Don't Vote for Me by Krista Van Dolzer

smacked me on the shoulder. “Let’s get ready for battle!”
    Riley checked his watch (which I sincerely hoped was paint-proof). “It’s eight fifty-nine,” he said.
    Spencer pointed out two lonely figures headed up the street. “And here they come!” he crowed.
    My heart lifted a little. I could handle only two. But what started as a trickle quickly turned into a stream, then a genuine deluge. By ten minutes after nine, the empty lot behind Renfro’s was filled to overflowing with a sea of eager sixth graders. A few looked vaguely interested, but most looked downright eager to shoot us with paintball guns. They must have deciphered Esther’s flyers a lot more quickly than I had.
    Spencer climbed up on a crate. “All right, all right!” he said to get everyone’s attention. “First off, we want to thank you guys for coming. Our art director—”
    â€œThat’s me!” Esther said.
    â€œâ€”will explain how this will work,” he said as if she hadn’t cut in.
    Esther cleared her throat. “All right, listen up!” she hollered. “This is pretty self-explanatory. We have these shirts, we have this paint, and we need you guys to help us put the two together.”
    One of the kids who was standing near the front—I thought his name was Jason—motioned toward the paintball guns. “Are we allowed to go for head shots?”
    Esther sized him up. “Sure,” she finally said, “if you think that you can hit one.”
    While everyone else snickered, I started composing my last will and testament in my head.
    â€œIn addition to the guns,” she said, “we also have these paint balloons, so feel free to mix it up. And we have quite a few shirts, so even when we finish these”—she gestured to the shirts that we were wearing—“we’ll have more to go around.” She pointed at the kid who’d asked the question about head shots. “Jayden, I’m putting you in charge of giving everyone a turn.”
    Jayden nodded eagerly. Apparently, his name wasn’t Jason.
    â€œAll right, then,” Esther said. “Once we get our headgear on, we’ll get to work!”
    Esther’s mention of headgear produced a couple of friendly boos, but the others seemed okay with it (and thank goodness for that ). She handed each of us a fencing mask—or what I figured was a fencing mask—and showed us how to put it on. I was grateful for the mesh screen, since I didn’t want anyone to see me when I accidentally squealed.
    â€œWe’ll start with our backs,” she said, pulling her mask over her face. “And please make sure you stay behind the solid yellow line!”
    I snuck a peek over my shoulder. I hadn’t noticed any line. With any luck, that meant it was on the other side of Renfro’s.
    Even though it was only nine, the wall was already warm. It was a good thing we had the masks, since my nose probably would have scraped it. I wanted to sink into that wall and grab a root beer float at Renfro’s (or, better yet, escape when the others weren’t looking). I fought the urge to barf as the crowd shifted behind us. Jayden must have been organizing everyone into a line and distributing the ammo.
    Too soon, he shouted, “Fire!”
    I’d never actually fired a paintball gun before, but Owen and Radcliff had both owned one, so I knew that creepy hissing sound wasn’t a good sign. You had to attach compressed air canisters to make paintball guns fire, so they let off little hisses every time you squeezed the trigger. But I only had a second to think these less-than-helpful thoughts before a dozen welts rose on my back. I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming.
    â€œNext!” Jayden shouted firmly, and there was a momentary lull as the weaponry changed hands.
    I pressed my mask against the cinderblock and waited for that telltale hiss. The