I Think the World Owes Me an Apology by Fike Daodu

Author:Fike Daodu
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fike Daodu
Published: 2021-05-02T00:00:00+00:00

campaign week

“So, where we headed, Manager?” Laura asks, eyes scouting the hall as the remainder of the students start heading out for today. I push the door to the art room open, leaning off to the side to let Laura pass through.

“The art room,” I reply with a half grin, watching as Laura makes her way into the space.

The art teacher—Mr. Ingram—allowed us access to the art room for about an hour. I make my way over to the center table. Right now, the main thing we need is to make up for lost time and start making posters.

Splashes of paint decorate the room and Laura roams the shelves for additional supplies to the ones I have. When we make our way back to the table, we lay out posters, lips pursed as we imagine how the campaign posters should look.

“God, we won’t have time to finish all these.” Laura says after a few minutes, placing a paintbrush back into a water-filled vase.

I let out a breath, eyes scanning over the posters. “We might.”

Laura bites her lip, shaking her head. “I just narrowly handed in my form before the deadline yesterday. We’re walking on a thin rope here.”

“We’ll get it done,” I say with a nod, eyes steady on hers. When she doesn’t say anything more, I say, “We can pull an all-nighter.” Or more. “Trust me when I say we’ll get it all done.”

A firm, uncharacteristic confidence laces my tone, and Laura returns with a nod. Then we’re back to the posters, painting streaks across the papers, discussing slogans, and scrutinizing artistic decisions.

Music fills the air, blasting from Laura’s phone, and minutes blur into over an hour. Realizing that we’ve spent one and a half hours in the art room—an hour longer than Mr. Ingram permitted—I scramble to my feet, shuffling the dried posters into one pile and shoving them under my arm.

Realization dawns on Laura’s features and she rises to her feet as well, hanging the wet posters from the clothes pegs on the art room’s ceiling.

“So, the posters are essentially handled,” Laura says as we walk out of the art classroom, shutting off the lights and making our way down the hall.

“We can finish them up within...” I hum, “The next two days, tops.”

“Then... ” Laura says as we hoist our backpacks onto our shoulders and push our way out of the school doors and into the chilly air, “We can focus on the next aspect of my campaign.”

We exchange half grins. Because the next goal is arguably the most important, and could change the course of Laura’s campaign as we know it:

Winning over the student body.

***

“Is it true that you’re running?” It’s probably the twelfth or so time this question has been asked today. My eyes drift upwards to see one Yasmine Abadi standing by my table, arms folded as her eyes stay on Laura’s.

Somehow, slight guilt needles at my chest. With everything that’s happened: the awkward lunch with Yasmine’s friends, breaking off with ALO, and helping Laura run for president, I haven’t gotten the chance to talk to Yasmine again.

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