"Civics!" Bruno Walton thundered. "What on earth is this?"

"It looks like a curriculum change," Boots said in a patient, long-suffering tone that only he, as Bruno's patient and long-suffering roommate, could achieve. They had already been over this a half dozen times or more. Boots was beginning to doubt that Bruno would ever tire of the subject.

"Curriculum change!" Bruno said, for not the first time. "What do we need a new curriculum for? The old one's been working just fine."

"Well," Boots said reasonably, "it's not like it's a new dress code or something. No ties anywhere to be seen, right? And we don't have to do geography anymore."

"But I liked geography!"

Boots took a deep breath and counted to three. He had once tried this counting to ten, but had hardly got past four before Bruno had launched into yet another new and exciting scheme to get them all expelled. Boots had since learned that it was better just to head him off at the pass. "Now you're just flat out lying," Boots said.

"Maybe," Bruno agreed. "But it's better than this, this, civics." He emphasized it like it was some kind of dirty word. He made it sound illicit, but not exciting-illicit, but your-parents-actually-have-sex-when-you're-not-around-illicit.

Boots wasn't even sure yet that he didn't dislike civics. He wasn't even sure that Bruno knew what it was.

*

Election, n.: a formal procedure whereby a person is elected, especially to a political office.

The worst of it came the next morning, at the opening assembly. The Fish was in perfect form, looking steely and imposing as ever; and, unlike in previous years, Bruno was actually sitting to attention, listening to every word that came from the Fish's mouth. It was almost worrisome.

In addition to the sweeping new curriculum changes to include the study of civics (to save Macdonald Hall's youth "from a future of political apathy"), the school would also be forming its very first student council (to save Macdonald Hall's youth "from a future of mass political corruption"), all of which would be under the guidance of a certain Mr Curtin, a former member of parliament and current political crank.

That was the gist of it, anyway.

Boots, as usual, spent most of the speech attempting to keep Bruno in his seat, though this time his excitement had gone off far in the opposite direction from usual -- every time the Fish said something like "political involvement" or "school pride" or "the future of Macdonald Hall's youth", Bruno's face lit up and Boots had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep Bruno from yelling his support.

It was going to be a long year.

*

Electoral commission, n.: A non-partisan body which determines election procedures and district boundaries and oversees the conduct of elections.

"Student council!" Bruno was still saying as they shuffled into their first civics class, first thing after the assembly. "Think of the possibilities, Boots! Think of what we could do with this place!"

"We?" Boots said. "I'm not getting involved."

"Okay," Bruno said dismissively, like he knew he'd be changing Boots's mind in a matter of time. "Think of what I could do with this place!"

They found their seats.

"What could you do with this place that you haven't already done? You got us a pool, a rec hall…" Boots trailed off. There was no point in encouraging him.

"Yes, but think of what else! I'd be representing the whole school! The Fish would have to--"

"Good morning, class," Mr Curtin said, cutting off Bruno's stream of consciousness. He seemed to have materialized from behind his desk, which seemed far too big for him. He was shortish and baldish, but not so much that Boots would have outright described him as either short or bald, period. He had a very distinct appearance of not being anything in particular. He said, "My name is Michael Curtin. Some of you or your parents might remember me from my days in parliament. I served for several years as a member of parliament for the Social Democrats…"

Boots felt himself falling asleep, until he was delivered an unceremonious kick from across the aisle. Boots sat up and looked at Bruno. He was staring, enraptured, at Mr Curtin.

Well, Boots thought. That didn't take long.

"…that Macdonald Hall will be forming its first student council this year," Mr Curtin was saying, when Boots dragged his attention span back out of the gutter. "There will be four positions available, being president, vice-president, secretary, and treasurer. I have my own issues with these positions, but your headmaster was very insistent on upholding that tradition. I find it disgraceful to use such terms, so wholly inconsistent with a parliamentary democracy…"

Boots felt his head start to swim. Bruno, on the other hand, was just lapping it up-- and that always meant trouble.

*

Party system, n.: Tautologically, the set of all the significant parties in a country, their interactions, and (sometimes) the electoral system and voter loyalties that produce it.

"Boots, my friend," Bruno said, as he strolled back to their room after afternoon classes. "You are looking at the new president of Macdonald Hall's student council."

"What? Where?" Boots said. It never, ever, ever did to encourage Bruno.

Bruno ignored him. "I mean, this thing's a shoe-in! I just have to fill out a form, get some signatures, and I'm in!"

"There's also that tricky business of the election," Boots reminded him.

"And what, you think I couldn't win one of those? Who wouldn't vote for me?" Bruno asked. They'd reached their door by now, but neither of them moved to enter. "The competition would be miles behind."

Boots looked unconvinced. "You don't even know who the competition could be," he said.

"Exactly!" said Bruno. "You don't even know, because there's no one."

"That...doesn't really make any sense, Bruno."

"Oh, go be someone else's wet blanket. Just you wait, that election will be mine! I'm the best man -- no, the only man -- for the job. Macdonald Hall needs me! And this time, it'll have me."

Boots almost said, "this time?" -- as though there'd been any time when Macdonald Hall didn't have Bruno at its beck and call, or maybe vice versa -- but thought better of it. Bruno had clearly gotten himself into one of those moods that might last months, and there was no point in trying to argue him out of it.

Boots was getting a little sick of those.

*

Constituency, n.: Area whose electorate returns a representative to a national parliament.

Filling out a form and getting some signatures was, as was so often the case with Bruno, much more easily said than done. He went an entire week without detention, without dishwashing or leaf-raking duties, without saying a word to Boots that wasn't directly related to his homework.

"Who knew," Bruno said, once he'd finally gotten Coach Flynn's approval -- after many extra laps of the track that probably, ultimately, had no bearing on his suitability for president of student council -- "that politics was so much work?"

Boots didn't turn around, but kept facing his homework: a reaction paper for civics class, on the repatriation of the Canadian constitution. He bit his tongue until finally he said, "No one's making you do it."

"Of course not," Bruno said airily. "But it's for a good cause. Macdonald Hall needs me! We can't have someone else running the school. Who knows what could happen?"

"I don't think Macdonald Hall would suffer too much," Boots said, his jaw clenched.

"Oh, come on, Boots," said Bruno. "You know it wouldn't be any fun if we weren't doing this kind of thing."

"I'm not doing anything," Boots said, and wrote, in all caps, "TRUDEAU WORKED HARD TO PRESERVE CANADIAN SOVEREIGNTY."

"Okay," Bruno amended. "If I wasn't doing this kind of thing. But you're in on it, right? It's not like you wouldn't want me to win."

"Oh yes," said Boots, and wrote, "Repatriation was the next step to make Canada a fully independent country." He felt his shoulders starting to tense, but still he didn't look at Bruno. "It wouldn't be any fun if you lost," he said.

What he didn't mention was that if would be even worse if Bruno won. He'd never hear the end of it.

*

Shadow Cabinet, n.: The front bench of the official parliamentary opposition party.

Boots woke up to the sounds of a thump, a squeal, and a lot of high-pitched giggling that he sincerely hoped was not coming from Bruno.

"Huh?" he said succinctly.

"Hi, Boots," said the lump on the floor, sounding very much like Cathy Burton. There was another giggle, then another, softer, "hi," this one from Diane Grant.

Boots very seriously considered pretending to be asleep, but thought better of it, and sat up. "Hi," he said.

"Glad you girls could make it," Bruno said.

"I'm not," said Cathy.

"She wanted to have a girls' night in," Diane said accusingly.

"We had things to do," said Cathy, then shrugged. "But we're here now. What's the news?"

"I'm running for president of the student council," Bruno said proudly.

"Oh no, Bruno," Cathy said.

"What do you mean, oh no, Bruno?" Bruno asked suspiciously. "It's great!"

"No, Bruno, it's awful! Think of what you'll have to do!" Bruno gave her a blank look. "Work with the Fish!" Cathy said. "You'll have to listen to what he says if you expect him to listen to you. It'll be terrible! It'll never work!"

Boots said, "She's right, you know," feeling every bit the traitor.

"Oh, she is not," said Bruno. "You're overreacting. The Fish will never be able to say no if I've got the whole school on my side. It'll be a piece of cake."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Cathy said. Diane let out a long, exasperated sigh. "Shh!" Cathy added.

"All right," said Bruno. "Don't be excited for me. I say it'll be great. And Boots agrees, right? Boots?"

"Right," said Boots, but he still wasn't so sure about that.

*

Executive privilege, n.: The right of the executive to withhold information from the legislature or courts.

When Boots got back from last period biology, the entire door was postered over in what Bruno must have assumed were supposed to be catchy political slogans, which mostly took the form of, "A vote for Bruno Walton is a vote for Macdonald Hall". Others read, "Stand up for Macdonald Hall: VOTE WALTON", "Macdonald Hall has 700 reasons to VOTE WALTON", "Get results for Macdonald Hall: VOTE WALTON", and other variations on that theme.

The one covering the doorknob was somewhat more subdued, and only said, "Walton 4 prez", written in Chris Talbot's hand, with "Melvin 'Boots' O'Neal 4 VP" pencilled in below in Bruno's chicken scratch.

Boots ripped it off and opened the door.

"What, exactly," he said, waving the poster in Bruno's general direction, "is this?"

Bruno wasn't paying him any attention. He was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously on a stack of crinkled, lined foolscap. There was a heap of broken pencils and half-chewed erasers sitting on the desk.

"Ah," Boots said. "Working," trying very hard to impress on Bruno just how little he thought of that. He'd seen enough of that, of Bruno trying hard at things he never used to, just so he could be eligible for student council; of Bruno ignoring him, just so he could concentrate; of Bruno playing by the rules, just so he could win. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

Boots tossed the poster he was holding into the wastepaper basket. It was already overflowing with Bruno's rejects.

"I'm running for vice-president," Boots said, when Bruno continued to ignore him.

Bruno's head snapped up, and he very slowly turned to look at Boots. "You're doing what?"

"I'm running for vice-president," Boots repeated. "You'd think someone might have mentioned it."

Bruno had the decency, or at least the good training, to blush. "Oh, that," he said. "That was a joke. You're going to be my campaign manager."

"Your campaign manager?" Boots said. "I'm not getting involved in this!"

"Why not?" Bruno asked. "It's not a big deal. It's not like I'm making you run. And it's not going to be as bad as Cathy says, no matter what you think. And all you'd have to do is, you know, hype me up a bit. Not that I really need it."

Boots thought, no, of course not. "Hype you up?" he said, as though he were speaking a foreign language.

"Yeah," said Bruno. "Publicity, that sort of thing. Think -- the door, only bigger."

"What?!" Boots said. The door -- only bigger. He shook his head. "No. No way. You want publicity, you get it for yourself. You're not ruining my year too."

"I'm not trying to ruin--" Bruno started, and then seemed to think better of it. Boots looked at him curiously. "Do you want to read my acceptance speech?"

"Your acceptance speech? You haven't even been elected yet!" Boots exclaimed.

"Well, no," Bruno conceded. "But it's only a matter of time."

"Time, and a whole bunch of votes you won't get! Has it even occurred to you that you might not get elected?"

Bruno seemed shocked at the very possibility. "No," he said seriously. "Who'd vote against me?"

Boots thought: I'd vote against you. If this was what student politics did to Bruno, he wasn't sure that he wanted him there. But instead, Boots said, "I can't imagine."

*

Interest groups, n.: Organizations seeking to advance a particular sectional interest or cause, while not seeking to form a government or part of a government.

East of Toronto, just off Highway 48, you will find a beautiful tree-lined campus right across the road from the famous Miss Scrimmage's Finishing School for Young Ladies. It is Macdonald Hall, which was currently of no interest to Boots, except for how much trouble he could get into if he was caught sneaking back there.

Like sneaking over to Scrimmage's wasn't bad enough, it was even worse doing it without Bruno. Alone, Boots had no one more observant than himself to yell, "car!" while he made his way across the highway, and besides, the punishment was always worse when Bruno wasn't around to take the fall. But apart from Bruno's presence being extraneous and even unwanted on this particular occasion, it wasn't as though Bruno was all too interested in sneaking around just now, anyway. He could get in trouble. Could get his candidature revoked. Could, could lose the election, on top of everything else.

As he crawled in through the window of Cathy and Diane's room, Boots heard Cathy say, "why do they have to come over now?"

"Be nice to our guests," Diane said, and Boots tumbled down onto the floor.

"Hi," he said, having picked himself up. The girls were sitting on their respective beds, Cathy looking irritable and Diane anxious.

Cathy said, "Well, where's Bruno?"

"Oh, er," said Boots. "He's not coming tonight." He looked at Diane. "Is this a bad time?"

"No," said Diane. "Make yourself at home."

Boots did.

"I need your help," he said. "I need to know how to make Bruno lose this election."

Cathy's face lit up for the first time since his arrival.

*

First strike, n.: Getting one's retaliation in first. In warfare the first (or pre-emptive) strike strategy aims to maximize damage to one's enemy; combining the element of surprise, the full deployment of offensive capability, and undermining an opponent's ability to respond.

"What kind of sick person comes up with an idea like a political debate?" Bruno ranted. "We've been campaigning for, for weeks! And no one ever mentioned this! And now it's in two days? How am I supposed to prepare for that! What do they expect!"

"They're just going to ask you about your platform," Boots said, in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "You don't have to say anything that we don't already know about. It's just an opportunity to, to present yourself publicly to your voters before the real election." It sounded stupid when he said it.

"But everyone already knows who I am!" Bruno said.

"Then it'll be easy," said Boots. "Just be yourself." Though he wasn't exactly sure that was the best of advice -- which was, as far as Cathy and Diane were concerned, maybe all for the best.

*

At the break in the debate, Bruno pulled Boots aside and hissed, "You didn't tell me people would be allowed to ask questions!"

Boots pasted on his best innocent look, which was remarkably less well rehearsed than Bruno's own. "I didn't know," he said. "They just told me that, as your campaign manager…"

"I know!" said Bruno. "I know, I know. It's just that -- they could ask me anything! Wilbur Hackenschleimer could ask about more food! Sidney Rampulski could ask for padded walls! Elmer Drimsdale could ask about Bunsen burners! I don't know the answers! I can't promise anything!"

"Oh, I'm sure it won't be that bad," Boots said. "It has to be related to your own extracurricular activities, anyway. It'll just be about the football team and stuff, you know that."

"My -- what?!" said Bruno.

"Come on," said Boots. "The debate is starting again," and he dragged Bruno back to his makeshift podium.

Mr Curtin once again took centre stage. As a moderator for the debate, he'd essentially antagonized the whole lot of them, making them debate everything from soft-wood lumber to dumping rights, all of which were completely unrelated to Macdonald Hall and none of which Bruno had the faintest idea about. It was, as Cathy had suggested it might be, a total disaster for Team Walton, and Boots was trying hard not to smile about it.

"I think we're ready to start the second half of the debate," Mr Curtin said. "We have already seen your peers completely fail to enlighten us on anything beyond their own personal ignorance, and now it's your turn to put them on the spot. I am now going to open the floor to questions from the audience." The questions were all pre-approved, of course.

A hand belonging to George Wexford-Smyth III shot up. Boots could see Bruno's inward groan, even from the sidelines.

"In the back," said Mr Curtin. George Wexford-Smyth III stood up.

"Yes," said George Wexford-Smyth III. "I was wondering if Bruno would care to enlighten us on his fiscal policies, as enacted during such events as Operation Popcan."

A wave of murmuring spread across the auditorium. Bruno looked at Boots, horrified, but all Boots could do was shrug. It wasn't like he'd made up the questions -- or at least, it wasn't like Bruno knew he'd made up the questions.

"Operation Popcan?" Bruno said. "That was -- I'm not sure that's the best representation of my, er, fiscal policies."

Mr Curtin looked at him. "Perhaps you could care to enlighten some of us newcomers on the nature of this 'Operation Popcan," he said. "In one minute or less."

"It was a fundraiser," Bruno said quickly. "For the pool." Then he added, "I'm very interested in getting money for our athletics department. That's very important for Macdonald Hall."

Boots gave him a thumbs-up.

The next question went to Bruno's opponent, on the intensity of his feelings of school pride. They each got several questions, most fairly meaningless, though Boots got a few of his own in there: on Bruno's academic history, on his detention streaks, on his propensity for leaving school property while school was in session. And then there was the knockout, delivered by Mark Davies:

"Can you tell us how your involvement in The Committee and later The Coalition helped you to get where you are today?"

Bruno remained silent for the entire minute he was allowed to answer.

Mr Curtin said, "Well, Mr Walton? Do you have anything to add?"

Bruno shook his head, then very calmly walked off the stage.

*

Minority government, n.: One which fails to command the guaranteed support of a majority of the members of a legislature.

"I'm going to lose," Bruno said. He flung himself down on his bed, and covered his face with his hands. "I'm going to lose," he repeated, and he sounded so completely sorry for himself that Boots almost felt bad.

"No, you're not," Boots said. "It's not that big a deal."

"Not that big a deal?" Bruno said, sitting up suddenly enough that Boots flinched. "The Fish said I'd get expelled if anyone ever brought up that stuff again! The Fish doesn't forget!" He flopped back down. "I'm going to lose," he said again.

"Come on, Bruno," Boots said. He sat down gingerly on the edge of Bruno's bed, and patted Bruno's knee a little awkwardly. "You're not going to get expelled just for that. The Fish isn't going to care." Though Mr Curtin might, he thought.

"How do you know?" Bruno asked. "It's not like you--." He didn't finish the sentence.

Boots didn't get a chance to find out what Bruno thought he had or hadn't done, which might well have been a small blessing. Bruno sat up, and curled his legs under himself, out of Boots's reach -- probably just as well.

"I guess it doesn't matter if I lose, huh?" Bruno asked. "I mean -- it's not the end of the world."

"No," Boots said. "It's not." He didn't mention that it probably would be the end of the world if Bruno won. That probably wasn't what Bruno wanted to hear, though who even knew, given this sudden change.

"Yeah," Bruno said, heartened. "I mean, I'll still have all that stuff. I'll still have gotten us the pool and the rec hall and, and, all the recognition and stuff. It's not like they can take that away from me."

"Right," said Boots.

"And," Bruno said, "and, you'd have voted for me anyway, right?"

"Of course," said Boots, and felt thoroughly dishonest for the first time. "Of course I would."

"Good," said Bruno. He put one hand on Boots's shoulder, then, when Boots stiffened, seemed to think better of it. "Good," he said, and got up.

Boots felt like a pretty big jerk.

*

The morning of the election, Boots said, "We're going to be late for algebra again."

"Yes," said Bruno. He was still stuffed somewhere under his comforter: "Come on, it's the fifth year and she really should be used to it by now."

"Or maybe you should be used to getting up at a reasonable hour," Boots said.

"Okay, mom," said Bruno, and kicked his blankets off into a heap at the foot of his bed. It was eight forty-six, Boots thought: eight forty-six, eight forty-six, eight forty-six. He continued to think it was eight forty-six while Bruno got dressed and he didn't look, and finally it was eight forty-eight and Boots had missed eight forty-seven, but at least Bruno was wearing clothes.

"Can we go now?" Boots asked.

They were going to be late for class -- and the vote -- anyway.

*

They were halfway down the hall, and Bruno's shoes were even halfway tied, when Mr Curtin stuck his head out of his classroom and yelled, "Stop!"

Boots stopped, stuck his hands behind his back, and gave Mr Curtin a curious look. Surely he hadn't found out--

Bruno crashed into the wall.

Boots sighed.

Mr Curtin rounded on them. He had already determined that he didn't like them, probably from Boots's total lack of interest in the government and Bruno's total lack of regard for the way it was presented. The rest, Boots imagined, would become apparent soon enough.

"Have you no respect for the Canadian national anthem!" Mr Curtin yelled. He was wearing a bright red tie, and he had a face to match it. Boots thought, how very festive, then corrected himself: patriotic. He couldn't even hear the national anthem, if it was even playing.

Bruno righted himself. "Of course, Mr Curtin."

"Then why in the name of Lester B. Pearson are you not standing to attention!"

Boots's spine straightened automatically. He didn't dare look at Bruno, who was probably all the worse for his latest inspection of the drywall. "I'm sorry, sir," Boots said. "We didn't hear--"

"Didn't hear!" Mr Curtin roared. "How can you not detect the nationalist fervour flowing in your own veins? The pomp, the circumstance, the stirring of the heart--"

Bruno suppressed a snicker. Boots bit his tongue until he could taste iron.

"Do you find something amusing, Mr Walton!" Mr Curtin interrupted. "Do you dare to laugh in the face of our nation, which has given so much for you?"

"No, sir," Bruno choked out. "It's just that, sir, we need to get to class, and--"

"To class! To vote!" Mr Curtin bellowed. "Yes, be off with you! But next time," he added, in a more conversational tone, "do try to be on time."

Bruno grabbed Boots, and they fled.

*

Back-bencher, n.: Legislator who is a member neither of the government nor of the opposition leadership.

Bruno was silent the entire way back to the room, staring at his feet, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He hadn't said a thing since class had ended and the announcement had been made, and Boots said, very carefully, "So I guess you're not going to be president," and Bruno had said, "I guess not."

Boots had known he'd probably take it badly. Bruno had, after all, dedicated weeks to his campaign, thinking about how to get elected, how it would feel when he got elected, what he would do when he was elected. Boots had known it was going to be one of those things, where Bruno dedicated too much time and energy for too little payoff that he nonetheless exulted in -- except this time there'd be no celebration, just defeat. Just a lot of Bruno sulking, and complaining, and blaming, and Boots wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

"I'm sorry," Boots said, once back in the room. "That you lost." That you didn't see it coming, that you're upset, that I set the whole thing up. Sorry that he had sat looking blankly at his ballot before he simply folded it in half, and left it unmarked. "Sorry," Boots repeated.

"It's not a big deal," Bruno said. His voice had an odd quality to it.

"It is," Boots said. "It's -- disappointing, isn't it?"

"I don't know," Bruno said. "Did you want me to win? Honestly?"

Boots looked at him, then said, very simply, "No."

"Well, then," Bruno said, "there you are."

"But that doesn't matter," Boots insisted. "You wanted to win. You wanted to, so you should have, and I'm sorry that you didn't." He really did feel like a jerk.

Bruno looked back at him for a long moment, and for a second, Boots thought he was going to get hit, or yelled at, or something -- but what Bruno did was reach out and touch his arm, his shoulder, his neck, and then pulled Boots into a hug.

Boots couldn't even react.

"Thanks," Bruno said, after a time. It sounded muffled, though his mouth must have been close to Boots's ear. Boots was not thinking about it.

"For what?" he said.

Bruno pulled away. "For," he started, then stopped. "You know it wouldn't have been any fun anyway."

"Yeah," Boots said.

"Yeah," said Bruno, and smiled. It was victory enough.