by Rachel Wise
“Couldn’t you tell he was disappointed you didn’t call him by his little nickname? And then he offered to train you!” ranted Hailey.
“Which you turned down on my behalf—thanks a lot!” I fumed.
And back and forth we went until we were spent. Then we both just sat there playing with our food. It was time to go, but we weren’t moving.
Suddenly, someone came up behind us and said, “Hey, baby. Where have you been all day?”
Baby?
I turned around to see Danny Burke, an eighth grader who’d just transferred into Cherry Valley Middle School this fall. But who was he talking to?
I turned to ask Hailey, and there she was, looking up at him all starry-eyed with her mouth hanging open. What?
“Hey . . . Danny,” she replied. She reached up and fluffed her blond hair, which she always does when she’s nervous or flirting. Wait a minute . . .
“What are you two girls up to?” he asked, coming around the table so we could both look at him head-on.
“Oh, the usual,” said Hailey, batting her eyes.
Danny Burke has a very cute face: big brown eyes, a button nose, lots of freckles, bright white teeth, and medium brown hair that sticks up in kind of a grown-out crew cut with a big cowlick in the front. Basically, he looks like an overgrown adorable six-year-old. But he obviously has a ton of confidence. Danny looked at me and gave me a big wink. It was pretty funny, actually. I looked to Hailey to share a little private smile with her, but she couldn’t stop staring at him.
OMG, she likes him! I realized. Okay, Martone, I told myself. Play it cool. I knew to tread carefully. Hailey’s crushes were not easy things to navigate.
“So . . . what’s going on? Got any weekend plans?” he asked Hailey, cracking his knuckles.
I winced. I couldn’t help it. Knuckle cracking skeeves me out.
“Maybe . . . maybe not. You?” said Hailey. (I wanted to shake the body snatcher who had taken over Hailey and yell, Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?)
Danny reached over and grabbed a saltine from Hailey’s tray. “Not sure. Let’s do something. I’ll IM you later,” he said, munching the cracker for emphasis. “K?”
Hailey nodded. “I’m up for anything,” she said.
Danny grinned, gave me another big cheesy wink, then turned and strolled away.
Journalist Throws Up at Lunch, Becomes Social Outcast.
Hailey just sat there, smiling.
“Hailey, hello? Are you out of your mind?” I said.
“Oh, I just think he’s so cute! Don’t you?” she said, all dreamy.
Oh boy. I looked up at the big clock on the cafeteria wall. We were going to be late for our next class: earthonomics for me and language arts for Hailey. “Hailey, we have to go. We’ve got some major stuff to discuss later, though. What are you up to?”
“Meet me after futsal practice,” she said.
That would be in the gym, since it’s indoor soccer season now. “Fine. See you then,” I said. At least it would give me a chance to stop by the newspaper office when it was quiet so I could grab my Know-It-All letters out of my mailbox.
Hailey has had some pretty lame boy situations this year. I thought about them as I walked to class. First she had a crush on my crush, Michael Lawrence. Hel-lo? Not gonna happen! Then she decided she liked this other boy, Scott Parker. But he had a stalker (yes, a stalker!), and so he wasn’t really interested in going out with anyone. At the last school dance, she danced with Frank Duane, who totally liked her, but she didn’t like him. Sometimes I think Hailey only wants what she can’t have. And now she likes this . . . Romeo.
I was so distracted thinking of Hailey’s love life that I tripped over a garbage can (how did I miss a garbage can?), and two eighth-grade guys walking behind me laughed and whistled. Argh! I had to bow so they wouldn’t think I was hurt or a loser. It’s hard work being klutzy, but I’m pretty good at it by now.
That afternoon I stopped by the newspaper office on my way to Hailey’s boring practice. Inside, no one was there, not even Mr. Trigg. That was probably a good thing, because I am still so annoyed at him for separating my dream team for the next issue that I might not have been so friendly.
I swiftly locked the door to the hall, then swooped over to the Dear Know-It-All mailbox and grabbed the four letters inside, shoving them deep into my messenger bag. Then I unlocked the door and exited, cool as a cucumber. I’m getting better and better at all this sneaky stuff, which I’m not sure is a good thing!
In the gym, I sat in the bleachers and did some homework, reading about natural disasters, freak weather, and shark attacks and their effects on tourism for my earthonomics class. It was actually pretty interesting stuff. When I’d gotten as far as I could in my homework without a computer, I still had half an hour to kill before Hailey would be done, so I decided to take a peek into the gymnastics room next door.
Looking around, the first thing I noticed was a large poster on the wall. It read:
GYMNASTICS TEAM
TRYOUTS IN TWO WEEKS!
Levels 1 through 4
Small gymnasium
Open practice sessions weekdays
after school and Saturdays
All are welcome
And then it gave the tryout details for each team level and what was required.
I could probably make the Level One team, I thought, surveying the mild requirements of cartwheeling on the floor mat and a straight jump on the vault. You only needed to participate in three of the five events (floor, vault, bars, trampoline, and beam). But the Level One gymnasts would all be sixth graders for sure, and it would stink to be stuck with them. I’d have to try for Level Two, and that would be quite a bit harder.
I bit my lip, studying the list for a minute. Then I sighed and decide to give things a whirl. I looked around. There were two coaches busy with a couple of other girls at the opposite end of the gym. Coach Lunetta, who was Allie’s coach, glanced my way and waved and then went back to work. I was relieved. I didn’t want anybody observing me—not yet. I just needed to know if this was even worth a try. “Girls, make sure you have a spotter before you start working out!” Coach called.
After I did my usual stretching exercises to warm up, I crossed over the springy floor exercise mat and passed the big clunky vault, the high and low balance beams, and then the trampoline set into the floor. I had eyes only for my favorite piece of equipment: the uneven parallel bars. There was a girl sitting next to them. “Want me to spot you?” she asked.
I paused. “Sure,” I said. I mean, I was already there.
I adjusted the bar heights, gave the mat underneath a quick lift and drop to fluff it, then I chalked my hands from the chalk bin on the floor and stepped into position underneath the top bar. Grasping the wood with both hands evenly spaced, I swung myself once, twice, then three times, keeping my body taut but flexible, just like I had learned. Then I snapped my feet onto the lower bar, flipped over so I was facedown, and did a quick flip over the top bar, just to warm up. I flipped one more time over the top bar, landed my feet on the lower bar, then slid down and hooked my legs over the lower bar, swinging off into a perfect penny drop. I stuck the landing, my feet a little unsteady on the squishy mat, then I did a pretend bow for the pretend adoring Olympic judges.
“Nice job!” said my spotter, stepping back.
I was breathing hard, but it had felt so good to do something physical so well. It made me excited and left me wanting more. A good time to stop, in my book.
“Thanks,” I said. I crossed the room to the low beam and did a few laps back and forth across it, dipping my toes, trying a small hop, but terrified to do much else. Some girls can execute a back walkover, or even a flip called a salto, on the beam with ease. To me, that would mean sudden, certain death, or at least maiming—if not of myself, then of a spectator. I bounced over to the runway for the vault. Coach Lunetta was standing there to spot. She nodded at me. “Nice to see yo
u!” she said. I guess she remembered me from Allie’s meets.
I drew my heels tightly together, stood tall, and raised my hand in an imaginary ready salute for the nonexistent judges. Coach smiled at me. “You’re good to go!” Then I sprinted down the run-up area, bounced onto the springboard, and—Oof!
My body landed smack against the horse, taking the wind out of me. I’d forgotten to check the springboard’s distance from the horse, and it was, I guess, a little too far away for me. A rookie mistake, but a klutzy one nonetheless. I felt dispirited and sat for a few minutes, gathering my strength and my dignity from the floor. Klutzy, klutzy.
“Are you okay?” asked Coach Lunetta.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, dusting myself off. “I’m totally fine. I do that all the time.” Which I realized was kind of a stupid thing to say to a coach who may or may not be choosing you for a team.
I wasn’t so sure I’d be trying out for the gymnastics team after all.
It was time to go. I hoisted my bruised body and ego up and lumbered back to the door where I’d entered. I jammed my feet back into my clogs, picked up my bag and my coat, and tucked my shirt back in. After one last backward glance, I went to pick up the real athlete from her practice.
Rookie Takes Early Retirement, Leaves Competition to the Pros.
Chapter 3
ADVICE COLUMNIST SHOWS EXTREME LACK OF SENSITIVITY
“Come on!” Hailey was dragging me with all of her might. She was on a post-exercise high, having raced around the gym for the past hour. It was a very common thing for Hailey. She’s always all happy and wild after sports. And now she wanted me to go back to the gymnastics room and practice.
But I was on a postexercise low, which was common for me. All I wanted to do was go home and read a few news blogs. “How are you ever going to get better if you don’t practice?” she insisted.
“I did practice! I’m still great on the bars.”
“Look, what do you need to be able to do for the tryouts?” she asked, standing with her hands on her hips in a challenging posture.
“Well . . . ” I sighed. I didn’t really want to get back into it and encourage her to start up some big training session.
Hailey tapped her foot on the floor. “I’m waiting . . . ”
“Fine,” I snapped. I led her back to the door to the small gymnasium and gestured at the flyer. “It’s all there,” I said. There was still a group of girls in there practicing on the equipment.
Hailey read the gymnastics poster slowly and carefully. Whether it was because she has dyslexia, or because she wanted to make sure she got it all, or because she was trying to torture me—or maybe all three—it dragged on.
“Hailey!” I said impatiently.
“Which level are you going for?” she asked, not turning from the poster.
“Two, I guess,” I mumbled, dreading her ever-competitive response.
“Two!” Hailey exploded, turning around. “Two?”
Her reaction annoyed me. I nodded defiantly. “Yes. Two.”
“Why not four?”
I knew it would come to that. “Because in case you hadn’t noticed, I am not a gymnast. Level Four is for girls who have been doing this for years! I’d kill myself if I tried any of that. Literally, dead.”
Hailey sighed and returned to the flyer once more. “I can see we have our work cut out for us,” she said finally. “Level Two it is.”
“You know, I’m not even sure I can do any of that stuff,” I admitted. “Maybe I should try for—”
“Shh! Stop right there. You aren’t joining a team of all sixth graders, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t let you, even if you made it.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
“So show me what you can do from this list.”
“What?” I said, panicking.
“I’ve got all night,” said Hailey, grabbing a seat on a folding chair against the wall. “Go for it. Show me everything you’ve got.”
“Well, that shouldn’t take long,” I said. I kicked off my clogs and began my circuit, making sure to move the springboard closer to the vault this time. At this point, there was a spotter at each station. They looked like older high school girls who were helping out the middle school team. Great, I thought. All I need is word of this getting back to Allie.
I did one or two very basic tricks on each apparatus: a front flip on the trampoline, a sequence of cartwheels on the floor, a back hip circle with a push-away dismount on bars, a straight jump with a pivot turn for the vault. Hailey had lots of comments on my form and my bravery. She kept hopping up to consult the flyer on the wall and see how advanced I was, compared to the outlined levels and their required tricks. It was kind of annoying that she’d suddenly become a professional gymnastics coach, but she did have a pretty good eye for form. I’d listen and nod and try again, just once, then I’d move on. We didn’t have all night, no matter what Hailey said.
And then it was time to try the beam. I’d saved the worst for last.
I was trying to calm my nerves and not look down. Journalist Dies in Tragic Beam Fall would be a very sad headline. Cautiously, I tried a couple of cute jumps, barely landing the second one. I teetered for a moment to catch my balance.
“You can do it, Sammy!” hollered Hailey.
I took a deep breath. A cartwheel was the natural next step. I’d already done a bunch on the floor, so how hard could it be? I put down one hand, then the other, kicked up my legs and . . . I was over! I did it! I teetered again on the landing and, at the last second, let myself fall off. It was a controlled fall, though, onto a mat, so I didn’t get hurt—not physically, at least. But my ego sure was hurt when the next thing I heard was a loud whistle and then some clapping.
“Way to go, Pasty!”
My stomach dropped. I jumped up from where I’d been sitting on the mat, replaying my performance in my mind. Michael Lawrence was standing in his basketball uniform at the door to the gymnastics room. I felt myself go beet red, and I wanted to die right then and there. Why, oh why, couldn’t he have seen me on the uneven bars? Why did he have to see me on my worst apparatus?
“Shut up, Lawrence,” said Hailey. “I’d like to see you try a cartwheel on a beam three feet in the air!”
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t! I wasn’t making fun of Pasty. I’m just impressed she’d even try such a crazy thing.”
Crossing the room toward him, I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me. As I drew closer, his smile confused me. I tilted my head and looked at him.
He put his palms up in a pose of mock surrender. “Honest!” he said.
Hailey and I looked at each other, as if weighing his words.
“You should see her on the uneven bars,” said Hailey.
“I’d love to!” said Michael. My heart leapt. “But I have practice now and I’m already late, so I can’t stay. I’m sorry. Can I come back another day? Will you be here?”
“No,” I said. “Don’t come back. I need to practice in private,” I said.
I could feel Hailey staring daggers at me, but I wasn’t trying to be mean. I knew what I was doing. The last thing I needed while I was practicing was to worry about Michael Lawrence spontaneously appearing to watch me! Then I’d never try anything, for fear of potentially making a fool of myself.
“Oh, okay,” he said, backing away.
I felt bad. It had come out wrong, and now it looked like I’d hurt his feelings. I didn’t know what to say. Advice Columnist Shows Extreme Lack of Sensitivity.
Hailey butted in. “What my friend Miss Rude means is that when she is ready, she will let you know, and then you can come see. Right, Sam?”
I nodded. “Right. Come back. For sure,” I said weakly.
Michael nodded, waved, and took off.
“Nice,” said Hailey, watching him go. “Really nice.”
“Oh, whatever,” I said angrily. I didn’t need Hailey critiquing my crush behavior right now. “You’re my gymnastics trainer, not my love life traine
r,” I said.
Hailey looked at me in surprise. “So I’m hired?”
I nodded, studying the flyer again. “Yeah. We’ll train, but there’s no guarantee I’ll actually try out, okay?”
“Oh, you’ll try out, all right. Just you wait and see,” said Hailey.
Suddenly, Coach Lunetta was at the door. “Girls, I have to close up the gym for the night, so you’ll have to leave now. I can’t let you use the equipment without supervision. But leading up to tryouts, we’ll have a coach here every afternoon and all day Saturday.”
“Okay, Coach,” I said.
“You Martones are all alike! Can’t keep you out of here!” she teased with a smile. “Now go!” And she fake swatted us out the door and turned out the lights.
We left, giggling, but I felt a nervous flutter in my stomach at being compared to Allie yet again.
That night after dinner, I went up to my desk to organize my homework and do one last check of my favorite news websites. One of my teachers at journalism camp last summer told me that if you want to be an informed and impartial reporter, you need to “consume” news media from a minimum of three different sources a day. That way, you’ll get a more balanced view of the issues and you’ll get closer to the truth, because every article contains the writer’s slant or opinion in one way or another, whether the writer meant to include it or not. It’s just in what you choose to add and what you choose to leave out that the information in the article becomes tailored a certain way. I loved learning that.
Anyway, after checking out the websites for the Huffington Post, CNN, Fox News, the Daily Beast, People magazine, my local newspaper, Allie’s school (she runs the website), and a few others, I was ready to close up shop for the night. It was time to take a peek at the Dear Know-It-All letters. I shut down my computer (that draining whir of the fan shutting off is the saddest sound of my day) and opened the first letter. It was written on graph paper, and it said:
Dear Know-It-All,
I have a lot of collections, but my mom says my room is a mess and wants me to get rid of everything. I’ve spent a lot of time gathering these things, and I like them. What should I do?
