“Mr. Trump!” I breathed, racing into the Bolles cafeteria. “Thank you for meeting me! I can’t believe you’re taking the time to speak to a high school reporter.”

“I’ll tell you something, I’m talking to everyone. That’s what sets me apart from all the other candidates. Yesterday I spoke to a group of third graders.”

He slid into a booth. “Those third graders have zero chance of making it to fourth grade until they learn how to get tough. These kids are sharing crayons; can you believe that? Listen, in my world, if you lose your periwinkle blue then you better be ready to negotiate with me when it’s time to color the sky. I told them this, and they wouldn’t stop thanking me. Really, I’m the only one who tells it like it is. They gave me, like, a hundred juice boxes as a sign of their gratitude.”

“That’s…that’s really nice, Mr. Trump. Would you be willing to tell me about your plans to reshape American education? For example, do you think college should be accessible to all students?”

“Absolutely. They should fight for it.”

“You mean, fight for good grades?”

“No, fight. In a boxing ring. I’m saying this, and I’m the only candidate honest enough to say this. If a kid wants to go to college badly enough, he’ll punch another kid in the gut. Trust me, I’m building a generation of winners.”

“Um…okay. Next question. Students today have to work on many group projects. Do you have any advice for students working together?”

“Absolutely. Build a wall.”

“A wall? Where?”

“Where else? The library. “A” students are allowed in because, let’s face it, they’re the ones who are gonna work hard. Everyone else stays outside where they belong. “B” students are terrible human beings…Is there any food in this place?”

“Well, it’s after hours and…Mr. Trump? I don’t think you’re allowed back in the kitchen.”

“Honey, if you’re going to make it in this world, you’ve got to go after what you want.” He emerged from the kitchen and waved a bag of Fritos in my face. I reached for it, but he snapped his hand back. “You think I’m sharing with you? Remember my periwinkle crayon theory.”
“You want me to negotiate for a Frito?”

“Let’s see what you’ve got, kid.” He reached into the Fritos bag, but instead of putting the Frito in his mouth, he reached towards his head, and – I kid you not—a tiny hand reached out from beneath his comb-over and quickly yanked the Frito back into his hair.

“Did you—was that – did your hair just eat a Frito?”

“You’re a total loser. Why would my hair eat a Frito?”

“I—I just saw—“

The hand crept out again and he smacked it.

“Not now,” he hissed.

His hair hissed back.

I cleared my throat. “Okay. How about this for a negotiation? I will keep your secret; namely, that your hair lives, in exchange for a Frito.”

He stared intently at the ceiling. Then he curved both corners of his mouth down and shrugged. “Fair enough. Here’s the Frito. Now I need you to keep my secret: under my hair lies the secret of my success.”

“You mean, under your hair lies your brain?”

“No. Under my hair lies Marvin.” Trump lifted his combover, revealing a six inch tall elf with bifocals who lounged on the aforementioned Frito; and who, due to the circumstances, could have been mistaken for Ratatouille the rat by any devout Disney fan.

“Wasssup?” Marvin the elf raised his hand.

Trump laid his hair back down. “Say goodnight for now, Marvin.”

A muffled good night came from beneath Trump’s orange bangs.

“You think I like wearing my hair like this? I know what I look like. I know what they say about me.” He gazed into the distance. “It was about thirty years ago. I had just received a very small gift from my father; a million dollars to build my empire. I knew I needed to make a success out of myself. I was desperate. So,” he shrugged. “I made a deal with the devil.”

“The devil?”

“Listen, you grow up around Manhattan real estate, you make a lot of contacts. Anyway, Satan owed me because I gave a lot of money to his campaign. Really, I wrote a huge check. So… Satan gave me Marvin.” Trump tapped his head gently. “Marvin makes all of my decisions for me. I just have to feed him a steady diet of Fritos, and he likes it when I let him ride in my golf cart.”

“Is Marvin capable of making life-altering decisions for the free world?”

“Of course.” Trump narrowed his eyes at me. “Before we go any further, were you born in America? Show me your birth certificate.”

“Well, I don’t carry it–”

He stood up and brushed the crumbs off of his hands. “Listen, I think you’re great. I cherish all women. I cherish high school journalists. This was a fantastic interview. Here, take a token of my appreciation. Take a baseball cap.”

I looked down at the cap with the words, “Make America Grate Again” written across the front.

Trump held up his hands, palms facing out, and kind of pushed at the air in front of him. “I know, I know, they misspelled ‘grate’. But I figure, I grate on so many people’s nerves that it makes sense anyway. I’m suing that hat maker, though. Try to wear it all the time.”

He rolled his eyes upward. “Marvin, can we get her to sign a contract saying that she’ll wear it all the time?”

Trump shook his head. “Never mind. Marvin will be in touch.”

“Well, I don’t—“

“Remember, inclusion means working together to keep people apart,” he called over his shoulder as he walked to the door. “Trust me, you look fabulous.”

I looked down at the misspelled word. When I looked back up he was returning to his limo, waving to people with one hand and reaching into his right suit jacket pocket with the other.

The above piece is entirely fictional. Any characters, names, or events (even those based on real people) are entirely fictional. The Dabber