge on some wrong-doers from a rivalling school.

The words continuously pricked Joe's ears. He got up from his bed after sighing angrily and leaning forwards. These conflicts, these feelings, these tensions; why did they have to dig their way inside his head at the most inappropriate of times? This year Spring wasn't about having fun, it was several fortnights for the swarm of Joe's anxieties to infect his perception of time and happiness until everything was nothing but a dull gray flash.

School fights were still taking place and even though Joe was in such a high position of power, these were conflicts that could not be stopped. It made him think about human nature, how people's hate fuelled such a large variety of things. He thought of fights, self-destruction, break-ups, blackmail, rebellion, and... love.

"I don't know how to tell you this,"

Joe said that day in November, to the Prez.

"But I have a crush on someone."

Shit. Dammit. Why did he have to be so packed-full with silly emotions? Why couldn't it just all just disappear?

"Warren?... Pelosi!" Barack would then say.

No, idiot.

"Hillary." Barack would continue.



Joe browsed on his phone, going through old messages with people from his social circle, but then he remembered something odd. Marco hadn't been in school at all that week. What made it so weird was that people hardly noticed nor found it surprising, not even the teachers uttered a word to him or Barack. Luckily, Joe had a number for Marco, and eventually got down to his attempt of finding the pieces to the puzzle.


Joe: Hey Marco, Barack told me this was your whatsapp

Joe: I just wanted to ask why you haven't been in school for so long? Your attendance is going to drop at this rate and das not guuud

Marco: why are you so concerned about me

Joe: just that kind of guy I guess

Marco: I dropped out.

Joe: Oh no

Marco: yeah.. Ted isn't talking to me either so don't ask him whats up with me

Joe: Wait what IS up with you?

Marco: don't wanna talk about it..

Marco: can I be left alone

Joe: okay :/


Joe trudged out of his bedroom, grabbed a book of short poems and began reading them aloud in the lounge while looking in the mirror. He ate his breakfast as usual, said good morning to his parents and siblings, and returned upstairs. An old bracelet-maker kit from behind his sister's bedroom door caught his eye, and naturally he felt a lazy inclination to view its nostalgic form. Not long after, Joe climbed back into bed, lay still, and cried.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

"Hey, shitstain, your pen is leaking." a voice called out from behind Tim Kaine's open locker door, during a run-of-the-mill Monday morning. Tim stepped back from his locker with a few books for his social studies class, and eyed the origin of the voice carefully.

"Wha? Oh, I've seen you before..." Tim said, before finally gasping at the mark left from his leaky pen in the pocket of his chinos. He took it out and hastily threw it in his locker, gulping.

"Yeah. So anyways, I'm looking for some aspiring interns or delegates that would be happy to work for the Trump campaign." the voice continued, with the body belonging to it leaning on Tim's locker door and causing it to shut.

"Well then, I'm not your guy."

"Yeah, I don't think I need to be hiring any homosexuals like you."

"I'm not gay! And so what if I was?" 'Hm, the freshmen seem to love LGBT icons. They seem to be all the rage, I wonder if I could pose as one to get their support? Do that along with some dabbing and I'm good to go! Embarrassing-Dad persona be gone!' thought Tim, an awkward smile spreading through his lips. "Oh-uh, you were saying?"

"I know you're not gay, but you look gay and that's against my beliefs."

"From what I've seen of you, I did not expect you to be like this." Tim murmured, crossing his arms. He got a strong sense of fake intensity from the other young man. It was strange, the person he was talking to was indeed well-spoken, calm and collected, but his words had this solid, unpleasant punch that caused Tim to have a hard time trusting him. "In fact, I don't think your name has been a sensation up until just yesterday." Tim furthermore inputted.

"Donald's considering me for his VP, that's why."

"Oh, Mike Pence, now I remember." stated Tim. He proudly held out an inky hand in front of Mike. "Hi, I'm Tim Kaine."

All of a sudden, a large mob of sophomore jocks flooded into the corridor, supposedly on their way to flunking class. "Wow Chris, you got the role of a servant? Hah! Always knew you were a cuck." a boy said to Chris Christie, along with some other big guys laughing next to them. Their shoulders intimidatingly brushed past both Mike and Tim as they strode by, towering over them even though they were in the grade below. Mike scowled and raised his fist about three inches, until he sighed and returned to his cool exterior.

"Pleasure to meet you." greeted Mike, slowly yet suspiciously shaking his hand. "So why don't you want to side with Trump, huh?"

"It's simple." Tim smirked. "I'm with her."

Chapter Text


April 19th, 10:06am


"So what you're asking, is that you want permission to go inside the theater space at any time?"

"Yes, you see, I'm helping out with Romeo and Juliet. I happen to manage the costumes." explained Mike to Vice President Joe in the disorderly office. He was trying to appear awfully sincere, with both his hands cradled in each other in front of him as he retained a formal bearing.

"Well, I don't recall you being involved in the production." Joe noted, staying seated. His eyes were still glued to a few papers across his desk.

"I'm not, I'm just bringing in and out the costumes. For the big day I've volunteered to hand out food and beverages, so it would be beneficial if I have a pass or something so I can practice... you know, not tripping over those stairs." quickly expressed Mike while keeping his authoritative tone and posture.

"I'm sorry, but this sounds like some kind of joke."

"Ask Principal Washington."

"Wouldn't you have to consult Mr. Hamilton? Besides, he is the main drama teacher involved."

"Oh, he knows." affirmed Mike sternly before boldly repeating his prior phrase: "Ask Principal Washington."

"Well, if the Principal is alright with your situation, I'll give you free access." a skeptical Joe granted, halfheartedly trusting the boy. He rummaged through one of the smaller drawers and took out a small piece of yellow card with the text '*...fill in blank...* PASS' labelled on it. "Get this pass signed by him to prove it."

"You can sign it, can't you? You're the Vice President."

Joe just didn't get it. Was Mike attempting to challenge him? Was he testing his role of authority?

"No, but I need proof..." the Vice replied.

"Ask Washington." iterated Mike with a smile, growing more sincere.

"I will." Joe said, yet noticing Mike's sudden air of authenticity. There was a sense of pleading, a sense of desperation and honesty. After all, Washington probably did know at least something, hinting from Mike's constant suggestions requiring Joe to ask him himself. Besides, this wasn't a problem student by any means. All he wanted to do was deliver costumes and practice walking up and down the stairs, which were honestly rather steep and complex.

However, Joe couldn't exactly put his finger on what really was going on with the pupil. One minute it felt like the Principal had all the power, and the next thing you know is that Joe simply had to put ink to paper to give this student extra liberties. What was this vibe of manipulation? But furthermore, why did Joe not object to his request as he wished to?

Joe scribbled 'Theater PASS' in addition to his signature on the supple square, and withdrew eye-contact when he eventually walked up and handed it to the junior. "So long." called out Joe, returning to the desk once more.


"Hey bro." Barack burst through the door after two minutes, holding a box of tissues and a larger box of Chemistry textbooks. The office often acted as a place of storage, where many teachers would dump any archives, records, or old books for safekeeping.

"Sup." Joe sighed, leaning back on his swivel chair. For some reason it didn't feel as comfortable as it usually did.

"Some of the guys want us to help the prom committee after school. You up for it?"

"Can't. I'm working on the yearbook. I also have to look up some colleges today."

Barack's smile subtly faded bit by bit, with his soft lips twisting into a line. He almost forgot how Joe was two grades above, which meant he would be leaving that June. It also felt like one of those days where he could sense something wrong in Joe. This was definitely one of those days.



"No - it's nothing - It's just that," the Prez began to say in response. "It's now starting to hit me how soon I won't be seeing my best friend every day, that's all."

"Yeah. I'm sorry." Joe felt the need to apologize, fully knowing how unnecessary it sounded. His fingers began to tremble, and the air turned cold. "Uh, Barry?"


"Do you ever have those days where you f-feel useless?" asked Joe, his stammer seeping through for what seemed to be the first time in forever.

"Joe..." Barack solemnly returned with his expression hardening. "You're not useless, cut that shit out. You spent a whole month touring around schools to spread awareness about sexual harassment, for crying out loud. You organize a shit ton of events, you're an above average student, you play sports, I don't see what you need to be dissatisfied about."

"I dunno, a wave of anger directed at myself just came over me. Sorry." apologized Joe once again.

'Anger?' wondered Barack. "Something's wrong."


"Even when I came in a moment ago you looked like you were hiding something."

"I'm not hiding anything, actually."

Barack descended into experience a deep frustration. "You always feel obliged to fake a smile when something is obviously causing you discomfort, or you hint at something and then decide to abandon the topic. It's like that time you told me you liked someone-

"Shut up." Joe interrupted.

"Joe, I'm not having this. You're just begging to be operated on now." snapped the Prez, clenching his fists and jaw.

"I just want to be alone." pleaded Joe in a small, brittle voice. Barack immediately ran out the office, somewhat grimacing; his head down. A second before the bell for his next class rang; he was able to restrain himself from slamming the door behind him. But oh, how he really, really wanted to slam it.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

The curtains were shut, the bedroom door was shut, even Marco's eyes were sealed shut. Everything was dark. Whenever Marco peeped out from under his layers of bed-sheets, the contents in his room merged together into a laden gray mess. There was no sunlight pouring through his window, because the curtains were shut. No light from the hallway because the door – shut. Marco's eyes were stitched shut, wanting to be left alone and not be probed open by some petty inconvenience.

But the vibration of his phone, the only tangible feeling of life and energy managed to inform him of two new messages.


Ted: Hey squirt, what's with the absence?

Ted: You aint got a deadly disease have you? If so then don't bother coming back to school lol

It was... Ted.

Marco: you're unusually happy.

Marco: if you haven't noticed, I suspended my campaign

Ted: Of course I noticed, I was darn pleased bout it too. Kasich and I have decided to take down Trump together, aint that greeaaat

Marco: so you choose to rejoice over my loss? Wow ok

Ted: why are you getting so offended.. calm down

Marco: I haven't been in school for a week and you didn't even bother to message or call me all that time to find out whats wrong. You're so stuck up your own ass Ted. youre so oblivious to it

Ted: Where did all this come from?

Ted: I'm doing just fine without you sooo you know../

Marco: says the person who has no friends. idc be like that you psychotic creep

Marco: who knows maybe i will back Donald

Ted: your loss. I'm gonna make a great president. Let's face it, John doesn't have a chance with this shit.

Marco: wow, proves what a good christian you are. just fuck off, don't talk to me. we're not friends.

Last Seen 4:10pm


"¡Marco! Regresé." *a voice echoed. His mom had returned home early, it seemed.

"Hola." **emitted a feeble Marco, his voice muffled from beneath his bed-sheets. 

"¿estás bien?" ***asked his mom, stopping in her tracks. All audible motion from her footsteps to the colliding items inside her bag came to a halt. "Eh?"

Marco stripped himself free of bed-sheets and pillows, and positioned his head towards his door leading to the tiny upstairs hallway. "No sé." ****he answered tiredly. His melancholic eyes glided around his room, with him beginning to acknowledge that his energy level had crashed. Marco was spiraling into a depression.

Chapter Text

April 29th, 1:12pm


It was Take-your-kid-to-work day at Fred Trump’s company, and while he would see plenty of eleven year olds getting dragged by young secretaries and businessmen, he and his son Donald, almost eighteen, roamed the hallways as if the latter had been familiar with the place the entire time. Fred counterfeited tenderness when showing his son the basics as a real-estate developer, but when it came to their tea break, things began to take an unsettling turn.

"You know what I always say to you: every penny counts. If you want to become successful, you don't act on your impulses and spend what you like on trivial matters. Mark my words." Fred grimly asserted.

"Yes, dad." mumbled Donald in reply, at a counter and waiting impatiently for a kettle to boil.

"I see you buying earrings for your lady. Just remember relationships at your age aren't all that, kid."

Donald rolled his eyes, and then paused for a second. "Okay, dad."

"How's that tea n’ coffee coming along?" a coworker politely inquired, sat on a long, designer sofa with the others, placed in front of a broad window which illustrated a still city skyline.


"Didn't you learn anything from military school? Hurry up!" demanded Fred, although not frustrated. "So, Arthur, if we fix Dudley's blueprint like so..." he calmly continued, penciling down a rough plan on a notepad. It was not long before he eyed his son again, who was now pouring hot water into each of the five ceramic cups. "C'mon, kid. Tell me - why are you so down?"

"I'm perfectly okay."

That wasn't particularly true. The cold remarks which his father left him were far from atypical, albeit even Donald was intelligent to understand his father’s intention was not to be distant or unloving, it was just how it was. He had work to do, and Donald had to understand that. Although he did yearn for him to call him ‘son’ for once, as he never, ever did so. He never treated Donald like family. It was hard to classify Fred as even loving his own son.

All in all, Donald’s father’s absence consisted of the lack of words of praise or a pat on the back. A lack of interaction. A lack of attention. A lack of love. Far from any kind of abuse, but it was still deprivation.

Fred placed a fist in his hand. "Tell you what, I'll buy you a new watch. Surely it will put you out of your misery. I can get you new sports gear too, believe me. And when you receive them, you'll remember that I've worked for it. I've worked for you and your siblings, and buying things for you is a great reminder of that. You didn't work for those earrings, Donald. That's the great difference between you and I."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Just you wait, you'll soon learn what it's like to be in the cruel world of business. I'll be there cheering you on. Atta, boy! You go get 'em!" the man triumphantly yelled, his smile widening.

But Donald didn’t want a new watch. He didn’t want new sports gear. He just wanted to know that his father loved him.


The younger man brought the tea and coffee over to his father and his coworkers, each of the cups trembling on the tray ever so slightly. "Tea and coffee’s ready." Donald announced after tutting.

"Don't kiss your teeth at me, young man!" boldly demanded Fred, with his staple cold smile returning shortly after. "Apologies, my gentlemen."

Donald sat with the intimidating men, dressed in slick suits and propped with moustaches and menacing temperaments. Were they menacing or evil? Donald feared them. He really did. Their polite chit-chat only served the tip of the iceberg, as he knew that they were capable of messing with so many people, like his father did with him. These detached people probably had children of their own somewhere, locked either in a mansion or detention. Donald spent his time in a mansion and detention.

He was a political icon in Prez High. His father was a business figure in the working world. Bit by bit, sat silently on the designer sofa and spacing out into the city skyline, he began to realize that businessmen and politicians were… alike. And that foreign thought frightened Donald, it really did.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was about 2am on a Friday night, and Jeb was stuck on the downstairs couch, switching focus between a magazine and his phone. He didn’t know why he was up so late doing something so futile, but it was a good thing he was – as the next thing he would be faced with was a critical phonecall from the landline.

Forty-five seconds passed. After some exchanges of mumbling and odd questions, Jeb’s pupils shrank.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" he blurted, not giving a damn whether he was disturbing the early morning silence. As Jeb began hyperventilating, sounds of footsteps became more prominent.

"Jeb! Don't make me wash your mouth out at this time of night-" his mother threatened from halfway down the stairway.

"George is in deep trouble." Jeb’s speech was broken and brittle.


"Mom, George has got himself real fucked up."

"Excuse me?!"

"He's at the police station for drink driving with some people. His nose is all bloody and apparently he’s high on cocaine. He almost overdosed and he’s not in good health at all. Get dad, now."

Barbara turned still and her breathing stopped. She ran upstairs as fast as a woman of her age could run until her body and thickset shadow flooded into her spouse’s bedroom. "Dear, wake up," Barbara coarsely whispered while rocking her husband, George H.W's shoulder. "Our son is in trouble."

“Who, Jeb?”

“No, George. The jail institution is on the landline, so come down, please.”

George Sr. rushed down the stairs and dashed into the lounge, his arms and legs spread with tension. Barbara shortly followed him down and tried to carry out a few breathing exercises.

"H-he got caught by the cops." claimed Jeb, handing his dad the phone. His dad took it and lacked ease with his grip.

"Hello? This is George's father." George Sr. began after grabbing the neck of the telephone, heavily breathing. "Mhm... right... no, we didn't know... oh, goodness... okay... thank you."

"I'll go and-

"No Jeb, stay here. The others might wake up and suspect something is wrong if we continue making such a ruckus." demanded his father.

"But something is wrong, dad. I'm worried about George and they should be too." Jeb insisted sincerely, then turning his head side-to-side as he contemplated running upstairs. All of a sudden, however, a stark yet small shadow bounced down the stairs, trailing after no one other than Jeb’s youngest sibling, Dorothy Bush.

"Mommy? Dad?... Jeb?" she said sleepily.

"Dorothy, go back to sleep sweetie." her mother gently ordered, pulling a face that implied that now was not a good time.

"Why should she?"

"She's too young to understand."

"She deserves to know what happened to her brother!" Jeb struck back, trying to catch his breath.

"I-I'm getting Marv and Neil!" Dorothy bawled, scampering upstairs.

"Now look what you have done!" snapped the elder George. "My, Jeb; just you wait, when you are out there in the real world you can't talk back to your superiors like that, as if you know what's going on!"

"But I do know what's going on. All I'm saying is that you need to quit hiding George's flaws and actions from the rest of the family. Both of you."

"We treat all of our kids equally."

"Oh shut the hell up. Face it mom, George always filled the void for you. It's why you have a hard time disciplining him!" Jeb shouted, lunging forwards but very quickly acknowledging it wasn’t his best move.

The air turned odious and still, as did everyone’s breathing.

"How… how dare you speak to me like that."

"We never speak about that void, Jeb. Go to bed, and don't bother asking for a higher allowance next morning. Get a job, make your own living for all we care." derided George Sr., in a deathly collected manner. He put his jacket on and disappeared out the door with Barbara.

"You know what, maybe I will!" the boy said in ill retaliation. The door slammed, leaving Jeb in ugly tears.


Jeb’s father’s absence was anomalous from what others had to experience. Rather than a lack of physical contact or affection, the absence here was trust. A lot of the time Jeb and his dad would get along as they were similar people, not just in build but personality too. But, Jeb saw two great disparities between them – ability and status. Coming from a family in politics and having to suck up his mother’s constant hurling of punishments and pressure, Jeb just couldn’t see himself growing up as successful as his father. There was a gap between them both and Jeb just couldn’t trust him because of that. He felt unworthy and it lead to him having a dormant rebellious streak, which filled the gap as it brought a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment to his life.


"Why's Doro crying, huh?" Jeb’s younger brother Marvin asked, after their parents had left.

"Jeb probably did something, I bet-" his other brother, Neil scoffed.

"NO! I didn't - George was on the verge of overdosing, and now he might be thrown in jail - thank God I was up to answer the damn fucking phone..." Jeb angrily kicked the couch, covering his red cheeks with his long fingers as he slumped back down on the couch in despair. "Go back to bed... please."


Regarding George however, Jeb titled him as simply being a messed up kid. He tried to empathize with his parents and the notion that George was like a replacement for the loss of their first child, but he didn’t see why he should have to witness blatant favouritism. The eldest got away with shit that the others, especially Jeb, wouldn’t dream of doing. George was lost both in his brains and his life. And now, on a humid spring night, his brother who took pleasure in ridiculing him and taking his parents’ side ever since they were children; the brother whose legacy in Washingcoln High lead to Jeb being none other than a punching bag – was on the edge of being dead.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

"Barack? What are you doing up so late?"

A moonlit night, perhaps not as serene as one would hope; lay vulnerable in front of Barack’s vision. He sat on the lounge’s window ledge blinking, his eyelids washing away what one would class a jaded gaze and replacing it with a penetrating stare. His hands shielded a cup of hot chocolate. Absolutely gormless, the boy was clearly disturbed from his slumber and furthermore wrapped in a blanket as if he were made of brown porcelain.

His mother sighed.

"I had another dream about dad. He was covered in bandages and it was all so messed up, I-I..." Barack whispered, clearly disorientated and trembling as if he were too delicate to touch. "I awoke twenty something minutes ago to the sound of police sirens outside, ain't that funny...huh."

"Come here." Barack’s mother put her arm around him and held him tight. Her son could’ve sworn the setting felt even more easing than inside his own cluttered bedroom, which only reminded him of school.

"Could you tell me how you and him met?" Barack politely implored.


"Please. I'm a sucker to admit that it's kinda therapeutic."

"Alright, honey."

Chapter Text

May 5th, 12:21pm


“Chocolate milk? Oh boy.” muttered an on-the-verge-of-being-lost John Kasich, snooping about Washingcoln’s cafeteria as if he were the new kid fresh from Ohio. Well, he was from Ohio, and was the literal personification of Ohio. So much so that the slightly gormless, sort of bland boy always came across as somebody who didn’t quite belong in Prez High, especially as 92% of the school was crowded with its own brand of Fuckwit™.

“Ted. Do it from scratch.”

“Not now, I’m tryna eat.”

“If you won’t, I will.”

Aha! Perfect. Friends detected.

Well, a couple of underclassmen from the republican council? Same thing.

“What are you guys talking about?” the voice of John Kasich intruded Ted Cruz’s and Rand Paul’s small discussion.

“Randy’s trying to make me recite every single amendment in five minutes.”

“He’s even got a timer on his phone ready… geez oh man.”

“I’m not going to force myself on you, Ted. That’s against your individual liberty.” snapped Rand with a sly grin.  

“You tea party people are weird.” commented Kasich, trying his best to fit in. Although the eldest out of the three, it was manifest to Kasich that Rand and Ted communicated with more wit and intellect than he could ever attempt. Boring ol’ John, that’s what he was. “What’s for lunch where, uh, y’all are from, huh?”

“I got corned beef for some reason.” lazily grumbled Ted with his mouth full of the food lacking his preferred Texan twist.

“Gross, but understandable.”

Rand held up a chicken wing from his tray. “Fried chicken.”

“Nice.” Kasich kept his eyes glued to the pair of underclassmen, ecstatically. There was a short pause. “Aren’t you gonna ask me what I’m eating?”

“What are you eating, John?” sighed Ted, putting down his half-eaten sandwich.

“Well, here I have a sub sandwich with bacon, chicken, lettuce, and tomato; a slice of pizza with green peppers, a fork to eat the pizza with, some chocolate milk, and for desert – pancakes with plenty of syrup. And another fork for those pancakes! ”


“…the stress of the debates must be having some sort of impact, huh?” Rand blandly assumed.

Kasich grabbed a chair and made himself at home at the lunch table. “Yeah. I just don’t see why I’m not going up in the polls. I mean, what’s wrong with me?”

“Well don’t worry, you’re no Chris Christie.”

“Pfftahaha.” Ted snorted a shrill laugh. “He’s working alongside us in Romeo and Juliet and he’s really not the best sport.”

“Put him on a leash.” Rand sardonically spat under his breath, his eyes shifting to the right. He caught sight of a flustered lunch lady, not looking her best and venting her frustrations to a certain socialist senior. Rand studied the boy, silently remembering how unapologetically passionate his words were, his iconic hand gestures he flaunted, and his overall mysteriousness. They hadn’t always agreed on each other, but the distributions they did have were civil and collected. Bernie’s pair of sturdy eyes hooked to Rand’s for a split second, and Rand’s idea of him suddenly felt out of place.

He looked angry, as if he were about to break.

“Something really cringy happened in Government Class.” Kasich began, his input seeming eerily cheerful. “Actually, I’m not certain if it’s cringeworthy, it’s more funny than cringy.”

“What happened? Tell us.” Ted inquired as he grew intrigued. Rand turned to his peers with a somewhat tight expression, yet slowly and tactfully removed the tension with an exhale and a small nod.

“Sure thing.” replied Kasich.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

[Throwback to a couple of hours ago]

“Alright class, it’s time. Please hand in your essays on The Battle of Aleppo.” instructed the teacher of one of the 11th grade Government classes. “Thank you, Tyler, thank you; Denise...”

Within the swirled mess of the campaign trail, within the rigid and aggressive climate circulating through classrooms, councils, social groups and clubs; the libertarian nominee remained undisturbed, as he would be – head down on his desk and sleeping like a baby.

“Psst. She’s coming.” a student hissed. Gary Johnson awoke from his slumber, patently groggy and confused.


Gary jumped in his seat and his joints turned stiff, nonetheless continued to grin his staple grin. “Oh, watcha sayin’, teach?”

“The Battle of Aleppo essay was due in today.”

In the midst of a heated election, at that moment, a single candid question which refrained from complimenting the school’s mood escaped the thin lips of Washingcoln’s libertarian nominee:

“What’s Aleppo?”

And that was the moment where time seemed to stop. The buzzing of the classroom, the swarm of swaying bodies, and the teacher herself froze in complete amazement. It really was utterly amazing. Horrifying, in fact.

“Gary… what the heck…” stuttered a classmate in pure stupefaction.

Another pupil hunched his shoulders as if he were cringing. “We’ve been studying the conflict in Syria this entire semester now??”


.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Aaand that’s what happened. I shit you not.”

“I-I’m actually speechless, what?” Ted reacted, his mocking mouth emitting a stiff cackle from the back of his throat.

“The libertarian nominee, everyone.” laughed Kasich in reply, amongst a boyish shrug of the shoulders.

“Man. I regret joining the republican council now if I knew someone that dense would be the nominee.” a composed Rand scratched his chin. “A cool guy though, especially when he’s high.”

“Isn’t he always high?”


“Psh. I prefer cigarettes.” Ted coolly mumbled, puffing his chest as if he were trying to make a good impression in front of Kasich, to assert what dominance and dignity he had left. Really, he liked to believe he had a lot of it. Regardless of the fact that he and Kasich were on good terms, Ted needed that nomination, and therefore Kasich was nothing but an obstacle in this case. And Ted didn’t necessarily like that at all.

“Have you tried a Cuban cigar before, Ted?” then asked Kasich, curiously.

“I sure have.”

“Do you guys remember Will Smith’s Getting Jiggy With It where he says he bites it for the look and doesn’t light it?” Rand noted. “I can imagine Ted doing something try-hard like that.” he continued to spout in playful disdain. Ted didn’t answer.

“I remember some kids blasting out his song Miami through my neighborhood when I was about four, haha. Don’t ask me how I remember that.” Kasich said, ingesting a gigantic chunk of pizza off the fork.

‘Miami’ thought Ted, his brow turning sweaty. The word stuck onto his senses – sound, touch and taste.

Marco talked about that place frequently.

“Oh, Lord,” Ted uttered, as Rand took note of his friend’s apprehensive state.

“What’s up dude?”

“Trivial memories of someone.”

“Oh, I know who.” added Rand intuitively as his face sank smarmily. Sternly, Kasich mouthed Marco’s name to the curly-headed libertarian and waited for him to nod – which he eventually, but doubtfully –did.

“When are you two gonna sort your shit out? Honestly-” Kasich started to remark.

But before he could finish, Ted had already sprung from his seat and was escaping into the cafeteria’s scattered mass of patchy shadows and bodies. The scene looked so ambiguous, like a renaissance painting where all merging of cafeteria reds and the pale yellows of the floor concorded, as if it was meant to be. But Ted knew the way he and Marco acted towards each other in that text chat wasn’t meant to be. They met near that fountain for a reason. They walked up to their class together on their first day of high school for a reason. Call it a coincidence, but deep, deep inside, Ted believed that his eyes landed on Marco for some other explanation than to simply make friends or to compete against each other in a student council. His fate told him that it was for something so much deeper.

And for a quick moment, perhaps even with Rand sensing it too; Ted began to take in that this laissez-faire way of looking at his situation with Marco was wrong.

It was time to stop repressing every single feeling he felt.


Chapter Text

May 8th, 9:36pm


It was a humid, starry night of late spring, where the days had passed like somebody uplifted the paperweight off a secretary’s paperwork, each paper spiraling into a confusing yet safe landing. The crickets chanted their tune, hopping freely off blades of grass. The air was thick and the flowers stayed subservient. The clouds were burdened with moisture. Surely, if not definitely; it was going to rain that following Monday. At least, that was what Bill kept reminding himself.

Or maybe, Bill was telling himself something different. He was thinking of a different kind of rain, one that originates from the eyeball and floods the vision in heated spikes of emotional pain. Something that at first we think suffocates us, but when fully embroiled and embraced – twists into a statement of utter freedom.

Bill knew that when he would return to school that Monday, he would constantly have to face her cool side-profile and her blonde strands of hair brushing past his shoulder. He would have to soak in her cold voice and robotic smile, two things which were not really cold and robotic at all. On the other hand, in that moment, the thoughts he had been shoving aside were overflowing, and it genuinely made her seem the way others perceived her – an uncomfortable enigma. Word by word, he would strictly mirror her statement in a stuttering mumble:

“Bill, what are we anymore?” he solemnly repeated her words, peeping out his bedroom window and finding solace in the stars. “Do we stick together for the sake of being together, stuck in an inescapable quicksand pool where we sink deeper and deeper into the thin-skinned answers claiming we love each other, which may or may not be lies?”

Hillary’s words were atypically poetic and poignant, which was so unlike her. It was alarming, but also depressing that she had to say these words of such blurred clarity, of such… uncertainty, making Bill feel he may not have known Hillary as well as he liked to think. Her doubts were possibly linked to her infamous email scandal, which honestly had so much more to it than the kids at Prez High warbled and cackled at. There was always this floating rumor wafting about the school halls which at first would sound utterly tasteless and wrong, and not even close to the truth regarding it all. No one would ever know what had truly happened.

And Bill was thinking about that truth, on a Sunday night where the stars remained listening to the young man’s shadowed silence.

He tip-toed downstairs and comprehended that as always, the TV was on and that his stepfather’s consciousness had switched off.

“And we, Charles, say that the stock exchanges should require less regulation. If we look at statistics to do with the…”

Bill nudged his father apprehensively. “Dad, you better sit up. It’s not good for you to rest your head on your chin while asleep.” he breathlessly muttered. He was partly certain he passed out on the chair, until a set of jaded eyes met with his own. 

“Dontcha tell me whut I can do…” his father grumbled in response, the TV light devilishly flickering in his face.

“Why aren’t you sleeping with momma, huh? Tell me, what’s the big deal?”

“The bitch kicked me out ‘gain.”

“Yeah, right. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s scared shitless of you.” Bill narrowed his eyes, and took a few shallow breaths. The obnoxious vocals of the television paired with the stammering light it released was beginning to vex them both.

“Cantcha just leave me?”

“You reek of alcohol and cigarettes. I can’t leave you when I know yer ‘been out gambling again.” proclaimed Bill, a bit softer now. “C’mon, let’s get you up.”

Bill held out his hand, fully knowing his father was going to refuse. Slightly uncomfortable, Bill furthermore backed away as if he were afraid of getting too close to the man, until the back of his knees came into contact with the coffee table. The boy just stood there, in a room of smoke and the familiar overwhelming aroma.

At last, Bill took a brisk walk towards the man and feigned confidence. He then tried to get him into a safe and upright position, but was interrupted by the swift raise of a dry hand, wedding ring off and all.

“Don’t… hit me, dad.” Bill pleaded. At first he was fearful but the adrenaline soon waned, and warped into grave discipline. Hastily turning away and putting on his parka, Bill made his way out the door. “You made a promise to never hit any of us. Me, momma, Roger-

“An’ where do you think you’re goin’, punk? Fooling ‘round with that Rodham girl?” mockingly cackled his stepfather. “All these Midwestern chicks’re crazy snobs. Step up your game, mah boy. Step up your game.”

“… Honestly, Linda, you liberals and your act of bringing identity politics into every little thi---


Bill switched the TV off, and ran out the room and the house before his stepfather could pronounce anything.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Okay, Bernie, you got this.”

The smell of fern, fennel, pine, and grasses was present at the grove located behind Washingcoln, almost 10pm at night and as humid as ever. Bernie crept through the masses of trees, which had long completed their course of blossoming and sprouting leaves. It looked like a fantasy scene, sort of pretty, sort of wild; but Bernie knew that this feral wasteland which held such beauty was this way due to neglect and nothing more.

He crawled under the hidden torn hole in the wire fence.


“There you are, my old friend.” Bernie chuckled, retrieving the spray-paint can from the bush.

Bernie focused on the canvas board which subtly leaned on the back of the building, now facing him with a white, inviting and invisible stare.

'Why in the world am I doing this? It’s just a bit of art. Artistic expression. I’m not an anarchist. I’m a democratic socialist.' Bernie’s inner monologue began to sound shrill in his pounding head. “Then why the fuck am I doing this?”

He thought of everything that he stood for. Free school healthcare. Raise the staff’s wages. Create a healthier environment for students. For the principles to focus on internal issues instead of siding with the Prez and interfering with other school establishments. Was this really a revolution he wanted? Surely it would be silly – insulting – even, to even title it that. But sometimes words were used as metaphors or as hyperbole… would that be de-purifying the word in itself?

“Well, whatever.”

It didn’t matter what happened from then on. Either he would drop out, win the nomination, or even the presidency. His parents managed to organize a gap year so that he could stay in Washingcoln for another year if that was the case, but even the mere thought of going to college after that was not even a thought… it was a dream. Bernie’s parents already had to switch jobs and work full time just for him. In a way, he could empathize with Marco on that day when they went golfing together.

Bernie wanted to do them proud as well as his people.

Studying the can in his hand, Bernie ruminated on people and how they built up society. The parents who had to work forty hours a week just for their children to eat, the single parents, the single teens, even, wanting gratification; the elderly who had to undergo having their pensions cut, scarred veterans, underpaid workers; suicidal teenagers, those on food stamps, the homeless; LGBTQ kids afraid of revealing their true selves, people of color and religious minorities stripped from their culture, these same people having to be faced with consistent discrimination throughout their lives; victims of abuse, the thinning middle-class, and last, the one-percent.

Steadily and cautiously, Bernie began to spray a pink, unapologetic ‘We The People’ onto the canvas. In the witness of the stars’ solace, was time for his enterprise.

“I’ll show you, Donald. I’ll show you, school councils. I’ll show you what the people are really made of.”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was a heated night, and it hadn’t rained for a while. The land in the area was mostly flat aside from a few suburban rural spots and the small hill leading up to Washingcoln, so Bill had no trouble running out into the street at his full capacity. He didn’t know or care where he was going, as long as it was someplace away from his house at that moment.

Of course, he did try his best to love and accept his father, but like Hillary, Bill needed his space too. Hillary would always reside at his house whenever her parents were using her to get back at each other, but it was ever so seldom when roles were reversed. Truth was – Bill desperately longed to be with Hillary at this moment. But it couldn’t have happened. They were so distant in their recent days, and Bill fleeing off into the streets, soaking in the empty solace the stars brought him was just a cold reminder of that distanced loneliness.

In subsequence to his sprinting through the streets, Bill came to a clearing. It was a field of dandelion seeds, but rather than the wind recklessly blowing them far, far, into the distance, they remained stubborn and still.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Ey! You!” a shriek-like, slightly intimidated voice shouted. “What d’you think you’re doing on this property at this time?”

The spray paint can thudded onto the grass, almost disappearing into the sea of blades. Despite the voice’s fretful attributes, Bernie came to soak in the fact that it belonged to a burly policeman having meandered through the grove with his crew. One by one the stocky pack of men helped each other clamber over the mesh wire fence. At last they had leaped their way onto school grounds, and were waiting for an explanation.

“I-I’m a student at this school, sir.” Bernie clenched his fists in case they wanted to try anything.

A policeman grabbed the can from off the floor and glared at both it and the canvas, before returning to the student. “What the hell is this!?”

“No, it’s not what you think-” Bernie began to say, before the men began to grab him by his wrists and reveal some handcuffs. “AH!! GET OFF OF ME!”

“This is vandalism. You’re straight-up vandalizing your own school! What a punk.” one of the authorities huffed bitterly, not letting go of their capture. Bernie was nothing but prey. He stood there, raw and vulnerable, silently berating himself and his initial impulses.

“What, are you some kind of Antifascist or something? Hah! Get a grip.” another voice scoffed, eerily matching the first. None of the men clocked their capture’s face reddening.

“I-i-it’s not th-the-”

One of the bystanding men caught attention of another with an apathetic nudge. At this point their prey was near choking from being held back; the members of the authorities happened to not realize it until they were briefly notified:

“Frank, stop, I think he’s tryna tell us something.”

They eventually let him go, but what Bernie underwent after that was not freedom.

“What is it, boy?”

“It’s not the actual building, look.” Bernie divulged, with him almost regurgitating his coughs and splutters. “It’s just a wooden board.”

The crowd of policemen looked their almost-capture up and down with akin and mangled, dirty looks. “We’ll let you off now, but you still invaded private property!” the main policeman cried, limp-wristed and daintily stepping back from the now rugged, messy-haired Bernie who resembled a wild rogue. The tables had turned, and the most impactful of authorities were acting like victims.

“And I’ll be taking this.” the bystanding policeman coolly mumbled, as he placed a hand on the cold spray-paint can, yet not very forcefully.

“No-” Bernie began while the eyes welled up with tears of anger. “It’s for my art project.” he lied.

They left. Bernie didn’t. Bernie remained in a cool, hard jungle of pain and a near-empty spray paint can which had inflicted stains of magenta to shroud the board in reckless, childlike streaks. He fell to his knees, losing consciousness… and the air must have mercilessly turned cold at that moment, because that was the only thing other than darkness the boy could sense.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Having bought a burrito from a small, independent Mexican fast-food place, Bill exited out the automatic doors and took a few dissatisfied steps forward. George would often be pleaded by Jeb to go and order nachos and guacamole, and if somebody were to physically beseech another to try out something from a place, then its products had to be good. And they were, to a fair extent.

Weirdly enough, as if he had been hit with a thousand synchronicities at once rather than one, Bill caught sight of George himself, parked in a desolate parking lot and window half open, talking on the phone in juvenile and broken sentences.

"There's an old saying in Tennessee –I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee – that says: fool me once, shame on… uh, shame on you. Fool me… uh, you can't get fooled again!"

George rounded off his questionable discussion and amusedly giggled goodbye. Slowly and silently, Bill walked up to the car with his hands in the pockets of his parka, which by now had almost completely unzipped itself.  “Heya George.” he greeted, sounding meek but feeling relieved that he had somebody familiar for company, even if it were only for a short while.

“Oh, Billeh, you good? Heh, heh.”

“Yah.” he replied bashfully, putting his hands behind his back and acknowledging the cooler night air. 

George scrolled through his phone and smiled at something Bill couldn’t quite look upon. He noticed Bill’s elongated pause, and hesitantly peered up at his still eyes of tired cyan.

Bill’s mouth then shuddered from the strange drop in temperature. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, I haven’t even caught up with you after that incident-“

“Dontcha worry your lil’ ass about it.” chuckled George with the most sinister grin, not taking a second thought concerning his odd yet unsurprising reply.

“Haha, right...”

“They discharged me eventually. I’m getting help at a rehab center so hopefully mah problems will begin to clear up soon. I’ll be a changed man!” just as George said that, the sound of bittersweet guitar chords filled the car’s radio speakers, and Bill just couldn’t help but feel the need to cry. It was so… inconvenient, so remorseless. He already had plenty of reminders of Hillary in his house and bedroom, but even in the cold concrete wilderness?

“Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I heard,”

“I’m glad for you, my brother.” congratulated Bill, gradually becoming uneased. “S-speaking of brother, how’s Jeb doing? Your parents also?”

“My parents have decided to turn a bit stricter on me lately. Startin’ to treat me like a real adult, you know? ‘Bout time, heh, I’m gonna be moving out soon.” responded George in a more hushed voice. “Jeb, well, he’s been out the house a lot. I doubt he’s even gon’ be there right now.”

“Was a song outside my window, and the traffic wrote the words,”

“That sucks. Sorry dude.”

George’s thick eyebrows furrowed in innocent confusion. “What’s up, Billeh-boy?”

“N-nothing, it’s just…” he began, rapidly facing away. “This song…”

“It came a-reeling up like Christmas bells and rapping up like pipes and drums…”

“Whut, is it too namby-pamby? Heh, I understand yah, I don’t even know why I have this station on.”

“No… you don’t understand.” exaggerated Bill as his gaze, still concealed from his friend – softened into sunken sadness.

“Oh, won't you stay , we'll put on the day,”

He spun back around, and handed the former Prez, as his predecessor, the strong words he expected. Full of tears and charisma, and finally realizing that unless they talked things through – she, Hillary, was inescapable:

“It’s a beautiful song.” Bill passionately pronounced.

“… and we'll wear it 'till the night comes...”


Chapter Text

May 10th, 3:02pm


Sometimes the days would pass like lightning, and other times they would drag on as if an anchor weighed down all fractions of moving matter. Ted and Marco weren’t speaking. Donald and Hillary saw each other less and less frequently in informal settings, which could have been applied to all members of the library squad. In fact, none of them saw the purpose in attending anymore. It was as if they all detached from one another, forgetting the more innocent days spent in the library which included the occasional lolling around, making snarky jokes and helping each other with homework in the process. Jeb spent most of his time away from his parents, sometimes visiting George but mostly wandering out into the night streets and exploring the outskirts in his spare hours. Barack and Joe worked alongside each other as always, although more soberly in their recent days with little to no banter or procrastination. Hillary and Bill remained distant, but plastered on affection whenever they caught hold of each other. Donald, possibly unintentionally, detached himself from his sidekicks Marco and Ted bit by bit as the days meandered in their unstoppable, erratic rhythm.

Lastly, despite finally choosing to suspend and endorse a certain peer, Bernie stayed the same with his quirky mannerisms and character, ploughing through the small, unknown social gatherings of the high school. The worst thing that blossomed from his encounter with the police was a punishment consisting of volunteer work for the school, which he could have not been any less willing to do. At least it was better than being in jail.


Meanwhile, as soon as classes ended, a student whipped open his bought print of The Washingcoln Times. Although this time, quite obviously, these articles clearly didn’t have Hillary as their co-writer. He read the multiple headlines: ‘Sellout Sanders? This certain socialist just endorsed Hillary, and people are fuming!’ and ‘Republican and Democratic Nominees announced!’ as well as ‘Read about Bernie’s drop out of the race HERE!’

“A sellout? Knock it off-

“No, I’m telling you, that’s what everyone is calling the guy.” another student chipped in from another desk. “Can’t believe he’s sucking up to her of all people.”

“Eh. I might just end up voting for her.”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

May 24th. Two weeks went by, and this time it was time for each of the official Council Conventions to take place. First was the Democratic Council, where Hillary was accompanied by VP pick Tim Kaine, Bill, Barack, and Joe. Joe had seemed off the past week, but gathered up the motivation to attend the one and only thing that mattered to him at that moment – to witness a potential future president of Student Government that wasn’t Donald.

The crimson curtains of the stage revealed a blank slate, for the Democratic nominee and council to paint their colors on. After the lights dimmed Tim and Bill walked up on stage, with the reacting applause shallow of cheers but precise, as it would be with the preppy kids of Prez High.

 “Well, it’s satisfying to see so many ‘I’m With Her’ merch today!” Tim jauntily exclaimed on the podium. “Not going to lie, I was expecting a little bit of ‘Washingcoln’s Stepdad’ popping up in some places, but this is nice too.” he shrugged. “I’d like to introduce myself as Hillary’s pick for vice president of the student government, Timothy Michael Kaine. Please, call me Tim.” the junior bent his elbow to form what the modern teenager would title a dab. Nobody laughed. After a moment, he dusted himself off in response and cleared his throat, hoping everybody would just forget his shameful deed. “Throughout this campaign, and potentially the entire of the following year, I will be accommodating Hillary and giving support to those who want our school to be its best it can be. Donald Trump believes we should ‘Make Prez High Great Again,’ but I can assure you that Hillary and I believe Prez High is already great, and our leadership will only make this environment even greater for our students. Essentially I would like to thank Hillary and her hard work and status she has kept up over her years at this school, and also her beloved sweetheart and former Prez, William Jefferso-

“You don’t need to address my full name, Tim.” Bill quietly chuckled from behind him.

“… Bill! Put your hands together for Bill!”

A few cheers bloomed here and there, mostly from the underclassmen girls who viewed Bill and Hillary in adoration. It was like something out of a shoujo anime. Bill tapped the mic, smirking over to Hillary in the wings of the stage. “This girl… I have known her for so many years. We have been through thick and thin, light and dark – and I can be certain that this strong, independent lady will rule our school with great pride and commitment. She really is something, to such an extent where it seems I’m lost for words. Actually, I do have a few words. Senior prom is nigh, so I’m looking forward in seeing her in something nice…” Bill felt a flicker of guilt impale him, as if he shouldn’t have said that. Sure, he was infamous for being a bit of a flirt, but the last thing Hillary wanted was someone to steer away from her substance and pedantically pinpoint on her appearance. Hopefully she would take it lightheartedly, right? And besides, senior prom was the big event that everyone else was talking about after all. He directed a look and noticed she stayed neutral, to which he disclosed the introduction. “I-it would be a pleasure to hand the mic over to the woman herself, so she can present to you how we will be stronger together…”

Hillary waved and smiled while she walked to the podium, her podium. The ecstatic mass of cheering youths complimented sight of her sturdy smile, and her poise told she was ready to serve a good speech. There was a pause, where Hillary took a small inhale before she spoke. “I want to represent this school, our school, Washingcoln High in order to serve the people right and fairly, where my leadership will not be primarily about dominion or entitlement, but will instead exemplify one’s duties and responsibilities dedicated to all you pupils. If you elect me as your leader, you will be electing the first female president that this school will undergo. All throughout this establishment’s history, the girls have been underrepresented and I wish to alter the traditional mindset in society and media that females cannot be in such a high position of power. However I guess what’s good about the school newspaper is that if I want to knock a story off the front page, I just change my hairstyle. Ha ha.” her joke probably managed to amuse some of the audience, yet it seemed only stiff and awkward silence was the aftermath. Only the piercing eyes of preps. “But it’s not restricted to the female demographic!” she continued, maneuvering away from the previous jest.  “It is people of color, people of differing sexual orientations, who I have supported for a grand total of, uh, two years – and people of religious minorities. As we all know, my opponent Donald Trump wants to put an end to any Muslims who wish to transfer to this school of ours, and build a wall around our school gates that will require nationality checks and CCTV cameras. This is not what Washingcoln High stands for, but a way of dividing our school society in such a way that it further illustrates to the masses that you’re an xenophobic, anti-Mexican, anti-Muslim individual, not forgetting the crude misogynistic remarks this little boy and his basket of deplorables have made-

“Okay, Hillary, okay,” cut in Tim as quietly as he could.

“-and so, as the Democratic nominee, my team and I will do our best attempts to prove to you we will establish this school to move no direction but forward. If you would like to experience a full term of a strong, female presidency, make sure to vote for yours truly, Hillary Rodham.”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Should we mention the email situation?” asked Mike to the pretentiously attired nominee. The latter’s beady eyes narrowed as if he were deep in thought, but as we all know, Donald’s thoughts were shallower than a rock pool on a deserted beach – or were they?

“You know, I just don’t see myself doing it. I’ve liked to take a prod at it every now and again but I think we can leave it to one of the debates.” he finally responded. Mike nodded in comprehension calmly, with little to no emotion.

“Oh, okay.”

“D’ya remember your lines?” Donald then questioned Mike with one of his serious expressions. Mike nodded once more, a smile making its way in the corners of his thin mouth. This was going to be a breeze.

The crowd in front of the stage was alive, like an extremely loud, extremely white bundle of jiggling grapes. Red hats dotted the sea of people like angry pimples. As the well-mannered, presentable Mike Pence walked onto the podium, the people before him clapped in approval. Mike pulled one of his more uncomforted smiles, where his eyebrows heightened to form his staple sad-frowny-countenance. Who knows, it was Mike Pence, okay?


“Golly, what a joy to view a sea of ‘Make Prez High Gr8 again’ merchandise.” laughed Mike on stage. “Although I was expecting some more of ‘Down With The Gays’ showing up in some places, but this is fine.” he considered before clearing his throat. “Hello all. My name is Michael Pence and I am Donald Trump’s choice for the next vice president of the student government. All of you here assumingly want an alternate kind of leadership, a broad-shouldered kind of leadership, and I can warrant that Donald will provide the broad-shouldered leadership that this school needs.” Mike struggled to find his words for a good three seconds.  “T-to be around Donald Trump is to be around a man with broad shoulders,” he proceeded. ‘Rats! I need to stop repeating that, it’s making me sound homosexual! But his shoulders… they are so, so broad…” he thought to himself, taking steady breaths. “Well, he is a strong man indeed, and somebody who is able to use his air of strength and authority to lead this school with a patriotic pride, a pride that isn’t constantly putting this school down, and a pride that expresses our love for God and America.”

“I own a Bible, if yer ‘all didn’t know.” erratically barked Donald from the wings of the stage, making himself loud, raspy, and audible.

“See, Donald Trump is a well-rounded, Christian man, totally against discrimination and totally for peace! Let’s all put our hands together for the prayer- uh, I mean, for Donald J. Trump!

Donald’s audience applauded and cheered for him as he made his way onto the stage. Waving a solid wave, he brought Mike close to him and attempted to provide him with a heartfelt hug; whereas Mike received the wrong idea due to Donald’s puckering of the lips. He had to remind himself that Donald’s lips often did that, so therefore it was in no way proof that he was a homosexual. They were two bros, and if they were chillin’ in a hot tub, they would be certainly chillin’ five feet apart ‘cause they’re not gay. Absolutely no homo.


The consistent, increasingly annoying bouts of cheering made its way between Donald’s syllables.

“Hello folks,”

The crowd formed a crescendo of noise once more, until the man himself signaled for it to halt. At last, it seemed like everyone was quiet and listening.

“I’m Donald Tru-


“Get him out.”


As his interns started to order the interrupter out, Donald slammed both his tiny hands onto the podium. “My Twitter has become so powerful that I can actually make my enemies tell the truth!” Donald threw out to the people, not sure what his exact aim was with the statement. The audience roared in approbation once again, the sound traveling like a Mexican wave, but to Donald’s standards it had to be perceived as an American wave, because he was patriotic and didn’t have time for any malarkey.

“Anyways, steering away from my idiosyncratic, self-explanatory introduction,” continued Donald with an intake of the breath. “As the future president that this school desperately needs, I will never falter and always keep my word, believe me. Mike Pence, what a guy, let me tell you. Great guy. Beautiful. You all just can’t disagree with him when he talks his talk ‘bout how I’m gonna bring a strong leadership to the student government and make this school great again. Hillary doesn’t want that kind of leadership; she doesn’t even have a presidential look. We need tremendous action, people. We have some bad hombres here and we’re gonna get ‘em out. Bigly. I will build a great, great, tremendous, beautiful wall, and will make the Mexicans pay for it. I will say it once and I will say it again: there are some bad, bad, people coming into our school, and Hillary, Obama and their shill-esque gang of establishment warmongers are completely ignoring this fact. Crooked Hillary will only provide this school with war, war, and more war. But what I want is an environment where we produce winners, who will go out of their way to get what they want and work for it. What separates the winners from the losers is how a person reacts to each new twist of fate. The beauty of me is that I’m very rich. I have worked for it, as can be drawn from my business where I sell these alien birthpods, they are all the rage, what beauties-

“A bit off track, Donald.” whispered Mike from a modest distance.

“…these are the only aliens I will allow in this school! Additionally, I must add that I will not be accepting trashy insults, especially of the likes of Lil’ Rube. You may all know that my acquaintance Lyin’ Ted is gonna come and endorse me today, so that’ll be interesting.” he looked over to where Marco and Ted were sat in the audience, and was amazed to find them several seats apart. Nonetheless, they shared the same exasperated look they always had when Donald tastelessly pissed them off. That would never change. “In fact, as we are on the topic of my previous competitors, I think the only difference between me and the other candidates is that I’m more honest and my women are more beautiful. Nah, haha! I kid. But I have to stress that my fingers are long and beautiful, as, it has been well documented, are various other parts of my body-

“Donald…” Mike mumbled, turning wide-eyed.

“But of course, let us celebrate the day when I’m president – the day when Prez High is made Great Again!” the nominee triumphantly rejoiced. He waited for the bellows of his male companions and the squeals from his female supporters to die down, until he eyed a certain someone in the gathering of students. “And now, I have a little friend coming to endorse me…"

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Debate night.

Hillary stepped out of the tightly packed cubicle in dressing room 04, in a bright red pantsuit that radiated the Hillary Rodham character, almost sparkling with determination. Freshman Huma Abedin, the vice chair of Hillary’s campaign, looked up from her smartphone and gave the senior a smile. She called for Tim to arrive, then Bill, who had been speaking to Barack about the upcoming event. They walked into the room with awe, both Tim and Bill blushing at the sight of Hillary illuminating such stark confidence.

“I just don’t think it fits.” grumbled Hillary, unnecessarily stressing over her outfit. She had grown so comfortable to not giving a damn about her appearance these past few months, so why was she so worked up about it at the worst possible moment?

“Gurl, your attitude is the thing that aint fitting.” Tim sassily clicked his fingers in the shape of a Z. “Relax, you look fine. Doesn’t she, Bill?”

Bill eagerly nodded. “Doesn’t fit? Hill, you look as fit as a fiddle! Especially your middle and your bottom-


Hillary couldn’t have helped but contemplated on if she should have said something differing from her look. Of course, as a young woman in a school which had misogynistic undertones from time to time, her status mattered not only in terms of her record but the way she composed herself. People like Bernie never cared about the superficial stuff and only attacked her on policy, but there still were a few students who couldn’t look past the fact she was the way she was – flawed, and female. She was a flawed individual and had a hard time admitting it. It made more sense to her to try and cover up her past rather than to alter her present, but now it was starting to make her tremble. Badly. She had to sit down, and tactfully concealed any evidence of anxiety.

From across the near-closed door of the dressing room, Ted pulled a glassy expression at the despicable sound of mingling Democrats. Stood in the corridor, a pattering sound of footsteps beckoned and instantly captivated his focus.

“Ted, what a swell performance you put on!” cheered Carly, nodding over to Ted who was about to return to his dressing room, in room 06. Donald and Hillary’s debate had to be postponed in order for rehearsals to take place, which could not have been cancelled by any means. This production was supposed to highlight the creativity and expressionistic side to Washingcoln, which was often classed as hidden due to the fact that the school was indeed academic and mainly pivoted on economics, philosophy, and government as the students’ main stimulus to lap up. 

“Oh I know, haha.” Ted responded with a bearing of pride. He made his way to room 06, reciting a line in his head: These violent delights have violent ends; these violent delights…’

“You know Christie? I like that guy. Tremendous guy, believe me. I might consider him for a space in my cabinet, let me tell you.”

‘…have violent ends.’

Ted halted. What was that in room 05? Well, it didn’t have anything to do with him, but he was curious as to what Donald would say next. To Ted, he was an idiot, so perhaps he could get a good laugh out of what crazy scheme or opinion Donald spouted out next. As the noise of muffled babbling tempted the young Romeo to the cold, wooden door, another familiar voice arose.

“Ahaha, well, you were thinking of bestowing Christie the title as your vice president, huh?” Mike Pence asked, perhaps passive aggressively but still baring moderate amplitude.

“I mean, he’s way better than what that booger-eating liar Cruz said of me back at the convention. Psh, ‘Vote your conscience?’ No! Vote for me!” grumbled Donald. “But Chris… he wouldn’t fit in with the plan. Too much of a loudmouth.”

‘Plan?’ Ted questioned to himself, ignoring the slander that Donald expressed regarding him. Before the word almost slipped out his mouth in the form of a whisper, he managed to repress it, as always.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the guy drop dead.” Mike flatly stated, in a manner which sent even a boy like Ted chills.

‘Wait… weren’t Mike and Christie cool with each other?’ The hairs on the back of his neck became erect. Surely this was nothing to worry too much about. It really wasn’t any of his business. Even so, the chortling which followed the blood curdling words was outright unsettling. After months of being called a psycho, and then having the chance to actually experience a thing so psychopathic – perhaps Ted wasn’t void of emotion after all. It was so strange; a joke like that normally wouldn’t faze him, but what Mike said… didn’t sound like a harmless statement.

“Ted?” Carly’s voice broke the tension. She was still dressed in her Juliet costume and had just grabbed a Coke from the nearest vending machine.

“Oh, uh, sorry.” Ted replied, realizing he had been spacing out an awful lot. They both dispersed into their own separate rooms, not even mustering up the dignity to say a word of praise to their council nominee marching out of room 05. Donald screwed up his face at his ‘endorser’ as he stepped past him, and waved Mike off while exiting into the corridor.

“Well, looks like the time has come. Let’s debate this shill.” Donald menacingly snickered to himself.

Chapter Text

May 27th, 3:54pm


“This election's really up to you. It's not about us so much as it is about you and your friends, and the kind of school and future you want. So I sure hope you will get out and vote as though your future depended on it, because I think it does.” – HRC

*sniff* “Look, here's the story. I want to make Washingcoln great again. I'm going to be able to do it. I don't believe Hillary will. The answer is, if she wins, I will absolutely support her.” - DT

The debate finished, and even Hillary had to admit that it was a smooth run. Climate change as a hoax, beauty contests, Trumped-up, trickle-down economics; you name it. And plenty of cross-talking. And sniffing. Possibly some false promises sprinkled in there too, but what mattered most is that the professional exteriors they both had to endure could be dropped, washed away until the second debate.

Whistling through the backstage corridors, Donald spotted an open door where the artificial lighting of the studio spilled through the crevice. He crept up behind it, eyeing Hillary who had now exited from the changing cubicle, alone.

“Howdy, Killary. Nice debate we got cookin’ up there.” said Donald in a rusty growl, over to Hillary in the dressing room. He walked inside and took a small look around the mirrors, readjusted his belt, blazer, and of course his custard-yellow mop of hair.

“Gross.” retaliated Hillary with a dead expression. Donald instantly felt the need to snap back.

“What, dontcha like my ‘do? Not even my US flag pin, you unpatriotic, nasty woman? Not even the Pepe one?”


“Such a bitch.”

A short silence followed the remark, and Hillary’s face turned sour in disgust. She really didn’t need Donald here with her at the moment, but what was weirder was the way he kept an eye on her currently, at the oddest of situations too. First it would be in class, next in the lunch hall, and lastly on their ways home, incidentally the same route for roughly a tenth of the way. Hillary, with her eyes now aching from the studio lights, closed them as she placed a palm over her gaze and hostilely asked:

“Why do you keep on looking at me? What’s the deal?” she spun around on her chair to face the young man, noticing his spray tan having faded on his skin. Donald shot a look back at his rival, although the look was more of a rubbernecked gaze than one of his usual grimaces.

In reply, the boy held his unadorned blue stare, and smirked one of his ugly smirks which in reality, was less repulsive than Hillary expected. Instead, he looked… sincere, raw, and amused. “Hm.” he emitted with a playful shrug, appearing far too lighthearted to Hillary’s standards. At that moment within such a grave time in their lives, it seemed they sensed each other’s thoughts as soon as their matching blue glances that screamed a red antipathy hesitantly conjoined. They were standing there, agreeing with eyes and no words – that their youths, in essence, were running out.


After a short while, Tim returned to room 04 to greet and congratulate Hillary on her performance. The vice debates were coming up soon too, where Tim hoped to discuss a little bit about it before they left to go home. Before that though, he had to run to get a drink for her to increase her blood sugar level, seeing how long both Hillary and Donald had to stand there for.

On his way to the vending machine, Tim stopped at the sight of a sudden slamming of room 05’s door. He could unearth a few mutters and exchanges of words from Donald and Mike, and it wasn’t until he almost walked past when he realized what they were speaking about was significantly major.

His heart must have skipped a beat. 

“No… no, no no no no!” he coarsely whispered, gritting his teeth so his mouth ached in anxiety. Dashing straight back to Hillary, Tim called her name in desperation.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Calm down, breathe, for goodness sake,” Hillary consoled to the breathless boy, though frustrated.

“I got bad news – it’s Trump, and Mike – they’re planning something dangerous!”

“I highly doubt that. Any plan of Donald’s would be irrational and just wouldn’t work out. I’m known for my good plans, and I can sense when somebody would be incompetent at carrying out one.”

“No, please, what they are planning will tear us apart!”

Hillary tilted her head, pursed her lips, and looked northeast. “… tell me.”

“But that’s the problem, if I tell you, then it will make matters worse.” insisted Tim.

“…then don’t.” Hillary bluntly advised. “I really couldn’t care less about how that prick or his minions are planning to wreck my campaign. I’m only focusing on myself.”

Tim couldn’t believe it. For other matters she would try to detangle whatever nonsense a dubious situation brought her, but for this she stayed totally apathetic. “You better not tell Huma or Bill or even Barack that I’ve said anything. I wish I hadn’t have told you now.” Tim sourly said.

“I’m not going to take a second thought of it, Tim. It’s really that simple.” collectedly stated Hillary. “Go fetch me my sprite, please.”


But she lied; she thought about it during the rest of that day, all throughout the night, and all throughout the still, cold week.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Yo.” a flighty Mike Pence called out to his classmate, Jeb Bush. The bell rang for break, and they were both rushing at equal paces from their History room to receive a swig of fresh air.

“Hi. What’s the matter with you?” Jeb asked, baring a washed-out face and bloodshot eyes.

“More like what’s the matter with you! Gosh, you look like you haven’t slept in days.” gasped Mike, putting on a mock-voice. “Would you like to-

“If it’s about the Trump campaign, leave me out of it. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Huh, rude.” sneered Mike, screwing his face but shortly returning to his staple, flaccid smile. “In fact, I wanted to find out where to buy quality paintball guns. I’m talking the best of the best.”

“Why me?” Jeb backed away as he questioned the other pupil who was starting to get on his nerves. While nodding and silently exhaling with his open mouth, Jeb squared his shoulders. “Oh, I see, I get it,” he murmured angrily.

“This isn’t a jab at George. It’s just that the ones that he and Cheney use are top-dog, and I’d like to get hold of one.”

Jeb’s movements halted, whereby his face softened and his eyes narrowed as if his disturbance had literally been undone… erased even. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to tell this guy from his History class where to get a play-weapon; nonetheless his mouth gave in to form the words: “Oh. I think I know where they get them from. In this case I’ll tell you.”

A couple of minutes progressed, where from across school grounds Bernie saw the perfect opportunity to be at ease when he spotted Jill sitting alone at the fountain.

“I should have just stayed independent. Seeing the republican and democratic council clash so much this past year has made me sick. I will always stand by my words: Red and Blue paint, when collided, make Purple. Trust me, it’s gonna all end in bruises; bruises I tell you.” exclaimed a tired Bernie, having laid down his head on the grass next to the school fountain. It was simply another break from classes at Prez High. However, for Bernie it was a break from his schedule of rigorous trophy cleaning from all the classes of thirteen to fifteen. As if McCain wasn’t an effective janitor already.

“There there. At least you have a gap year to look forward to.” comforted Jill, although lacking much intimate eye-contact due to her prolonged gaze at the sky of fair azure.

“And finals. Plenty of finals. And of course my volunteer work I see no point in doing. Literally free labor. Might as well open some gulags at this damned school.” sarcastically inputted Bernie before laughing, engendering the other senior to reciprocate. No more than an insincere joke, of course.

Up above in the sky, Jill reckoned she could see a couple of doves gliding through the young summer wind until she adjusted her eyes and silently conceded the fact they were no more than pigeons. Loose feathers fluttered to the ground of granite, as if they were spitting in her vision, spitting on her hope of eventually winning the race. But she couldn’t turn back now.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Chapter Text


June 2nd, 3:59pm


Somehow, an old video of Donald had leaked and spread through multiple inboxes and news feeds, where he allegedly claimed some questionable remarks. It was during his time at his military academy in New York as a junior, conversing with a friend outside his school of all boys before smooth-talking a girl walking past them. The video abruptly cut out after that. One of the most shocking things about it was how unprofessional and borderline aggressive it was viewed as by some students – of course, they knew that the guy was not part of the professional cliche, but this went too far. 

“You know I’m automatically attracted to beautiful wo--- I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet.”

“I don’t even wait.”

“And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.”

“Grab ‘em by the pussy, you can do anything.” 

Mixed reactions, however mostly negative, rebounded within the school. Some believed it was simply as Donald pronounced – ‘locker-room talk,’ and that people were overreacting. Meanwhile others thought it to be frighteningly objectifying of the female body, and that a future leader saying such things would just normalize misogynistic behavior beyond students.

The Prez and his vice would assemble the years in the hall and speak about the election. They talked about how big it was concerning their education and their desired school climate. Barack examined the role of a school leader and the weightiness of voting within a democratic system, while Joe, in tired despondency, volunteered to discuss the significance of sexual harassment on certain campuses. Paul Ryan, rather halfheartedly although somewhat sincerely, expressed a few words of encouragement to every clique until he got caught in an argument with one of the junior jocks of the football team. They debated on irrelevant topics about single payer healthcare and Barack’s stances on pretty much everything. This lasted for a good two minutes. The entire school looked so, so, done.


At the end of the school day, in the thick summered heat that crept in every crevice of the unconditioned theater, Marco stood backstage in order to meet Ted and wish him luck for the upcoming performance.

“And so, yeah, I was in the store and saw Mike walk out with a giant ass paintball gun. It was heckin’ weird, man. I didn’t know if I should have said anything to Donald, it didn’t seem like a part of their campaign regime.” Marco articulated to Christie backstage, who had just finished taking part in a long rehearsal.

“That guy must get kicks out of hunting or summin’. Or they are probably looking for another cute girl to harass.” Christie suspected. “Why are you here though, Lil Marc?”


“Oh, you want to start beef?” barked a heated Christie.

“No! No beef.” Marco clammily answered, almost letting out a sweaty whimper.

“That memorized thirty-second speech where you talked about how great Washingcoln was didn’t solve anything.” Christie referenced to one of their primary debates when he was still in the race. He recalled how he made his mark when putting the robotic Rubio in his place. ‘He knows exactly what he’s doing!’ he mouthed condescendingly.

“Cut it out. I’m here to congratulate Ted before he performs next week, ‘cos it might as well be the last time I speak to him. Not entirely shocked at the fact he dropped out either. It’s either Donald or Hillary now.”

“Yeah. You already know who I’m voting for.”

Marco did, and rolled his eyes despite his very own final choice being the very same. “Ted has been sucking up to him more than usual recently, but I highly doubt he has forgiven him for all the shit he has said.”

“I guess that slimy bitch prefers him over her.” Christie looked down and angrily kicked a piece of fluff. Not because it was causing any trouble, but simply because he was hungry for something to fight. The familiar ring of Marco’s giggle began to churn, whereby the sophomore grimaced. “What, what’s so funny?”

“N-nothing, just… he prefers a ‘he’ to a ‘she’… haha, sounds kinda gay, right?”

In hindsight, Marco froze in shame – why the hell did he utter something so damn… stupid? He wasn’t in middle school anymore. This wasn’t anything like that – this was a damn school election for God’s sake. Yes, he was the type to be used to public embarrassment, anything ranging from bumping into things, spilling his water, or stumbling upon his words. But with the sophomore bleakly staring into his eyes, cold; this didn’t feel anything like his past experiences.

“When are you gonna grow up, Rubio?” Christie asked coldly, as the temperature of the room mirrored the question. He headed to his changing room, brushing past and hitting Marco as if he were nothing, as if he were no more than this trivial kid.

Marco’s pupils glazed over in inscrutability. He went over his former statement multiple times in his head, and came to the realization that this was really about Ted more than himself. He couldn’t bring himself to hate him, no matter how hard he tried. Ted was the one to calm his storm, the one to balance him out, something he didn’t have during his clumsy moments in middle school. And this wasn’t middle school. And this version of him, a version meant to feel indifferent to Ted… wasn’t him. At all.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Hey, it’ll be fun!” insisted Barack to his vice. It was the night of the senior prom, and the school crawled with an assortment of buzzing and chattering. Everyone headed to the back of the school where the alternate entrance to the gym hall was located, the other leading to the corridor with changing rooms littered on each side. Barack was there simply because, well, he asked; not forgetting he was the one to read out who were prom king and queen. That would be a blast.

On the other hand, Joe felt off, as if he shouldn’t be there. There was something constricting him, something like a barrier where he felt like he wouldn’t be able to properly express himself the way he wished. But Joe desperately longed to return to his more expressive, colorful self, the way he was before all the election drama where he would say whatever danced its way off his tongue. Recently it was as if he had been bounded, with nowhere to go, nothing to say, and nobody to go to.

“Fun my ass.” Joe grumbled with his head down. He stretched, as did Barack, where they looked each other awkwardly after their in-sync action.

“C’mon, there’s ice cream.” Barack wiggled an eyebrow, but promptly stopped with the act. “What’s wrong, Joe…”

“I’m just angry.” Joe answered, unusually calm and averting eye contact.

“About what?”

“Just am.” he continued. He halted, and then gave Barack a wry smile. “Besides, there’s no mint chocolate chip. How am I gonna cope?”

The Prez playfully punched Joe on the shoulder before furthermore shaking his head. “Shut up, haha.”

When they arrived, the hall was already fairly packed. Everyone was allowed to take food outside and mingle around the front of the school fields, but prohibited from entering any classrooms. Bill, dressed smartly in a pitch black suit and bow tie, ambled his way from inside the lit hall to the grassy area of the campus. The music was resonating from outside, the bass and drums fading into the hot summer wind of the evening which blew, blew, and blew…

It blew the strands of blonde hair into Bill’s gaze, now rigid.

“Hi.” shyly murmured Hillary. Bill’s eyes widened, his face molding into a still, pleased grin. Hillary was wearing a long, flowing dress of corporate blue, with her hair curled and her forelocks slightly styled over her forehead for once. She was wearing diamond earrings and a hint of makeup, which was bold but earthy, like her herself.


“You look nice.” interjected Hillary, taking lead of the conversation.

“Golly, speak for yourself, cherry.” Bill eventually returned, trying to catch his breath. They were both pink as peonies, but this onset of flushing made it feel like a middle school dance rather than a formal event at a prestige school. It brought them both back to eighth grade when they were just friends, the time they only teased each other and nothing more.

They both found a spot on the grass to sit. Hillary offered Bill a can of drink and some nibbles from the hall, to which he lukewarmly accepted. “It’s not the LBD you were hoping for.” then sighed Hillary, her voice sinking like the evening sun.

“Expectations are never really met for us, are they.” countered Bill, his gaze further zooming into the young starlight.

“What, what are you saying?”

“Suppose I’m talkin’ ‘bout something not so superficial.”

Hillary fidgeted on the grass and continued her diverse range of displeased expressions. “You’ve noticed it too?”

“Well, you sure have. You suggested we stick together for the sake of being together, and sink deeper into claims that we love each other, which may as well be lies.”

“That is what I said, yes.”

While the hall was full of humid spasms of suggestive colour, light, and tempos, the outside was as calm as a sauna. One would have thought Hillary and Bill would be deep within the moment and lost in each other’s love, but this setting only served as a bittersweet aura. “Do you think… I still love her?” Bill then asked, his voice cracking in doubt.

“Her? You mean-

“Let’s just say I never did love her.” disclosed Bill. “But I loved you. A lot.”


There was still a hint of music from the hall, but it became overpowered by the birds of twilight, the sounds of the road, and the fidgeting and breathing of Bill and Hillary. “Say, Billy, or should I say William?” began an amused Hillary.

Bill shook his head. “No.” he giggled.

“Are you still my boyfriend?” the other asked with her eyes squinting into the far flat distance of the landscape.

“At this point I’m not sure we’re even together.”

“Are we on hiatus, then?” asked Hillary, with a stiff laugh that wasn’t entirely happy.

“We can call it that. But let’s say that if one of us falls for someone during this period we are apart, neither of us should feel resentful towards that other person.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m guaranteed it will happen, Hillary.”

“Your cocksureness isn’t going to predict the future, Bill.”

By this point they had pretty much returned back inside the gym hall. The outside was deepening in its hue, inside likewise. But inside, the air felt more compressed and the set mood was romantic, providing the senses with a nostalgic feel. Several couples were now slow-dancing to Sexual Healing, amongst various social circles dotted along the edge of the dance floor.

“Hillary… although – although we’re not together anymore,” began Bill, nodding his head to the song. Funnily enough, the lyrics did not reflect his current temperament whatsoever.

“Yeah...ahah.” drawled Hillary in one of her comedic voices.

“Can we dance together, still?”

“Let it be our last.”


“Well look what we have here, it’s our uncle Joe.” smirked Donald to Joe. His friends, as if they were a mixed up in a beehive, buzzed shrewd whispers to each other. Joe had been hoping to stay away from Donald the entire night. However, to his dismay the other senior roamed the space around the platters of food, supposedly so he could grab the best bites before anyone else.

“Leave me out of your creepy ass group, Donald.” Joe bitterly replied. He grabbed a can of ginger ale, wanting to throw it straight at Donald’s smug countenance.

“Aw, is our vice Prez voting for Hillary instea-

“You implied that because you’ve always been popular, because of your high status, because you’re rich; you can do things to girls that other people can’t. What a disgusting assertion for anyone to make.” Joe snapped with a certain twist to his voice, as if he was genuinely enraged. But his expression, especially in comparison to the nominee and his gang of fans, only emphasized sad sincerity.

“Are you starting something with me, you bitch?” Donald huffed, half-laughing. Joe placed the can back on the table aggressively as the other young man proceeded to talk. “The thing was locker-room talk, I repeat – Locker. Room. Talk.”

“I’ll give you ‘locker-room talk!’”

“Woah, what the fuck, you’re crazy!” laughed Donald once again, looking around at his friends. He and Joe never really interacted much during the lunch breaks they spent at the library, but Donald had always known how ill he thought of him. He never saw somebody like Joe as a threat, but now he was challenging him onto something. He couldn’t let his supporters down. He had to knock Joe the fuck out. “I think we should take this behind the gym, huh, Biden?”

“I would love to.” Joe muttered under his heavy breath, before his body (as if spontaneously) leapt off the ground. “Come on snake, let’s rattle!!---”* His arm formed an arch, with his fist being the wrecking ball about to pound straight into Donald’s cheek.  


“I like this song actually; it’s full of total cheese. Reminds me of your sorry ass.” teased Hillary, almost missing a step.

Bill shot a laugh back. “Oh? You call this dancing? You can do so much better than this, nerd.”

All of a sudden, a loud clunk struck the dancing duo in addition to various other students in the hall. “You heard that, right?” Hillary asked. They turned their heads towards the source of the racket, to where Joe and Donald were now onto each other like a pair of wild beasts.

Barack was in the middle of a conversation before his eyes caught a glimpse of the large crowd of people condensed within an area near the storeroom cupboard, located behind the gym itself. He knew that something big was happening, but couldn’t bring himself to confront the situation until he saw traces of Joe within the mob’s center. “What the,” he screeched, darting towards the incident.

“FIGHT!!” a student wailed.

“FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!” a group furthermore chanted, with the number of voices in the chorus increasing.

“J-Joe?” Bill stammered in shock, acknowledging what was rapidly commencing.

“I gotta break this up.” said Barack as he trembled, leaping into the fight and doing his best attempt at dragging Joe away. Joe’s nose was bleeding, and he had a series of ripe bruises planted along his arms, neck and face. His dark blue eyes were top full with rage, with Donald’s the same, but instead showing bloodshot specks of cowardice. 

“This isn’t over, bastard!” screamed Joe, his shirt drenched in testosterone-infused sweat.

“Fuck,” spluttered Donald, clutching his stomach. It was pretty obvious that Joe had received the short end of the stick in this situation, as Donald was left with no blood drawn and fewer marks, but still had a severe black eye from Joe’s first punch. The last thing he could remember were two hits to the stomach, which caused him to withdraw from the action and crouch in pain. His vulnerable figure became submerged in people flooding around him, one half kicking him as opposed to the other half attempting to get him upright.

One of his friends ran past Joe and spat at him, where it landed on his achy neck in a feeble splatter. A few members of school government and teachers arrived late to the scene, with the teachers furiously blowing their whistles and ordering everyone to depart from what was left – Donald, Joe, and Barack.

“Joe, Joe… Joe… Joe.” Barack had carried his vice away so that he was farthest away from anyone in the hall as possible, while the teachers had their word with Donald. “You’re a fucking idiot, Joe.”

“Yeah.” he spat, sinking to the ground and against the wall. With his muscles panging with pain, his best friend hazily present opposite him in a room of magenta lights and beautiful hues; Joe now desperately wanted to tell him what he wanted to say for a long, long time. Alas, he could not.


Chapter Text


June 5th, 5:38pm


As debates began to draw to a close, Donald and Hillary were advised to join the rest of the seniors and juniors in their rigorous studying timetable for SAT examinations. Donald didn't like the idea of having his own responsibilities, and instead pandered to his supporters by fixing on his campaign and upcoming eighteenth birthday. Hillary, although considered the put-together student she was, secretly turned her nose at her schedule and cast away a few periods of me-time for when she needed it.

One of the most impending, inevitable things to arrive to Hillary was the aftermath of one of her most notorious of deeds, a school scandal, something that popped up everywhere but was never really delved into, only touched upon. Oppositions were not afraid of pulling the subject from their intellectual sleeves. But what people questioned was if this candidate was truly none other than a criminal.

The onset of this was when Hillary began using a private email server on her blackberry rather than her normal phone and school laptop to message a range of unknown servers. Her emails eventually got deleted out of fear rather than spite, and the majority of emails that other students were able to hack into and leak were somewhat worthless. Of course if she were a real icon in politics this would have served her severe consequences, however, this act only got her into a lowered reputation. What brought it lower was a rumor even more disgraceful; illegal images she sent out to a certain somebody which only put a strain on their then-relationship. The rumor was not true, but even so a few students in the lower grades caught the wrong idea due to the situation having never been elaborated upon by Hillary herself, only surrounding oppositions. Even some upperclassmen liked to find truth to it.

Something rather off-center was that the situation no longer affected Hillary. Her sentiments were extremely aloof to the matter, so much that she stopped probing any flaws of hers altogether. To her it was a state of comfort, but in reality, it was a lack of self-deliberation. From now it was as if she shoved every single feeling aside in order to provide room for her more logical facet to take control of whatever trouble her emotions were causing her. These days life was simple; neither sad nor happy, but simple. Her and Bill remained friends and got along as always, which was a relief as it was obvious both found their relationship to be overworking them to a degree. Now it was as if a kaleidoscope of caged butterflies got let free into the wilderness. Bill and Hillary were free from those chains, and could smile at each other without a flicker of tender apprehension.


The sky on that day was no more than a canvas of unreadable clouds. The surrounding nature was green yet lifeless, still as stone. Trying her best not to be seen or heard, Michelle stood afar from the police station, waiting for a familiar face to submerge out the one place she scrutinized most – its gates. These days her academic performance outshone that of her peers, but regardless of multiple warm words of praise the experience was on the edge of isolating. She didn’t want to be secluded from everybody else, but as somebody more-than-friends of a student president from a reputable private school made it seem like she was the most put together person on earth.

Like everybody though, Michelle was nobody other than a young woman who just wanted to live life the way she wanted. Being of such a status had its cons, but what satisfied the maiden’s heart the most was having somebody who also endured isolation from his grand, inevitably prominent reputation.

All of a sudden, Michelle’s eyes attached to themselves to the figure strolling by, her feet taking off so that her pace mirrored the other’s. They greeted each other soberly, and both their hands found comfort within the space in their pockets.

“How did it go?” Michelle calmly asked, trying to not take much thought of Hillary's tired state.

Hillary made an unfulfilled noise while smirking. “Great. It’s like they didn’t take a second guess.”

“Is everything all good…”

“Hella.” insisted Hillary with a voice more nasally than usual, as if she had caught a cold. “I’ve decided to live my life in the moment now.”

“You need a break, you know that?” suggested Michelle, not realizing her own identical requirements.

“Well, yeah. The debates are all done with so we can set aside time for our finals now.”

The other girl raked a hand through her natural hair, laughing bashfully at the surreal idea that relentless studying was esteemed a break. “You’re gonna smash it.”

“Slaaaay.” Hillary said abruptly after a prim and well-dressed man walked by with a small dog on a leash. “I was talking about the dog, just so you know buster.” she called out with a stone cold grin shortly after the man turned around in slight distaste.

“You know, it’s weird.”

“If this is about your gross infatuation with quinoa you were talking about yesterday then leave me outta that.”

“Shh!” hushed Michelle before breaking into a chuckle. “I’m talking more sober matters. Adolescence.”

“Well fuck me sideways, that’s one heckuva revelation.” joked Hillary, retaining a neutral face. “Nah, I get what you’re onto.”

“I don’t know, it’s just I expected sophomore year to be me continuing my studies as usual, but turns out I'm known by all these people at such a prestigious school. These things come with luck, but sometimes I don’t feel so lucky.” shyly admitted Michelle, instantly regretting her choice of talking about her current problems rather than Hillary's.

“Sorry.” the blonde replied with a tissue accompanying her blocked nose. Her hands brushed along her face, getting rid of excess sleet stuck under her eyes.

“Girl, you okay?”

“I-it’s just a cold or something like that. I’m tough, I can knock it right out!”

The air had been rather pollinated lately as for summer which only made it worse, and along with that Hillary stressed out about her studies and the infamous presidency. The inconvenience of this was so ironic, as if the virus had specifically targeted her out of all people. “Want to stay over at mine? I have clay facemasks.” Michelle offered, layering Hillary with her jacket. Although it was June, the atmosphere was eerily chillier than usual.

“Oh yes, to paint each other’s nails, gush about our celebrity crushes, pillow fight in our underwear and all that stuff that guys think we do for some surreal reason.” Hillary quipped.

“Dooooon’t think we’ll be doing any of that.” Michelle pulled a sardonically charged smile, her eyebrows feigning disdain. “But I can make a mean quinoa salad, that’s for sure.”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Ay, sit still.” Barack huffed to Joe, dabbing an antiseptic borrowed from Nurse Monroe’s office. It was the end of the day, a Monday, and it was not until when Joe headed towards the parking lot when Barack dragged him back into the staffroom to reread a few documents. He kept an eye out for Joe, so much that he had spotted a graze from his and Donald’s bust-up that wasn’t looking its best.

“Make sure that thing doesn’t get infected.” said the Prez almost demandingly, Joe staying silent the entire time. The vice was about to mutter something, until the voice of Principal Washington caused him to freeze in his seat.


“Y-yes, principal.” expelled an alert Joe.

“I see you’ve proven you have got your act together. Good job on the yearbook, young man.” praised Washington with an austere smile settling on his lips.

“Thank you, sir.”

Another taller figure joined with the principal. “Keep in mind if it weren’t for you and Donald being in the midst of your finals, there would have been a high chance of us expelling both of you.” Lincoln announced.

“Yes, sir.”

Lincoln walked up to the window, hands clenched behind his back. He drew the curtain of a stray window, allowing a sickly yellow light to penetrate the staffroom. The vice principal faced Barack and Joe and shot them childlike smirk, a reassuring mutter following: “It’s a sucky time, we know that, boys.”

At that precise moment bus driver Richard Nixon barged into the room, beginning to rummage in the fridge which was used to store milk for coffee and bread for afternoon sandwiches. “Hmph.” he grunted, taking out a dubious dish concealed in plastic wrap which the principles could not quite make out. Nixon would stop by the staffroom due to him being a friendly acquaintance and former student to Washington and Lincoln, meaning that his erratic presences were usually tolerated.

“Dick, may I question on your trespassing today?” Washington asked in one of his humored tones.

“He hasn’t got any sidemen burglars, George.” voiced Lincoln, guffawing at the usual witticism he pulled. “But I was about to mention, is that the democratic council clubroom you’re heading to?”

Nixon’s plate of food was now made visibly clear – a serving cottage cheese which now had to suffer being blanketed with a staggering volume of ketchup. It must have been one hell of a bad day. Nobody knew where he even got it from or how it got in the fridge, really; he was a man whose belongings transcended time and space.

“Oh, Richard. Don’t think we’ll forget your time here.” chuckled the white haired principal.

“I remember it like it was yesterday.” Nixon shuddered, happily eating his concoction of a dish.

“Here we goooo.” warbled Barack, doing his signature move of burying his face in his hand.

“I was about to say, boys,” the bus driver began as he twirled his fork. “Don’t think that your faults made at this school are the end of the world.” Just as his self-dignity began to descend even lower, Mr. Reagan burst through the door, with Joe catching the last reminiscence of the teacher’s jellybelly pencil case before it got tucked away in his briefcase.

‘So even they know about the prom incident… dammit.’ Joe thought, pulling an awkward moue.

“Woooahehehoo!” howled Reagan as if he had just downed a gallon of Bud Lite. “Uncle Dick is exercising his soggy chops usefully, I see!”

“Also, don’t be a dick. Literally.” Nixon grumbled to the boys, whose faces turned pallid due to the fact the staffroom was now substitute for a playground, specifically for teachers to let loose.

“The fuck…” whispered Barack, intentionally to himself, though the amplitude was a little higher than he bargained.

“Leave the talk to me, Dickee.” offered Reagan, almost forgetting he was in front of two students.

“Um.” expressed Joe with a cold puzzled look.


The two principals elongated their stay at the staffroom after the teachers and students eventually left; almost avoiding whatever monopolies they had to deal with at that moment. They stood by the window, admiring the scenery and what monstrosities tinfoil-hat-wearing freshman Alex Jones had to spout about gay frogs near the water fountain. The two men were almost taut with this tension of what they unfoundedly thought to be stress, however that was an entirely different story.

“Abe, the sky, look.” Washington aimed a finger at the cosmic sheet of gradient.

“It’s doing that odd sort of rainbow thing again.” remarked Lincoln, carrying out a few sideways glances. Eventually his eyes latched themselves onto the rare sight of his companion’s amusement. “Hold on, what is this, a smile?”

Washington’s apparent smirk weakened in intensity, contrary to that of his heartbeat. “We’re acting like a pair of teenage girls.” stuttered Washington, feeling his face heating up.

“It’s my forte.”

Silence. The principal forwarded his hand after the pause, still feeling a little bashful. He managed to state a small something he hoped to dissolve the tension, which in a way, did. “You know I just want to remind you, in gratitude, how charming you are as a friend.”

“Come on, bro.”

‘Bro…’ thought Washington in subtle discomposure, beadily watching his vice’s arms wrap around his shoulder. “H-hold o-

Lincoln held him close, raising a wiry eyebrow. “Just kiss me already, you son of a gun.”

The two men leaned in and felt each other’s lips touch, shyly yet in collected caution. Lincoln went in headstrong, tugging and pulling on whatever flesh of his lover he could grasp with his teeth, meanwhile Washington pressed his hands on the man and caressed his shoulders. “B-bro…” Washington mumbled in between whatever breaths he could muster. Their lips met again, more aggressively this time – with their tasting slugs (aka tongues) twirling around each other’s as they were a pair of toostie pops. Slowly but sensually, they broke away from their kiss, still in each other’s arms, looking one another piercingly in the eyes.

“Woah, well, that was nice.” frigidly claimed Washington, utterly dumbfounded of what the actual hell had just took place.


Chapter Text


June 7th, 4:16pm  


“Abe… honey…” called out Washington from his work desk, his eyeglasses near to sliding off his nose.

“How’s it going?” Lincoln raised his head from writing his notes at his own separate desk.

“We’re low on money.”

At once, the other principal crossed his arms and turned towards his lover, who had been recounting their budget. “It may just be due to the fact we were already running a little low from… you know.” he motioned towards the window that was once smashed from previous school riots.

“But the direst of conclusions that may as well come out of this is-” Washington then paused, and looked at his vice directly into his deep eyes. “We might not have enough for the student government to continue next year.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“It’s a close cut, but I reckon we can do it. Trump and Rodham are doing their finals, so they won’t be squeezing any last drop of our campus space with their rallies and get-togethers, that’s for sure.”

“It’s too late to host a fundraising event on campus, dear.”

“No, you’re right. But now thinking about it properly I think we can pull it off.” persisted Washington, briefly biting at the end of his eyeglasses. “Hardly.” he added pensively.

“Notwithstanding of that, I can’t help but feel skeptical.” replied Lincoln. “What are we building them up to be, really?”

“It’s a hazy question, so expect a hazy answer.”

“Everything is so heated and divided; even I have been wondering whether to call it off.”

Immediately the principal shot a frown at his lover. “What happened to the optimistic Abe I once knew? You should be envisioning a bright future for these kids.”

“No,” Lincoln solemnly shook his head, scratching his beard in hesitant thought. “These kids are the ones that will stay kids, regardless if they turn twenty five or forty or whatever – it doesn’t matter that they have attended a well-regarded high school, what does matter is their approach to compromise. They are black and white in their minds and it’s not good for them.”

Washington hastily scowled in response, but it waned. “You’re talking funny matters here.”

“You’re thinking it too, George.”

“I suppose in a way,” began Washington, taking a steady inhale. “I’m becoming to hate this school.”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Hillary, Bill, Tim, and some other friends from Hillary’s social circle sat in a park, a couple of them messing about on the children’s swings and relentlessly looting the space from any families that wanted to visit with their kids. Instantly, Hillary heard a sharp buzz from her phone, and calmly opened up her messages to see who wanted what. 

Donald: whaddup, losers! Its ur man (and future prez) here, telling you about my birthday and whatsahappening. Im having this bomb ass party at my house. June 10th. 8pm. Nobody hosts parties better than I do. so yous better be there, binches- I’ll send my address to those who reply back to me. Btw you better. especially any female interns, yer all gonna look greaaaaat. im the best @ complimenting, nbody compliments better than me. So you all better be there. keep in ur sorry lil minds I’m sending this message to evrybody I know. e v e r y body, believe me.


She looked at Bill who had been wryly hovering over her shoulder for the past few seconds, skimming the text. “I’m in no way coming to this.” then scoffed Hillary, shoving the phone back into her bag.

“Haaahaha, no, you should definitely go.” Bill considered as a joke, with the amused tone dropping near the end. The gesture was odd and the intention had so much more behind it, nonetheless his former girlfriend didn’t mention anything of the matter.

“I mean, if you’ll go I will.” Tim suggested. Scratching the back of his neck a little, he feigned a cool expression which he hoped would outshine his flushed cheeks. Despite his offer it was foreseen what Hillary’s answer was going to be:

“Hell nah.”


Not so far away, a curious George Bush spent some time inadvertently poking his nose into Jeb’s business. While George prowled through his brother’s room to dig out an ultra-rare pokemon card for some unexplainable reason, he spotted a notification on Jeb’s phone – left turned on.

One New Message

Undoubtedly, he had to read it.

“JEEEB!” screeched George from his brother’s bedroom. It was not long until he discovered that Jeb had, actually, been in the room all along. He was sat on his desk on his computer, having stayed ignorant of whatever shuffling and heavy breathing George had to offer a minute prior.

“I’m right here, deadbeat!”

“Oh. Hehe, right."

“What are you doing scrolling through my ‘box?” Jeb further asked in suspicion.

His elder brother waved the phone in his face, making the text clear as blurred crystal. “You better not go to this, Jeeeb. What if there’s alcohol?”

“You’re telling me this.” Jeb whispered insecurely. A momentary silence followed his statement, until George’s eyes began to light up.

“I mean, I’m goin-



Meanwhile, a fatigued Ted Cruz who had just returned from an uneventful fishing trip with his father scrolled through his phone he had to leave behind. One new message from Donald.

‘Dad’s not gonna let me out if I say it’s a party.’ thought Ted, sprawled out dumbly on his bed after he finished scanning the text. ‘He hates me going out alone period. Wait. What if there’s a load of cool stuff I can smoke?’

Instantly, he shivered in discomfort as soon as his vision accidentally fixed itself to the red thumbtack. It remained pinned onto California, an eternal reminder of his aspirations to become an actor which would never become reality under his father’s reign. Ted knew the disparities between dreams and reality to others’ surprise, who reckoned the adolescent was on a consistent high horse, stuck in his own delusions. But the fears and insecurities which struck Ted every once in a while were eye opening, and for sure had the capacity to drag him down in any way it could.

The only thing the thumbtack represented was the only source of a rebellion, the cold, hard resentment he held for his father, and in a way, God.

“I’m gonna go.” he whispered, finally closing his eyes to nap.


Marco on the other hand was guilty of being a total shut in, having not gone out that weekend at all. It was especially unusual for somebody like him. He remained occupied on playing video games with his younger sister and redundantly studying throughout the day, not giving much thought to his social life. Therefore when he did happen to receive Donald’s text, it managed to give arise to his adrenaline amongst a session of contemplation.

“Huuuh.” Marco expressed a small noise of acknowledgement. ‘Well if I gotta show Ted I’ve moved on from him by sticking ‘round Donald him all night, then so be it. Haha.’ he said to himself in his head, withdrawing from the video game. ‘Ugh, he might not even be there. Shut up, Marco. You salty motherfucker.’

“Marco, what’s up?” his sister asked, although more absorbed with the screen than her brother’s problems.

“Oh it’s nothing, continue.”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

One New Message

Donald: whaddup, losers! Its ur man (and future prez) here, telling you about my birthday and whatsahappening. Im having this bomb ass party at m---

“Yeah… no.”

Immediately, Bernie deleted the message and continued to snack on his roll.


Chapter Text


June 10th, 5:33pm


“Dear Lord.”

It was dusk. The curtains cast blocky gray shadows that transformed Ted’s bedroom into a land of neo-cubism. His eyes were shut and he was feeling risky, more risky than usual as the pinnacle of his emotional capacity was nothing differing from blunt pencil lead. The only way to get something out of that evening was to attend the party.

“May you bless me with pure intentions, may I be a wholesome man, and may I live a life of freedom. Amen.” he finished the prayer, but something seemed amiss. ‘Wait…’

After reading Donald’s invite a few days back, Ted had a dream. A dream of ominous whirls of startling images and emotions, ironically sentimental as if the only way he could express his reactions was while asleep. The holy cross was adorned with the bleeding lord, mirroring the crucifix in his home. This time the faceless God himself spoke, forcing fugitive images to flash within the box of a dream. There was a split second where Ted could feel his body falling, submerging deeper and deeper into what felt like hell, until he woke up not in a cold sweat, but dead still.

Ted eventually laced up his shoes and fled out the door, avoiding any explanation of where he was going to his father.

'Please God, please tell me that dream meant jackshit.’ 

His prayer that afternoon wasn’t anything planned, rather it was a quick release of his deepest insecurities. Really, what are pure intentions exactly? How does one define a wholesome man? What does it mean to be free? Ask anybody in Washingcoln, and their answers, if even properly expounded – would have not correlated to that of Ted Cruz, or anybody for that matter, a single bit.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Donald!” Marco called out, a hand cupped around his mouth. The host tilted his head towards Marco before spinning around to greet his sidekick.

“Ay, whaddup Lil Marco?” Donald whacked the smaller boy on the back, almost causing him to trip up.

“Your house is huge!! Like, fuck you man!”

“It’s always jealousy with you, peewee. C’mon, let’s go meet the guys.” Donald dryly smirked at Marco’s wide-eyed appearance before he coaxed with his hand for the other to follow his lead.

Marco peered around the place in awe. “Wow.” he quietly gasped, notifying the golden staircase and the houseplants that almost appeared domesticated, as if they were pets conforming to the upper class austerity of the house. The floor was pure white and the walls were polished marble, stony and lifeless. The dining room was huge – too huge, to a degree. The lounge, right at the far end, was also gaudy and extensive in its character. It was a brilliant house, but that didn’t stop it from coming across as empty and alien. Marco soon began to pick up the worn delicacy of the building and had a hard time seeing how, or if it even did, reflect any aspect of Donald’s persona.

“Oh, Donald,”                                                                     

“What?” Donald faced Marco, almost expressionless in his facade.

“Is Melania coming?”

The older boy glared at the freshman’s blinking eyes, before breaking out into a vacant laugh. “We broke up.”

“Of course.” Marco sneered, albeit feeling a little guilty. He really liked Melania, and wondered upon what Donald must have done in order for them to split like that. It wouldn’t have been similar to Sarah and Donald’s petty fallout. It had to be something more serious…


An hour floated by. It was now around nine in the evening, and Marco talked with a few of the freshmen who settled in Donald’s lounge to play cards against humanity. Some nearby juniors who had already gotten tipsy from a mere splash of liquor took part in the iconic game of spin the bottle, with the game becoming more and more suggestive as time passed. Ted arrived not long after Marco did, but instead headed straight through to the backyard, wanting not to be probed at by any of Donald’s squad. Sat on a sun lounger and smoking a couple cigarettes, Ted read his book beside Donald’s outside pool, opposite to an ice bucket full of alcoholic beverages.

Suddenly, gazing at the corners of the turquoise jello that was the swimming pool, he noticed Jeb.

“Well would you look at that.” Donald snickered, his stare grasping every essence of Jeb’s state of surprise. He was with John Kasich, who promptly exited out the pool to avoid further discourse. Ted, from afar, covered any evidence of his eyes spying on the scene with his book. Immediately Donald’s group turned around in Jeb’s direction, wondering what Donald was motioning to until their faces formed their own individual, yet astoundingly akin wry smiles.

“It’s that low energy bum! Man, aren’t you pissin’ your pants.” sarcastically hurled Steve Bannon, before taking a look at Donald for approval. The latter’s face remained unaffected.

“I hope not. This is a public pool at the moment.” Jeb shot back, with his body edging away in the water.

“You should be happy that your relevancy is over.” another person in Donald’s crowd, Sean Hannity scoffed.

“Yo, you’re not doing a great job at hiding your boner!” further yelled Bannon. He then glanced towards sophomore Kellyanne Conway, who was in the pool chatting to classmates Anne Coulter and Betsy DeVos . “Hey! Conway! He’s staring at your boobs!”

“No, no… I-I’m not, please-

“Gross!” Kellyanne Conway wailed, now wading away from the corner of the pool.

Screwing up his face in his infamous fashion, Mike Pence let out a fed-up laugh. “Leave him alone, you guys.” he said, almost embarrassed.

“Go back to sucking your bro’s dick, Bush.” Bannon suggested while chucking his empty beer can at Jeb’s head. Kasich picked the can up and placed it on the poolside without any retaliation.

Donald spun around and led the huddling mass of angsty teenagers back to the ice bucket, leaving Jeb and Kasich in peace. “Come, fellas.”

“What’s the big deal? Didn’t you call him out exclusively for us to take a jab at him, Don?” Sean Spicer asked.

“That’s how our usual interactions start…”

Another friend butted in: “Nahhh, man, you took jabs at him in the debates all the time! And successfully too.”

“Yeah, it’s not like you were friends with that lowlife or anything.” a person in the group belittled on top of that.

“Yeah. N-no.” Donald haltingly spoke, scratching his neck.


Another hour sprinted away, with the night growing into a rhythm of the students one by one falling into drunkenness. Games turned into make-out sessions, the music turned louder, and the night descended into hormonal chaos. Carly Fiorina had been wandering through the crowds of mixed cliques, slightly put off by their juvenile behavior until she found a peer from the republican council to awkwardly start conversation with – Rick Santorum. In all honestly, the two of them weren’t enjoying this at all.

In a flash, classmate Mike Huckabee glided into the discussion. “Why hello.” he spoke, as if he had just successfully slid into Carly’s DMs.

“Hiya, huck.” Carly tried to speak over the ear shattering noise of drunken teenagers and the drone of modern music.

“Aren’t you looking nice.”

“Perfect! Some nice, heterosexual flirtation! Not like the LGBT, ABC-plus baloney the liberal media stuffs down our throats these days!” Rick passionately expressed.

“You should stuff a dick down your throat, Santorum.” a random peer jeered, slapping him around the head as he briskly walked past into the backyard.

“SEE!!! All these homosexuals have on their mind is sex, look how vulgar they are!!!” moaned Rick, violently aiming a finger at the passer-byer. “Not to forget OVERLY SENSITIVE!”

Carly then began to murmur a few words into Mike’s ear. “I’d prefer if we just spent the night as friends.” she said.

“What, you expect me to jump on you like that?”

“No, I just don’t want you looking at me in this way.”

Rick grimaced, furiously fastening up his tie. “Mike if you’re going to be heterosexual at least don’t make it suggestive! Be the nice, pleasant Christian man God wants you to be.”


“Rick, I don’t know if you’ve realized, but we’re at a fucking house party hosted by Donald Trump.”


In the meantime, Ted had to move away from the sun lounger because of a bunch of other people taking his spot. In subsequence, he had no choice but to stroll over towards the pool to see what Jeb had been up to.

“Hey.” uttered Ted.


They both flashed insecure smiles, clearly feeling a similar level of abandonment and discomfort. Taking off his shoes and socks, Ted rolled up his trousers and dunked his calves into the cold chlorinated conundrum. Kasich had left, as Donald wanted to speak to him about something. Only Ted and Jeb, the two loners of the party, remained at the corner of the pool. Desolate and ever so blue.

“Where’re your friends?” Ted then asked, wiggling his toes as he deadpanned.

“Says you.”

Bit by bit, the pair actually found contentment within each other’s loneliness. Their solitude was so unapologetic, seeing as they had experienced the thing screwing them over time and time again. Unlike other nights the air was crisp, cluttered with the racket of booming music and chattering cliques of people while the gentle iciness of the water balanced it out. It was, to say the least, nice.

“See, I just came here to get wasted.” Jeb admitted, almost with pride.

“You drink?”

“Hell yeah.” responded Jeb, raising his eyebrows and making his drink clear to Ted, before bringing it to his mouth. “Also Marco’s here, he was in the lounge last time I saw him.”

“Hm. Kay.”

It had been at least an hour and a half, possibly a fraction more since the party got into its groove. Ted hadn’t got to smoke anything alternative to his own rollup cigarettes, yet didn’t have enough energy to talk to anybody. Jeb got to talk to a few people, but spent most of the past hour drinking and ignoring his brother’s ironic state of concern. The two boys were never really an interesting dynamic like Ted was with Marco, or Marco was with Jeb. Throughout school they just simply existed, said the occasional hello and went to the shopping mall after school with Marco. It was never just Jeb and Ted, but now, on a night where solace was its hardest to achieve, the two felt the most unusual onset of ease sparking between their silences.

A grave and pale expression breached itself onto Jeb. He could make out a rodeo bull which had somehow sprung up in the lounge, without any padded flooring, and a certain rambunctious Cuban near to falling off. In fact, he did. It was a silly sight to witness, of course, yet Jeb didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “No wait… don’t tell me he’s intoxicated himself…” he mumbled in second-hand embarrassment.

“Or what if somebody else has intoxicated him?” the other boy’s brows knitted, his mouth trembling. He put on his shoes, stuffing his socks into his pockets as they would take too long to put back on.

“You better get Cruzin’.” Jeb drawled with another gulp of his drink. “I know you guys aren’t so close anymore but he might be in trouble.”

“S-sure.” Ted murmured in subtle discomfort. His demeanor faded to a black look. “Jeb… are you dribbling?”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Yas.”


“Marco!!” screamed Ted, running up to the lounge.

“Howdy, motherfuckers! Yeehaw!” Marco chirped, sprawled out on the floor.

“Marco, Marco!” No matter how loud he yelled, Ted could not grab the guy’s attention due to several people blocking his view in the crippling process, to which he had no choice but to tug at the nearest person he could find. “Hey, do you know how many drinks he’s had?” he inquired to a student, breathing heavily.

“Sorry man, I’ve only seen him finish two cans and that was no more than thirty minutes back.”

“It’s bad.” he responded, shaking his head in worry. The student stepped away into the yard, and Ted was left to clean up the aftermath of what was Donald’s house party – aka, something that would blatantly have such a despicable outcome.

Mike Huckabee turned up his nose at the prevalently disliked candidate of the election, who was now trying to shake Marco awake. “That smarmy turd. Who does he think he is?”

“Who are you talking about?” questioned Rick to Mike, still sour from his random encounter.

“That sleazebag Cruz.”

“Mike, stop that.” spat Carly.

“Look how he’s handling Marco. It’s so obvious that they’re obsessed with each other! What fags.”

“Oh my fucking god.” Carly had to walk away in shame, afraid that Ted was going to notice Huckabee’s statement of thundering audibility.

“Don’t say such profanities.” Rick attempted to reach out to the girl, but she had already disappeared, possibly out the front door, far out into the dark streets where her crush for Ted she knew was unrequited by now had a chance to escape from her mind. Like a lot of things, thoughts of Ted only brought her cynical feelings about the world and herself. Maybe all this time, Ted only used her as a prop for vice president, disregarding any of her signs and suggestions. Maybe all this time the person that Carly liked was actually deeply, deeply in love… with Marco Rubio.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Hey, have you got all your stuff? Like house keys and money?” cried Ted in an array of heavy huffs and pants from carrying the boy. They were now at the front doorstep, sheltered from any potential intruders.

“Yeaaaah. I sure have, Ted.”

“Right. At least you know it’s me. We’re leaving, now.”

“Awwww, but I wanna partehy!” whined Marco, pouting and stomping his foot.

His guardian for the night rolled his eyes of coal, and started to get the drunk upright. “No. No more partying.” strictly ordered Ted. They each began to walk, with Marco’s arm wrapped around the other young man’s shoulder in clear disorientation.

“Where we goin’?”

“I don’t know yet, but it’s somewhere.”

“Ted… Ted…”

Ted stopped in his tracks and lowered his breathing. Marco was falling in and out of consciousness, which caused his irked guardian to – rather angrily – smack his cheek for his attention. “What, what is it, wake up.”


‘Rafael!?’ thought Ted, taken aback at the use of the paternally inherited forename. “What is it…”

“I’m hungry.”

Once again, Ted heaved Marco onto his shoulder and began to take off. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m hungry for a certain specialty… Rafael á la Cruz…”

“Actually I think it would have been better if you stayed asleep.”

Neither of them at that moment could work out one another’s intentions. The night had been a blur, and the crisp summer air that accompanied that night only washed away any fuzziness experienced back at the party. The sight and feel of the streets that night acted as a sort of calm after the storm that rumbled within Donald’s house, like a hangover instead pleasant to the senses. What both of them knew was that Marco’s true hangover would not settle in until he woke up that following June morning.

“Rafael c’mere, I wanna see you.” Marco babbled, inappropriately touching Ted’s face. The older boy knew that this homoromantic affection was only an outcome of the alcohol, and didn’t think much of it. Well, he tried to think nothing of it, at least.

“You’re acting so darn off.” groaned Ted, pushing Marco’s hands away in kindled frustration. He guided Marco to a bench in the middle of a park, sandwiched between the lit streets. “Two cans huh. Donald was right – you are a total lightweight.” 

“Yeah, and you have a weird nose.” Marco voiced with his words not forming correctly and his posture slouched. Calmer now, Ted shyly smiled.

“Almost one year on and you still could pass as a middle-schooler.” he retorted, reflecting their first day at school together. He didn’t mean it. He was only playing.

“You still look like a serial killer.”

“I know. I actually carry a penknife with me everywhere-




Marco’s mouth somehow made its way onto Ted’s lips, half open, nostrils shallowly breathing. His skin juxtaposed Ted’s rough upper lip which was starting to grow coarse hair; Marco’s, however, was covered in peachfuzz and a significant scent Ted could’ve sworn held a safe familiarity. Ted knew according to the Bible this was ever so wrong, but a strange impulse told him to let it happen. Marco wasn’t himself. He would forget this in the morning. It didn’t mean anything.

Or did it?


“No. No. This is bad.” panicked Ted, jerking aside. He rubbed his mouth and shook his head as if he wanted to erase the details of his deed like an etch-a-sketch. Alas it was impossible. Ted was stuck. Marco’s hazel-brown eyes half opening, his light breathing, his skin, his sweet face – it all began attacking him, feature by feature.

“What’s wrong?”

“I had a dream that would predict this – I mean, me not getting into heaven –

“Oh no!” exclaimed Marco along with a hiccup. Covering his mouth, he started to deeply ruminate on what his priest would say, god forbid what people as idolized as his parents would react.  “Does this mean I’ll go to hell too?”

“You’ve already experienced it. Getting wasted then kissing a gross guy like me. God. Why can’t I just undo today?” Ted wailed, punching his knee.

“I-it’s okay-” reassured Marco, although half-panicked himself. He was warranted an anxiety attack would root from this.

“I’m sorry.” whimpered Ted, covering his face with his hand. “I’m sorry, God… Jesus… mom, dad…”

“I’m really that repulsive, huh.” Marco’s face sunk, his eyes looking dead, and his esteem clearly dropping to rock bottom.

Shaking his head in sympathy, Ted’s shoulders became limp meanwhile his arms surrendered to rest on his legs. “No Marco, no… I think I like you. A lot.” he finally confessed, making complete eye contact this time as his toes pointed inwards. Marco’s heartbeat eventually decelerated until his cheeks were able to form two imperfect dimples upon his red face.

“I like you too, Ted.” the other softly admitted, beaming the same smile Ted fell in love with back in September. A few minutes of that night was then spent simply smiling, relaxing into the bench and gazing at the moon; no more.


“Ah, anyways, are you able to get home, squirt?”

“You kiddin’ me? I live hardly a mile away.”

“I’m still gonna walk you home.” Ted insisted, pulling Marco upright. “But first I wanna do something.”

Ted took out his pocket knife, leaving Marco’s big brown eyes following the track of the blade which glistened in the moonlight. He started to approach a tree in front of him before firmly carving something into the wood bark, his grip clenched, jaw likewise. It almost shook the tree a little. After he drew away the two bold letters T + M became candid and clear on the trunk of the tree. Sure, it was an iconic yet lame thing to do, but Ted could detect that this was the perfect time and place for it to simply just be.

“You could carve a coon right outta a tree.” then commented Marco, half laughing.

“Shut up.”


Chapter Text


June 11th, 5:33pm


“I’ll hold a real turtle someday...”

Jeb could sense morning.

But this wasn’t a familiar place.

“What, Bernie, where are you?” he attempted to search for his stuffed turtle he kept in his reach every time he fell asleep, almost forgetting how he did end up naming it after a particular electoral candidate. All of a sudden, an accustomed voice filled the room:

“Your boyfriend Sanders ain’t here.” it said.

“Hold up…” Jeb’s vision fixated itself, now having full focus on his surroundings. This… was not his room, definitely not his house either. The bedsheets felt so cold, so crisp. The room was soaked in a depressed white, possessing a flat, matte texture. Everything was the same hue to the degree it appeared unsettling.

Out came a guy wrapped with a white towel, another towel (hiding his face) used to dry off his hair. His skin served as the only color brought to the room – a dark, golden tan. “Yeah. It’s your friend Donnie.” the man revealed his face under the towel. Jeb was at Donald’s house.

Very shortly, the younger one flinched. “You didn’t do anything to me did you?”

“No, fuck off with that shit. This is the guest room, you fucker.”

“Oh man…” Jeb groaned, wondering why on earth Donald chose to use the guest room’s bathroom suite other than his own. He also experienced bouts of confusion as he could not fathom how he ended up in this current position. In addition to that, a creeping headache began to pound in rhythm to his heartbeat, causing his limp upper body to fall back onto the bed.

“I use this bathroom shower mostly so my siblings don’t barge in. They are advised never to come in here.” Donald explained, almost clairvoyantly reading Jeb’s thoughts. “I’ll drive you to home. You brought yer car?”

“No. I walked. I don’t like driving.”

Donald strutted in front of the guest room’s mirror, suffocating his hair with an awful quantity of product. “You’re a street wanderer,” he muttered, vigorously raking in the gel.That’s what you are.”

“Yeah, I am. I don’t like being at home, so what?” Jeb reacted, pulling the sheets up to his bare shoulders. He looked over to where Donald had put his clothes, folded, yet with little effort.

“I’ve seen you out in the open, yer know.” Donald claimed, looking at the boy through the mirror.

“Okay. Cool. How would you know?”

“I know a lot of things.” the elder answered, quietly. “You know Jebra, you should be grateful you had a place to sleep that weren’t the pool.”

“Oh gosh, I am hungover aren’t I?” Jeb then acknowledged in shame, hectic flashbacks of the previous night flooding his mind. “Wait, Donald,”


“Did – you drink any…”

“Not a single drop.” he replied truthfully, trying not to picture the sight of exchange student Vladimir Putin on the rodeo bull while wasted on Vodka, in which he did – and chortled. “I’m a principled man, Jeb. A principled man.” he dragged on, laughing, clearly not trying to sound sincere in case of the second statement.

What was true, strangely enough, was Donald's consistent state of sobriety.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“So this is what they call Hangover Week, I guess?” commented Megyn Kelly, part of the school announcer team. She, as well as the other hosts peered through the window of the announcing room which allowed for the main corridor to be completely exposed, alongside the students that thrived within it. It was like that of a main road, branching off into smaller streets of corridors that more than often clogged up with traffic. Especially that Monday, as even though Donald’s party was three days back, people looked like they could have dropped dead on the spot from stress and lethargy. People were still taking their exams, and it was patent that the majority students who attended the event that Friday night had deeply regretted it by then.

“Everyone looks more sleep deprived than Conway on her bad days.” Hannity laughed insensitively. In fact Tucker Carlson almost spat out his takeout Chick-Fil-A he bought on his way to school, directly from chuckling so overtly.

“’Scuse you.” Kellyanne muttered from the corner, directed at the manifest tasteless remark.

A moment later, a fresh face appeared behind the unlocked, slightly opened door. “Hey, I think it’s time for us to announce now. Budge over.” Rachel Maddow said.

“Wait!!” Bill O’Reilly burst through the door, running up to the microphone to recite his announcing he forgot to do. He allegedly had to be removed from the team due to his deplorable acts of sexually harassing female members, but after ten minutes of pleading, they let him express one last bit of ‘news.’

“You forgot again, O’Reilly?” Maddow rightly scoffed.

“I need to do something.” he adjusted the mic, thereupon taking control of the laptop that was connected to the exterior speakers. “Everybody present; is everybody present and listening? This is a crucial announcement.” he pronounced through the microphone. A couple of students turned their heads wearily, lacking their usual preppy spunk.

“Who’s speaking?” groaned a kid from the corridor, being audible to those in the announcing room from above. The room was poorly insulated, despite seeming rather opaque from the inside.

O’Reilly endeavored to hold back his laughter. “The winner for student government president has been d-decided...”

“Oh fuck off O’Reilly we know it’s you.” the voice sneered. The announcing team began to sigh and grit their teeth, growing increasingly impatient.

“JOOHHN CENAaahahhomffff…” Maddow pushed O’Reilly aside, who was laughing incredibly solidly at the (quite outdated) meme. Several students cringed with exasperated demeanors, walking away and adverting their attention to elsewhere.

“Don’t try and make this a way to humanize yourself.” critiqued Maddow, annoyed. She switched off the teleprompter which had O’Reilly’s real speech recorded onto it in response, pulling out her flashcards for reciting instead. 

“Hey come on, there’s no words on the teleprompter!” O’Reilly cried. “I can’t say what I gotta say! Guys, you better not make me mad like that time in Freshman year.” he additionally whined, referencing his long-gone ‘Fuck it, we’ll do it live!’ prime moment, which in reality he wasn’t at all proud of.


All in all, lunchtime arrived, yet Donald was not having it. He and Mike arranged to meet in the republican council clubroom for a stern talk regarding something the VP pick had confessed. Something concerning it was clearly bothering the nominee, therefore he just had to outlet it – however the resistance Mike mustered irritated Donald more than either of them could have anticipated.

“Mike, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

“I can’t help it. It just really grinds my gears.” responded Mike, in the near-empty council clubroom. “What was with the other night about Kasich, anyway? What did you want to talk to him for?”

“That doesn’t matter. But if you take part in what you wanna do, I’m telling you, you’ll be sorry.” Donald began pacing in circles, trying his hardest not to make any eye contact with Mike. The last thing he wanted to be seen as was awkward in his technique, or worse; vulnerable.

“It’s fine.”

After a couple of silent seconds, Donald kicked the wall. “You really wanna know, huh? I asked Kasich if he wanted to be VP. Once I heard about your petty sideplan I knew you weren’t the guy for the job.”

“But he instantly declined, didn’t he. He doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

The nominee for the republican council, figuratively an inch away from winning the school presidency, was now full with rage and distress after consuming that Mike’s presumption was the truth. Donald got himself into this mess, and there was no turning back now. He had realized that he was powerless in undoing his grand scheme simply because he was too far deep to do so. Time waits for no one, not even Donald J. Trump.

“Think about it. You only picked Kasich because you know it’s too late to turn back.” Mike continued to call out from the other side of the room. From a birdseye view, the positions of the two highlighted the polarities of the fuming, temperamental soon-to-be leader and his cool and calculated sideman. Now thinking it over, Donald reckoned his ex-sidekicks Ted and Marco would be the better choice in this situation, especially since it had escalated and had little guarantee to repeal itself... unless

Immediately, Donald hurled a rather impulsive statement. “You’re more incompetent than you think, Michael.” he disparaged accusingly, sulking in the corner.

“Blah blah. I’m going to show up on that night of the production and carry out that petty sideplan you were mentioning. I’ll be there alright, and no way in hell will you catch me.”

“Just… gettouta my sight.” Donald briskly got up and walked out the door, so quickly in fact he knocked his chair over so it made an empty, short lived clatter. Mike remained sitting quietly in the council room, wearing his usual expression and listening to the ticking of the clock.


The bell rang a while after that, and the students of Washingcoln High began to flock to their classes. Barack made his way up to the third floor, heading towards the office, until he picked up on something that shouldn’t have been. “Oh, hey,” he exclaimed from across the corridor, slowly approaching a couple of students.

“Huh?” the boy voiced, looking a little tense. The girl raised her eyebrows as if in shock, and both of them fixed their posture very slightly. Their expressions dropped as if their lazy smiles had been deleted from their faces, now coldly alert. They were quite obviously freshmen, however Barack had little recollection of any of their presences. He assumed they had transferred a couple months back, if not less.

“You two are not dressing according to the school’s dresscode.” he stated, a bit surprised at how taken aback the pair were. “Your skirt needs to be longer and you’re wearing branded shoes.”

“I’m sorry, I…” the girl began to say.

“What, no – it’s fine. Just come back tomorrow following the dresscode, that’s all.”

The freshmen nodded their heads in offbeat unison, with the girl whispering a few words to the other. “I never thought I’d be tested by the actual Prez like that…”

Barack must have stood there for a thorough minute, folders in hand and his notability high as it ever was. The influence he had upon other students hit him for a second, before it slowly engraved into his thoughts. Everybody had gotten used to Barack being president as of now, perhaps even tired of it. But it was seldom when he would have to utilize his position of power. His title had been put on a pedestal for so long, so much that any outsiders who talked to him only saw the Prez as a representation of a chiselled, airbrushed authority.

There were a good portion of people who liked Barack and another side which didn't. Yet what was undertaking these past months was a decreased contentiousness on whether he was liked or not, rather his actual position of power and how it appeared to other people. ‘Other people’ in this scenario was a phrase in which Barack linked to those at the bottom of the school hierarchy.

Prez high was not like any other school where its hierarchy was only determined by cliques. Washingcoln High elected a president and a cabinet to form student government, while councils and clubs contributing to school elections acted as the role of a congress. The Prez had significant advantages and would always be shaped to be not that of a person, but a model person, as if they were a monument for the school – as if they had to be devoid of any authentic character but leadership and symbolism. That early afternoon Barack must have appeared eerily spaced out, lost in his own thoughts… when really deep within, he was not only lost within his thoughts, but completely lost with his own, troubled identity.


Chapter Text


June 23rd, 5:16pm


Not a lot commenced the week after that. Seniors were left to finish off their finals, and the lower grades anticipated summer vacation. Barack and his vice were committed to siding with the democratic council, the exact council they ran in the previous year themselves. Bernie didn’t put up much of a fuss about his vote for Hillary around his small circles of friends, furthermore deciding to clear his mind of political affairs and how much he insisted they correlated with the school itself. Marco and Ted placed their vote on Donald out of brief consideration and self-negotiation, however Jeb remained undecided. It was an enigma to if he would even vote at all.

Ted and Marco didn’t really contact each other outside of text, where they would check up on each other albeit simultaneously not touching upon the night of the party, which Marco could only remember segments of. Ted made an attempt to not speak a word of it; hoping it would fade away in their memories until they viewed each other as past friends. Similarly, Marco stayed silent, censoring the blurred memories from his mind every time it popped up. Marco’s anxiety was on rocket mode so frequently that every so often he’d feel the need to throw up at awkward circumstances. Rafael Cruz, the dark to his light, the roughness to his softness; constantly made his way into Marco’s uncomfortable fuzzy daydreams. After the summer break it was a possibility they wouldn’t be in the same classes anymore, which was a projection that Ted told himself he wanted, when deep down, he just couldn’t stand it.

As for Jeb, he denied his family’s offers to go out on family trips, claiming he was too busy with schoolwork. He was looking more forward to summer vacation and the school trip to Mexico, where hopefully he’d be more at peace with himself and undergo some sort of self-awakening. That was what he desired, at least. Jeb mainly lived his life out in the open, far away from home and family. This happened especially in the evenings, where they would play family games and watch television together. George visited on some days which meant Jeb would redundantly stay home and try and re-evaluate his relationship with his older brother when they had time alone. It was difficult communicating with a person that was so unalike to Jeb. Although if it meant he would forget the alcohol and drugs for the sake of himself and his family, Jeb didn’t see why he shouldn’t speak to him.

Barack for a reason Joe couldn’t grasp stayed distant from his best friend, asking less and less about how his bruises were healing and how his day was running. For once, the Prez was the one giving his vice space. The true explanation for it was that Barack assumed Joe was too absorbed with his exams, and didn’t want to carry out the thankless tasks he felt obliged to do. Joseph Biden was an accommodating character, but now he had the chance to think for himself as an individual. Besides, he was leaving the state for college, and needed time to himself in order self-evaluate his strengths and feelings about it all. Though feeling somewhat like a burden, Barack acknowledged they would have to work beside each other, and that was it.

The case with Hillary was complicated. Feeling this consistent urge to ask Tim on what on earth was to become of the election if Donald’s plan was successful, she was stuck. If she didn’t say a word, Donald may win the presidency. On the other hand, Tim mentioned they would be broken apart if he told her, which meant Donald’s intentions must’ve been to surpass Tim in a certain quality or field. Or that’s what it seemed to Hillary. While Bill had dissipated from her daydreams, Donald had entered. She wasn’t necessarily pleased or upset with it. However, the chest-tugging, flirtatious feeling of nostalgia crept up on her whenever she thought thoughts of Donald, and even the time when she and Bernie sat by the river… and that field. Something was odd about that field of dandelions she sat behind that day after shopping with Ted and Carly. Something hopefully she would grasp the essence of, one day – but the plan then was to get through her last days of school effortlessly and unemotionally.

For the time being, Bernie also spent a good portion of his free time outside, taking walks and talking to various people on the streets that were experiencing rough times financially. Of course his area was still in the suburbs, but it was a little more downtown than what people were used to, perhaps not the most economically stable either. He didn’t mind, though – In fact, it was an educational and insightful experience. Bernie came to the conclusion his revolution was a hit and miss type situation, and instead tried to repress the memories of when he was running for Prez. He, a lot like Hillary at that phase in time, lived life in the moment, deprived of envisaging his foreseeable future of his legacy. Bernie did not want to think of what would become of the curly-headed, wacky democratic socialist of Washingcoln High School that was, indeed; himself.


The evening of Thursday 23rd marked the day of the production. Bernie, with his black sweater and hood masking his frame, spotted a similarly dressed figure from across the school courtyard, amongst a variety of parents, students, and siblings entering through the gates. He instantly knew who it was as soon as the figure angled his face so that it was clear, bare, and recognizable.


Mike Pence tilted his head, until he came into contact with upperclassman and ex-candidate Bernie Sanders. “Well fancy seeing you here.” he returned, raising a sparse brow.

Bernie took off the hood of his jacket and peered at Mike’s backpack. “You do realize I can… see your paintball gun?” he declared. “What kind of fuckery are you gonna get up to, you pasty glass of milk?”

“Funny you ask that, Sanders. I’m actually taking influence off you, good sir. That night when the cops mistook you for committing vandalism really… inspired me.”

“Pffftahaha. Whatever Pence. I’ll see you at the theater.” Bernie did not care to think much of the interaction he thought of as banter. Whilst he ran ahead of Bernie inside, Mike zipped up his bag and flung it back on his shoulder. He ceased to a stop as he got to the corridors, eventually turning left towards the theater room in between the assembly hall and Washingcoln’s gymnasium. Barack stood at the door, greeting students and family who had bought tickets to view the production. Beside Barack, John Kerry and Nancy Pelosi collected tickets and donations and gave Mike a slow nod as his cue to enter.

“Good evening, Barack.” Mike greeted, lingering about the entrance.

“How’s it going?” countered the Prez, his mouth displaying a brief smile. Mike’s bag had unzipped slightly at that moment, the unusual orange plastic catching Barack’s focus. Instead of commenting on it, Barack’s fixation switched back towards other’s stern nod in response to his inquiry.

“I’m helping out with handing out refreshments. Joe did inform you of that, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did. As you can tell he’s absent tonight.” However, in all sincerity, Barack thought the late arrival seemed off. “O-oh, come right in.” he then added, opening the door wide so that Mike wasn’t causing blockage. It would have been more efficient if Mike arrived before the opening to ensure everybody had the refreshments they wanted in hindsight. Barack quickly shook this off, although something about Mike Pence seemed devilish, primitive even, as if he wanted to drain his adrenaline from his body in the form of action. What this action was, though, was something neither Barack, nor anybody precisely knew to be.

It was approximately a few minutes into the second scene of Act Two, famously reputable as Romeo and Juliet’s balcony scene. Carly was propped up on a bar that acted as the balcony, with the scenery as minimalistic as possible. While the costumes were historically accurate, the scenery for every act was left to the students' interpretation. All the art club was commissioned to work on was cardboard shrubs and clouds, but everything else was down to stools, poles, chairs, and tables to frame the scenery so it would provoke the audience to utilize their imagination. It was almost like an art project, in a sense.

O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet.” Carly (as Juliet) softly cried on stage.

As the audience remained charmed by the show so far, the two principals, sat in their VIP balcony seats for special viewing, began to note on each other’s mesmerization. “George?” Lincoln adjusted his gaze before squinting at the other principal, who had been silently yet sincerely deliberating to himself, his hand rested on the bridge between his index and his thumb.

“Excuse me, it’s just I’m so proud of them.” Washington whispered in response.

“I relate and I agree. It is nice to be finally free from stress for once, and just sit back, relax, and watch a good show.” Lincoln leaned back an inch in his seat, getting comfortable. The elder principal in contrast shot back a look of uncertainty as if he had something on his mind.

“It’s not the most appropriate thing to mention now, but what you said the other day about this election is really bugging me.” then said Washington, covering his mouth with his hand as he slanted himself near Lincoln.

“Are you ready to go against tradition? How about you be a little…” Lincoln engaged in a sinister cat-smile. “Rebellious.”

“What on earth?”

“Admit it. Say what you want to say about the two-council system.”

“It was a mistake. There.” Washington revealed. A feeling of unease flooded through his body. “This really isn’t the time or place-

“You don’t need to censor yourself like this. I may not agree with you on that; in fact, I’m a big fan of democracy myself.” reassured Lincoln with a slight touch to the arm.

“But this is just a reflection of the republicans and democrats in congress right now, our US government. This doesn’t feel like a democratic race. Understand that my intuition might not be fact, and that this is nothing more than a student presidency, but now I’m beginning to realize that this is going to affect these students’ minds in a way I really did not intend.” Washington sighed.

“I know what you’re thinking. You honestly believe you have to cover up the fact that the domination of the democratic and republican council have over other nonconforming candidates is not what a fair system should be?”

The two men looked each other in the eyes uncomfortably, regretting their brief, badly timed discourse. Washington slowly nodded, furrowing his brow, before he quickly confessed: “Okay, I’ve been boot-licking the concept of tradition for too long now.”

Lincoln turned away to face the main stage, mirroring his lover’s previous outlet of breath. “You were right. This isn’t the time or place to discuss this.” They continued watching the production they had been awaiting for such a long while, taking in the words and actions the actors illustrated their audience with.

“Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” Carly recited upon the balcony.

“Aww, it was just beginning to get good!” Chris Christie boomed aloud on stage, emerging from behind a bush on set. Dressed as a peasant, it was clear his role was for comedic purpose in the tweaked edition of Romeo and Juliet, played by the students of Prez High.

Ted, following the edited script, rolled his eyes while fractions of the audience began to quietly erupt in laughter. "Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, his help to crave…

Lincoln turned to his lover, with a set smile upon his lips. “But at least for now, we can sit at ease and watch the sho---

“…and my dear hap to te--- PRINCIPAL LINCOLN?!”

Ted’s cry of alarm led everybody’s heads to face the two principals on the utmost highest balcony, where Abraham Lincoln had appeared to receive a blow to the back of his head. He was now limp in his seat, near to slipping to the ground – with only the other principal’s arms preventing him from doing so.

“No!” Washington shouted, clutching onto the body. “Somebody call a paramedic!”

Barack, stood at the entrance in shock, ran to Washington’s assistance whereby he could have sworn he caught sight of a dark figure scampering by his side-field of vision. Alas, the silhouette-like form had escaped out the door, and Barack could not capture the slightest when he peered out the entrance. Lincoln was clearly unconscious as of now, with steaks of red, white and blue paint plastered upon his head and back. As the other distressed principal wailed in this second-hand agony, the lighting making it look like a dreamlike sequence of planned melodrama; Barack’s hand placed itself over his eyes budding tears of unexplainable guilt. And then, just like that, Ted, Carly and Christie pale with fright on stage, the lights faded to a cold, ugly, climatic darkness.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


Chapter Text


June 28th, 3:06pm


The Friday that followed was evident of a rather sunny late afternoon, not bothersome in its embracing rays that prodded through gaps within trees, buildings and windows of the region one by one. Abraham Lincoln lay half-awake in his hospital bed, still a little stagnant from his period of concussion, although undoubtedly recovering quickly and expectedly. The light pouring through the window acted as an omen of hope, something that symbolized an ultimate freedom that he could not yet grasp, but would in the far future. This was a vision that would mean no election outcome, no student authority; simply a student body, coexisting – in a state of being. Whilst he was not in his most intelligible state, the words he spoke to his visiting lover were ever so pure, so compelling, so raw – leaving Washington to make his final decision of terminating the government election for once and for all.

Donald took a chance to have a word with Principal Washington that following Monday, informing him of words of importance, where in return Washington kept them secret. He told Donald about his plan to announce the cancelling of the election on Tuesday morning, the intended day of voting, and due to Donald’s own confession beforehand the senior was not all that surprised.

Additionally, Donald asked a favor of Barack for them and a particular set of others to meet at the room identical to his detention on September 11th of the previous year. Oddly enough Barack accepted the proposal, seeing as the senior had admitted to something to disclose once and for all. The Prez sent out a text to those Donald had requested, every student having been asked to meet at room 119, Tuesday, after all classes.


To everybody’s surprise, Tuesday afternoon did beckon.

Donald was the first to arrive excluding Barack, who had already pushed aside some desks to create a circle in the center of the classroom. Donald made his way into the middle, lacking his iconic strut, and leaned on a table. Joe was the third person to settle in the room, quietly exchanging a few inaudible words to Barack. Spontaneously Joe sat down on the floor, leaning against a table leg as if not bothered to gather any chairs. Bernie knocked on the door and entered alone, meditating whether he should sit or stand. Marco, Jeb, and Ted followed a few seconds after each other, in that order, and last but not least – Hillary. It wasn’t long until they all sat their bodies down within the space, except for Hillary who persisted to stand.

Finally, after mentally scavenging, Barack found the appropriate time to speak. “Hello all.” he greeted, his head lowered and hands clasped in a melancholic bearing.

“Why did you drag us in here, Barry?” Hillary inquired. Wearily, she placed some study books into her briefcase, still exhausted from her exams that were close to finishing.

She took a look around the room of adolescent countenances.

Silence. Vacantness.

“It was all Donald.” Barack stated, with his arms in the air.

Hillary wore her expression of disapproval. “And you accepted?”

“I just – I don’t know? I feel like it’s been such a long while since we have properly spoken. Those days at the library remind me of simpler times.”

“Me too. Ever since I stopped visiting that place my life descended into shit.” Jeb nodded in reply to the Prez, who technically was not the Prez anymore, but the legacy still stood as if it were a solid nudge, a creeping reminder that everything finished with him. Barack would have been the last ever school president, and Ted and Marco’s only.

“It’s not like it was the foundation keeping our lives together, you guys. Quit being so overdramatic.” Hillary monotonously complained, seating herself on a chair that was a distance apart from the overtly familiar gathering. In her eyes, the distance was far wider than the others could fathom. Hillary was, to put it bluntly, detached as of then from almost anyone – only indulging in whatever recital or equation she had to memorize until, to her wish, she could leave the school for the rest of her life and never, ever return back.

“Okay but, the reason I called all you here today is because we need to talk about what has been happening.” Barack removed himself from his chair, instead completing the string of bodies to form a jagged circle. He remembered it had been Donald prompting the gathering in itself, distinctly drawing a memory of a request to tell his confession. “Donald.” Barack directed his body and hand to the other young man, whose chin burdened the top of his wrist.

“That scumbag Pence came to me one morning and told me he was gonna take a shot at Christie while on stage. He bought a paintball gun beforehand and had planned everything – everything I tell you, believe me. Turns out the guy made a complete ass of himself and shot Lincoln in the back of his head ‘cause of a miscalculation or summin’. Chris got away unharmed. Mike felt pure resentment for that kid. What a loser.”

At once, Hillary slammed her book against her desk in shock. “Why, why though? Why?” she cried, from afar. “Couldn’t you stop him?”

“He was jealous. He feared he would become my vice president. And no, he was too stubborn of a guy to stop.”

“That’s not all, Donald.” Jeb intuitively cut in, sitting parallel.

“I have a strong intuition that you’re not telling us everything here. Something else is missing from your story.” Barack added with tautness to his brow.

“Well… I suppose all of you have caught on by now.”

“I think I sure have.” suspected Jeb in a manner devoid of direct attention.

“Earlier yesterday, before the election was called off, I asked Principal Washington if I could resign my candidacy. I told him everything that was going on with me and my intentions for running.”

“We don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hillary said.

“Spill it, Don.” Jeb mockingly spoke, almost enjoying the arising tension he started to note in the boy, who to him, deserved every single ounce of pressure he received.

“Oh, so you really wanna know, huh? Oh I’ll tell you the truth, Hillary, Jeb. I’ll tell all of you.” Donald gritted his teeth, dramatizing his movements. “Now the election has been called off for good. But me signing up for president in the first place, me making all those deranged comments only a fucking loser would provide, you remember that?”

Every single face had been magnetized to Donald, attentive, wide-eyed and on the brink of pallid. A good half of them had a strong feeling of what Donald was about to confess, some were inaccurate, some weren’t –  and one by one, as soon as the senior opened his mouth, each of their faces sank as if they had the biggest realization of their lives.

“Well, it was a joke. A lie. It wasn’t supposed to be legit.”

There was little sign of discomfort; rather the loud silence that beckoned was almost a metaphorical sigh of relief, a state of momentary acknowledgement. But most of all, the most profound feeling it gave way to was an extreme sense of wonderment.

“No… no way. I can’t – I can’t believe you, what the hell?!” Hillary interjected, causing everyone’s eyes to glue to her astonished visage.

“You’re an idiot.” Ted grumbled to Donald, as if he knew it all along. However, despite this counterfeit of emotion, Ted was shocked. He clenched his fists, trembling and straightening his posture every once in a while so it could cease. But it proceeded.

“It’s about time, Trump.” Bernie took off his glasses, squinting at his peer and pulling a face to motion he, like everyone else, was waiting for an explanation.

“Eventually I had to let Mike in on the big plan. I assured him that even if Christie was my sideman, he wouldn’t actually get the role. This was planned to end earlier than it did. But there came a point where so many people in this school relied on me, made me feel good ‘bout what I was doin’. People who sucked up every single lie and outrageous, downright stupid ass thing I said. Truth was I was becoming the caricature of Donald Trump myself. Why? Because I crave that dumbass attention from people.”  

“Well, this is an eye-opener.” Joe sighed, raising his voice from the gathering for the first time.

“I don’t believe you. You’re tryna pull sympathy from all of us.” accused Hillary in disregard.

Notwithstanding Hillary’s assumption, Donald continued to expand on his statements. “The Donald Trump as you all knew him was unapologetically discriminatory. I assure you it was all populist garbage to see how many people I could captivate. It was my little plaything. But the thing that stuck out, folks, was the attention I wanted so fucking badly – I was putting on an act. And I get that, mark my words here – but even while wearing my mask of pure fucking nonsense, I still could not hide the fact I was just a lil’ bitch. It’s the same with plenty of politicians, I’m telling you.”

“I’m speechless.” Ted whispered with his head buried in his arms and legs, quivering in what seemed to be pure rage. The others in his surroundings attempted to ignore the state he was in, still dumbfounded by Donald’s words of truth, but that did not stop various eyeballs examining Ted’s ambiguity.

“This is odd. Am I in a dream?” Marco breathlessly asked to himself.

“Ted, Marco, this is cold hard reality. Not that you’d know what that is.” Donald instantly retorted, unusually stern in tone. He watched as the Marco’s face crumpled into a scowl, the disguised skin insisted to be thick suddenly thinning, (figuratively) like that of a paper bag.

“Oh, are we startin’ the petty arguments again? Is that what you want?”

The retired nominee shook his head almost pensively with disappointment. “What’s happened to you Marco…”

Bernie patted his fingers against his knee while contemplating, as Joe slowly came to terms with the shared wonderment that everybody was feeling. Barack analyzed Donald’s previous claim, his presently raw attitude likewise. Hillary stared off into the distance, getting lost in the indescribable realization of Donald’s actions. Marco sulked. Ted remained in a cowered position. Jeb’s left leg was restless with anticipation, foot tapping continuously as if he were waiting for everything to end. Or better yet, for a release, a fulfillment. But not then.

“My apologies, Donald.” Joe uttered, reaching out into the circle. “Our fight at prom wasn’t cool.” The two men shook each other’s hands, each with matching grave complexions of utmost sobriety. The pair noted on Hillary’s then beckoning presence; swaying closer towards the group that she had acknowledged was her duty to partake in. But in the corner of their eyes, they could still tell that somebody was just about ready to erupt with lava, something that would inevitably heat the cold and clammy room. Donald’s blood froze, prepared for the outburst.

 “So… you ruined all our chances of becoming Prez because of a joke!? Do you know how many people’s aspirations you hurt along the way with your stupid insincerity?” spouted Ted, sprouting upright and backing away from the circle. Donald tiptoed further away in order to press against the walls, as if he was redundantly motioning ‘let it happen; come at me’ with his signalling, vulnerable poise.

Ted’s hand slithered into his trouser pocket, as his eyes kept themselves cemented to the floor. “Ugh, fuck, you fucking piece of garbage! FUCK YOU!”

In a fleeting instant, Ted accelerated towards the wall in front of him, past the gathering, before pouncing onto the boy three years his senior. Bearing his knife in his clenched hand, his knuckles turned white from the suppression of stress. Yet before he could make his key move, a flashing figure sped in front of his peripheral vision. That following endeavor to shield the vulnerable senior was, while prominent in its brevity; impulsive in its own way of altruistic action:

“Stop!” Marco gulped, then jerking back his neck alongside his body, which fell to Hillary’s unsteady feet. “Ah..AhHH!” the boy emitted in agony, watching the cut bleed from his cheek to his fingers, and eventually, to the floor.

“You cut him, you freak!” cried Hillary at the seething boy, handling the injured younger’s face in her hands. “Come on, let’s get you outside.” Marco and Hillary rushed outside the class, where Hillary coaxed the other to the drinking fountain among the corridor. She let Marco wash the cut from his cheek and watched as the blood contaminated the water. It was a horrific view to witness, but the sight of the blood washing away to never be seen again provoked an inner sigh of ease for them both. It was only when Marco entered back into the room when Hillary noticed that her hands were indeed stained with spots of red, to which she spent a dubious pause completely inactive, before rewinding her steps to the fountain and doing the deed that needed to be done.

In the meantime the other faces in the room stilled in mixtures of shame, shock, and distraught quiescence. Barack and Joe managed to hold Ted down, attempting to drag him from in front of the white walls which were close to getting polluted from the small bloodshed. Bernie, Jeb, and Donald, all in varying intensities, ruminated for a few moments on the floor without spilling a word.

“You might as well stay in the corner so you don’t hurt anyone el-” Joe began, however Ted’s sharp elbowing inflicted his words, grasp alike, to suspend a little.

“Get off of me!” the youth screamed out, struggling from the elder students’ grip. Out of pure recklessness, Ted kicked Barack hard enough for him and Joe to let go. But that did not stop Barack from kicking back, so solidly in fact that the freshman stumbled to the ground, back to his initial cowered position, but that time with tears pricking at his corneas. He didn’t intend to hurt Marco. No, he didn’t want to hurt anybody – but he did – out of irrational spontaneity. Ted knew that knives were sharp, but this sudden emotional response hurt more than almost anything he had felt in his entire life. 

“This is the final straw, I don’t want to start a fight, but I’m losing my cool here.” Barack lectured as his paced breathing slowed. He returned to his spot and tried to think of another topic to dwell on within the melodrama of a conference.

Ted straightened his limbs and took a few deep exhales, the sound piercing the flimsiness of the dull air and making its way into everyone’s ears until they got used to the rhythmic pattern of sound. Ted’s sudden feeling twisted from anger to guilt, taking in how he was not akin to one with conduct disorder at all, but dealing with another less obvious issue deep, deep down.

“Tell me about your homelife.” Jeb aimed, at Donald specifically, causing Barack to lift his gaze in heed. “Why do you need attention so badly, huh? What’s the big hype with you and being appreciated? Having endorsements hurled your way… you becoming the talk of the school… everything orbiting you. Dammit, you didn’t deserve that shit, and you know you didn’t!” Jeb snapped, feeling as if he was finally making up for all those times Donald had beat him down. Donald was now vulnerable, and he enjoyed the perceived condition of superiority he was suddenly gifted with.

“My homelife… weren’t the best. An’ it still ain’t.” Donald muttered.

“Says the guy who doesn’t have to skip meals so that his parents can afford school fees.” Bernie said out of spite, pursing his lips in annoyance.

On the contrary, Barack took a more sympathetic approach, possibly without even registering. “His father spends his life at work, Bernie. He’s always completely invested in his company. In more ways than one.”

After a few seconds of bargaining, Bernie nodded in a similar manner of sympathy. “I can see why you might feel alone sometimes.”

“It’s not that. It’s not that I’m alone, or I got nobody to talk to. The thing is that man is not my father. He wasn’t my father at three and he ain’t my father at eighteen. He’s a sperm donor. A complete bum. He may be a hardworking multimillionaire but now that I’ve given up on desiring his attention and approval, he is a complete bum in my eyes.” Donald growled through gritted teeth, concerning the others around him from such words of hate. “God, I hate him! I fucking hate him!” He punched his knee, and elbowed the table leg behind him.

“It’s okay, man. Simmer down now.” Barack came to his aid, placing a hesitant arm around him.

“Poor Donnie never got hit or abused or jackshit, but he sure got ignored and ridiculed alright! It’d be like, hey dad catch me outside for some baseball, how ‘bout it? And that man would reply quit bothering me, you attention seeking brat! I’m an important man in important business or some other snobby ass shit. I always got no for an answer. And I was a demanding kid, believe me, I admit that – but the things a mother does with her kid is not the same without the father being there.”

“You should replace me in my fishing trips with my father. He’d like you better anyways.” Ted at last spoke from his corner, subtly isolated from everybody else, even Hillary who had joined the circle to keep an eye out for any further issue.

“You know what Rafael?” bellowed Donald, yet his atmosphere fragile. “I’d love to. Think about it. I’ve proved to every single one of you I’m a vulnerable lil’ bitch with father issues, and now you can see me as desperate and sad as you wanna see me.”

“This is so odd. I feel like I shouldn’t be here.” Joe lowered his head in second-hand embarrassment, staying still otherwise. As a resort he glanced towards Barack, who at that moment looked as sympathetic and heart-struck as Joe had ever pictured him, ever. He prolonged his gaze like it was a silent cry for help, overwhelmed with a detached anxiety from everybody else to the point he questioned leaving. But rightfully so, Joe stayed.

Barack then spoke, warmly this time: “Donald, is it weird that even after all those things you called me, all the shit you’ve talked about people, you putting up such a resistance against what people like Hillary and I fight for in the democratic council; I want to tell you how your story relates to me. I want to vent. I want to go on a rampage. I want to talk and selfishly take up everybody’s time. From now on I’m not the presidential figure you all look up to, I am simply Barry, and I will say what I need to say.”

“That’s more like it!” Bernie attempted to release a laugh, although his smile manifested no further due to the inappropriate timing.

“Take it away, Barry.” offered Donald.

“My parents divorced when I was around two years old. Dad had to go back to Kenya, and so mom was granted sole custody of me. My parents had to study a lot during the last reminiscences of their bond together, so I was chucked around a lot from place to place until my maternal grandparents looked after me for a bit. There was some time when I moved with my mother and her new partner to Indonesia, but that is sorta fuzzy to me. I never disliked my step father but I suppose I didn’t have much of an emotional bond with him despite mom’s efforts, at least not mirroring my one with mom herself. I returned to live with my grandparents back in Hawaii again with my half-sister until, well, freshman year, where I wanted to fill that gap of a father with the thrill of the student president race.” Barack rested his chin on his knee before he continued, allowing his dark eyes to glisten among the hint of natural outdoor light. “I heard a lot about this school. I begged mom to go, and I gotta say she was not happy that year when I nagged her about how cool Washingcoln High looked. Irregardless we eventually moved to the mainland, and now I live alone with my mom whereas my sis is back in Hawaii.”

“Barry, man, I only knew a fraction of what you’re telling us here.” contended a staggered Joe. “Would it be okay to tell us more about your biological dad?”

“My dad… my father, I mean, he only got to visit me once since he returned to Kenya. My memories of him are too hazy to say any details, although his presence at the time was vivid, almost clear as crystal in a simultaneous sense.”

“Did you really run for Prez because you wanted to have impact? Was it really so the school could ‘move forward’?” challenged Jeb, feeling ultimately in-the-moment more than ever before.

“As I said, I suppose I did it to fill the void of male leadership in my life.” the sophomore affirmed at last.

“That’s so sad. Barack, I’m so sorry.” Hillary gave Barack a hug, staring wistfully at the younger as she began speculating on his context.

“What? No it’s fine, Hill. Dad still appears in my dreams. I wonder if I ever appear in his, too. It’s bittersweet, but it’s something people need to avoid pondering upon too much.”

“Well, aren’t you pondering on it now, Barry? How much negative emotion yah reckon you musta released?” remarked Donald.

Barack shook his head with a sad smirk. “You can talk. Your story was astounding, and in a way it connected some dots here and there.”

Shaking his head also, Donald looked over to the windows. The sunlight poured on his cheek, this time the strange orange being anything but atrocious, but instead, raw. “Man, we both have distant fathers. I never thought we’d share that in common out of everything. But the thing is with you Obama, is that you ran for president in dedication to your father, while I did it to spit on mine.”

“How do you mean?”

“My whole run was sorta tryna make a caricature of my dad. He definitely don’t have the fiery temperament that I have, but he is extremely detached from reality and how the world works. So was Donald Trump.”

“It must be tough. See, I don’t know my father well enough to make a statement of similar judgement.” Barack turned to the other students in the space, each wearing their attentive, sad-smiling faces. “This has got me thinking – everybody, why did all of you run for Prez? What are your reasonings?” He looked to a certain corner, his soulful eyes matching with another darker pair.

“You’re looking at me.” marked Ted. “Stop, it’s creepy-” he added in discomfort, watching as all irises loomed upon his frame. Taking a deep breath, he rejoined the circle with plenty of delay. “If we’re talking about messed up parents, I can correlate that with it.”

“Feel lucky that you don’t have to correlate your entire family because all of them are messed up.” Jeb commented in self-pity.

“Jeb I’ll let you talk after I’m done, okay sourpuss?” Ted snapped, spending a few extra seconds glaring at the junior in distaste. “The case with me is that I signed up for student government president partly so I could climb up the social ladder. In middle school I wasn’t the most popular guy, mostly because I was so absorbed in what other kids found darn absurd. I wasn’t your usual nerd, I was an outcast, as if I weren’t apart of the school body at all.”

“That must have been hard, dude.” Barack supposed.

“They called you Felito.” hoarsely chipped in Donald, wryly smirking.

“How would you know that?”

“Ted; carry on. How do your parents tie into this?” Joe questioned, withdrawing Ted's attention from Donald’s claim. Ted discerned on the fact he wasn’t at all used to talking about his personal life, especially in front of the same people he was violent towards as well as their witnesses, but the words that flooded from his mouth only felt natural – as if they needed to be said; or wanted to, even.

“Well, acting has always been a big appeal to me. As for my father I’m destined he wants me to become somebody like a priest or a lawyer or an entrepreneur, or at least something to do with Christianity or law, you know? Religion has been a major part of our family ethos, therefore conforming to rules and expectations was my, like, thing. And I was so mad that I couldn’t be a popular guy who followed social norms in junior high. It was just an expectation that felt right. So, I asked my father if I could attend this school and run for Prez. This way I thought I could hit two birds with one stone; that I’ll gain popularity and live up to my father’s expectations of gaining experience to put on my Curriculum Vitae as they call it. It’s probably pretty sad to y’all. But that’s all I need to say, at least for now.”

There was a lurking quietness that proceeded after Ted spoke. He felt like he wanted to go on forever. This string of words, this enterprise was something that released more anxieties and locked emotions than any act of violence could ever serve him.

Joe’s eyes of deep blue met up with Ted’s, showing a vague understanding of his situation. “Ted, I wouldn’t worry about popularity if I were you. It’s a bunch of nonsense. It enwraps you into a sea of conflict and drama you don’t want to deal with, which is more negative if anything.”

“To be fair, your man Bernie was concerned about the same thing as he entered this school. Take Joe’s advice into account.” Bernie declared, turning himself a way for a brief episode. “Do you,” he began, facing back, “… ever feel lonely?”

“Yeah.” his target answered.

“Yeah. Me too.” Bernie furtherly responded, with the others each starting to feel a sinking feeling of depth, a curiosity to not only Ted’s but everyone else’s stories they desperately wanted to hear being said.

“And my dad doesn’t help with all the shit I have to put up with. I don’t know, I admire his religious principles, but some of the things he believes I’m starting to realize cannot coexist with the person that I am. I doubt he’s ever gonna get me tested for any anger issues or emotional problems I’m certain I have, ‘cause, he’s the kinda guy to push all those elements aside.” Ted added, touching upon the subjects that were, indeed, sexuality and mentality. “I can’t consult a doctor on my own because I’m only fifteen, so I’ll probably have to live with my problems for… a while.”

“That sucks.” Barack pronounced. “What about seeing the school counselor?”

“I-I have a hard time opening up to people.” Ted replied oddly quickly, before dumping any present attention onto Jeb, sat next to him. “Jeb, do you want to speak or not?” he asked in a subtly fussed, tense manner.

“Okay.” Jeb responded. “So I feel a little anxious sharing this to everybody but I’ll do it anyway.”

Ted then hastened his words: “Just hurry up already. It’s not surprising how your family treats you-

“Ted, why don’t you just shut up?” Marco raised his voice after staying quiet throughout his period of observation. “This isn’t a competition as to who had the most fucked up background. But of course you lack the emotional intelligence to get that.”

“He’s probably a psychopath, what do you expect?” jeered Donald, with both Ted and Marco ignoring the accusation.

“You can sure talk about intelligence and sincerity. Everybody here knows how much of an absolute fake you are.” Ted shot back.

“It’s not just you who has insecurities about the way you come across to people. Don’t expect us to feel all sorry for you just because you’re too much of a socially incompetent loser who ends up literally violating his classmates.”

“Guys, stop, I thought you were friends?” Hillary spoke in worry.

“They’re not.” Joe assured her.

“Marco, that’s just so wrong-” continued Hillary once more, before she was cut off by her own gut feeling.

 Jeb studied Hillary, extending the regard to Marco, and then Ted. He finally came to a solution. “No, you guys need to sort out whatever you need to before I talk.”

“I like this. It’s like an intervention.” Bernie gathered lukewarmly.

“I don’t know, Bernie. I’m feeling nothing but discomfort.” uttered Joe beside him, contradicting his demeanor.

“You can leave if you want.”

“It’s fine, I’ll stay.”

“It’s for the better.”

Marco then nodded to himself as a cue to begin talking. He faced the other freshman, notifying him on his profound frustration, bearing his arms and not showing any concern for his underarm patches whatsoever. “Ted, do you know how much it affects me when you bring up my flaws and self-image like that?” he rhetorically asked.

“Everybody has flaws, though. And - and I’m sorry if you are so easily hurt by that, but perhaps it means you need to change something about yourself. People don’t need to walk on eggshells just because you’re so damn sensitive.”

“It’s not only you man, Donald’s at fault too.” Marco grumbled, although he wasn’t anxious per se, even in such an upfront setting. “You see – I stuck around you and Donald for most of the first semester despite us being competitors because I almost looked up to you. You, Ted, caught how everything worked, how everything fell into place at this school, and you were a lot smarter than me in pretty much every field. Donald was good for social means, but I did despise him for a little while.” he further added, with the subject simpering at the mention of his name. “As all of you know, we had a lot of petty brawls before I backed him for the nominee. I don’t know, I suppose it was out of jealousy now I think about it.”

“Oh, we know.” Donald scoffed, causing Marco to avert his focus towards him.

“The thing is with you Donald is that you tried so hard to retain your act. I-I was so envious of your public speaking and air of confidence, Ted and Hillary likewise but not to your degree. You have the literacy level of a fourth grader but you never gave a fuck. It’s funny, because it was like you three, Donald, Ted and Hillary; had those tactics to compensate for your soiled public image. But in reality now when I recall the times spent with all of you, you’re not the most graceful of speakers or the most confident in yourselves at all.”

Hillary soaked in Marco’s analysis, attaching the pragmatics to her own experiences. “We aren’t as put together as people like to see us, really.” she concluded, sparking a few mutters and nods of agreement.

“That’s right. Um, I suffer from panic attacks myself. But it’s not too much of a big deal, a lotta kids my age get them so…” Marco shrugged, discontinuing at the involuntary statement about his anxiety. “... so you know.”

“Darn it! I knew it!” exclaimed Barack. “Have you tried exercise?”

“Mhm. I play football but recently I’ve been feeling unmotivated for pretty much anything. Ted, those times when you didn’t care to call me, I ‘mighta had a depressive episode. I’m not sure. But it’s clearing up, and that night--- ” Marco came to a halt with his words, suddenly recognizing his pacing breath, his words like a flock of manic butterflies fleeing from his stomach. The last thing he wanted to do was tell too much information of him and Ted’s interaction that night at the party, and besides his gut only reminded him of his religious ethics, ending in him saying no more. Ted was rather overwhelmed with the quick release of babble, but it dissipated as soon as Marco stopped talking of it. “Back to you Donald though, I honestly found your outlet so intriguing.” Marco instead built upon, more smoothly than he would usually carry out.

“Hm.” Donald let out a single grunt.

“I-It’s like, you tried so hard to keep that facade, but Ted and I knew that you weren’t the person you tried so hard to be.”

“Surely not, right? Like when I looked over to your table that time in Starbucks, all I could interpret was Donald being nothing off of unpleasant. In fact every interaction I have had with Donald has been negative – wait…” Hillary thought over the specific date, speculating over, and over, and over…

“Well, he’s a brute. But there was something so obvious whenever he paid for our drinks or clothes or when he let us in his car or whatnot, and it’s not because money doesn’t mean shit to him. Sure, fifty bucks is worthless to a guy like Donald Trump, but if he really had no morality then he wouldn’t lend that to anybody.” Marco deduced. He took a glimpse of Hillary, who appeared as if she had just undergone some sort of revelation.

“Oh gosh… Oh god.”

“You alright?” Marco asked her.

“I think I get it now. That endorsement money you handed me as a joke, it wasn’t a joke. At all. Giving out expenses was your only act of generosity. It was the only good quality I and many others possibly saw of you, because…” she left in pauses between her words, as if those chunks of time were vital connections and infers being constructed in her scribble of a mind. Lifting her head, she finally theorized her hypothesis: “You can’t express non-material love in the way you want. You’re totally clueless about it.”

“She’s not wrong.” Ted murmured. “I can’t express my emotions properly either.”

“Does any other psychiatrist want to dissect and pick at me in this room?” Donald grumbled with a heavy sigh.

Marco rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation before smiling. “I don’t think I have much more to say. But I do wanna add that throughout the time me and Ted have known you, the times considered just plain stupid, like those times after school, at weekends, breaks and so on… I think I truly loved our time together. This is sounding so cliche and I hate it, but I do miss those times where Ted and I were the reluctant sidekicks and you were the master planner.”

“Wow. Thanks, Marco. You’re a good guy.” Donald mumbled softly.

“Ted, my dude, let’s try and forget about that previous incident.” Marco entreated, with a look that hinted forgiveness. “It’s not a severe cut or anything.” he said, however his cheek had been stinging a long while since.

“Let’s.” Ted agreed sorrowfully. “I think we’re ready for want you need to say, Jeb.” he gave the same sorry look to the junior, who at first responded with sarcastic raise of the eyebrow, but then nodded his head after thinking his words over.

“Thanks, y’all.”


 [end of part one] [TBC]

Chapter Text


June 28th, 3:28pm


“If you’re all wondering why I ran in the election, you’d probably assume it was because of my politic-affiliated father shaping my future ambition. You’ve all heard about my mom and how she liked to push me around, perhaps even seen it at parent conferences or whatever.” Jeb began, clasping his fists as a signal of rocketing anxiety.

“I doubt any of us have ever witnessed what she says to you.” Bernie presumed. There was a pause. “Would you like to tell us?”

“I’m being vague on purpose, just so you know.”

“Why, Jeb? You pushed me to talk about my parents, or parent, to be exact – now it’s your turn.” Donald asserted with a frown.

“Nobody is forcing you, but it is hypocritical if you do not say at least something after your attitude towards…” Hillary gestured towards Donald with her head. “It’s only fair.” she added, waiting for an explanation.

“Your mom’s a bitch. Admit it.” pressed Donald, pulling a cat-smile.

“For starters you could stop calling my mom that.”

“You’re putting him off.” Ted lazily said in the background.

“Suck a dick.” Donald retaliated in a similar key. The air of the room shortly pacified.

“See, I never held any hate towards my mom, but the pressure she has given me is something that nobody would want.” Jeb uttered, scratching at his jawline. He dropped his sentence as if he were delivering too much sacred information, as if his own mother was eyeing his every move.

“Continue, it’s all good. What is said in this room stays in this room.” Barack comforted, anticipating the testimony which was a given subject of curiosity, especially with a person like Jeb.

Jeb embarked on his confession rather confidently, easing into the flow of thought transitioning into words: “From an early age I always knew my brother, you all know George – was the favorite. The reason why, or the reason I think is too personal to say out loud, caused my parents a lot of grief. When George was born they must have been so relieved to have something so precious in their life, and so from then on he was always pampered a little more than the rest of us.” He took a couple of breaths between, surprised at how much he was actually saying, and the liberated feeling that came with it. “We moved from our home in Texas to here so George could attend Washingcoln, not by his consent but rather my parents’. They had so many expectations of us. And so throughout George’s run in the election and then leadership, my parents, mom especially, turned colder and stupidly authoritative on me to the point I’d develop these strange coping mechanisms.”

“Coping mechanisms?” asked Bernie, raising his head. In reply, Jeb returned a look signalling he needed to explain something else beforehand.

“Mom would tell me I need to work harder, that school had to be a chore and that the way to success had to be painful. She exaggerated it so much though. Say, I realize people needa feel pain to get somewhere, but this pressure was unbearable. It was almost as if George and my dad served as these political symbols I had to live up to, otherwise I was a failure. And I actually believed that bullshit.”

“I never thought you would be the type to apprehend what it’s like to be pressured.” Hillary remarked.

“Well, you’re wrong Hillary. So wrong. But I can see why an entitled person like you would blindly assume I can’t grasp such a concept.” responded Jeb, externalizing his embarrassment and anxiety in the form of frustration. He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but the shame that suddenly crept on him after his momentary freedom stirred his sentiments into something he had a hard time figuring out.

“Jeb, there was no need for that.” Barack mundanely noted, causing Jeb to examine the consequences that could arise from his sudden cockiness. Hillary appeared unaffected by the empty vocalization, which drove the mousy-haired boy to continue.

“Mom’s high standards made it so I looked less and less forward to school, and by a few months into sophomore year I’d collect these small ceramic turtles at this weird corner store, and when they’d be all out I’d wait until they had them again in stock.”

“That sounds so bizarre.” commented Joe, unsure how to picture the point of view.

“It sounds like a ritual, almost.” Bernie reflected.

“It was most definitely a ritual.” agreed Jeb. Taking a long deep breath, he lowered his tone. “I also… I also got hooked onto the grass, the Mary Jane, you know?”

Everybody’s faces showed brief surprise, some more than others, before each and every one of them pulled an expression of relative understanding. Some amused, even.

“I mean, it explains your odd behavior in the library.” Joe derived. “Gosh Jeb, aren’t you getting help?”

“Not really. I cut it out once I suspended my campaign, but that was short-lived.” The boy picked at his fingernails; his body language clearly uncomfortable while, juxtaposingly, his words spilling ever so naturally. The contrast was odd, as it was as if his heart wanted to set free these once concealed experiences and feelings, yet his mind had no idea how to react.  Jeb carried on nonetheless, hugging his chest tightly. “Marco knows that similarly to him, Florida holds a special place in me, so I’d daydream about my summer vacations there as a child almost everywhere. And do y’all know what was most vivid in those daydreams? My longing for those sea turtles to wash upon the shore. Like me, I thought they were longing for a release of freedom under those waves. I myself wanted a release where I wouldn’t be locked up in a building I hated. Man, I-I hate this school. I hate my brother’s presidency; I hate it having association with me. I hate rules, fuck, I hate politics, dammit! I hate… I hate my parents.” His voice tremored while his eyes filled with tears. “They ruined me! They fucking – they fucking ruined me!” he yelled, turning red and undergoing a sudden fear of appearing as weak like Donald had. But in reality, it wasn’t weakness. Vulnerability yes, but certainly not weakness.

“You don’t mean that, Jeb please, settle down-” calmed Hillary, drawing closer to him as the others turned dead silent. Quickly, Jeb hid his river of tears behind his sleeve, refusing to remove it. His emotional state was affecting the others in a way they would have never imagined. It was the strangest thing, but everybody in the room could somewhat empathize with the idea of being pressured into acting a way they weren’t, living up to be a person they weren’t, and using questionable escapes to cope with their pain.

“Are you still out there getting stoned and all?” Marco asked, very quietly. He noticed that Jeb was beginning to even out a little in his complexion, second by second.

“Man, I wish. For the time I spend outside you’d think I’d be dealing the stuff now.” Jeb sniffed, and rubbed his nose before gazing at every figure of the circle individually. “Guys, the detention we all had together last year–” 

“I wholly remember.” Barack interrupted.

“-I told you all that I took blame for something my brother did. But I would have never done anything like that in my dreams.”

“That’s weird. I distantly recall you saying exactly that.” stated Barack bemusedly.

“It was a cover up, Prez.”

“Tell us the truth.” Donald voiced, who had been silently yet curiously musing on Jeb’s range of confessions. His eyes acquired the same piercing look of ice Jeb had felt intimated by from day one, the sudden gesture almost acting as a symbol of how they were currently each other’s equal, and no man was on a higher pedestal than the other.

“The real reason why I had detention that day was because I was nearly caught with my stash. One of the teachers could smell it and forced me to show my bag and pockets, but little did they realize the coat in my locker was where it was at. It lingered on me, I guess, and I got sorta pissy and began getting defensive, and so I was sentenced an hour that Friday after school. They never found the weed, but teachers always kept an eye on me from then on. It felt like something out of 1984.” Jeb muttered with a grim chuckle, his smile fading not long after. 

“Do you read Orwell?” inquired Ted.

“Hardly. I probably ought to.” answered Jeb, his dark laughter accompanying the even darker set of eyes that shone with it.

“That’s… that’s pretty amazing if you ask me.” Bernie snickered, his laugh turning silent as it moved to the back of his throat.


“How often would you get high, huh?” questioned Marco, growing more inquisitive.

“I actually had some self-control up until Christmas. Boy I sure loved getting wasted around then too.”

“He’s was for sure hooked on the alcohol too, you guys.” bluntly added Donald. “I’ve seen it. Not pretty.”

“Shut up, Donald.” retorted Jeb with a smirk.

“What exactly made you stop, Jeb?” Ted asked.

“You see, it’s going to be so surreal admitting this. But I will. It was the day I suspended my campaign; after PE I was walking back from the tennis courts, and me and the guys had some time to spare on our upcoming free period. We walked a few laps around the school but the others disappeared somewhere else. But then I heard something interesting in a classroom, to be honest I was captivated by it. It was rhetoric I had a hard time agreeing with, but the feeling behind it was something revolutionary.”

Jeb noticed that one face was not like the others. One, antithetical to the pattern of the other dotted expressions in Jeb’s vision, silently spoke to him that he knew what was up. Strongly. The voice that uttered after that almost seemed omniscient of Jeb’s thoughts and experiences, a rather strange yet strong intuition that was indescribable, as if it were connected by emotion instead of logic, as if it were tangible in the chest, tactile, palpable---

“It was me, wasn’t it.” Bernie said. Jeb met Bernie’s eyes with his very own. 

“Unfortunately so. I hate to admit it.”

“Don’t be. You’re only human after all.” Bernie blinked and stretched his joints. “Man, I, I had no idea I had so much impact upon you.”

“You actually have a lot of impact on people, Bernie. Although it doesn’t necessarily mean that impact is always good.” Hillary commented, still feeling awkward from the tide of emotion that was hitting her and everybody else at once.

“Could you expand on that?”


“Something is troubling you.” Donald insisted with assurance.

“Something is troubling me more.” Marco whispered, slightly faced away from the group and looking as if he was experiencing a small internal crisis from the unfamiliar feeling of interconnected, mutual emotion.

“Deep breaths, man.” Joe directed at him sorrowfully. “Come on.” He paused in his movements, as if he were reciting a hundred different thoughts and feelings in his head at that very moment, and turned to face the others. “There is an overwhelming link I can make between Ted and Marco’s situations and myself. I’ve been doubtful of whether I should say anything, because I feel as if my family background is not oppressive like Ted’s, and my anxieties haven’t been as severe as Marco’s. There is some bargaining if I should speak or not.”

“We’d like to hear it.” Barack responded with a subtle smile.

“You’re always cast away in the shadows, Joe. I honestly find you an enigma.” stated Donald out of all people.

“It’s so weird, because you guys look at me like I’m just another speck of irrelevancy. It’s not so commonplace being in the spotlight, but… imma do this.” assured Joe, taking a few seconds to think. “So, it’s obvious Ted and Marco share anxieties about self-image.”

“Oh…” Marco engaged in a slow nod.

“Okay, I see where you’re coming from.” proclaimed Ted.

“I can relate with Marco’s anxiety with public speaking. As a former stutterer, I had to work towards being so comfortable in front of people. But with Ted, the bigger conflict here is with himself, rather than how others perceive him.”

“How would you know all this? We hardly even know each other, let alone speak.” Ted raked his hands through his hair in utter bewilderment, furrowing a greasy brow.

“You’re not comfortable in your own skin.” Hillary cut-in. “It’s so painfully obvious.”

“Oh, and you are, Hillary?”

“This isn’t about Hillary.” Donald snapped back, at Ted.

Joe returned to his speaking, feeling sure of himself. “Ted has a certain aspect he’s afraid of exploring. And I think I know what it is.”

“I know too.” Bernie suspected, with his focus riveting from Marco, to Ted, and back to Marco. “But Joe, how does this relate to you?”

“I won’t disclose the person involved on my behalf, but I can elaborate it in the sense that this aspect gets repressed, for different reasons for each of our situations, of course. All I’m putting forth is that we both suppress the feelings we have for other people, and that unhealthy bottling of emotion turns into somethin’ ugly.”

“O-okay. Right.” Ted stuttered, wondering how such a person like Joe could identify features of himself that he had never paid attention to.

Joe stretched his limbs and fixed his posture, finally undoing his feigned smile. “Also, you all probably didn’t believe the shit you heard about me and Donald’s fight. Yeah, I was the fire starter. But you know, I strongly believe there was a build-up that led to that event. It’s something you feel in your chest when you hold something in, like it’s chaining you down. And I’m sure many of you have felt like you have been chained at some point. Though never suppress everything you feel, please, at least talk to someone about it instead of telling yourself to man up or something like that.” Everyone stayed stunned at Joe’s delivery, amazed at how easy others could recognize their own habits of keeping things bolted up behind a lock. “Those in tenth grade and up ‘woulda known me as that guy who spoke his mind and wouldn’t give a damn. I was outgoing alright, especially in my junior year, but now I’ve let my… my love for this particular person dwell inside my pit of a chest, and on top of that I thought I had to repress any opinions I had. Most of those controversial opinions I had were about Donald. All it did was soon lead me to unleash upon him like some wild savage.” Joe was almost finished, taking a long hard look at his fellow acquaintances. “And that’s exactly what Ted did; am I wrong? Sorry dude, I just gotta say it bluntly like that.” He looked at him in a knowing sadness, noticing Ted’s expression stilling, tweaking, and then changing.

“Gosh, God, I’m sorry about that, Donald. I’m so sorry, Marco.” Ted whispered with a hand to his eyes, brooding over his previous actions he already agreed to forget, yet could not wash from his ridden mind. “Joe, you’re right.”

“I know.” Joe also decided to chip in: “From now on I think I won’t be so conscious of what I say. I’ll surround myself with people who I can feel comfortable saying what I think around.”

Bernie opened his mouth to interject something, but his lips froze for a few seconds as his thoughts attempted to resync with his actions: “If, if it makes you feel any better, I’m still janitoring to compensate for my near-arrest experience.”

“Bernie, like everybody else here, I’m interested in the mystery that is you.” Hillary then spoke up, the side of her cheek gently rested on her hand. “But for some odd reason I cannot describe, I’m on the edge of my seat to hear your story especially.” she furthermore added.

“That might be the most genuine thing you have ever said to me.” Bernie sighed. Albeit Barack at that moment wasn’t feeling so satisfied. 

“There’s insincerity in your voice, actually.” he countered.

“Barry, don’t,” Joe muttered next to Barack, sensing a rising annoyance in the once-was Prez.

“Why? I know for myself that Bernie can be a total hypocrite in many areas.”

 “Alright… I’m not going to disagree or anything.” Bernie pulled a face, and calmly crossed his arms. “If you’re hungry for some abrupt reaction then you came to the wrong person.”

At once, almost unnaturally sudden, Barack’s temperament turned passively phlegmatic. “Sorry, it’s just I’m not used to saying my true opinions so upfront.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“You’re afraid of confrontation, Barry. That’s what it is.” Donald indicated with a strong, intuitive swagger to his speech.

Bernie shook his head in agreement. “You do have some bipartisan-ness about you, like you were so desperate to get the republican council’s approval and act safe, have this laissez-faire approach to the school rivalry, your willingness to compromise...”

“Is that safeness applicable to me, too?” questioned Hillary, sternly. “Actually, don’t answer that. I already know how you’re going to attack me.”

“But Bernie, you’re speaking as if compromising is a bad thing.” Barack mentioned.

“It says a lot about him.” Hillary smarmily raised both brows in unison.

“Well I think we should let him speak.” inputted Donald, causing Hillary to roll her eyes.

“Of course you would. If somebody’s agenda is against mine you already see them as worthy of listening to.”

“Hillary…” Joe looked at her and shook his head, thinking over how on earth she could be so closed off at a sentimental pinpoint in time. Hillary bit her lip and silenced herself, waiting for Bernie to get his talking over and done with. Perhaps they really did have more unsorted flaws in their friendship than they both initially assumed, still, even after their talk by the river.

Bernie let out a few coughs, stumbling in his first few words, until he cleared his throat and started again: “The reason I signed up to be the leader of student government was not for the grand reputation it held, especially when people first look at it and automatically reckon ‘Oh, that sounds important.’ I did actually want to be part of the governing body itself at first. If I dropped out, I hoped I could be a cabinet member, but that projection faded pretty quickly into my course. This is going to sound brutal, and I’m sorry in hindsight if I sound harsh, but Barack lacked the spirit that I wanted. He even confessed in this very room his presidency was a filler for his lack of male authority in his life, which has led me to believe his view for change was something he wanted to believe in, but couldn’t act upon due to all kinds of barriers that took him by surprise.”

Barack stared at him in a fashion Bernie interpreted as red with irritation, when in reality, it was the strong state of agreement that brought such tension to form in his mouth and brows. “Actually, that is scarily accurate. Those barriers, I’m only just realizing – were not only my oppositions themselves but the way I looked at them, the concernment I had for myself and how I appeared in the eyes of those same oppositions, and so forth. I was led to think I should just go with the flow, but in reality I am a worrier. I am a thinker. I loved to question things. And hearing the acknowledgement of that from a dreamer like you is honestly like a breath of fresh air.” the once-was Prez softly confessed. “You know – I saw you, Bernie,” he began to say, pointing a sly finger.

“Oh?” he hummed in return.

“On the first day, with the spray paint.”

“You really are afraid of taking action, aren’t you.” Bernie laughed. “The first thing I’d expected you to do was tell Principal Washington.”

“Yes, and I didn’t. It just goes to show how lackluster I was. He found out anyway, which is not surprising.” Barack then chuckled, feeling more at ease with himself.

“I... I was debating if I should have gone home on that day. I was this close,” Bernie pinched his fingers to illustrate what he’d label a minuscule gap between his index and thumb. “This close to turning around and walking back down that sloping hill, far away from the school as I’d wanted.”

“Aha! But you didn’t.” sang Barack. Bernie directed a finger and nodded.

“If I had returned home, I wouldn’t have seen the point of bringing that paint-can that following day. I don’t know why I wanted to throw it in the bushes, but it was probably a result of the hopelessness that came with accepting the unfortunate fact that, well, vandalism is a dumbass move. No matter how much hate you feel towards an organization or institution. I honestly don’t know if my motives for carrying that thing around were all concerned with letting loose at any second, but I’m glad I had that thing, because without it I wouldn’t have been late, nor spent that detention with all of you.”

“You were grateful for that?” expressed Hillary, yet with a smile this time.

“Well, it was how this group started, was it not?” Bernie then considered with a toothy grin. At that moment, the eight pupils in the room of varying ages and agendas started to witness a unifying force that was unlike anything they had felt ever before.

“And all because you decided to show up that one morning.” Marco remarked in amazement.

“It was my birthday. I didn’t feel like it, but y’know.” slowly, Bernie’s eyes landed and secured themselves onto Hillary. “I had my own source of motivation.”

“What was your revolution, hm?” Marco curiously asked, not expecting a majorly serious answer. 

“Well, that – I never had a clear envisioning of it.” admitted Bernie shyly.

“You really cannot plan out your shit.” giggled Hillary, with her inner bitterness fading away bit by bit. Bernie smiled back and squinted.

“My goal was to, I have to admit, get rid of all the corruption in this school that I linked with the real world and the US government today. Teachers were not being paid enough; they still aren’t. Visits to the nurse add to a student’s fees, which isn’t too drastic, but last year due to school fights there were a 'lotta injuries. Despite the extra funding the principals had a hard time seeing another year of the government presidency. You know, I truly believe Washington did it because he, like me, hated this party system. He to me has always felt this way, but this time I’m assuming because of Lincoln’s injury and the strain on money he decided to go against tradition.” proudly voiced the democratic socialist. “This goes to show we are, indeed, still in massive debt from rioting. But isn’t everybody these days?” he rhetorically asked the others.

“Coming from somebody who has little clue of how economics works, I have a hard time taking you seriously whenever you talk money.” Ted mumbled with a chuckle.

“My failure in economics class is pretty notorious to people, some use it against me, but I’m coming to realize it may just be because Mr. Reagan has a natural bias towards people like me. It’s not that I have no idea of how economics works. It’s just I have an alternative view to it. Keep in mind I am not a Bolshevik, I just like the idea of a welfare state and other socially democratic ideas.”

“You would be better at real world politics than leadership in a student government.” Joe surmised to Bernie.

“Yeah, ‘cause everybody in this prison has a hive-mind.” Donald then scoffed. “See my supporters, for one.”

“I’m actually rather cynical about my future. It made sense that I probably would not go far in the world of politics; and so that aspiration left me as soon as I had to drop out.” expanded Bernie. “But something I have always wanted to be, even before I properly got invested in political affairs, was a social worker.”

“Frankly, I have no idea what my future will be. Fate tells me I’ll wind up as a businessman or politician, but no way in hell do I want to be either of those.” Jeb said in disdain. 

“You’ll be bomb at being a tennis player.” complimented Marco.

“Well, so will you and football. And Ted with acting.” Jeb presumed.

“But those things have been continuously embedded into our heads as unrealistic goals.” Ted then mused over what his father would think if he even dared to pave his career path in something of the likes of theater.  

“I don’t know, I think any of you three studying law would be less likely than you all going in your own, individual paths. You guys are too colorful to not pursue in your dreams!” exclaimed Bernie encouragingly.

“You’re right.” agreed Jeb, though still uncertain. “Truth is I couldn’t give a shit about politics.”

“Maybe I’m more passionate about acting than impressing people with knowledge on purist conservatism.” considered Ted with a sarcastic twist on his last few words.

“Gosh, I know.” said Marco with a laugh. “I only signed up for the title of Prez because I thought that was what I thought my parents wanted me to pursue. Like Jeb I wanted to prove to them I was worth something, that I was smart and competent. But my attitude towards actual education is what they see as worthy, not a race that has turned more into a popularity contest than anything.”

“Education is powerful. Popularity is not.” Hillary phrased to herself contently. “I think that’s a saying that will stay with me until the end of my life.”

Donald then faced Ted. “Ted: apart from Lincoln getting blasted, would you say you genuinely enjoyed performing on Thursday?” he asked, before he noticed the looks of distaste that crawled onto him. “It’s okay yer pussies, I’m allowed to joke about it, Lincoln’s recovering just fine.”

“Of course. But there has been an issue I’ve been having with Carly for a long time now.”

“You need to tell her.” Donald pressured Ted, as if he knew exactly what was up with Carly Fiorina. Which he did – it had got to a point where it was blatant that her feelings for Ted Cruz were something other than platonic.

“About what?” Hillary asked, yet slowly began to gather what Carly had once revealed to her on their shopping trip.

“That… I’m in love with somebody else.” Ted divulged, gazing at Marco, until all other eyes trailed after his own, and faces lit up in silent, understanding acceptance.


There was perhaps a quick minute of inactivity, yet the atmosphere indicated that something was missing. Something was left unsaid, dormant, lurking – something more needed to release itself from its chains. And ever so faintly, Donald turned his head to what he thought of as not the glue or heart of the group but the mystery; who to him wasn't as much of a complicated matter as one might think; but to the others, was. “You’ve been quiet for an awful long time.” he said, to Hillary, who had been flatly peering into space.

Bernie was about to tap her shoulder as a notification, yet she murmured a quick, nonthreatening: “Don’t touch me.”

“We’re all waiting for you, princess.” Donald sneered. 

“Waiting for what?”

“You have a lot of explaining to do.”

With only Donald properly putting her on the spot, Hillary looked at the others for guidance. But nothing rebounded aside from the summered light and the hazy, emotional air. She instantly crossed her arms. “I’m sick of feeling as if I have to justify myself to everybody.”

“You never properly have. You push your problems to the back of your mind and pretend they aren’t there, it’s undoubtable. You only stay in your comfort zone, and this is what happens. You become a loser.” Donald barked, not reflecting aspects of his old persona but surmising soberly, seriously, and solemnly. “Hillary, I ‘oughta inform you that if this election did have an outcome, there was more than a 50% chance that me, Donald Trump would have been Washingcoln’s president. All of you think about that for a second.”

Hillary felt a spike of adrenaline posing as the reminder, the likelihood that she could have had a chance if it weren’t for the complications that ended the election. But that chance was still brittle, even with those predicting she would win, she was certain that Donald could have stolen the show in the last second easily, while she would have to sweat for it. “I don’t know what I did wrong.” she whispered softly. It gave way to various waves of sympathy from the others in the room, some even crests of empathy, over the tumbling sea that was the clairvoyant sentiment of room 119.

“You were a bad candidate.” Joe eventually articulated, breaking quietude. “You’re not a bad person, Hillary. We have been friends for the entirety of our stay at Washingcoln, and I know you have thoughts and feelings like the rest of us do. You are human, but you need to start treating yourself like one, and not some kind of robotic symbol that has to dismiss any problematic action from her history as if it did not exist.”

“May I say what I want to say, Joe?” Hillary returned. She noticed Barack, who looked as if he wanted to express an opinion or some other statement, yet shook it off as a conventional act of deep thought.

“Of course.” Joe replied.

“So, your lecture did have some truth-”

“It wasn’t you who stole Ted and Marco’s records at all, was it.” Barack inquired with a heavy brow and pout. It faded into nothingness, and he supplemented it with a small smile.

“No.” Hillary confirmed.

“Joe and I… we have been so oblivious for all this time. You don’t go red when you lie; you do it when you tell the truth.” Barack began emitting a laugh of realization.

“You have emotions, Hillary, you know.” pressed Donald.

“Yes, but my time at Prez High, no – Washingcoln High, has taught me I need to keep my cool so I don’t come across as this hysterical woman who wants to start up world war three. You don’t need to tell me I have emotions, Donald. But think about it, if I expressed them as liberally as Bernie did, I would have been labelled as this angry woman full to her brim with hysteria. So I chose the opposite path while in the limelight. However all of you know how ‘immature’ I can be, aka, like a human.”

“I see.” apprehended Bernie, fiddling with the rims of his glasses.

“Do you understand how it is now?”

“Yes. It does make sense.” Bernie affirmed. “It’s a good thing nobody saw your Tumblr, or the way you acted around Bill and I that time at Starbucks. All kinds of rumors woulda’ stemmed from that.”

“But I don’t want it to be that way. I want to express my feelings of joy in a way that’s not through cringeworthy jokes or trying to be relatable to my audience, as if I’m some sort of lizard person from Venus, where my performance is perceived as cold or fake.”

“So, you’re saying you have been forced into acting the way you do to the public out of fear?” summarized Marco.

“I guess. I assume that’s why I held so much secret envy for you, Bernie, because I felt like you could have no filter at any time you wanted, while I felt I was confined into some sort of straitjacket.” Hillary calmly explained, although it was patent she had held a lot of inner aggravation of the issue. “I think if I didn’t reveal this to all of you today, my disliking towards Bernie in particular would have grown to a very unhealthy point.”

Bernie handed her a look of comprehension, and the edges of his lips curled to form a smile. “I forgive you as long as you reciprocate.”

“Of course.”

Despite the slight clemency in their words, there was a lot more to be undug about Hillary Rodham and those around her. Barack leaned in next to Joe: “What did you mean by that?”

“I know, it’s okay. What Joe out of all people is suggesting is that I have been avoiding my…” Hillary tried to find the words, but struggled in her attempt. “My…” The words were stuck at the back of her throat, the back of her mind like gum. They refused to come out.

“Your past.” Donald completed. “You have contradicted yourself a whole lot, Rodham. Hopefully now you won’t be so afraid to admit that. The main thing you did wrong in your campaign was changing yourself to such a point, tremendous point I tell you – where you lost all realness.”

But rather than feeling gratification from Donald’s words, Hillary only felt a sharp annoyance. “I’m so sick of you telling me this as if I don’t know.”

“But that’s the thing… it’s almost as if you don’t know. It’s like you push all of it away as if it doesn’t matter; listen to that voice, Hillary! ‘Cause it sure wants to be noticed!” Bernie hollered, but for the means of encouragement as opposed to lecture.

“With Donald, his mask was intentional, but yours was involuntary.” pointed out Ted, who had been speculating alongside Marco and Jeb for the time being.

Hillary’s head sank, and her eyes lowered to her knees. “I only acted like such a bitch so I could mainly fit in with the well-liked people at this school.”

“No, you weren’t a bitch, don’t ever say that.” Barack protested with passion. The last thing he wanted was for one of his closest friends to think of theirself in that way. “I do get where the others are coming from however, and it would be good if you did too.”

“I feel like these words are being forced out of me like they aren’t a true reflection of myself.” further sighed Hillary, with tired exasperation.

“Maybe your view of your true self isn’t as true as you wanna see it.” Jeb considered, genuinely sad for the upperclassman.

“That’s because you’ve strayed away from your real self for so long, Hill.” Bernie proposed.

“We’re all waiting.” Donald dryly stated, cementing his eyes upon Hillary.

“I shouldn’t have to justify why I ran to all you jerks.” she huffed, although from glimpsing at the group once more, she eventually gave in for the best. “Okay. So while Bill was Prez I wasn’t exactly tucked away in the curtains of the stage, like a submissive girlfriend would be. I made my opinions heard, started controversy, and became notorious as Bill’s feminist girlfriend who invested herself in human rights and started drama. That was all who I was. I was Bill’s shadow, not covered up but opaque, blunt and full of mystery; only visible for some of the time, but when my presence was there, it was there alright.”

“Bill was like the sun, and you were the shadows he cast.” Marco poetically paraphrased, before gaining an odd yet endearing reaction from Ted, as well as many other confused smirks to top it off. Hillary flashed an unsure smile, and returned to her talk.

“Yes. As George’s presidency rolled about, on the contrary, I began doing a lot more awful things that people call me out on to this very day. I’ll be honest with you – I did use a private email server to contact those in rivaling educational institutions, but no, unlike what the rumors say, I did not send any explicit images of myself to Bill. That was all a childish lie.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” Bernie said.

“I did however make a lot of deals with other schools to get money. I did not petition against the school riots because I knew those deals would benefit me, as in I’d sell play-weapons at a high price so I could buy whatever new jacket or heels or whatever else people wanted to see me in.” revealed Hillary, not sounding as ashamed as she once was but instead confident, heartfelt, and sincere. “It’s so hard telling you all this, but yes, all of it was true. As I’m leaving this school and taking a gap year to get a part time job before college, I shouldn’t think it’s necessary to disclose it to everyone. My legacy is already bad. That’s okay. I’ll work towards being a better person for the rest of my life, and I will achieve that, because I know I’m not wholly evil-”

“Why of course you’re not evil. You’re just flawed, and you so bravely confessing this has made me hold the most respect I have ever had for you.” Barack interrupted, his heart heavy.

“Thank you Barry. And I’m sorry to everybody I’ve hurt in the past.” Hillary skimmed among everyone else, and her eyes set themselves upon Bernie until they shortly switched to her fingers in front of her.

“So Bill’s leadership made you descend into thinking you weren’t good enough…?” questioned Jeb, not certain with his interpretation.

“Not quite, hun. I hate to declare my reasoning for running as if he defined me, as if I’m not an independent, free thinking woman. Because I am exactly that. All it is, is he was this passive influence. His leadership almost spiked a jealousy within me, so I ran for Prez of Washingcoln’s student body. I yearned for Bill’s charisma and charm so much that these underlying desires breached out of me in a way that came across as robotic and ungenuine. It just wasn’t the same me as back then.”

“The you ‘back then’ wasn’t the true you either.” Donald then disclaimed.

“People change, Donald. Please. Can you stop?” requested Hillary. Donald let out a quiet ‘fine’, before his next question.

“Well, how about the situation with Bill now?”

“Alright. I doubt this will hold any relevance to any of you, but Bill and I have split. He claims we’re on a break, but if one of us falls for somebody in the meantime, then that’s it – all over. I’m not sure if I ever want to get back romantically with him. Our relationship as friends is just more… I don’t know – i-it just makes sense, you know? It not that I want to be with anybody else, it’s just I know I’m not destined to be with him. Perhaps in another reality that would have been the case, but now, no.” Hillary shuffled herself into a more comfortable sitting position, second guessing her last utterances. “Actually I believe there may be somebody, but thinking about the mere concept of a soulmate just makes me dizzy with a weird pain in my chest, something like nostalgia I shouldn’t be experiencing.” she finished, her mind relieved, yet her heart feeling incomplete in many areas.

“You did have those bouts of nostalgia a lot around me at one point. Are you sure you’re okay?” Bernie asked with concern.

“I’m fine. My pneumonia has almost cleared up too, thanks for asking.” emphasized Hillary with a sad laugh.  

“Oh man, it was pneumonia?” gasped Marco in oblivion. His face settled into a smile. “You kicked its ass. Good job.”

“Oh boy, boy oh boy.” Donald repeated to himself.

“What.” Hillary instantly shot back, his matching blue stare reminiscent of their past exchanged looks of red antipathy, locked in the white rooms of Prez High.

“Your story is missing a vital section, Hillary.”

“Don’t say it Donald.” Jeb snapped, wanting to further explore the interesting dynamic of him and the senior. “She clearly does not want to linger upon this.” He didn’t necessarily want a fight, but if he could have known if Donald would ever begin picking on him again, he would be ultimately satisfied in what to do. He was pumped full of energy, as if he were a protector, as if he had power within the dynamic rather than to remain the subservient of the two. But as the room began crowding itself with that awful familiar silence once more, Jeb soon accepted the fact that Donald’s unresisting condition at that moment was evident of Jeb at last being free from any more verbal oppression.

“I’ve reached just above six feet tall, if any of you were wondering.” Barack brought up out of the blue, looking for something to bring the uncommunicative atmosphere to a close.

“I can guarantee none of us were.” Ted sarcastically drawled.

“I was.” rejoined Joe. “You know, just if anyone else was wondering – that book of poems I carry around is for my speech practice. I don’t have an in depth love for romantic literature or anything.”

“Wrong, you’re a hopeless romantic. I can sense it.” Hillary said with a grin.

“My favorite use of punctuation is the exclamation mark.” Jeb informed the rest, counterfeiting a giddy manner.

“I have never won a single game of monopoly.” confessed Donald, perhaps remotely bashfully.

“I’ve won hundreds.” nonchalantly bragged Bernie.

“I once binged every single one of the Star Wars movies on a caffeine high over the course of two days.” chuckled Ted, his mouth straightening as he echoed amusement.

“I believe Darth Vader is underappreciated.” joined Marco, giving Ted a small punch on the arm.

“My three aspirations as a kid were an astronaut, baseball player and a journalist.” Hillary finally inputted with a smug smile on her youthful face. “True story.”

“Look at us. Damn.” Barack shook his head, gazing at the windows with a close-lipped smile. “It’s so weird because we are all... we’re all just… kids. Where did our teenhood go, really.” he questioned, although it sounded like he was asking it to himself, if anything. The sunlight glanced across his cheekbones, causing his skin to glow a beautiful brown, and it wasn’t until a few seconds later when the others began to hook their eyes onto the early dusk sky of summer, secretly and wistfully yearning for longterm satisfaction in each of their lives.

“If you enroll in a school like this you don’t have one. The plan is you go from child to adult, but that’s impossible in Prez High, believe what I’m saying here – we stay children.” Donald scoffed melancholically, trying not to get any rays in his eyes.

With her hair gleaming gold in the light, Hillary also decided to insert her perception on the subject. “It’s like we need our teenhood of messing around and partying and falling in love and not repressing every single feeling we have. We need to explore our emotions and beliefs, and question them at any point we can. We need that to develop as human beings.”

“The children of today are will still be the children of tomorrow. We are the children of our own futures.” Barack quietly mused to himself. He stood up and opened the window, letting his face bask in the sun’s rays.

“To me it seems like we entered this room as children, but we will be leaving it… as adults.” raised Bernie, noticing a few clouds gathering in the sky ahead. He sprouted up and walked to the window, before spotting a single dandelion seed flittering through the melty breeze. It landed on his finger. “The children of our future.” he cited. “Catchy. I like it.”


They must have spent a good couple of seconds breathing in the fresh air, something that felt so simple, so natural, so unlike the recycled air that lay within the school all day and night. However, not everything stayed as joyous at that moment. Donald was feeling risky, and still had lots on his mind.

“Hillary, I need to say it. Apologies.” he declared, shrugging his shoulders. A particular fear struck within the young woman beside him, her eyes almost freezing over with anger. She mouthed for him to stop, but Donald shook his head.

“Cut it out,” yelled Barack, refusing to tolerate the fact he was absolutely powerless in this situation.

“Please… no, stop.” Hillary elongated her pauses between words, as her breath sank heavier and heavier.

“Bill wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, and you know that-

“I said stop.” she vocalized, making her words long, crisp, and clear. She lowered her head, heatedly glaring at the stupidly cold eyes of Donald Trump.

“He had another person in his life, the year he was Prez-

“I will fucking hit you with this chair.” Hillary threatened, seeing red, and clenching her jaw and fist.


“No, I’m telling you.” she continued, her teeth gritted and her eyes screaming despair.

Donald kept his eyes directly on her. He devilishly smirked, lowered his head to Hillary’s level, and raised his finger to ensure that any background whispers would entirely recede:


“Monica Lewinsky.”


“Why are you such a fucking cunt?!” Barack shouted, repeatedly pushing at Donald’s shoulder. “There was no need to say that. You could have just kept your mouth shut, but no-”

“Please, quiet.” Donald raised his hand, inflicting an epidemic silence. Barack unhandled the taller boy, and reluctantly staggered back to his spot. “That wasn’t the only section I was talking about.” Donald proceeded. “You wouldn’t know, Hillary. It’s only me who does at this moment in time.”

Hillary, with her head bowed as low as it could go, slowly but surely lifted her irises. “Tell… me…” she whispered…

“You remember D.T.?”

…and there it was.



It all made sense. Though only to Hillary, at that unforgettable moment in her history.

It was the answer.

“D…D.T.,” her eyes froze in shock in steady yet heart-mangling realization, her skin turned pale, her temperature dropped, her fingers trembled, shivered, even in the late June summer air--- “It’s really you…?”

She had found it.

Donald spent a short time with his eyes closed as if he were praying to something from up above. The pair opened, and his hand landed upon the girl’s frail shoulder. Donald’s stare expanded to a random focal point directly in front of him, apprehending that conversely, everyone else’s eyes were stuck onto him. “This is going to sound awfully off, you guys, but…” 

Hillary’s hand brushed upon the tan cheek, the lifeless sweeping motion making way for all the memories of the past, the history, the chunk of absence in her life where the precise person returned not in the form of redeeming that absence but in the form of an abscess; but now, not regarding that period of her life at all, she believed it had finally been found. And in that yellowed oil painting of a room, with a theatrical warm hue that could only be a visible reproduction of what Hillary was feeling at that odd moment in time, their eyes must have met and red and blue must have, must have, conjoined to make purple. Donald took a deep breath.

“…Hillary and I knew each other in middle school.”


Chapter Text


[First Person POV – Donald Trump]

June 28th, 4:31pm

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I remember when I first met Hillary. She was amazing; let me tell you – a total snob, but a not the most girlish of girls, you get me? Summin’ about her gave off this vibe, a vibe I still don’t understand. But it was great alright.

We were both in seventh grade, and had math, science, and history together, homeroom also. But that wasn’t the thing that drew us together I’d say. Classes were only a small part of it. What really made me pumped was after school baseball. There was where we talked, where we laughed, bonded and whatever – and it’s sad to think about, trust me people. Because while she was stuck up in her Hillary-type way, she didn’t treat me like the other kids did. She was grown up for her age, you know how it is with girls and stuff, but I don’t know, she was different. Different to how she is now. She don’t play baseball no more.

We didn’t do much outside of school; in fact I don’t think we ever made plans to go out together on a date or something. You know how twelve year olds are. They have no idea of what love is but they insist they feel it anyways, and when they grow up, they cringe at the thought of the kids they liked back then. But that didn’t happen to Donald. Imagine you like a girl who was seven times as smart as you. Imagine she was adored by teachers, imagine she was said to be goin’ places while you were labelled as a truant, or a backchatter, or a try-hard smartass. Could you imagine that? Could you imagine that feeling not entirely going away but staying dormant, so much until you attend a school you never wanted to go to, just so you could see her?

The truth is is that I knew who Hillary was all this time. When I got those records I was hoping she’d remember me, instead I got hostility, resentment and the reminder that I was too late - Bill Clinton. I don’t blame her. I was a dick even when we did go to the same school. And what did I do? I used the only strong feeling aside from love I had left, the hate I held for my father, to run a campaign that would downright shock everybody. I really thought I’d lose. I can’t pinpoint whether I was truly aiming for Hillary to win or not. She did a sucky campaign and so did I. But this guilt from it all I’m starting to feel is… damn killing me. Those idiots were actually willing to vote for a guy like that. Makes me sick.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

[Third person recount, with added internal monologue. Set four years prior.]

There was a river. Beside that river was a field separated by a concrete path. The field had nothing in it except huddled litters of dandelion seed plants, and it was bordered by trees and a road running parallel to the river, curving around the plain and running over a concrete bridge. In the center of it all, a singular person remained strutting through the tufts of weeds. He stopped, and looked up at the broad sky on the brink of dusk.

After a couple of moments it seemed he was not alone.

“The name… is Tee, Dee Tee.” the kid whispered, pretending to light a cigar, knowing how forbidden recreational substances were in his household yet not giving the slightest of damns. He heard a slight breathing which he brushed off as the late spring breeze, not realizing that another intruder had in fact been eyeing him for quite some time.

“D.T., what are you doing?” the voice asked out of tired curiosity.

“Oh crap! Hillary!” the soon to be thirteen-year-old Donald whirled around in his baseball attire, handling the tip of his plain, retro red cap.

“Why is the class clown aiming for a guy like James Bond?” Hillary began walking beside him in the lone field, her legs parting aside each cluster of dandelion plants as she ambled. “Try Quagmire.”

“Man, you’re such a snob.” Donald stuffed his hands in his pockets and huffed, profoundly irritated. “Why’re you here?”

“I’m walking.”

“Where were you at baseball practise?”

“Away.” the girl vaguely replied. “I took the long route back to my house today. Isn’t the river pretty?” she ran up to a spot and pointed at the flow of water from afar, sweeping between two hills of unearthly long grass to the left of a large bridge. Donald blankly stared, losing interest very quickly. He was not a man of nature.

“I dunno, I’d say you’re more so, but that’s some gay stuff you know?” Donald tried to find some more common ground between him and his classmate with rhetoric of homophobic undertone. In return Hillary sighed and shook her head at what she cooked up to be a basket-case of a peer, goofy yet with hidden good intention, masqueraded with hostility as a result of varied insecurities.

D.T. was not the most well behaved of kids. He would skip classes and dismiss rules he found no sense in, as well as talk back to members of authority he didn’t like. He used his social and economic status to compensate for what adults thought of him, using his inheritance of great wealth to treat whoever he thought of as his friends. While he was arrogant and cocksure, D.T. genuinely did not feel he had anyone to appreciate him for who he was. Aside from his money, he had no assets he truly felt was worthy of people’s time.

But Hillary Rodham was someone who looked past his financial background. She was almost a contradiction to D.T. in the sense that she was capable of following rules, making friends from common interest, and being a general role-model student. Hillary Rodham was not a girl that messed around, but when she did, it had to be with D.T.. Every Thursday after school there would be baseball practice, something Hillary’s father would push her to pursue. A girl like her that appeared to be naturally gifted was only a product of her father’s pressure, her mother’s volatility towards said father, and her overall dissatisfying homelife. Talking to Donald was an escape from the envisioned clear-cut being her parents looked for in her. Conversing with somebody so carefree with his educational aspirations was a breath of fresh air, but seeing as everything comes to an end, this solace she found in their interactions could not last for much longer.

“D.T., I was wondering if you wanna come with me to watch the big game this summer? My dad has been pushing me take someone but I don’t have any girlfriends I can take.” Hillary offered with an excited grin.

“This summer, huh?” Donald cited with skepticism.

“Yeah. You… you know how my parents are at the moment. Dad is like, totally snapping at mom about it too. I feel scared to say no to this event. I’m scared he’ll hit me or something.”

“Yeah I’ve heard all kinds of stuff about your daddy-o. Not cute.” the boy paused for a second. “Mine is actually…” he started again, yet lacking the desired words. “No, carry on.” he gave way.

“What do you think about coming with me?”

“Can’t.” Donald bluntly responded.


“Well, see, I’ve wanted to tell yer and many others somethin’ for a long time.”

“What is it?”

“Something tremendous.” he insisted, smirking, influencing Hillary to do the same. “No, for real.” he shook his head, physically wiping his smile off his face as a comical gesture.

“Tell me, you clown.” laughed Hillary, wrinkling her nose. She shortly ceased her laughter, noticing her friend’s posture of uncertainty.

“I’m going back to New York in the summer. Dad’s signing me up for this military academy because he says I need to change my attitude.”

I spent almost four solid years at that academy. It was only when dad decided to return to Illinois for work purposes in May, Junior year, when I brought up Washingcoln High. Hillary would always talk about that place. I guessed it was definite she had to be there. But I couldn’t join in May due to complications, so I spent at least a month outta school wandering through the town. And let me tell you – I saw Hillary on most days after school. Rather I watched her from afar. Sure it sounds creepy, but that wasn’t the only person I’d observe.

“Oh… that means I won’t see you.” Hillary whined, knitting her brows to show she was upset.

There were two schools very close to Prez High, which I’d pass by on my bus journeys I’d go on after me and dad had a fight. It was a fuckin’ weird thing to resort to, folks, I get you, but the bus reminded me that not everywhere was as spacious as that house of mine. It was almost always empty anyways.

“Heh. Yeah… no. I-I wanna hit him so bad.” Donald folded his arms insecurely, shyly, in a mixed state of discomfort, hurt, and strapped-in anger towards his father.

Anyways, the two schools I’d pass were highly rated middle schools in the area of bountiful capital. There were two occasions at each place which I could gather all the info, the meat, the good stuff. One of them was where these kids would call out to this guy they’d call Felito, who everybody now knows as Ted Cruz. The other was Marco of course. Every time I’d walk past I’d hear all kinds of stuff about these two little shits. Everyone knew Ted, or Felito, which I’m assuming is some ‘spic twist on Rafael, as the smartass conservative who was always alone. That’s what I’d hear at least. Marco was also talked about as this ambitious guy who liked football and politics. He had friends, but they talked utter shit behind his back. Ted’s face and nose got a lot of slack, but Marco was framed as what they’d call a faggot, a fake, a bitch, or whatever. He hasn’t talked about it. But I think he knows that people said those things, because trust me, from own experiences, it makes you all nitty gritty ‘bout your social status. Ted was a tremendous outcast too. My sixteen year old self started feeling sorry for these little guys, and that’s tough with a guy like me.

Hillary bent down to her right, tearing a dandelion plant from its roots. Proudly shaking the stalk as a motion to coax Donald, she bared her teeth as her lips stretched into a smile. “Make a wish.”

“What? No that’s weird!” initially refused Donald as his face indicated disgust.

So what did I do? I planned to make them my sidekicks. But no, it would have been unnatural to go up to them on my first day as if I knew their names by heart. So at this point I was stuck. The day when those lower grades made a fuss at the cafeteria was the day my impulses went wild. ‘Cause that’s when I saw Hillary from across the hall, her hair more styled this time, her outfit not suiting her and her shades covering her eyes.

Nonetheless Hillary didn’t back down. “Do it, make a wish before you leave our beautifully corrupt state of Illinois-”

“-to go to the equally corrupt, rat-infested state of New York.” completed Donald, squinting at his classmate.


I immediately pushed as many kids aside so I could follow wherever she was goin’. That was my impulse. And turned out the block I saw her slide in had two entrances, and so I went in the other to surprise her. But what came out of my mouth from then on was utter shit. I don’t know. I didn’t know what to say. I was tryna make a reference but that didn’t work. And so I looked through the draws next to me as a gratifying impulse I cannot describe as anything different from a call for help, summin’ that would make me look like I had an excuse for being there. She was so grossed out, what could I do? And I guess her hate towards me sparked up this urge to look for other girls throughout my whole senior year. Like that time the year before where I got so frustrated with not having someone to fall for. I began catcalling and sweet talkin’, the whole package. That’s where that tape came back to haunt me. Dating Sarah and Melania was just a distraction from who I really wanted all this time, and now I feel for them girls. I’m remorseful but try not to think about it. One day I’ll apologize upfront. I just don’ know when.

Surrendering to her intoxicating sweet smile and command, Donald snatched the plant from Hillary’s fingers and stared at it as if it were an obscurity. “Okay, I wish that I'll get to see you again when we're older-”

“You’re not meant to say your wish out aloud, bonehead.” Hillary roared with laughter. Immediately Donald blushed with a heavy brow, waiting for Hillary to simmer down. She cocked her head up and stepped closer. “But if that’s what you want, then I…”

Those middle-school records I found after a prolonged period of lookin’ were like an answer to my internal cries of embarrassment. It didn’t take long to find Ted and Marco’s. I didn’t know what I was doin’, really, not at all folks. I had to run out. I had to disappear to hide the state of my face, my everything in fact. I was a mess. I was a waste. I was a big, fat mistake. I’ll never forget those words from my father. He did like to joke, lemme tell you.

“...I wish the same.” Hillary finished after a casual silence, the breeze whispering through her silky hair, and her cheeks slightly tinted from the cold extremity the late spring wind had become. Donald puffed at the dandelion to free the seeds, with plenty of accommodation from the gentle gusts within the air. One by one, the dandelion seeds were being recklessly blown far, far off into the distance in order for them to find their way… sometime… somewhere.  Their faces then met, eyes clairvoyantly embracing. Donald’s face stayed a fine crimson, attentive to his own bellowing tides within him that was, unquestionably, a depressive moment of falling into the trap of young love.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

[Return to present]

It had been an estimated half-hour, and all eight of the gathering had parted their own separate ways home. When Donald told a short recollection of his and Hillary’s time spent together, a swarm of dark thick clouds loomed over the school, blocking all evidence of sunlight. The departure after that was grave, unsmiling, and completely denuded of sound and interaction.

Ted and Marco as usual paired off and walked home together, speaking of past events and personal issues over and over until they rediscovered their sense of commonality and endearment for each other. Jeb took the bus to visit his brother, who missed a portion of his exams from being in rehab, and would have to retake 12th grade. From then on Jeb promised to try and see George more frequently, and perhaps focus on quitting the drugs and alcohol himself. Barack and Joe took another bus, the last bus in the parking lot, and earnestly put the meeting aside for more cheerful topics to exchange. Bernie walked home alone in the light rain, to which he saw a limp dove on the asphalt. It looked sick. Hungry. In return he gave it a morsel of his leftover challah, and smiled as the bird slowly flapped its wings while in a state of recovery.

Hillary retreated to the only place she thought she could find meaning. The rain had been growing heavier and heavier, as if it were angry, starving for answers and holding the same bottled pain that Hillary was. She slow-jogged through the streets, and came to a clearing consisting of the bridge, grass, and river. Increasing her momentum, she ran across the bridge to the field of dandelions, wet and sunken with the repetitive drops of rainwater, under a silver-blue wash of sky. She looked up at the clouds and searched for answers. What was Tim saying when he suggested Donald’s act would set them apart? Did he know about their past too? Was he just making assumptions? Why did he stand by that entire time?

All of it vanished from her head as soon as she heard a voice to rescue her from her thoughts.

“Hello to you too, dollface. I’m the Trump, Donald Trump.”

She tilted her head to present the other with a side view of her profile. Eyes down, she positioned her body so it accorded with her head.

“What are you doin’ out here in the rain?” Donald asked with some irony, as he was certainly not as driest as he could have been. “Surely a pristine girl like you should have something to shield herself with.”

“No, no I don’t, D.T.” Hillary retouched her soaking strands of hair, making sure none of it was getting in her nose or mouth. She was wearing her glasses, which made Donald assume she was hiding behind what seemed to be crying eyes.

“That’s because you’ve given up on covering up your true self, Hilly.” he said, eyeing the brown rims circling her pool-like irises.

“Man, English class must have taught you to be so annoying with your dumbass character dissecting. And you can sure talk. Your spray tan is getting all washed away.” she rejoined. Donald didn’t retaliate.

“Do you remember that time when I blew that dandelion in the hope I’d see you again?” he questioned, his see-through shirt making way for the outlines of his torso to materialize beneath the thin material.

The second senior found herself amused at Donald’s pretense, his tough-man act that implied he wasn’t at all cold. “Sure.” she uttered with a shrug, disallowing any sign of a smile to display upon her wet face.

“That wasn’t all.” Donald persisted. Hillary averted her head away.

“Just… just go away please. I want to be alone.”

“How are your parents?” Donald lingered, legs stuck to his spot in the field. “You didn’t speak a word earlier about them-”

“That’s because I had the choice not to.” butted in Hillary before Donald could expel anything more. She drew her hand away from her face, directing her most raw, tearfully angered look at the man’s equally raw, yet cool, demeanor. “My god, do you realize how horribly persistent you were back there with me? It hurts, Donald! If you really hate your dad that much it makes no sense to become him. What were you thinking, honestly.”

Instantly Donald’s blood boiled in the freezing wet air. “Hey, I am not my father. I will never be my father, no matter how much of a mask I put on, that man will not manifest in me. You hear me?” he barked, pointing a threatening forefinger, and engraving his serious stance into Hillary’s mind.

“Who is hiding their true self, again?” countered Hillary, unaffected, yet still full with emotional residue from earlier in the day. “Come on, D.T., do whatever you need to do. Cry or whatever. It would be a great sight to see you cry. Not that I’m a sick person, but I want to see you truly show your unmasked nature. Release it. Do whatever you feel the need to do.”

Donald raised those iconic bushy blond brows, and face relaxed into a feigned pout. “Well, in that case,” he started to say, sliding his eyes to the right. It began to make sense to Hillary that due to the rain on his face, it was impossible to tell if Donald was going to be, or had been, crying at all. He stepped closer.

“What, what is it?” asked Hillary, showing concern and confusion, oblivious of Donald’s intent. She felt his soaked presence step itself directly in front of her, his breathing palpable, his eyes penetrating yet sad, his everything, in fact, giving off vibes Hillary could have never inspected from such an enemy. However this wasn’t an enemy. This was D.T..

But then again, he was Donald now, and nothing could then eradicate the awful things he had committed… just like the things she had done, herself.

And so, agreeing with eyes and no words in the midst of a sobbing sky so blue, the two broken individuals began mending whatever past pain they had with each other and the reoccurring world around them. Agreeing with eyes and no words, they concurred that their youths were on verge of running out. They had become adults in the meantime, but there was room for one more requiem to remind them of their innocent childhood, their pre-adolescence spent together, before the drama and the angst of the student government election. To fulfill this precisely, Donald leaned in slowly, taking in Hillary’s scent and warmth from her sudden overwhelmed condition – and planted a single solitary kiss upon her cheek, missing her lips ever so clumsily.

“The full extent of my wish has been granted.” he said, and turned around to disappear far, far into the distance until nothing was left in front of Hillary’s stunned gaze but the heavily cold, spitting sequence of raindrops. 


Chapter Text


[First Person POV – Bernie Sanders]

[Flashback to previous September, first day of school, set at the path leading to Washingcoln’s entrance. Timeframe identical to Chapter One.]

September 8th, 7:32am 

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

There is something confining about this place and everyone in it.

It's not an assertive confinement where you're depressed and unable to breathe. It's passive, subtle, almost foolin' you into believing you're in a place of fresh-aired liberty and opportunities.

And some people see past that, they really do, but can't gather the strength to perhaps say no: I don't want this fate where I have to vote for someone I don't like; I don't want my future to depend on how a kid runs things. Now I know Obama ain't just any old kid. I don't want my thoughts right now to ponder on him too much, but he's still... relevant. In fact he's right behind me in the corner of my eye, whispering somethin' to himself which I dunno what.

I stare ahead, ignoring his sudden mood for spying and the probability he'll call out my paint can. The outside world is so beautiful, so much that on some days it seduces me into flunking school. Especially on a first day like this. I came to this school so I could learn experience but all I got was conflict and corruption. My parents are putting their last scraps towards this school as an act of hope, my educated incentive being the last glimpse of the American Dream that this autumn light sheds on. Secretly I'm a cocky guy, emotional too, but I can't let anyone see that yet at least.

Slowly my mind begins to draw parallels between Prez High and privatized prison for the educated; with its questionable food, its caterers not earning the wages they deserve, the snide faces on the educators of inmates, and cellmates in constant competition with each other. Now I know I'm a privileged brat compared to convicts. Some who aren't deserving of a cell, but then again, I don't wanna linger upon that. It's more of a feeling of being trapped, if we abandon all 'sortsa logic here, and zoom in on the feeling (or lack of) that this concrete place leaves you. I just want my mind to click, to say yes or no to if I should walk ahead to said place. I notice Barack has gone without speaking up.

My vision fixes onto a certain point, a familiar figure, one which I'm still not sure thinks ill of me. No. What? Hold up, what's this?

What is this weird onset of movement - I'm giddy n' thinking of finally taking off, off, and away, towards that entrance to start my history as a candidate. Truth is I don't know if... she, Hillary Rodham is running this year, I heard a loada' rumors, but even if she ain't I'll still have to wind up at this school somehow. She hasn't even seen what I can get my hands onto! That girl, I have trouble with relating and agreeing with her, but I reckon she's a good gal beneath all the shady stuff. Too early for that kind of assumption though.

At last, I start to walk, and mumble something about how pretty the school looks in the fall. The trees smile a little in an orange hue, leaves twirl onto my head of hair, with a perfect spectacle of Hillary coolly sliding in the entrance, her shades intact, and her dress sense, while ever so different, almost as dorky as mine at first glance.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


Chapter Text


June 30th, 3:23pm



“Polo.” Marco finished, after spotting Ted in the midst of the crowd. “So, who’s this Jugghead Jones lookin’ fella?” a small cackle emitted from his lips. “Naw, I’m joking.” he assured, fixing his cap in the center of the plaza, the designated meet-up place for that day off from school. Washingcoln had to be closed for the Principals to sort out any extra matters in the database from the sudden cancelling of the presidency. The emailing system for instance would need to be deleted, for the first part. 

“God you’re such a spaz. And so obsessed with my appearance too. It’s almost as if you’re in love with me or something.” Ted mumbled after walking up to the other young man of fifteen, who very much fulfilled his statements.

“So what do you wanna do? I was thinking we should look around the DVD store later and maybe… I don’t know, go see something on? O-or there’s a firework show-”

“You’re a nervous wreck.”

“Well fuck you too.” Marco rejoined, flustered.

“Marco, I’d be happy doing pretty much anything with you.” Ted reassured. He warmly smiled at his date, before striding ahead down an alley on the left. 

“Thanks man.” Marco said, following Ted through the highstreet of varied luxuries. It was his first legitimate date, if it meant excluding his multiple mishaps with the cheerleader team in junior high. Shaking the thought from his head, Marco’s big eyes hooked themselves onto an old candy shop, its window flaunting a gaudy display of candies, chocolates, sweets and cakes. “Damn.” he nudged Ted’s arm.

“Triple chocolate chip whip meringue pavlova.” Ted cited from the sign. “Try saying that three times as fast.”

“Looks like ass. I make way better sweets.”

“You make sweets?” pressed Ted in a teasing manner.

“Shit. I-I, it calms my anxiety okay?” Marco stammered with a small roll to the eyes.

“Marco, bud, did you…” Ted began to murmur, his voice losing his shrill, mocking attributes. “You were the one who put those chocolates in my locker that time, surely.”

Marco initially answered with a sarcastic nod, and then a response after the pause. “Yeah, did you like it?”

“I threw them in the trash. Sweet stuff makes me sick.”

Ted extended his glance at Marco to find a change in expression, however, Marco was unaffected. “Well, we’re edging towards Starbucks and I’m a thirsty motherfucker.” he laughed.

“Are you lacking of hearing, squirt? I said I don’t like sweet stuff.” drawled Ted playfully, before catching sight of the other’s more hardened outline. Marco was attempting to hold back his staple state of nervousness, causing him to withdraw a little from speech, and fake a cool attitude.

“You did say you were happy doing anything.” mentioned Marco.

“Ugh, anything but Starbucks. That place reminds me too much of Donald.” Ted said. But unlike previous occurrences, the boy didn’t shudder at the disclosing of his name.

“But you’re cool now. He’s a cool guy, you know.”

“Yeah, and I’m not. I almost stabbed the bastard.”

A couple of gulls flew ahead across an elevated path besides Marco and Ted’s heads, their feathers almost brushing past their ears. It truly was a beautiful day, and the highstreet was at its finest with a blue canvas of sky, greenery, and very few people. Even so, while on a date so merry and gay (pun intended) Ted and Marco still had inner devils scratching at their skulls. Nonetheless, Ted had developed an ability to portray remorse towards his sworn frenemy Donald, and Marco showed intuition by detecting this guilt. Marco Rubio was not the only one able to feel self-pity, and on top it that he had sprouted into someone certainly not Ted’s opposite, but rather his complementary. They were imperfect, but that was okay.

After a short period of walking, Marco at once stilled in movement. “Ted.” he started to say. “I don’t want to make things corny and awkward here, but before we enter Starbucks, and yeah we're going there whether you like it or not-”

“Hurry up already.”

“… yesterday night I had a dream.”

“Oh Lord.”

“No, I promise everything’s fine, dude. I was reading some article about the human soul and if it exists, right, and I must have dozed off or something because from then on things got really fucking crazy, aha.”

“Now you’re sure you weren’t on any psychedelics?” questioned Ted.

“I’m telling you man, it was like,” he snorted by accident before continuing: “You’re walking in the night through your house, right? And you see Jesus right there on your wall. Just like that. He’s staring at you from his crucifix up above and chattin’ how everything’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m so lost.”

“You are. We both are.” he responded with an unfitting smile. “I really think this dream was telling me that I’m not an impure guy who's going to hell. I mean, we’ve both said the lord’s name in vain behind a lot of backs; Jeb did too after refraining for so long. It's not a big deal. Sometimes it’s good to not take things so literally.”

The coffee shop was only a few steps away, and before Ted headstrongly strode over, he muttered a few words he and Marco would keep at heart forever. “We might not be able to come out to our parents, but at least our friends will accept us.”

“What friends?” questioned Marco, puzzled until he remembered the Tuesday afternoon of introspection, the room of exchanged secrets and a sacred feeling of interconnection. So they were all considered friends, after all.

“Let’s just go inside, Marco.” called out Ted, un-prosaically upbeat in motion.


The ventilated building’s interior was a place of comfort, a place of indulgence patently exploited by those in it.


“Howdy, Carleton.”

“Oh, Ted – Marco, hi!”

“You’re still working here? Boy, I would’ve gotten tired of it by now.”


Aromas of coffee beans, rich sweets, and syrup intertwined with each other and filled the nostrils of its inhabitants.  


“Yeah Marco, aha, well I’ve actually began to love the place, in a way.”



Carly, like usual, was hard at work, and was on the brink of knowing her own capabilities as an independent woman.


“Well. Other than the good network you build here, you get to check out a diverse variety of people. People on their phones, people in heated discussion, those reading eBooks, cool-headed businessmen and lively highschool girls. Jocks. Preps. Nerds. They’re all here, they’re all rushing about in their closed off bubbles, yet I get to view these interactions from afar as if I were there inside these bubbles myself.”


Ted and Marco had always been highly charmed of this girl. She wasn’t anything too special, but that was what made her Carly.


“You’re such a dork, wow.”

“So… I’m… I-I…”

“What’s wrong, Carl?”


Her suspicions were about to be satisfied.


“This is going to sound invasive but I’m guessing, first and foremost, that this is a date.”

“It sure is.”

“Yeah, I could tell that you two had something going on. More than friendship.”


It was time for her to let go.


“One black coffee and a Latte Frappuchino, Carly.”


Ted ordered the drinks, casually placing the cash into Carly’s still, cold palms.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

‘Where did I put that umbrella again? Uhh, I found it about here.’ Jeb reconstructed, stepping cautious steps out from the door, seeing as he didn’t have much else to be doing. He would have typically gone to Cervantes’ with George after a night out, as a sort of drunk meal, but presently his trips to the place were often left unaccompanied. ’Yeah, uh huh, it was a cold day, and I had that History project I put aside, and George and mom were yelling at me,’

“Hey Jeeeb!”  

Jeb looked upwards from the sidewalk and stopped in his tracks. The exact person on his mind stood at the street’s corner, smugly attired and equipped with two of Jeb’s acquaintances.

“Hello, Johnny boy.” Dick Cheney greeted mockingly. George stayed put, with a typical dumb aura to his empty grin.

“We were going out for some pizza and a drive-in movie but I guess you’re fine doing your thing.” commented Condi, readjusting the strap of her bag.

“Oh, yeah. You guys go without me.” Jeb glumly muttered.

“Aren’t you out with friends, Johnny?” questioned Cheney. His crooked teeth showed through his dusty smirk, putting off Jeb even more.

“I don’t have any friends.”

“C’mon, Jebby. You know that’s not true. Tag along.” George pushed, nudging his brother and hitting his back.

“I never hang out with you though. Unless you’re counting our days as kids, to which you just stole all my lunch money by the end of it all.” Jeb reimagined, folding his arms, yet unable to hold back a subtle chuckle.

“I think we agree, the past is over.” laughed George in a similar key.

“Exactly, and I don’t feel welcome with you guys.” Jeb’s face returned to a more grave condition. He sighed.

“No ‘needa be so formal!” George yelled. Cheney motioned for him and Condi to trail after him, his hands housed in the big, bulky pockets of his bomber jacket. Condi started to grow hesitant, grabbing Cheney’s attention with a punch to the shoulder.

“We can’t just leave him alone.” she insisted.

“Ugh, don’t look at me like that, Condi.” huffed Cheney, before giving into Condi’s suggestion. “Fine.” he began walking the opposite way, leaving Condi and George standing and waiting for an alternative answer from Jeb.

Cheney planted himself by the younger Bush in front of Cervantes’, directly looking him into his startled eyes. “You and your bro have had issues, I get it.” rendered Cheney. “I have issues with the world around me too, for example I love a good fight, because to me the pleasure I get from it outweighs its consequences. But you love backin’ away from your problems instead of confronting them. And that’s just as bad. Start being more like me. Hit whatever annoys you!”


Like lightning, Cheney’s jaw began panging from the shameless sucker-punch. As he opened his eyes with a tinge of blurriness to his vision, counterfeiting a rigid toughness, he was seeing double. Two fists remained in the air, merging into one. And like so, it dropped to Jeb’s side.

“He gotta good swing, woah.” commended Cheney, slapping him on his back. Jeb strolled over to the group of three, joining in the slow-clap initiated by his brother. They each settled an agreement on a destination spot after some compromise, before Condi laughed, leading the way towards the parking lot.


From the other side of the river, on one of the two hillsides, something else was happening. Not only happening, but kindling.

“No, I’m sure it was me who hit that homerun that time.” Hillary protested, letting the sentimental summered wind blow through the empty strands of her natural hair.

In response, Donald nudged her shoulder, feigning a sour face. “Stop ‘tryna twist the past, it was me!”

“Hypocrite! You twist way more things than me to suit your agen-da.”

Instantly, the other senior’s joints tensed up, losing flexibility as his chest underwent a fleeting tightness. “Don’t say it like that.” Donald broke eye contact for two seconds. “My bad, you just reminded me of Sarah then.”

“Shoot, you just can’t stop with the insults, bud.” Hillary sighed.

“But it wasn’t an insult. I don’t see Sarah in the way you see her.” looking Hillary in the eye, Donald pulled a more serious visage. The mood of small laughs and red cheeks fizzled away; dissipated.

“I don’t see Bill in the way you see him.” noted Hillary, fiddling with a stray blade of grass by her leg.

“No, but, me ‘nd Sarah broke up… over text.” Donald replied a set of words so ironic, yet the sheer comical aspect of it almost brought about a contradictive emotional response from Hillary. He watched as her smile saddened.

“Bill and I broke up before we even announced it. It was like our chemistry was slowly dying until it came to a point we just couldn’t carry on anymore.”

The two young adults gazed ahead, losing a fraction of focus for a moment until the sight of a flock of birds hooked their attention, bringing them back to earth. “I don’t think I ever loved Sarah or Mel. But they’re good girls inside, despite what people might think of ‘em.” claimed Donald as he bashfully smirked.

“Dee,” Hillary was meant to end with the ‘T’, but it cut off, forming an entirely new sobriquet. “You’re talking about women… nicely. I like that.” she regarded confidently.

“Yeah. I try to be more wary.” said Donald, with a change to his body language. He arched his index finger so it met with the tip of his thumb, notifying his more-than-friend he was about to start an explanation. “See, Sarah is annoying. She is. But she had energy and devotion, pretty good at sports too. Now Melania, she was quiet and awkward, and she probably hates me for the way I treated her as if she were prop to my facade. But that girl did not come to the good ol’ US-of-A for nothing. She’s out there pursuing a modelling career. She’s in full-time education, being successful without a man like me to soil her name. And me, I’ll just wind up working for my father. Or live a life on the road with someone like Bernie or summin’. Imagine that.”

“No… Dee, I know you feel bad about this, but while I can imagine Sarah and Melania doing just fine, I can picture you achieving great things too.”

“Okay. Needa stop moping.” Donald muttered with a furrowed brow, growing angry towards his episode of self-pity. He wasn’t used to being this vulnerable, especially with Hillary Rodham, whose latter words sounded shaky and potentially ungenuine. “Thanks, doll.” he concluded, rubbing his chin.

Truth was, was that a welling wave of anxiety swept through Hillary, erasing her usual intact state of mind and redeeming it with worry. “On the topic of associates, Tim said something odd to me one time that keeps sneaking back in my thoughts.” she tried to change the subject, albeit not one that would tame her thoughts any time soon.

“What’s up with you?”

“Alright, uh, I haven’t told you anything about this, but Tim overheard you and Mike talking backstage before our one-on-one debate, and I think what he heard was a vital part of your plan.”

“Woah, so that kid knew it all that time?” Donald asked, taken aback.

“I’m guessing so. Although that’s not the weird part. He came to me in a panic, saying that you guys were planning something bad that would tear us two, he and I, apart. I still have no idea what he meant by that.”

The other senior shook his head, aiming a stale expression at the other’s wide blue eyes. “You really are clueless.”

“As if you know.” Hillary scoffed. But she raised her head, and kept an ear open nonetheless.

“Tim Kaine ain’t some obscure warden on the lookout for evil. He wants to get in your pants…suit. That’s what it is.” proposed Donald, although not jokingly. “Me and Mike were talkin’ about trying to save to school from our reign. To lose to make way for the lesser evil, because that’s what people were hyping you up to be. Kaine ‘woulda thought I was trying to get close to you. He didn’t hate me solely for my opinions; he hated me because you and me were so close without knowing it. We had something that no one else had. And it weren’t hate, it was-”

“Admiration.” finished Hillary, showing doubt in her posture – yet it was such an awkwardly sweet case of an utterance, and Donald couldn’t get it out of his mind.

The river’s patterns interlocked with each other, winding and wandering through the flat land sitting below a blooming summer. The air showed a tint of orange, but it was less melancholic of a hue than the time in April, appearing like it foreshadowed good times to come. It was still an unearthly atmosphere, but an ever so peaceful one too.

“C’mon, how’s Bill?” Donald undid the silence, noticing Hillary falling into the depths of her thoughts.

“Oh he’s great. We still talk.” chirped Hillary, flashing a brief smile before returning to her contemplations. “It’s weird because Tim never expressed outward dislike to Bill, but I’ve always caught signals of how he might be anxious or intimidated by him. Same with you, actually.”

“Bottled feelings in jealous people can either turn someone ugly or turn them paranoid.”

“That’s the difference between Mike and Tim.” identified Hillary, then looking deeply into the other’s orbs. “But I still think if I had to tell Tim that I’m not available despite my breakup with Bill, he would pretend it was nothing and brush it off. I almost feel sorry for him.”

The field behind them both was screaming for their attention. They both knew it but wouldn’t turn their heads. Internally they refused the grand design of prancing in a sea of dandelions, fluffy like the clouds above, waiting to be blown, waiting for their seeds, their message to be spread. It was nothing more than underlying instinct, until, slowly, slowly…

“Hey, we finished our exams.” Donald broke another short silence, rising from his spot on the hill almost automatically, holding out a hand to help Hillary up.

“Hell yeah we did.” Hillary laughed, taking his hand which was, to be clear, absurdly small in size. She took a few steps, to which she suspected the hand would let go, but it clung on alright.

Donald was feeling more ambitious in his questioning. “What if I were like Bernie Sanders. Would you still fall for and settle with me?” he asked. Hillary attempted to whirl around, but the hand ceased to allow her. Her head remained stuck to the horizon ahead, of distant stores and restaurant chains, and a parking lot with roughly three or four youths messing around and innocently running as if unleashed from the harshness of all reality.

‘Bernie? What on earth is he talking about?’ she thought. Her hand withdrew itself, feeling more at ease as soon as the other hand loosened its grip. “D…Donald. I don’t even know if I even want to be in a relationship with you, I need time.”

“Would you ever consider a guy like Bernie, though?” he pressed, but with little force attached. He turned his head ninety degrees to his right, where Hillary on his left stayed too fixed on his questions to trail after.

“Not if our past rivalry was added to that baggage. So no.” she could tell Donald had been averting his head, muttering something under his breath which Hillary could not translate. “You’re looking for a new identity, aren’t you.” she presumed tactfully, yet only half-correctly.

Donald prolonged his stare at the body stood behind him. The curly headed subject then froze on the concrete path separating the hill and the dandelion field. “Probably. Maybe.” Donald uttered. Bernie Sanders, on the other hand, turned on his heels and flatly walked down the path, smiling to himself as if expecting Hillary’s answer all along. Putting up his hood of his sweater, he escaped down the lane with back turned to them both, oddly laughing and vanishing into the sunny haze down the long concrete path.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

If an afternoon of sentimental chatter was a sign of budding mutual love, then an evening of pirating movies included acknowledgement of something a little more one-sided.

“So what are you planning for your last day of Prez? You wanna host a party?” asked Michelle, as Barack lifted his head from her shoulder. Neither were too invested in the cult classic, The Room, with Michelle at most being mildly charmed by its utter awfulness and synthetic dialogue.

“Um, yeah, Barry and I have been putting that idea off. His mom won’t let us with alcohol in the house.” Joe coolly stated, sprawled on the sofa beside them by himself.

“Think of what it would do to my reputation on top of that.” Barack added in a low voice, to which Michelle’s face warmed up from its sly huskiness.

She fidgeted in her spot, reaching up to get hold of a few Doritos from the coffee table. “Who cares what other people think? Student Government doesn’t mean anything now. You’re free to roam. Live your youth.”

“Hey, if the republican council can shit on me for wearing a tan suit and for being half black, they can do way worse if I start drinking or smoking pot. It’s bound to end up on snapchat one way or another.”

“You really did get a lot of shit for being a colored guy. I don’t know if you are as aware of that as I am.” Michelle poked Barack’s cheek with a corner of the corn chip, edging it closer into his mouth until he idly devoured it.

“I try to ignore it.”

“Oh, me too. But it’s better to show some defiance and resistance with those kinds of things.”

From a short distance, Joe shot a sour look to the couple, an odd yet familiar discomfort mangling inside the depths of his ribcage and chest. It was time to accept that this wasn’t dislike on his behalf, not for Michelle and certainly not Barack for that matter – it was jealousy.

Michelle rigidly sat up properly this time, the shadow of her shoulders visibly rising and descending behind the lamplight. “Barry, the party – it doesn’t have to be a big thing. It could just be with me, you guys, Hillary, Bill…” she brought up once again, with a great deal of good faith about her.

“Since when were you the one to think up this kind of thing, hey?” her boyfriend jeered.

“It’s more for selfish reasons.” Michelle answered with doubt.

“You can tell us, babe.”

Joe paused the movie as Michelle half-smiled, facing towards him and Barack. “I’m just so done with being so school-savvy and thinking I have to act so closed off all the time. I kind of just want to let loose, feel some raw emotion, relax, and I don’t know, dance with you, Barry.” she suggested.

“Dance? With me?” began Barack as a reaction.

“It’s more likely than you think!” Michelle completed the meme, clicking her fingers and forming finger-guns at Barack.

“Well sure. The day after graduation day, how about it Joe?” Barack called out, before picking up upon Joe’s absence from the sofa. “Joe?”

He had doggedly headed towards the lounge’s exit, possibly to the bathroom, probably not. Joe knew his best friend’s house inside out. “Where are we hosting it? And how many will be there?” he asked through his teeth after stopping, leaning on the wall. Barack pulled the iconic expression he would always pull whenever Joe was like how he was; moody, capricious, and passive aggressive.

“Only a few peeps, yo.” Barack assured as he looked at Joe more sternly, gesturing for him to come closer, however the young man firmly stayed put. Joe lowered his head while retaining eye contact, softening up, but not because he was about to leak a few potential names like Barack reckoned. “No, I don’t think-” Barack started muttering, misinterpreting Joe’s elongated stare as a motion alluding to people Michelle did not know as well, such as Bernie, Ted, Marco, Jeb… and Donald.

Joe lowered his eyebrows in confusion, and then forged a smile at the miscommunication. He shook his head and left the room, leaving Barack bewildered and perhaps a little sad at how off his best friend had seemed. Not only on that day, but ever since prom night. Perhaps even before that. But at that moment it was made clear to Barack and Barack only; their innocent days as true companions were fading faster in memorability than ever before.

“It never fails to amaze me how well you guys intuit each other’s thoughts.” mused Michelle endearingly, but from that moment all she could sense between them was dissonance.

In reality they didn’t intuit each other’s thoughts.

From outside the room, Joe Biden – the vice, the do-gooder, the devoted sidekick – was then moved by his own internal stresses. It told him he should indeed realize his absence of returned love was activated by no one other than Michelle. When she was with Barack, the room lit up, his face lit up; Barack’s world was warmed by this scented candle of beauty and intellect that Joe thought he could never live up to. Michelle was the perfect being in Joe’s eyes, and he envied it. Yet he liked her, he really did – but only Barack was his guardian of shared memories: in school, outside of school, working on projects, exchanged secrets and a trust that never seemed to break no matter how much they would fall out. In fact, Barack would claim they had never fallen out, at all.

Their bond was, at first thought, unbreakable. But the thing that would change Joe forever was the moment he fell in love with this person, sometime last summer. Sometime last summer he fell for this soon-to-be Prez, this leader, this cool-headed young man that showed him nothing but trust from day one.

In reality they didn’t intuit each other’s thoughts. Barack had stared at Joe because he wanted to find out what people he wanted at the event. Joe would stare at Barack because he was irrevocably and undeniably in love with him.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Chapter Text


July 1st, 1:36pm


With July springing, frantic June had completed its dying. Skies turned to warmer, calmer cobalt, days lasted longer, and freshness of the air did dullen with humidity although it was far from past conundrums of anxious sweat and tears mixing with it. Alternatively, everybody felt things were going to turn out alright.

The townspeople were happy. Prez High was happy, to an extent. School news reports blew up around the time of Donald’s resign that Wednesday, but it was a brief fad, and instead of bulking it up to great heights the school’s societies decided to bask in the freedom that was their last couple of days until summer break. Seniors felt a little bittersweet even, some even dreading graduation day and indulging in whatever moments they had left at the notorious school. The others were, unsurprisingly, pretty glad to leave. Exams were over, but attendance amongst the other grades was mandatory for a reason nobody really understood. But it happened, and Hillary, Bernie, Donald, and Joe were eventually ready for their final day at Washingcoln High School.


It was edging towards the day’s end, and Joe had just returned to the stage’s wings from the main platform. The assembly stage was only used for more serious announcements, or formal events such as entrance and leavers assemblies. As a farewell speech, the Prez had to recite achievements, dreams for the future, and a motivating talk aimed at the rest of the students after lunch before the senior graduation ceremony. Not only that, but two to three other close acquaintances (one typically including the vice) were required to speak in dedication to the school and their role in decision making.

“You anticipating the speech?” Joe laughed, draping an arm around Michelle’s shoulder. “Mine was a little rough, but who cares? I won’t be coming back here any time soon.”

“Yeah I’m fine, just a little nervous is all. I’ve never been inside this part of the school before, so...” Michelle hastily responded. “Joe, yesterday at Barry’s,”

“Oh gosh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“You can tell me what’s wrong. It’s better if you do, because it’s getting pretty hard to hide now.”

Michelle looked almost as wide-eyed as she did in Joe’s consecutive stream of nightmares in April, which should have lost relevance in Joe’s memories, but alas remained ingrained; vivid, and painful. Joe, as tender and hot-blooded as he could get, still didn’t want to introspect upon the meaning of those emotion packed dreams, until a single realization struck into his head that what he was avoiding was not only self-reflection but confrontation. Not only towards the person he loved but himself.

“Michelle, you don’t understand – if I tell you there’s a chance you’ll be hurt-”

“I’m willing to make that sacrifice if it’s for your benefit.” she cut in forcefully.

Joe’s love for Barack did not only prevent him from articulating his own thoughts bit by bit, but it stopped him from perceiving things in a logical light. He didn’t want to confront Mike or even the system for that matter because he wanted to hide away in comfort. Therefore when he did confront anybody, it was out of primal rage where he knew it was going to hurt – that’s where Donald tied in.

But Michelle and Barack were an entirely different story. This confrontation would not end up in physical pain, but something ultimately more spiritual.

“I swing both ways.” Joe gulped, unsure of how Michelle was going to act. She remained silent for a short while, until her look softened from its original stony look. “No, don’t look at me like that. I’m not ashamed of it at all. In fact I embrace it, but not when I’m catching feelings for a guy already in a relationship... with you.” Joe finished. 

Michelle covered her mouth with her hand, sympathetic yet retaining her act as the protector in the scenario. “I’m so sorry Joe, I can tell him if you’re too anxious.”

“You’ve already heard our soon-to-be-graduate Joe speak, who I’ll always consider a dear friend no matter how far apart we are.” Barack’s voice echoed from the main stage.“But now it’s time to talk a bit about somebody who has really helped in our leadership together,”

“No, I’ll do it.” affirmed Joe, feeling as if an entire weight had lifted from his shoulders, mind, and heart. “Sorry for being a jackass.”

Barack Obama’s voice rang on and on, sounding to Joe like a string of sentences with no end. He solely wished it was him Barack was talking about, but the speech he gave beforehand seemed to be enough for the time being. He knew Barack loved him, and although it wasn’t in the way he hoped, it was enough. Slowly yet surely, he departed from Michelle, both giving and receiving a warm yet regretful smile. Promptly Joe stopped. He turned around, and ran.

At once Michelle felt two long arms wrap around her, hugging her tightly, with a warm face burrowed between her shoulder and her neck. “He’s a keeper, alright? You’re so, so lucky.” Joe muttered with a slight tremble, as Michelle’s shock soon lessened in severity.

“So now, I would like to welcome Miss Michelle Robinson.” Barack’s voice called from the stage. The girl returned the hug and then drew away; keeping her hands on Joe’s shoulders, until they too moved with the body full of vigor, full of wit and understanding, the motioning body of Barack’s love Michelle. 

“Happy graduation day, Joe.” she said, before striding into the arena of cheer, applause, and life.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Ey, Joe!” McCain cheered, spotting the iconic duo of Barack and Joe in the courtyard at about 5pm after everyone had left. “Happy graduation, chump!” 

He stood in the corridor leading to the assembly hall, identical to the first day, except having just completed unhinging the picture frames of the student cabinet on the display wall. A new display of every student president would need to be fitted the following September, by a new janitor, with an intent to illustrate past history and not of the present day. 

“Ah, McCain. Back to where we started.” sighed Joe in relief as McCain walked over. Joe readjusted his hat, blushing at how gaudy he must have looked with his cloak and diploma in his hand. “We just said a farewell to the principals. Kudos to them for everything, I guess.”

“And ‘Bama, have a good vacation without any responsibilities.” chuckled McCain, making sure he had everything on him before he left.

“I got a job at Baskin-Robins for the summer, excuse you.” Barack retorted from the corners of his lips.

“Well, any presidential responsibilities.”

“What’s with all this, John?” inquired Joe with a smirk. John McCain simply shook his head, as if shaking away his past bitterness and grudges he held the past two years.

“I’m afraid this is my last day at this hellhole too, you know.” he confessed, causing a couple of eyebrows to rise.

“Oh?” hummed Barack.

“Navy training. It’s a thing I’ve been looking a lot into.” McCain beamed for a short moment, as Barack and Joe presented their individual expressions of comprehension. “I shouldn’t get so wistful about it, but here I am, worried I’m gonna start missing this place.” Peering into the distance, McCain’s smile dropped a fraction.

“I’m already missing this place. Not to forget all my pals.” Joe mumbled. Out of all things, Prez High should have been the last place to yearn for. It was corrupt, rigged, and full of snobs. But the souls it contained were fragile things underneath, longing for a moment of freedom in the midst of a gray weekday. To be let out of the prison was debatable as a chance of being free, as while dandelion seeds do flitter away in the wind after being ripped from their seams, distributing themselves across the earth, the cycle repeats. It would always repeat unless something was there to stop it.

Suddenly, a booming voice slithered into the space, the sound stemming from outside the gates behind Barack, Joe, and McCain. Through the entrance ran a boy, also in graduate dress, leaping across the path and punching the air.

“Hey, fucknuggets!” it yelped.

“What the?” Barack’s eye twitched, trying to make out the figure in the dusk light. “Mitt?!”

“What? I stop by here sometimes, you know!” he yelled. “I got a girl! Yehooh!” Mitt Romney further wailed, jogging up to the group. His uniform, unlike Joe’s, was a red tinted purple, but made from the same material. “Her name is Ann and I’m adding her to my binder. We’re in love, love I tell you!”

“I’ve never seen him like this.” whispered McCain to Barack, perplexed yet somewhat amused.

“Oh trust me, this ain’t even at his worst.”

“Happy graduation, Joseph, ha ha, ha ha ha!” robotically laughed Mitt.

The group talked regular repartee, each person involved and in a way bound together by the invisible force of the emerging of summer vacation. Washington High honestly was an outlandish piece of construction, sharply cubic and confining, holding a sea of students gushing in and out of hallways and corridors as if the social construct of an education had no effect on their day to day living. People would come to school, do what was expected and leave.

There would be a republican and democratic council holding conferences and meetings in all crevices of this building, this jail, stirring up ideas that were rooted within juvenile minds. The president of the student government would have official meetings and assemblies, before jotting down an agenda in that lonely room of red white and blue, stuck with a vice president and his thoughts, and the humble window flirtatiously displaying a layout of the outside world.

Not anymore.


“I say we go somewhere to celebrate. Just the four of us.” said Mitt as a proposition.

“See I don’t think that’s, uh, necessary-” Joe stuttered with a release of breath. “I have packing to do.”

“You’re moving states for college, right Joe?” questioned McCain.

Mitt, impulsively, cradled the graduate in a headlock. “Yes, exactly. So let’s go somewhere in honor of Joe.”

Joe wouldn’t believe he was an honorable man at that second. He was moody, he would get angry, and he would say the most foolish of things. He was the one at fault for letting Mike get away with what he did, although after examining the events leading up to Lincoln’s injury, debatably it was a collective fault. Joe was at fault because he didn’t confront Mike on his motives. Ted was at fault for not interfering with Mike’s words of violence after his rehearsal. Hillary was fault for brushing aside Tim’s alarm. Jeb was guilty for sharing details on his brother’s favorite place to buy play-weapons. Marco wouldn’t care to question Mike’s incentives when spotting him at the store. Bernie was guilty of not taking Mike seriously on the night of the production, Barack didn’t assert himself when it came to the mysterious object in Mike’s bag, and lastly, Donald was the culprit who brought about the toxic envy in Mike by dabbling with the idea of Christie getting into the big plan.

When a build-up of events, however, are judged to be the reason for a situation of great magnitude such as the dear principal’s blow to the head, the aftermath is the only thing to regard when deciding if those involved were faulty or deserving of praise. Therefore when a system so corrupt is abolished from an institution, or on a larger scale, a way of life – revolution has betided.


Barack blinked, clearing these exact deliberations from the mind and present moment. He smiled as per usual, turning to Joe and remembering his declaration of love earlier that day. “July fifth you’re leaving right? You have four more days to pack, dude.” Barack persuaded to his vice, now not so much a vice but a free spirit. “C’mon, we’re doing this. Are you in?”

Joe had walked ahead a fair distance, about to turn the opposite direction to where the others had settled in front of the gates that led to the outside world. He knew he couldn’t leave them; not in his wildest dreams (and trust me, were they wild).

Facing his best friend with the most endearment he could express in his damp blue eyes, Joe reflected Barack’s own grin, and complimented: “I can always count on you guys to have a blast.” He scratched his head of dark hair and completed the group. Barack, Joe, McCain and Mitt released themselves outside the school gates only to be carried by the flow of time from whispers within subservient trees, soon disappearing down the gently sloping road into the early, orange sunset.


Chapter Text


July 4th, 8:18am, 2016


It is the morning of Monday. Naturally with great spontaneity, Bernie arises from his bed, noting the warm waves of sunlight glaring from his window. He forgot to shut his curtain that night.

On Monday mornings, he’d have to get up and ready, showered, all the basics. Furthermore he’d have to commute to school only to see Barack way ahead up that iconic sloping hill, a prize, a seized symbol of institutional power. Donald would cause commotion like always, and Ted would preach his sense of morality which would clash with whatever Marco’s vapid interests came to be. Jeb would involve himself and get verbally disparaged by Donald. Hillary would be with Bill, probably, who would be with George, but not for too long. Hillary would be the catalyst for all sorts of trouble. Joe would be set aside with Barack, watching all this from afar, and Bernie would just be Bernie. 

That run-of-the-mill envisioning couldn’t prop itself up no more, as those days were over, closed, and stamped like an envelope of requiem. It almost wasn’t an envisioning. It was like a utopia, with barriers blocking its mere purity as a concept, days only to be thrown in with the bittersweet past. It is impossible to return back.

Bernie was never sure if he would miss these moments of his life or not.


What was to come of the other kids of Prez High is not the most thrilling of fates, but they were never bad – nor good for that matter, they just were. September still had to look forward to the return of George Bush for he had to retake the year. He would visit Bill’s new place occasionally, set away from the remote part of town Bill grew up in. Sometimes even Hillary and Donald would drop by, too. Students like John Kasich and Benjamin Carson carried on as expected, not outstanding but not entirely fading away from the reputation of Prez High that once was: a school focused on a student government presidency where inevitably personality outshone policy.

Mike Pence was expelled from Washingcoln High, with Chris Christie developing the irrational fear that everyone was out to get him as a product of his attempted assault. Tim Kaine got along as usual, with his life back on track and not taking any uncalled turns as it did in his junior year. Rand Paul, meanwhile, climbed his way to what teachers called success, sacrificing some elements of his individuality in order to subdue his somewhat poor record.

A lot of components remained unchanged at the school, though the facility of the air was at its zenith. It was possible that Principle George Washington and Vice Abraham Lincoln would begin a new custom for the school to follow, reintroducing the disarray of the student government elections only in a totally different format. It was also possible for the couple to leave things at rest, maximizing their interest towards education, enlightenment, and the sufficiency that the students needed to become adults. There is no way of knowing as of now, this moment, July fourth, the anniversary of the declaration of independence. What matters to these kids is the present. Perhaps this day is indeed the designated for their own independences, or likewise.

With a soft smile, Bernie stretches before lying beneath his bedsheets for a couple minutes longer, bathing in the simplicity of its warmth.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

“Happy July fourth.” greets Barack, placed on a hilly spot in the field of dandelions, a field expanding from the highstreets and bridge to a consecutive series of plain after plain. 12:06pm. The town snuggled in nicely further northwest, with a train station positioned south of the settlements.

“Have you been waiting long?” Bernie asks. He had just arrived after a couple visits to some thrift stores along the river. There were a few thistles and other sticky plants which had latched onto the bottom of Bernie’s pants, showing a transition in flora diversity from the gentler, fluffy beginnings of the plain by the river. It took him back to the undomesticated realm at the back of Washingcoln High, the patch of dark earth, brambles, pines, and bentgrass. 

“No, not at all.” Barack says, simultaneously yawning and rubbing his dark, watery eyes.

“Rough night, huh.”

“It could have gone worse, I mean, I’m a little deprived of sleep but I drank a lotta water to, you know,” he answers, slyly placing a hand to his mouth. “Wash it all out my system.”

“So you did throw the party after all. It’s great, it’s like you’re finally acting like a human being.” Bernie jokes. He hands his friend a coke. “Naw, I’m kidding.” Bernie then reassures, to which Barack clarifies no offense was taken.

They hear a voice, and whirl around to greet Hillary.

“Hi boys.” she raises one eyebrow, wanting to get in on the exchange.

Bernie and Barack’s faces at once display relief to the idea that the trip may work out. Everybody claimed to be free for the day, albeit that didn’t mean last minute cancellations would not take place. Joe had sincerely wanted this to go as planned, with everybody together in this own special clique they unconsciously called home, out and about exploring the city.

“Well you look sinister.” points out Bernie.

Naturally, Hillary brushes this comment off, stubbornly yet in a way that amuses those around her. “What are we actually getting up to, huh?” she asks to Barack.

“Well, either we go see Joe at the station or he’ll meet us right here. We’re going up to the city. He hasn’t texted back yet, the bastard.”

“Dank. Oh well, I guess we wait! Who wants to see a meme?”

“Looks like Donald does.” Bernie points to the stampeding figure in the distance, allowing his arm to remain in the air after a painful ten, breathy seconds on Donald’s behalf. 

“EY!” the man himself yelps, panting, back arched and hands clutched on his bulky knees. “You ran off without me, Rodham.”

Hillary’s expression seems the same as it always is when she is teasing, but with more of a spark. Her eyelids are relaxed and so is she, the hot late-morning wind combing her hair in servitude. Passion is now cutting into the stale blueness of her air and it is breathtaking, to Donald at least.  “Man you look stupid. It’s kind of cute.” running a hand through Donald’s hair, Hillary playfully flicks his cheek and scampers a few meters to prevent him from returning the gesture. He catches up regardless, launching some sort of romantic chase. Marco, having just arrived, gazes at the young adults in love. They were astonishingly doting.

“What’s poppin, gang?” his eyes do not leave Donald and Hillary, now at a near distance. Bernie and Barack nod and casually raise their palms.

“Please refrain from saying that phrase again, ever.” Ted mutters beside Marco, releasing a happy sigh before turning to Barack. “Howdy.”

“That must mean the only person missing is Jeb.” Bernie identifies, his forefinger pressed on his chin.

“What do you mean missing?” a voice calls out. It is low and thick, as if buried beneath several blankets. “I’ve been down here all along!” The bunch whirl around, recognizing Jeb’s voice yet struggling to find its source. The particular part of the field had much longer, darker grass than its humble beginnings, which proved to be easy to hide in and difficult to sprint in. A few of them sense movement in the long shards. A part of him then appears visible to Marco after he treads on Jeb's shirt, proudly untucked.

“Of course, how convenient.” Ted dryly utters. Having lain down, Jeb takes a puff of his blunt and produces a signal with his smoke. “I thought you were quittin’ grass.” Ted said. Marco opened his mouth to speak:

“Unless you’re smoking the grass around here. That sounds like something our doomed generation could get behind.”

“I’m almost clean, I have a lot more control, y’all.” Jeb insists, raising his fist in the air, the solid arm revealing itself from above the grass. “Let’s go an’ have fuuun, maaan!”

“Woah woah woah, not yet buddy.” a halting voice returns. They each hear a pattern of thumping footsteps, and tilt their heads towards the noise.

“Joe!” shouts Barack. "Now come on, man," he begins, holding up the unseen message. 

Joe hunches his shoulders and peers side to side. “My phone’s dead?” he lies, unconvincingly.

“You sucker.”

“Don’t forget this.” Joe then says, quickly, before he hands his best friend a small ornament which felt foreign in Barack’s hands. He unlocks his palm so that the item was only visible to him, unveiling a piece of kid’s jewellery with the letters for ‘BARACK’ printed on individual white beads. The younger boy’s first instinct is to shake his head in confusion, brushing it off as some silly little gift, until his face drops as so does his mind in realization – today is the last time he would see Joe for a long, long time.

“I love you, man.” Barack doesn’t exactly tear up, but his face looks like he is close to doing so. “C’mere.” They engage in a hug; a perfect reverb of the flow of water, wind and grass mixed with titters painting the perfect backdrop. “Just don’t get too close to me, we all know how much you must love to sniff my hair.”

“Oh fuck off, haha!” Joe hauls himself away, pushing Barack so he steps back. Ted and Marco are still talking with Donald and Hillary, while Bernie continues his wild conversation with Jeb concerning the Illuminati’s true power on the bitter earth. They encounter this interaction between Joe and Barack from afar, not absorbing much but quickly noting the background sounds contently.

“Barry,” Jeb calls out, absolutely fried.“You look like a,” the back of his throat gave way to a guttural snicker between his sentence. “A man who needs loosening up.” completes Jeb, fishing out something from his pocket and waving it in the air. Barack clocks the joint, held by the pink fingers and arm of the submerged boy, and walks over to get a full view of Jeb’s stupid face.

“He’s offering him a damn blunt! Classic.” Joe yells.  

“No pressure.” assures Jeb. He tries not to be forceful, however makes a great deal out of being alluring.

“Alright, but I’ll draw away instantly, I’ll bet you.” Barack takes the joint with little hesitation, and Jeb’s raised arm drops, falling, landing across his stomach. Before he even thinks of lighting it, Barack puts it in his pocket and instead strikes a conversation with Ted who decides to unload every one of his opinions on his first try of marijuana. The others branch off into their own little circles, until Joe gets the feeling it’s time to get moving, and so they start to make their way to the station. Donald and Hillary are furthest ahead, followed by Joe, Marco, Barack, Ted, Bernie, and Jeb, still lying down.

“Ted,” Marco says, motioning for Ted to quit dawdling.

“I’d much rather you call me Rafael. It suits me now.”

“That ‘coon has fallen outta that tree, alright.”

Ted wonders what Marco means by that, but doesn’t care to question it. He catches Hillary whispering something to Donald, her eye glued onto Ted’s blushing face. She burrows her head between Donald’s neck and shoulder in a fit of giggles. “Aren’t they cute together?” she loudly expresses so Ted and Marco could hear.

“What a bunch of lovebirds. Birds, birds…” Donald sees a pigeon excitedly pecking and cozying at his feet, which is unusual behaviour from a city bird, though not when the target has stayed still for an awfully long time. “Birds! Ey, shoo you morons!” he barks, as the motion of the pigeon’s feathers erupt in a frenzy. Bernie’s smile wavers in reaction, going unnoticed.

And like so, Barack undergoes his first puff. He stumbles, and feels something thick at the back of his throat, further breaking away from the crowd to get his breath back. The flowing movement of the group that once was suddenly halts, with everybody except Jeb binding up their distances from each other so they are all bunched together, like grapes. The coughing is comical but rather unbearable to listen to, thereby Donald steps in to help. His ex-Prez is dazed, but still functional. He threw away the joint just in time. “Okay, so I’m just recapping for all who have forgotten:” Barack’s condition has changed a little but he could, for the time being, think straight. “The plan is we get on the train to the inner city. We’re gonna go bowling, visit the arcades and karaoke bar-”

“-Grab a few seats at some fancy restaurant before watching the beast of a fireworks show. It’ll be way bigger and better than the one in this town.” Joe finishes. He finds amusement in watching his friend be so relaxed.

“I call dibs on I Will Always Love You. I know me and Bernie will rock that jam out.” Hillary nudges the other graduate in the ribs, causing a pout to ripen on Donald’s face.

“I’m in.” Bernie shrugs, forging exasperation.

“Me and Donald for Uptown Funk.” Barack inserts.

“Piss off.” Donald chuckles, before averting his attention to Bernie. “Bernie, go tell Jeb to get his stoned ass here.” he pats his elder’s back, while the latter nods with a humble thumbs up.

“Hell yeah! We’re gonna have fun today!” shouts Marco pumping his fist in the air. “Fins up!”

“Fins up.” echoes Jeb from the distance.

“Happy July 4th, everybody.” Ted smirks. He tugs at the collar of his mustard flannel shirt after Marco makes a sly comment on it, but all in good fun. Ted offers him a rainbow gummy worm from the miniature packet in his pocket, and he at first declines, but shortly accepts.

“The children of our future.” Bernie whispers to himself, inaudible. He finds himself feeling genuinely happy for the first time in ages. “No, the adults of the present.” Shaking his head, he walks over to Jeb who hasn’t yet caught himself dozing off into the sea of grass. It was like he was waiting for his surroundings to carry him to a safe haven where he won’t have to worry about anything no more. Bernie could relate to this feeling, experiencing a pang of sadness which passes without lingering. He spends a few minutes talking to Jeb about nothing in particular, with Jeb awakening, gaining back his alert cognitive state as if sober. Barack walks over to the pair of outcasts and joins the conversation for a moment, but then detaches himself by wandering the other direction, alone, looking up at the sky.

“Have you two goons finished getting blazed yet?” Donald’s raspy vocals tint the air. A moment passes. He loses some interest in Barack yet retains a watchful eye from a distance, cradling an arm around Hillary and drawing her in.

“I’m not high! It was just one puff!” calls out Barack, oblivious to the fact he is somewhat intoxicated. “One sec, just need to check if I remembered all the money and stuff.”

Donald, Ted, Hillary, Marco and Joe’s laughs emit a childlike echo from a few meters afar. Bernie and Jeb acknowledge that Barack, or Barry, needs some time to himself. Bernie was always good with his intuition like that. He calculates a comparative analysis between the two states of minds, Jeb and Barack, one now unaffected from his last proclaimed joint, the other completely hooked onto his first. It was as if Barack was transitioning into another stage of his life, a life without being Prez, a life without Joe and one without Donald and Hillary and even Bernie Sanders. Jeb was getting it together, Ted and Marco were together; everything was changing. Everything. Even Barack himself, and while it didn’t look it – Barack’s childhood has now successfully passed by him in a flicker, a rustle of memory, a breeze.

Holding the bracelet in his hand, bag of belongings in another, he dropped the former into the latter and took the deepest breath he has ever taken. There was a word flirting with his thoughts. It was time to say goodbye.


Barack Obama idly jogs across the gently sloping field, where his friends beam individual welcoming hues. It is the fourth day of July, summer’s in full bloom and Barack is looking forward to catching up at this fine moment. It is nothing loud or obvious. You could practically tell from how the dark eyes shone in the sunlight. His title as the student government president has truly passed, and he is ready to take on the world.


Barry Obama, aged fifteen, was a Sophomore at Washingcoln  elected for Prez at the end of his Freshman year, along with his elder friend and vice, Joseph Biden. September marked the start of a new semester and a new school year - Obama's school year. However, a new student running for Barack's title caused some commotion and became the talk of the school. As well as many others, two freshmen also decided to run, along with a dissatisfied brother of a certain someone, a preppy 12th-grader who knew her stuff, and last but not least - a quirky, democratic socialist.

These eight students in particular were each certainly unique in their ways, but now since push has come to shove, they have come to realize they have more in common than initially thought.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

After a couple seconds of nudging Jeb with his foot, Bernie makes up his mind to actually go on this trip for certain, to follow the group of newfound friends to the station. Conversely, Jeb is inactive in the grass, disheveled in hair and collar yet somehow put together – like a regency painting, hazy, natural and yellowed from the sunlight.

“Come on. Rise. We better get moving.” Bernie orders to Jeb, almost with a solemn authority, but with his consistently kind eyes blocking any evidence of sternness. The younger man peeps up, sensing a subtle redness in the sunlight and Bernie’s cheeks, mirroring that of Jeb’s eye whites. Sunken in the sickles of long grass like green split ends, Jeb sits up with an unearthly sense of ease.

“Well…” he begins.

They smile.



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The Children of Our Future