by Rachel Wise
By the end of our homework session, I was pretty sure I’d convinced Hailey to be a Centipede Warrior, but you never know with her; she could change in an instant. At the door, when she was leaving, I made a fist, pumped it at her, and said, “Battle on, Warrior!” and she did kind of smile. I was trying to do a little campaign management of my own, but it wasn’t clear if it was working. Maybe I’d made some progress. Maybe.
I got my own homework out of the way and then attacked the Anthony Wright article again. I was striving to be as objective as I could, with the new added complication that my best friend was Anthony’s running mate. I struggled over the paragraph devoted to Hailey, trying to strike the right balance between selling her hard and staying neutral. I also worked hard to keep the mugger story small (Anthony hadn’t even wanted me to mention it) and concrete plans for the school front and center. I stopped for a quick dinner with my mom; Allie was out at a meeting with Anthony and wouldn’t be home for dinner. I felt good about having put those two together, and I knew she’d really help. With the speeches only three days away, their work was cut out for them.
When I finally felt I’d done as much as I could on the Wright article, I printed it out and laid it on my bed to put in my messenger bag for my meeting with Michael; then I turned to my Dear Know-It-All letter response.
I felt I’d actually learned even more this week that I could put into the response, especially after confronting my choice of running for office versus staying on the paper, and listening to Anthony talk about how far his extracurriculars had taken him. As I sat at my desk in front of my computer, the letter lying beside me, I thought about how the choices we make at an early age actually matter. Maybe not in terms of the outcome, but in terms of learning how to make choices and learning that it can be hard to choose—especially when friends are involved.
Naturally, as I held my fingers above the keyboard to start my reply, my door swung open and Allie was there with her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. I moved to hide the Dear Know-It-All letter, but she was so excited, she didn’t even notice this time.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I think he’s going to win!” she cried, and she sat down happily on my bed.
“You do? Why? How?”
“We were at the Java Stop and lots of kids were coming up to Anthony and saying hi and stuff. I think people are figuring out who he is. It’s kind of like a grassroots thing.”
“Cool! Did you get a sense of where they know him from?”
Allie thought for a second. “Well, one guy said he recognized Anthony from the posters. Another girl was in his homeroom but hadn’t realized he was running. Three kids read about him on Buddybook and wanted to hear all about the mugging and how he won the giant chess trophy they have at school. I put a picture of that on his Buddybook page,” she said with a proud smile.
“That’s great, Al! I’ve got a really good article on him too. I can’t wait for it to run.”
Allie clapped her hands together. “Awesome! Can I see it?”
I paused for a minute. “Um, it’s not really done yet. I mean . . .” I happened to glance at the article lying next to her on the bed. Darn it! I was usually so cautious about her finding my Dear Know-It-All stuff that I’d never thought to bother hiding a regular news article.
Allie followed my glance with narrowed eyes and then pounced on the article next to her.
“Aha!” she said.
I sighed heavily and waited for her to finish. Watching her face, I saw her smile, nod, frown a little, bite her lip, and then, as she finished, she grew angry. She laid the article back on the bed with an icy coldness. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at me.
“What?” I said innocently.
“Is that really the best you can do, Sam?” she said in an angry voice.
“What are you talking about? I think it’s very well written!”
“I don’t care how it’s written,” said Allie. “I care what it says, and it does not say enough about how great our candidate is!”
“Okay, hang on a second,” I said. “Anthony is not ‘our’ candidate. He certainly has my vote, but I am not working on his campaign and I don’t have any vested interest in whether or not he wins. I have a job to do, and that is to report the news fairly and accurately, with absolutely no bias! And that’s what I’ve done! Do you want to get me fired from the paper?”
“I just think you should have made more of his heroics—the chess wins, the mugging incident . . .”
“Allie, Anthony asked me not to even write about that! He’s embarrassed by it! He doesn’t want to be a hero, and he also doesn’t want people knowing he lives in a sketchy neighborhood where people can still get mugged!”
Allie looked at me with her eyes blazing. “I don’t care what Anthony wants! I’m the one who knows how to promote him! I know how to get him elected!”
“Whoa! Listen to yourself. This is out of control! It’s a school election. I know you love this stuff, but seriously, chillax!”
Allie was breathing fast, but I think I was getting through to her.
“Seriously!” I said again, shaking my head. I wondered if this is how real political journalists feel sometimes.
Politics Too Dirty, Journo Retires to Sports Pages.
“Okay. Okay. Right.” Allie put her hands on her knees and pushed herself up and off my bed. “Fine. I get it.” She left my room in a daze, I guess trying to figure out what had happened to her to make her so nuts.
I shook my head and stood up to put the article in my messenger bag, as I should have right from the start. Then I sat back at my desk to draft my response to College Reject.
Dear College Applicant,
First of all, I refuse to refer to you as “College Reject Already,” since you aren’t.
Second of all, you are right. But so are your parents.
You are right because you should be spending time on what you love and not doing activities or pursuing hobbies just because they’ll get you into college one day. Colleges can smell a phony a mile away, and they can also spot someone who’s really unhappy with how they spend their time. It’s the people who are passionate they get excited about; it doesn’t matter what the passion is for as much as how hard you work at it and how it feeds your soul. More important, no one in middle school should make themselves miserable spending time on stuff they don’t enjoy. (Not counting homework, of course!)
Now, this is where your parents are right: It’s a good idea to have something you love and work hard at. It will get you places in life, like into college or elected school president or something. Just work as hard as you can at the things you love most, whether it’s sports, reading, or playing chess. Don’t worry so much about the payoff on the other end. If you are excited and try hard, things will fall into place for you. You’ll just naturally pick up skills that will take you places in life. I’m sure of it.
Good luck with seventh grade, and don’t forget to vote on Monday!
Signed,
Know-It-All
I read it and reread it and made a few small corrections, but mostly I was happy with it. I’d considered Anthony and Hailey, me and Michael as I’d written it. Maybe our passions—journalism, politics, sports—wouldn’t lead to Ivy League colleges, but they’d given us lots of great experiences and good times so far. I knew that would pay off one way or another someday. I attached it to an e-mail and sent it off to Mr. Trigg. I hoped he’d like it.
I ran into Allie in the hall, and she seemed to have calmed down a little. She was brushing her teeth, and she stared at me for a moment, not saying anything. I was quiet as well, and so the only sound was Allie’s toothbrush swishing back and forth.
“I just want him to win,” she finally said through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“I know. I do too. And I’m not even supposed to say that,” I said.
She nodded and kept brushing, but I knew we were at peace now.
Chapter 10
&
nbsp; GIRL BURSTS AWAITING COMPLIMENT
Michael and I met after school on Wednesday and walked to Slices, where we had a snack and swapped articles to edit. It was comfortable reading in silence next to him, but I did sneak a couple of peeks to see if he looked like he was enjoying what I’d written. Also because he had on my favorite of his shirts—a faded denim button-down that had belonged to his oldest brother and made his eyes look amazing.
Once he caught me looking, and I quickly looked back down at what I was reading, though I know my eyes swam over the page since I’d lost track of where I was.
“Paste,” he said in a cautioning tone.
I looked up innocently, and our eyes met.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked.
“What? Oh. Yes, of course. It’s great. I was just trying to see if you liked mine.”
He nodded. “It’s very good. Very objective.” I’d told him about Allie, so I smiled at the reference. We both looked back at the articles in earnest and finished reading.
His article about John Scott covered all the basics about John’s life, his activities, his family, and his background in general. Though it was very detailed and well written, it felt bland, and I flashed back to this issue’s Dear Know-It-All letter, suddenly wondering if John’s parents were behind his run or if it was all him. He suddenly seemed so . . . packaged. In contrast, my article really gave a sense of who Anthony Wright was, where he was coming from and why, and most of all, that it was all his. His ideas, his drive, his motivation, his experience. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but my article was better. Not the writing, but the subject matter, for sure.
“Well?” said Michael.
“You first,” I said, taking a careful sip of my soda. I really, really hoped he liked mine.
Girl Bursts Awaiting Compliment.
“Okay. He has my vote,” he said with a chuckle.
“Oh no! It’s not supposed to be an endorsement!” I sighed and slapped the table hard with my hand in frustration.
Michael shook his head as he sipped his soda, too. “It doesn’t read like one. Anthony sells himself. I actually kind of agree with Allie. I can see why she was annoyed. You almost bend over backward to not sell him.”
“Uh-oh. Now I feel bad the other way,” I said.
“Don’t! You did the right thing. I made a couple of little corrections and suggestions, but overall, I think it’s almost perfect. Great job, Pasty. Again.” He grinned. “Now, what did you think of mine?”
“Great writing, great reporting, I love how you worked in the man-on-the-streets, the Buddybook poll info. Actually, it’s interesting, because in person, John’s amazing, but on paper . . .”
“He wilts,” admitted Michael, nodding.
I nodded back.
Michael sighed hard and put his face in his hands in a gesture of exhaustion. Then he looked up at me again. “I tried. I really tried hard to make him come alive on the page. The problem is, there’s no there there. No backstory, no life challenges, no passionate hobbies. The drowning thing looks lame when you spell it all out. And the campaign promises . . .” He sighed again in aggravation. “New team uniforms, iPads, gourmet lunches, less homework? It all sounds like . . . fantasy!”
I sighed in agreement. “I know. I like how you handled that, though. ‘The Cherry Valley Voice staff will be interested in hearing specifically how John intends to follow through on his promises.’ Good one. But this is still tough.”
We looked at each other, our mouths in identical grim lines.
“What can we do?” I asked finally.
Michael shrugged. “I’m just worried that the contrast in the profiles will make it seem like we’re not being objective. Like we’re really selling Anthony and not John. And I do feel bad about that.”
I nodded. “It’s so funny, because I think we were worried at the beginning that it would be the opposite problem, right?”
Michael nodded vigorously. “For sure. John is so good in person. I thought he’d be the clear winner.”
“What should we do?” I asked.
Michael thought for a minute; then he said, “I think we just go home, make the corrections, and e-mail them to Trigger. Let’s ask him what he thinks.”
Hailey IM’d me that night.
Trying to be a warrior. It’s tougher than I thought. Kind of getting better at it.
I smiled and wrote back.
You already are. You just need to remember it.
Still smiling, I saw an e-mail come into my in-box, and I clicked over to see what it was. It was from Mr. Trigg, addressed to me and Michael both. It said:
Please stop in to see me first thing tomorrow.
—PT
I forwarded it to Michael with just a question mark, and he replied with the same. Was Mr. Trigg mad? Happy? There was no way to know. I slept uneasily all night, worried that my career at the Cherry Valley Voice might be over.
Journalists Fired on Eve of Election.
Gulp. Would he do that?
Thursday morning, Michael and I met at my locker and hustled wordlessly to the newsroom. Mr. Trigg was in his office, brewing tea, of course, and reading yet another well-thumbed book about Winston Churchill.
“Ah, my star political reporting team! Come in. Do come in! Fancy a cup of tea, do you?”
Exchanging a nervous glance, we declined and leaned awkwardly in Mr. Trigg’s office doorway. He arranged his own tea, took a sip, and pulled up our articles on his screen, side by side. Then he made his hands into a tepee shape and tapped them against his lips as he thought. Michael and I exchanged a nervous glance. Where was this all going?
Finally Mr. Trigg spoke. “Same word count, almost. Same number of paragraphs. Identical column inches. Was that intentional?”
Michael and I looked at each other again. “No,” said Michael.
“Well done, then,” said Mr. Trigg.
Michael and I raised our eyebrows at each other.
“I can see your predicament,” said Mr. Trigg after another pause. “And now, my predicament. I don’t think . . . I really think there’s nothing we can do. Sometimes things just become very clear when you write about them. Maybe . . . certainly, I could run the Scott article above the fold, a little more prominently? Even things up that way? But no. That’s not right either. That would look like an endorsement too.” He sighed heavily and looked up at us. “I think you’ve really done your best, you know? We just run them and see what happens. Of course, there will be the speeches tomorrow, and that should take some heat off you. The speeches are always the biggest deciding factor. But, of course, we’ve never had a candidate with such an interesting backstory before.”
Michael and I both sagged a little in relief. We weren’t in trouble. We were Mr. Trigg’s coworkers, trying to solve an editorial problem.
“So we’re not in trouble?” said Michael, slightly joking but serious, I knew.
Mr. Trigg looked up at us in alarm. “Trouble? Certainly not! Why would you be in trouble?”
“Because we weren’t objective enough?” I said.
“Ms. Martone, if you’d been any more objective . . . why, I think I would’ve said you were against Anthony Wright!” He chuckled.
I rolled my eyes. “I’ve heard that before.”
Mr. Trigg clapped his hands and stood up. “No. There’s nothing more to be done but run it and let nature take its course. That’s all we can do.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, still nervous. Part of me was glad I wasn’t the one who’d had to write the John Scott article.
The Cherry Valley Voice hit the Web just after midnight that night, and the hard copies were being distributed by sixth graders at the front door to school as usual. I stood back and watched as people eagerly took copies—did this many people usually take a copy?—and began reading the candidate profiles on the front page immediately.
I was dreading the day. I was nervous about reactions to our articles, nervous about reactions to my Dear Know-
It-All column, and really, really nervous about the speeches. I knew it was going to be a challenge for Anthony, and I really, really wanted him to win. Allie was even taking the afternoon off to come and prep him and watch. She’d gotten special permission from her guidance counselor.
Finally I steeled myself against the day and entered the school, grabbing a hard copy of the paper (even though I’d read it online as soon as I got up this morning), more to hide behind if need be.
Inside, everyone was chatting about the paper, the speeches, the election. There were more posters on the wall than ever, and Anthony and John were both in the main hall, handing out flyers again while Hailey scurried to replenish Anthony’s supply. I slunk to my locker, hoping to avoid conversation, and I nearly managed it until I saw Michael’s friend Frank Duane walking in the hall.
“Hey, Sam! What gives with the articles? Why so hard on the candidates?”
I shrugged. “Oh, did you think we were hard on them?”
Frank nodded. “Yeah. John Scott’s a great guy, and he comes off like a dud. And Anthony Wright . . . do you like the guy?”
I cringed. “Love him,” I said, and Frank laughed.
“Oh, right. I saw the photo on Buddybook. I almost forgot!” He walked away, chuckling.
Darn it!
The day continued in that vein, with some people actually mad at me that I hadn’t written more strongly in favor of Anthony or Michael in favor of John. Writers Buffeted by Stormy Election Coverage Seek Shelter.
By the time I found Michael at lunch, I felt like I’d been doing battle all day. He had the same worn-out look to him.
“Bad day?” I asked as I put my tray down.
“Terrible,” he said, brushing his hair off his forehead in frustration.
“How’s that plan to be a political journalist going so far?” I teased.
“Not going. That would be a nightmare. I’m thinking of switching to fashion coverage.”
I laughed darkly and nodded. “Though Jeff Perry’s certainly well on his way to a career in political photography.”
