by Rachel Wise
Adoring Underclassperson
Hmm. A tough one. My short answer to that would be: An eighth grader will never like a sixth grader because that is just totally uncool. Maybe in a few years, when age doesn’t matter as much, but probably not too soon.
None of these letters was the juicy, meaty kind of letter I liked. I was disappointed but not surprised. Often I’ll get batch after batch of tired clichés and I’ll get discouraged. I don’t want to print the same thing over and over, even though this is clearly what’s on everyone’s mind. I like things that inspire some debate or make people think.
Columnist Solves World’s Problems One Kid at a Time.
Ha! As if!
Well, I still have some time before the next issue is due, I thought. Something will come up. It always does. And sometimes I’ll get, like, four really good letters and have an impossible time choosing. My mom calls it “feast or famine.” I know what she means.
I hid the letters in my new Know-It-All hiding spot, behind my headboard. My sister, Allie, is very snoopy, and more than once, I’ve caught her in here where she could have stumbled upon my trove of letters. I can’t risk it because she is a major blabbermouth. If she found out I’m Know-It-All, I’d lose my job and be ruined.
It was time to wrap up my homework, but I couldn’t resist a little Googling.
First I looked for information on John Scott, the school presidential candidate. It was unfortunate that he had such a common name. Tons of stuff came up, and it was nearly impossible to wade through. Sure there were obvious things I could weed out, like I knew he hadn’t robbed a bank, but I couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t him who’d had his bike stolen from the Cherry Valley mall last year, or who’d saved a little girl from drowning at the town beach. I began to yearn for the days of Mr. Trigg’s clipping files.
Anthony Wright wasn’t much better. It was definitely him who’d won the state chess championship, because I remember seeing the massive trophy in the lobby at school. I didn’t even recognize him in the picture (waaaay under the radar), but nothing bad came up about him, and I couldn’t wade through the sea of other Anthony Wrights (Fighting off muggers! Winning the lottery! Heading off to Iraq!) to find more.
I made a note to search the back issues of the Cherry Valley Voice as a start and packed it in for the night.
Chapter 3
COWRITERS COMPETE FOR EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW
I cannot even pretend to like coffee, even though it’s considered cool to drink it and most journalists live on it. I wish I did like it. It’s just that I find it so untasty, I can’t even have a tiny bit to try and get used to it. Not that Mom would even let me. She has a strict “no coffee” rule for us—even decaf—although I know for a fact Allie drinks it when she’s with her friends.
Anyway, Michael likes it, which makes me kind of like him even more. It’s like he’s mature and manly enough to tolerate the stuff, even if he does put in lots of cream and sugar. That’s what I discovered the one other time we hung out at the Java Stop. Today I ordered a hot chocolate, just to be sociable, but I did feel a tiny bit embarrassed and babyish doing it. Especially when he grinned at me in that teasing way he has and said, “Can’t handle the strong stuff?”
Aaargh!
“Coffee makes me jittery. I’m hyper enough as it is,” I said, and that made him pipe down.
We found a table near the front, and I was privately thrilled that anyone walking by—or in and out—could see me sitting there with gorgeous Michael Lawrence. I wanted this moment to last forever. At least, until I spilled my hot chocolate and got some on Michael’s pants and had to pat him down with flimsy brown recycled napkins. Oh boy. He swore I didn’t burn him and that it was nice to smell like chocolate.
New hot chocolate in hand, table dried, pants blotted, and notebooks out, we finally got down to business.
“Okay, Spilly,” said Michael. “How should we divide this up?”
Michael likes to make up new nicknames for me all the time, based on whatever klutzy or dorky thing I’ve just done (so, besides Pasty, I have Trippy, Listy, Snacky, and most recently, Spilly).
I took a long, patient breath and began. “Why don’t we each take a candidate to research? Internet, Cherry Valley Voice, school yearbooks—even from elementary—other kids. Then we’ll both interview them . . . together?”
But Michael was shaking his head. “I like splitting up the research. But we shouldn’t both interview them at the same time. Let’s meet them separately. That way . . .”
I was already nodding. I knew where he was going with this. “We can see if we had the same reactions.”
Now Michael was nodding. “Exactly!”
We smiled at each other in blissful agreement. But wait, with that settled, was our coffee hour over?
I scrambled to stretch it out. “And . . . uh . . . then, we can—”
Michael cocked his head and listened politely, as if I might have some fabulous idea to add, which of course, I didn’t! Unless Michael did?
“Do one of our famous . . . ,” he interrupted.
“Buddybook polls!” we both shouted at the same time.
Michael put his hand out for a high five. “Good one, Spilly!” he said.
I made a note in my notebook that we’d do a poll, and Michael grinned at me as I wrote. “Still writing everything down in your book?” he asked.
“I don’t have your photographic memory. We’ve been through this before.”
“No, I get it. Different people have different styles. It took me a while to get yours, but now I wouldn’t want you to change a thing.”
I was pleased but squirmed uncomfortably. “Thank you, I think,” I said kind of gruffly, to mask my happiness.
Click! A flash went off, and I turned, blinking, to see who it was.
“Hey, guys, mind if I crash your date?” said Jeff Perry, sitting down without waiting for our reply. Jeff is one of Michael’s best friends, and he’s the photographer for the paper, too. He always has his camera.
“What’s with the photo?” asked Michael, kind of annoyed.
“Just practicing for the campaign trail.” Jeff shrugged. “I’m hoping to catch our candidates at an awkward moment. Makes great news.”
Michael and I exchanged an uncomfortable look.
“Uh, like what kind of awkward moment?” I asked.
“You know, kissing a girl, stealing something, leaving the scene of an accident . . . ,” said Jeff wistfully.
Michael laughed. “Seriously? You think John Scott and Anthony Wright might do any of those things?”
Jeff smiled. “I sure hope so!”
“Jeff, that is too much. The Cherry Valley Voice isn’t a tabloid, you know,” I said in my most disapproving voice. “Even in the unlikely event you snapped such an enlightening photo, Mr. Trigg would never run it.”
“Hey, you never know!” said Jeff. “Anyway, I could always put it on Buddybook. So, have you guys done any digging yet? Know anything about these guys? I know John a little, from numerics class. He makes me laugh. This one time . . .”
Jeff launched into a story about John Scott that was pretty funny; I wished he’d leave me and Michael alone, though. Michael laughed at the end, and he and Jeff agreed that John had a good reputation as a funny guy. A tiny part of me was looking forward to meeting John.
“So, should we just send them each e-mails tonight to set up our interviews?” I asked Michael.
He nodded. “Yup. I’ve actually got their contact info here; I got it from the school directory. I’ll send it to you.”
“Wow, very organized!” I said, impressed.
“Hey, you don’t have the monopoly on organization around here!” said Michael.
Another compliment!
“I know. I know . . .”
“Hey!” interrupted Jeff. “There’s Anthony Wright on the coffee line now! Anthony!” he called. And when Anthony turned, Jeff snapped his photo, leaving Anthony blinking, confused, and visibly
unnerved.
“Jeff, you’ve got to stop doing that to people. It’s really annoying!” admonished Michael.
“You know what, I’m going to go over there and introduce myself,” I said. “Otherwise he’s going to lump me in with you. The photo stalker!” I stood and headed across the room toward Anthony.
Anthony Wright is tall and thin with glasses. He has close-cropped curly hair and he’s a plain dresser. No-name blue polo shirt, generic jeans, plain sneakers. He was nervous and kind of nerdy, though, and when I approached him, he looked over his shoulder to see if I was making my way toward someone else.
I introduced myself, and he said in a formal way, “Hello, Samantha. It’s nice to meet you.” Anthony’s voice was deep and warm, which surprised me. I wasn’t expecting it. The guy could do voice-overs for commercials if he wanted; it was that good. A little bit of his nerdiness melted away as I listened to him speak.
“So I’m going to be e-mailing you to see if I can interview you for the school paper,” I said.
“Excellent. About the election?”
I nodded. “Yup. Pretty exciting stuff.”
“I know,” he agreed, warming up and losing a little more of his nerdiness. “There are so many things I’d like to work on. Hey, you aren’t free now by any chance, are you? I have fifteen minutes until my carpool picks me up here. Do you want to talk here?”
Oh. Awkward. I didn’t know what to say. Should I ditch Michael and take this opportunity? It might be better to have him be spontaneous than rehearsed. But there was Michael, waiting for me at the table. And I hadn’t done any research yet on Anthony at all. Well, that sealed it.
“Actually, that’s so nice of you, but I’m here with my friends . . . or friend, really. The nice one, without the camera? And also, I haven’t had time to do any research on you yet, so maybe it’s better . . .”
“I understand. Totally. That’s fine. Just e-mail me and we’ll set it up,” he said. And then it was his turn to order. “Nice to meet you,” he said to me, and he turned to the barista.
“Okay, bye. Thanks.” I made my way back to my table, unable to shake the feeling that I’d just missed an opportunity. I sat down quietly, lost in thought, as Michael and Jeff chatted on about this week’s football game. If anything, Anthony Wright just seemed awkward at first and maybe more mature than us, almost like a mini adult. I bet if you talked to him for a while, you’d forget the awkwardness and the nerdiness altogether. I rely on first impressions a lot, but Mom always tells me to give people a chance; what you see right away isn’t always what you get.
“Hey. How was he?” asked Michael.
“What? Oh, really nice. Not at all the nerd I’d figured him to be, actually,” I admitted.
“Sam!” Michael pointed a finger at me. “You, of all people! Judging a book by its cover!”
I laughed. “I know. Shame on me. He even offered to let me interview him right now, and I turned him down for you two clowns.”
“Wait, what?” asked Michael, doing an incredulous double take. “A candidate offered an off-the-cuff interview, all access, and you said no?”
My stomach dropped. “Um, is that bad?”
Michael turned, wide-eyed, to Jeff; then they both looked back at me and nodded. “I’ll say,” said Michael. “I don’t think an opportunity like that comes along every day.” Jeff shook his head in agreement.
“Oh. Well, I wasn’t prepared, so . . . I just figured it would be a waste of time.”
Michael stood up. “Maybe I’ll go interview him, then,” he declared.
Cowriters Compete for Exclusive Interview.
“Seriously?” I asked. I couldn’t believe this! I turned down Anthony to hang out with Michael, and now Michael was turning me down to hang out with Anthony! And what did that make me? That made me the nerd in all this, that’s for sure.
“Yeah, sorry to ditch you, Paste. Do you want to join me? Or wait for me?”
I stood up now, too, embarrassed and a little offended. “No, that’s all right. I’ll just head home. Tons of homework, you know.” I could barely meet Michael’s eye.
“I guess I’m out too, then,” said Jeff, standing.
“All right. Check ya later,” said Michael, and he crossed the room to shake hands with Anthony Wright.
“See ya, Pasty,” said Jeff outside.
“Don’t call me that!” I snarled, and I set off for home.
The heels of my boots clomped as they struck the pavement. I was basically stomping home, but I was so upset, it felt good. I couldn’t believe Michael had ditched our “date” for work. I couldn’t believe I’d had such poor journalistic instincts that I’d rejected a really good offer for an exclusive interview so I could hang out with Michael. Who dumped me for the interview. And I couldn’t believe I’d prejudged Anthony Wright so badly. I couldn’t believe how annoying Jeff Perry was. I felt like kicking myself, boot heels and all. I get so mad when I think I do dumb things. I turned the corner of Buttermilk Lane and ran the rest of the way, then stormed up to my room and semi-slammed the door. Inside, I flung off my messenger bag and punched my pillow. A lot. It actually made me feel better. After a while, I took some deep breaths and began to try to talk some sense into myself (I am, after all, a professional advice giver).
Inhale: Okay, it was never a date. It was a work meeting with Michael. I shouldn’t have read into it.
Exhale.
Inhale: I wasn’t prepared to meet with Anthony and I would have had to interview him again anyway, and it would have looked bad.
Exhale.
Inhale: I hadn’t necessarily prejudged Anthony. I’d just pieced together a logical inference based on what I knew of him already.
Exhale.
Inhale: Jeff Perry is annoying. Everyone thinks so.
Exhale.
Just as I was starting to feel a little calmer, my IM pinged and it was Hailey.
Scary movie Friday 7 pm. Jane Austen 4 pm or 10 pm. Ha!
Nuts! Now I was annoyed all over again!
Chapter 4
PSYCHIC FRIEND DRIVES GIRL BATTY
I was so annoyed that all I could do that night was homework. I didn’t even check my e-mail or anything. When I woke up early the next day, I read my usual news feeds and blogs and stuff, and then I opened my e-mail to send an interview request each to John Scott and Anthony Wright.
But there were a few very interesting e-mails in my in-box. One was from Michael. It said:
Paste,
I’m sorry I ran off on you. I felt terrible after. A nose for news should never mean ditching your friends. Your instincts were better. Anthony wasn’t all that prepared either, so it was kind of a waste of time. Nice guy, though. Will compare notes after you meet him and conduct a much-better-prepared interview than I did. Sorry if I made you doubt your instincts and manners (not to flatter myself; I probably didn’t). I’d like to make it up to you. Hot-chocolate date?
M
Wait . . . did he say date? I sighed happily in my chair. A three-fer! An apology and date offer from Michael, a vindication of my noninterviewing instinct, and a confirmation of my good first impression of Anthony Wright. It couldn’t get any better than this.
The next e-mail was a forward from Mr. Trigg. He mans the e-mail submissions for Dear Know-It-All—first he reads them, and if they’re okay, he forwards them to me. I had an incident where someone cyberstalked me last year while Mr. Trigg was away, so now he controls all the Internet access to the writers at the paper.
I read the forwarded e-mail, then sat back to mull it over. It said:
Dear Know-It-All,
My parents say I should be taking all these particular classes and doing only certain extracurricular activities that will help me get into college one day. The only problem is, I’m not interested in the stuff they want me to do, and the stuff I want to do, they say is a waste of time! (By the way, I’m only in seventh grade.) What should I do? Suck it up and do these boring activities that they wa
nt me to do, or refuse? And when do I get to do what I want to do?
Signed,
College Reject Already
At first glance it was kind of a boring letter. I thought, Reject: You’re too young to worry about college; next case. But then it occurred to me that this was a letter I could turn into a bigger message, the way I liked and what the column was really supposed to be about. The way that got everyone at Cherry Valley talking when they read my column. This was a letter about being true to yourself. In fact, just being yourself. Sure, we all need to work hard and think about the future, but to ruin your life right now and suffer hard for the future? Well, it wasn’t good.
I tapped out a quick reply to Mr. Trigg to thank him for the forward; then I printed the e-mail, filed it behind my headboard, and deleted the original.
Finally there was an e-mail from John Scott, of all people. I had e-mailed him asking when he would be available for an interview. It said:
Dear Samantha,
I am excited to hear that you’re covering me for the Voice. I have loved your articles on Pay to Play and school lunches and think that your coverage is fair and smart. I am available for a meeting between eleven and twelve on Wednesday and Friday, and I can also talk by phone (see number below).
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Best regards,
John Scott
Wow! He’d done his homework. I was flattered.
I fired back an e-mail making a plan to meet him for lunch on Friday and made a mental note to stop by the library to review the newspaper’s archives ahead of time.
So much accomplished already today and it was only seven thirty a.m. It was going to be an awesome day! In a great mood, I even replied to Hailey:
Scary movie it is. Pizza first.
At school, things just kept getting better. I ran into Anthony Wright first thing and apologized for not being free to chat yesterday. He said he understood and that we should plan a meeting time, but we struggled for a bit to find an opening when we’d both be free. With the article due next week, I didn’t want to waste any time. It turned out the only time we could both meet was Friday at five, back at the Java Stop. I’d have just enough time to run home after school, change for my night out, interview Anthony, and meet the other girls at Slices before the movie. Anthony thanked me profusely for my flexibility in planning the meeting with him after school on a Friday, but I waved it off. “It’s fine,” I said.
