The phone rang.

Ned lifted his head off the desk and stared at it in horror. In the past five minutes he'd had three calls from various council members, all of whom had decided to remind him that there was a meeting today at six o'clock ("on the dot"); two from people who were upset with a tree on someone's property that kept dropping Boozleberries all over the place, which were making someone's dog sick; and one call from his mother, who'd told him that Councilman Birch and his son would be coming over for dinner. The last thing he needed was another painful conversation.

He picked it up and tried to make his voice sound somewhat cheery. "This is Ned." He slapped his forehead. "I mean this is Mayor Ned McDodd! What — what do you need?"

"Chill, it's just me." The voice was Sarah. Ned nearly collapsed with relief.

"Thank you so much for not being someone who needs my help."

Sarah laughed nervously. "Yeah. Though I don't really have the best news."

Ned's stomach dropped. "The Whostory test?"

"I don't really want to tell you," she said. He was silent, crossing his fingers and waiting for her to spit it out. When she didn't say anything he finally snapped, "What, do you want me to guess or something?"

"That could be fun."

He rolled his eyes. He was the only mayor in the history of Whoville who couldn't get even a single person to listen to him. Still, this was Sarah, and it wasn't her fault that he was stressed out of his mind. "Is it passing?" There was silence on the other end of the line. "Is it close to passing?"

There was a gentle knock on his father's huge oak office door — his huge oak office door; he'd have to remember that now — and Sally poked her head in. "You have a visitor," she said, in her cool "secretary" voice that he would have loved to listen to under different circumstances. Ned held up one finger and she ducked out again.

"It's a 47," Sarah said.

He felt the blood drain out of his face. That was the worst grade he'd gotten in any class since . . . since ever. And in Whostory! Whostory was his favorite class! How could this have happened? "Did Mr. Snorri tell you what that did to my average?"

"He wrote it on a piece of paper and made me promise not to look. . . . Maybe it's not so awful."

"Am I passing, Sarah?"

There was the sound of rustling paper. "Yes!"

His heart leapt. "By how much?"

She hesitated, then said, "Half a point."

Ned watched a flock of polka-dotted birds fly past his window. As he stared, one of them crashed into a telephone pole just outside and float down to the snow with a dazed look in its eyes. The symbolism was not lost on him. "What do I do?" he asked, not expecting an answer from the other end of the line.

Then again, he'd underestimated Sarah. "Well, I talked to Mr. Snorri, and he doesn't usually give extra credit but he understands what's going on, so he gave me all this stuff. He said it'll raise your grade to a C if you do it all."

A C. Ned had never even come close to a C before; the very idea made him feel sick. And yet . . . he thought of all those hours of sleep he'd lose doing that work. It was almost enough to make him decide not to bother, until he thought of that 47. Not bad, considering he hadn't studied, or even read the chapter that the test had been on. "Thanks, Sarah."

"I'll drop it off at your house, okay?"

There was another know on the door, louder and more insistent. "Ne — Mayor McDodd?" Sally called. "Are you ready yet?"

"Listen, Miss . . ." There was a pause as, Ned assumed, the man read her name tag. ". . . O'Malley, part of your job is to help the mayor prioritize. I understand that this is new for you, but you cannot be afraid to take the initiative."

Dropping the phone, Ned closed his eyes and steepled his hands together, pressing the tips of his fingers against each other until they turned white. Don't do it, Sal, he thought. He knew that she was dying to yell at whoever had dared to make such a comment. Please don't. "Thank you very much, sir," she said. "I will take that into consideration." She tapped on Ned's door again. "Mayor McDodd? Councilman Birch is here. I'm sending him in."

"Ah, well . . ." Ned glanced at the phone. It was silent; apparently Sarah had said goodbye and hung up without him realizing it. Oops. "Okay, come in," he said, placing the phone in its cradle.

Randall Birch, the city's head councilman, strode in as soon as the words had left his mouth. Declining Ned's invitation to sit down, he hovered in the center of the room with his hands folded in front of him. "Mister Mayor, have you taken a look at this?" he asked, taking out a letter and sliding it across a desk far too large for Ned. It was about the stupid Boozleberry tree — a formal complaint. "This shall be the main issue at tonight's meeting. The Council will be eager to see what solutions you will have to offer."

"Is this all?" Ned said, looking down at it. "I mean, is this the extent of what goes wrong in Whoville?"

The councilman looked scandalized. "Mister Mayor! This is far from wrong. This is simply one of the many mundane-yet-essential tasks that we as peacekeepers are required to manage." He smiled, and Ned noticed how white Birch's teeth were; they were as bright — and somehow as dusty — as the surface of the moon. They looked too old to be in his mouth, like years of smiling for the townspeople and his father wore down on the dentition.

"Yes, Councilman Birch. And I'm sorry for the wait — I was just —"

"Talking about schoolwork with your friend. Sarah, right?" His smile both widened and softened at Ned's astonished expression. "Those impressive doors look soundproof, I know, but they're thinner than they appear." After giving the new mayor time to realize the full implications of that remark, he added, "I'm not upset that you were discussing matters unrelated to your mayoral duties. I understand completely."

Ned doubted that. Birch had come into his position of power when he was twenty-three, just out of the city's top whocademy and ready for the secure, cushy job that his father's retirement had just left vacant. And with the retired councilman leaving him a glowing recommendation, there was no chance that he could have lost the Council election. He had no idea what it felt like to spend four months sliding toward F's in all of his classes; unlike his son, Tom, Randall had never skimmed his heels lower than a B+ in his entire life. He had never had to balance a full-time job he was unprepared for with schoolwork; he had graduated school with a full understanding of what his job would require as well as how to do it. And as an only child, Councilman Birch hadn't enjoyed the daily experience of trying to get eighty-five children ready for school without the help of a mother who was almost catatonic with grief.

No, Mr. Randall Birch didn't understand a thing. But he claimed that he did, and it kept Ned out of being reprimanded, so he couldn't complain. "Thank you for your sympathy," he said. "Now, I should get to thinking about this. Unless you have anything else to say?"

The councilman seemed surprised. "No, Mister Mayor. I will see you this evening at the meeting. Six o'clock."

"I know. Thank you." Once Birch had left, Ned reached for the letter. As he did, the phone rang.

It was all he could do not to smash his head on the desk.

Ned made it out of the conference room around eight o'clock, his head spinning. He'd come up with a solution to the tree problem, but the council had rejected it on some technicality. While Mr. Birch had patted his shoulder after the meeting and congratulated him on the "interesting" idea, Ned had still ducked into the bathroom for ten minutes to avoid having to see any of the men on his walk home. It was bad enough that he'd have to face his new best friend, Councilman Birch, for a late dinner.

He hadn't expected Sally to wait for him, but she was sitting on the bench across from the entrance to the town hall, shivering in the snow. "How did it go?" she asked, slipping under his arm for some warmth.

"Not great. I'm sure not my dad — the Council made that very clear."

"You'll be a great mayor," she said. "You told me so when we were little." He laughed, but the sound lacked its usual boundless optimism. "You'd make him proud, Ned."

He looked down at her, raising his eyebrows. "Proud? He told my mom that he wished Mimi had been born first because she'd make a better mayor, I couldn't hack it. I guess he'd be proud that he was right."

Sally was silent; she wanted to argue with him, tell him that of course he would be every bit as good as his father and the other "great" leader of Whoville, but she knew that it was hopeless. Besides, there was something more pressing in his tone. She stopped walking, forcing him to come to a halt, and they sat down on a nearby bench. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, snuggling against his side.

"Talk about what?"

"Your dad. I know you miss him."

He stood almost as soon as he'd sat down, leaving her alone in the cold air. "I don't have time to think about this," he said. "I have to get to dinner, and there's this extra credit stuff that Sarah dropped off for me. . . ."

"Ned —"

"Sal." He turned to her, and she was relieved that his smile was genuine. "Thank you for caring so much, and when I have ten minutes to feel bad about the fact that my father's . . . you'll be the first to know, okay?" He took her hand in his and began walking her home. "I just have too much to do right now."

Sally sighed. That would have to be good enough.

Dinner was excruciating. Councilman Birch sat at his mother's side, and they seemed to be having an intense argument. It was one of the few times she had shown any sign of life in months, and Ned couldn't help but wonder what they were talking about. However, with the din of his siblings he couldn't catch a single word.

Tom was sitting next to him, and Ned could hear him just fine. Unfortunately. "So how is it being mayor, McLoser? My dad says that you can't get anything right."

Apparently Tom was the kind of guy who held a grudge. Also not the kind of guy who came up with new nicknames. "Well, thanks, Tom," he said wearily. "That is absolutely what I wanted to hear."

"He says that if Sally wasn't there to hold your hand, you'd be messing up even worse. Why she bothers trying to babysit you, I'll never know." He leaned back in his chair, confident that this dig had cut Ned to the quick.

It had, but rather than undermining his confidence, it just made him angry. "Still upset about the Sally thing, huh, Tom? Why exactly do you care so much? So one girl rejected you, big deal. There have to be plenty of girls who'd be able to tolerate your incredible stupidity enough to date you." Mimi overheard this and shot Ned a confused glance. He knew that his behavior had shocked her, but he was too preoccupied with everything he still had left to do that evening to care about niceties.

Tom rolled his eyes and turned away, but Ned saw enough in his expression to know that he was right. It only took one girl to crush an ego, as Ned knew very well. And if his touchy-feely guidance counselor was to be believed, bullies had the most fragile egos of them all. "Whatever," he muttered, half to Ned and half to himself. "I've got a wicked hot girlfriend." He glanced up at Ned. "Cassandra. I'll bet you remember her."

He flushed. Speaking of girls who'd rejected him. . . . Would he never live down the tie-dye incident? Tom smirked and went back to his meal, believing he had won. Ned decided to let it go. Normally he would want to understand why Tom was such a jerk, figure out the motivation behind the rudeness. But he didn't have the energy. Tom and Cassandra — and who could forget Sherry? — could literally have no other joy in life than making him miserable, or they could have deep psychological scars that forced them to lash out. Knowing whether it was one or the other wouldn't help him pass math or be a good mayor. It just wasn't worth his time.

"Um, kids? I have something to tell you. If you could just . . ." The voice was Ned's mother, and even though she was standing, she couldn't command the table's attention. Before his father had died, Carol McDodd had had a voice that could level forests, one only their father could beat. Now she could hardly be heard three seats away. The councilman had stood as well, and was looking over the children with helpless bafflement.

Ned leaned over to Mimi and shouted, "Mom wants to talk. Pass it on." It was the preferred method of communication for the McDodd children, and soon the room fell silent. Birch turned to Ned, obviously impressed, and a snatch of his father's voice came back to him: "Being mayor is a lot like being a father. You have to know how to communicate with people, understand what they need, and above all, you have to love them like you would your own children." Ned himself had considered something similar at his inauguration, but instead of being overwhelming as it had been that day, this knowledge was now reassuring. He wasn't a father, but he knew how to take care of children. If he didn't have classes to deal with, anyway.

Mrs. McDodd and Mr. Birch glanced at each other, and when it was apparent that the former wasn't going to speak, he stepped in. "I am very pleased to announce that your mother and I are to be married. I —" It was obvious that he had a long speech prepared, but no one was willing to hear it; he should have saved the big news for the end. As the family's outrage grew louder, Ned stood to leave.

"Where are you going?" Mimi demanded.

"I have homework to do."

She stared at him incredulously. "Are you serious?" she asked, her voice rising to a shriek.

"I don't have time to . . ." He sighed. "I have to go," he said, leaving before she could reply.

He passed the phone on the way to his bedroom and he hesitated. More than anything, he wished he could call Sally and talk about what had just happened, allow himself to be furious about it. Maybe he could even give himself permission to grieve his father's death for a few minutes.

But right next to the phone was a pile of papers — the work Sarah had dropped off. He sighed and took the packet.

He'd talk to Sally later.

"Guys, I don't know what to do! He's failing his classes, he can't concentrate on being a good mayor because he's failing his classes, and he's so stressed out that he can't even be upset about it all!"

"Well, what are we supposed to do, Sal?" Patrick asked, looking up from the paper he was writing. "Short of doing his homework for him, I'm at a loss."

"I just know this can't be legal. Or constitutional. Or . . . something," Sally mused. "Do you think the library's still open?"

"Nope," Sarah, who worked there some afternoons, said. "I closed it up right before I came over."

"I doubt they'd have anything good," Patrick added. "The whocademy libraries would have what you're looking for, since there are a lot of students majoring in Whostory. And they'd still be open, I think."

Sarah shook her head. "Nuh-uh. My bother's at Whoville Whoniversity, and no one's allowed on campus after eleven o'clock unless they're a student. I'll bet the others are the same." She laughed and said, "Besides, it's getting late. Like out parents would — Sal?" Sally had climbed to her feet and went over to her closet with no apparent hurry. She slipped inside and shut the door. "You don't think she's going to break into the school, do you?"

Before Patrick could answer, Sally had emerged, wearing a skimpy black dress and high heels. "Veronica left behind a bunch of her old stuff when she graduated," she said by way of explanation, piling her hair on top of her head. After studying herself in the mirror, she snatched up a few books and held them against her chest. "Think this'll work?" she asked.

"You know that's not what college girls actually dress like, right?" Patrick said. He leaned over to Sarah and muttered, "Though Ned would have an aneurism if he saw her now."

"Actually, it's usually a bunch of college guys who check the student ID's," Sarah said, her face lighting up. "That might be the way to go."

"I thought you didn't like this idea!" he said, watching as she dove into Sally's closet in search of an outfit.

"That was before I thought it could work. Listen, Patrick" — she stuck her head out — "you won't be able to get in unless you can look like a girl, so you'll have to sit this one out."

It was clear that he agreed and wasn't happy with it. "I don't think your sister would be thrilled if she knew that you were stealing her clothes," he said. "And even less so if I were to wear them. Besides, my parents will kill me if I don't get home before midnight, so I'd better . . . whoa." Sarah stepped out of the closet in a denim miniskirt and a pink tank top.

"Sal, your sister's kinda trashy," she said, twirling around so that her skirt floated up. Patrick had to look away. "What were you saying?" she asked him.

"N-nothing. I should, you know, go." He turned to Sally. "Don't let her do anything . . . well, irresponsible."

Sarah laughed and rolled her eyes — now that the plan had a chance of working, she was giddy with it — but Sally's smile was empathetic. "I will," she said softly. "Don't worry about a thing."

"So where's the library?" Sally whispered, glancing at the dark campus.

Sarah shrugged. "I only came here once with my brother, and he isn't exactly the biggest fan of libraries."

She stared at her friend. "So we don't even know where we're going?" she demanded. "What are we here for, then?"

"Relax. We can just ask someone for directions," Sarah said.

"What kind of college students would we be if we didn't know where the library was?"

"We'd be like half the kids here. Now shut up, those are the guys who check people." She strode up and beamed at the nearest of the boys. "Hi!" she said cheerfully as Sally huddled in the background. "You probably don't remember me, but we're in a class together." She scrunched her forehead in the least convincing expression of concentration Sally had ever seen. "Which one was it, again? It has that old guy with the armpit stains who talks really slow . . . I sit in the back, so you probably wouldn't —"

"You're both in high school, aren't you?" he interrupted, leaning against the wall with a smirk.

Sally sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Yeah," she muttered, and turned to walk away. His hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"I won't tell if you won't." He winked and stood by to let them pass. As they walked away, he called, "There's a party down at the Ronaldson building. That where you're headed?"

They exchanged glances, then turned to him with matching smiles. "Sure!" Sarah replied.

"I'll see you there." He switched his attention to another pair of girls who were approaching, and Sally said, "Hey, do you know where the library is?"

He looked confused, but recovered enough to point to their left.

They ran before he could ask any more questions.

Sally hurried down the aisles of the library, her fingers skimming over the spines as she passed. "History of Whoville, Whoville in Under One Thousand Pages, The Whoville Constitution — ah! Here it is." She pulled the thick book off the shelf, staggering under its weight, and dropped it onto the table. "You don't think it has an index, do you?" she asked, looking down at what had to be two thousand pages, easy.

Sarah took it from her and flipped it to the back. "Nope," she said. "There's like ten other copies, though," she said, pulling one down. "And it's only 11:45. We've got plenty of time."

Sally groaned and began reading.

Unbeknownst to the children, Randall Birch had stayed over at the McDodd home several times between Philip's death and the announcement of his marriage to Carol, but they'd both decided that it would be best if he and Tom went home as soon as the dinner was over. She said it was because the children would need time to adjust, but the councilman suspected it was so that none of them would try to kill him in his sleep. So he had hurried home around nine in the evening and tried to imagine what it would be like being married for the first time in five years.

He prided himself on being the first person in Whoville to wake every morning, and so he was up at four-thirty in the morning. This meant that he was awake to realize that there was at least one person who had been up before him, and he was able to personally greet her when she showed up at his house two hours after he'd risen. "Councilman Birch?" she asked. She was holding a gargantuan book in her arms. "May I talk to you?"

He stepped aside, letting her come in. "What is this about, Miss . . . O'Malley?" He hoped that he'd gotten her name right.

"Well," she said, setting the book on his kitchen table; he noted that it was The Whoville Constitution (1459; ed. 1943), "I would like to give you my formal resignation. I am far too young to handle the responsibilities working for the city requires, and frankly, I don't think I'm qualified to do so."

Randall was taken back, but he nodded. "I understand completely, Miss," he said, deciding to eschew the last name for both their sakes, "and I accept your resignation." When she didn't move to leave, he added, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Actually, yes. According to the most recent edition of the Whoville Constitution," she thumped the heavy tome for emphasis, "it is against the law for anyone under the age of eighteen to occupy a job in the city of Whoville."

He had a suspicion of where she was heading. "Yes, of course."

"This includes the mayor, Ned McDodd."

He snorted. "That's absurd! The previous mayor is deceased. Of course Ned would take over! There is no other option!"

"As a matter of fact, there is." She flipped open to a page in the book and read, "According to the city's constitution, 'if the Mayor's eldest child is not of an age appropriate to take over as Acting Mayor (amend. eighteen years), or is otherwise unfit for office (i.e., a want of proper education, a debilitating physical or psychological condition, or any other issue deemed as such by the Council's popular vote)' . . ."

Randall had forgotten how long-winded the constitution was. It was something he should have been aware of, but he hadn't read it since college. He'd always meant to give it another glance, but had unfailingly found himself too busy. "Yes?" he snapped.

"I was just making sure you understood it," she said mildly. "Anyway, 'any other issue deemed as such by the Council's popular vote), then the Council will act as temporary Acting Mayor until such a time when the child is able to enter office, which will be decided by the Mayor himself, accompanied with other formal documents signed by professionals as needed (i.e., for a debilitating condition' . . . I think that's all you'd be interested in." She placed her hands flat on the table, looking into his eyes with an expression that was surprisingly firm. "I think it's obvious that Ned is not only an inappropriate age, but he lacks the education necessary to become mayor of Whoville. In fact, these past four months, you've all been breaking the law. You should have been acting mayor until he completes his high school — or even college — degree."

Damn. Randall was definitely regretting not giving those laws a skim. In fact, no one in the council had bothered to look up the rules for this situation. Why would they, though? No one knew the law better than they did, and they'd forgotten how much they didn't know. "You definitely have a point," he said, trying to sound like he had the entire situation under control. "We will have an emergency meeting as soon as possible to discuss this predicament."

"And the verdict will be?"

"Well, it's not certain, but given this evidence, the most likely decision will be to do exactly as the constitution states: we will take over as chief executive until Ned graduates high school."

Her eyes narrowed. "What about college?"

He shrugged. "If Ned wants to study at a whocademy, he will have to negotiate it with the council at a later time." He smiled at her and added, "But as permission has always been granted in the past, I'm sure that he will have no problem pursuing whatever level of schooling he desires."

Sally managed a weak grimace that was related to a smile; now that her mission was accomplished, she was exhausted. She made it home without incident, but there was one thing she had to do before she told her mom she was too sick to go to school.

Ned's voice was groggy when he answered the phone. "Yeah?"

"Ned, it's me. Did I wake you up?"

"Uh . . ." She could hear the rustling of papers, and assumed he'd fallen asleep doing homework again. "I guess so."

"Listen, I gotta get to bed, but can you promise me one thing?" He made a weak affirmative grunt. "Go to prom with me."

"What?" He sounded marginally more awake. "Sal, with everything that's going on —"

"Go to work as soon as school ends, and then come over and see me. We'll talk, okay?"

"You're not making sense. We both have to work today!"

"I love you, Ned. Goodnight." She hung up the phone as quietly as she could, and then fell asleep with her uncomfortable black dress still on.

A/N: I am very unhappy with this one, but I've been annoyed with chapters before, so after extensive editing and swearing, I've decided to let you guys tell me whether it's awful or not. Apologies on the length, but I couldn't find a way to break it up into two chapters, so here you go.