by Rachel Wise
Hailey and I began trying to copy her, but it wasn’t as easy as it looked. I couldn’t get the rhythm down and just kept wiggling my legs till they looked (and felt) like they were made out of spaghetti. Meanwhile, Hailey kept nervously rubbing her head instead of just swiping it—she looked like she was washing her hair!
“Here, like this,” said Allie. “Watch me again. Soft knees, toes pointed out about three quarters, sway left, sway right, sway left, sway right, sway left, sway right . . . now try left, left, then right, left, then right, right, right . . .”
Once she isolated the feet, I started to get it. Left, right, left . . .
But Hailey couldn’t get it. Allie tried positioning Hailey’s hips and arms and moving them for her, but it wasn’t really working. I began incorporating the arms, one over, one under, crossing them, then doing the driving thing.
“Look! I’ve got it!” I cried. I danced in place for a minute, then I threw in a hair swipe of my own.
“Yay!” cried Allie, clapping. “You did get it! I never would have guessed that you’d get it before Hailey!”
I stopped dancing. “Why?”
“Well, because you’re not that athletic or into moving. You’re kind of a stationary person.”
“So?”
“Well . . . nothing. I just didn’t know you’d have such control over your limbs.”
“Or that I’d have so little!” wailed Hailey. She collapsed at the kitchen table and looked up at the ceiling dramatically. “I can’t daaaaaance!” she moaned.
Allie and I looked at each other and laughed. Finally, Hailey looked back at us and she was laughing too. The music was still playing.
“Somebody needs to teach me how to dance!” called my mom from the kitchen door, and we all really laughed.
“Well, we still have eleven days!” I said to Hailey. And she jumped up, and we started dancing together and laughing as the song blared on.
Chapter 3
WRITING PARTNERS GIVE EACH OTHER THE AX, PAPER SUFFERS
Michael and I met at our usual lunch table the next morning at eleven o’clock. Michael had a stack of papers with him, and our bowls of organic split pea soup with croutons cooled on our lunch trays as we looked them over.
Michael handed me a printout. “Here are the meeting minutes from the last PTA meeting. Mr. Stevenson made the original proposal then and talked about a school district in Massachusetts that had started a Pay for Play program.”
I read it over and nodded.
“Then there’s this one.” Michael handed me another sheet, and his fingers grazed mine, sending a jolt through my whole body. I played it cool. After all, this was business. I focused on the sheet of paper in front of me. Or at least I tried to. “This is an article I got from the library about the Massachusetts plan. It’s pretty tough, what they did.”
I skimmed it and nodded again. I wondered if our fingers would touch again.
“And finally, there’s this one. It’s an op-ed piece from a paper in a nearby Massachusetts town that was considering the change as well. The writer of the opinion piece is arguing against it.”
“Okay. So I can keep these?” I said.
“Yup. They’re for you.” Michael drew his tray in and began eating his soup. “Mmm. This soup is great!” he said, looking up at me.
We smiled at each other. Ever since we’d done a big article on how bad the cafeteria food was, the school chef had made a few changes. Now we have a homemade organic lunch item available every day, plus an optional healthy snack (like a hard-boiled egg or trail mix), but you have to pay extra for them. Some kids won’t do it or maybe can’t afford it. It’s only an extra dollar for each, but I think it’s worth it. I used to just go hungry all the time, and I am someone who does not do well with an empty stomach. The new plan was working out great for me.
I tried the soup. “You’re right, this is delicious. I have to e-mail Mary and tell her!” Mary is the school chef. She’s our pal now that we helped her push through the changes she wanted to make.
“So who do we need to talk to?” I asked. “I mean, besides the coaches and Mr. Pfeiffer?” Michael and I looked at each other again, and we both winced this time. Mr. Pfeiffer is the school principal, and he hasn’t been a huge fan of ours ever since we did a pretty hard-hitting article on his curriculum changes a couple of issues back. I guess that’s the nature of reporting: You make friends and you lose them along the way, depending on whether or not they like what you write about them.
Now Michael looked thoughtful. “I think we should try to get some quotes from coaches, students, and the school board up in Massachusetts. Just maybe as a sidebar. See how hard it is for them, why it’s such a bad idea—”
“Wait. What?”
He looked at me, his bright blue eyes as clear as the sky on a sunny day and just as brilliant. “What what?”
“What do you mean it’s a bad idea?” I asked. “Isn’t the whole point of reporting to be objective? To find out whether it’s a good idea or a bad one? We can’t judge this for ourselves right from the start. We need the facts!”
Michael’s beautiful eyes narrowed and grew stormy. Uh-oh. Writing Partners Give Each Other the Ax, Paper Suffers.
“How could it possibly be a good idea?” Michael asked.
“Why? We’re in a recession,” I said. (I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but I heard my mom and my favorite aunt discussing it at brunch on Sunday, and I knew it meant that money was tight for a lot of people.) “Maybe we could use the money for more important things.”
“What would be more important than the sports program?” asked Michael, his voice icy.
I knew he was mad, but I also thought he was wrong. “Um, hello? Lunch? Or maybe new computers? Classes that will help people find careers later in life? I mean, it’s not like anyone here is going to be a professional football player. No offense.”
Michael sighed. “But what about everything that sports teach too? Health, discipline, commitment, teamwork, patience . . . I could go on and on. And what if kids suddenly can’t participate anymore because their families can’t afford the fees? What then?” I could tell that the more he thought about it, the more upset he was getting. Angrily, he balled up his napkin and threw it down on his tray. He picked up his water glass to take a sip, and I could see that his hands were actually shaking a little. Whoa!
“Maybe you should pitch this as an opinion piece,” I said quietly.
Michael was silent for a long time . . . too long.
“Hello? Earth to Mikey?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He sighed heavily. “Look, I care about good reporting. I care about the rules of journalism. I know we need to be impartial and present the facts so our readers can make up their own minds. It’s just . . . how much more are they going to take away from us? Lots of schools have already lost art and music. I just think it has gone too far. And . . . sports are really important to me.”
“I agree, and I know sports are important to you, but I’m just not sure they’re an essential part of education—something the school needs to pay for.”
We were quiet as we thought it over. Finally, Michael said, “Well, the good news is, we definitely have a story here. That’s all Trigger wanted to know for now. Do you want to flesh it out for him or should I?”
“Maybe both of us?” I asked.
“Fine.” Michael looked at my tray to see if I was finished. I was. “Let’s go see him now. Ready, Pasty?” he said.
Well, he can’t be too mad if he’s calling me “Pasty,” I thought. “Okay.”
We walked down the hall to the Voice office.
“Well, if it isn’t my two star reporters!” said Mr. Trigg, happy to see us.
We crammed into his small office off the newsroom. The walls were covered with framed front pages from British tabloids and World War II posters, plus a big photo of Winston Churchill.
“What have you two been up to?” he asked, with a twinkle in his
eye.
“We’ve just started our digging on the after-school sports story,” explained Michael.
“And?”
I spread the pages Michael had given me out on Mr. Trigg’s desk. He lifted his reading glasses from the cord around his neck and peered at the materials. “Hmm,” he said, flipping through the pages. “Oh. Mmm-hmm.”
Michael and I looked at each other. We couldn’t tell if Mr. Trigg’s noises were happy, interested noises or “go find another story” noises. Finally, he took off his glasses and looked up at us.
“Very interesting,” he said. “A jolly good topic, I must say. A little hard to report at this stage, as nothing concrete has happened here, though. It’s just an idea that’s out there. Let’s think.”
We watched while he thought.
“Maybe an early story on this will encourage people to keep an eye on the topic. That way, the school board won’t make a decision without everyone having a say, including the students. If we publicize the possibility, people will be watching for it and will have a chance to step in and offer their two cents when it comes up again. Journalism is all about spreading the word and making sure the reading public has all the information. I say, lead with a direct quote from Mr. Stevenson’s proposal, then report on the Massachusetts story, with opinions from around here and up there, if you can get them. That should get people’s attention. Righty-ho?”
I smiled. “Great.”
Michael nodded.
Mr. Trigg looked from one of us to the other. “Are you both on the same page about this?”
Was the guy a mind reader or what?
We looked at each other and then back at him. “No,” said Michael. “Not at all.”
Mr. Trigg smiled broadly and clapped his hands. “Excellent! No better way to cover all sides of the story, then! Tea?” He plugged in his electric kettle and began gathering his tea things.
“I have class,” said Michael. “Gotta go.”
“Me too,” I lied. “Thanks, Mr. Trigg!”
“Anytime, old chums! Cheerio!”
Michael and I left and stood uncomfortably in the hall outside the newsroom for a minute.
“Well, see you later,” I said.
“Yeah. Let’s . . . let’s do some digging online, and then we can divvy up the calling assignments. Check in tomorrow.” Michael was looking off over my shoulder. I wanted to turn around to see what he was staring at (a girl?), but it would have been a little awkward.
“Fine.” Not fine! I wasn’t going to see him or talk to him until tomorrow? That was an eternity!
“See ya” was all he said. And off he walked.
What? No “Pasty”? I wanted to call after him. I never thought I’d long to hear that nickname. I hoped I hadn’t ruined our relationship just by having a different opinion. I turned around to see who he’d been staring at, but it was only Frank Duane, the first-string quarterback from Michael’s football team. Whew.
I pretended to walk the other way for a bit, and then when Michael was out of sight, I doubled back to the newsroom, smacking my head like I’d forgotten something, just in case anyone was watching.
“Hi, Mr. Trigg,” I whispered.
“Back so soon?” he said, blowing on his hot tea. He took a sip, frowned, and then added a packet of sugar.
“I have to collect my letters.” The Dear Know-It-All mailbox is in the newsroom. I closed the outside door and quickly opened up the mailbox. There were three letters. I scooped them out and buried them deep in my messenger bag. Even though Dear Know-It-All has caused me a lot of heartache, I always feel excited whenever there’s a new letter to read. Like, maybe this is the one that will shoot me straight to editor in chief next year. Maybe this is the one where I’ll save the day and someone will be so grateful for my advice, even though they don’t know who I am.
I unlocked the door and called good-bye to Mr. Trigg. Then I set off for “earthonomics,” which is what they call my merged math and science class these days, and tried not to worry about not agreeing with Michael—for the first time ever.
Chapter 4
MARTONE HAS MOVES AFTER ALL: CLASSMATES ASTOUNDED BY GRACE OF ONETIME KLUTZ!
It wasn’t until after I’d finished my homework and checked all my news blogs and sites (CNN, Huffington Post, Daily Beast, People, and so on) that I got to my Dear Know-It-All letters. I closed my door and mentally reviewed Mr. Trigg’s list of directives from when I’d first signed on as Dear Know-It-All:
• Do not reveal who you are.
• Do not reach out to the letter writer directly.
• If someone seems to be in danger in any way, notify Mr. Trigg immediately.
• Keep it wholesome.
• Be supportive and sympathetic.
• Keep it relevant. Broad subjects are better than very specific ones.
• When in doubt, talk to Mr. Trigg.
• All replies must be vetted by Mr. Trigg.
• Don’t forget to make it jazzy and readable!
Individually, these were not that hard, but combined, they could make answering the letters very difficult. Like, “Keep it wholesome” and ”Make it jazzy and readable” were hard to accomplish at the same time! Plus, I am a facts girl, not a natural opinion writer or advice giver. I mean, come on, I don’t even know what I’m doing 90 percent of the time. How can I possibly give advice to anyone else on how to lead their life? Give me facts over opinions any day.
I ripped open the first envelope. It was written on Christmas stationery, which was kind of funny.
Dear Know-It-All,
I want a kitten. How can I convince my mom?
Signed,
Desperate for a Furry Friend
Hmm. That was a pretty good one. I let my mind wander over possible replies: beg; offer to do all the chores around the house and put a security deposit down so if you don’t do the work you promised, then your mom keeps the money; sneak and get a kitten—once she sees its fuzzy cuteness, she won’t be able to say no. There were lots of possibilities. This was a good letter. Probably the one for the next issue.
Happily, I set it aside and opened the next one. It was on lined notebook paper, in a business envelope. The handwriting was messy. It had to be written by a boy.
Dear Know-It-All,
I really want to make varsity this year. I’ve been working out and practicing a lot. What else can I do?
From,
Basketball Dude
Oh. This was also a good letter. Maybe people were finally getting the hang of what to actually ask Dear Know-It-All. This was someone I thought I could actually help with good advice. After all, I knew all about the dedication it takes to become really good at something you love. In that way, basketball was not that far off from reporting. Two good Know-It-All letters so far. Besides being interesting and unusual, these questions were very answerable.
I set the two letters aside and opened the third, knowing that just based on the odds, it would be a lousy letter. It was on pink stationery with little scallops cut along the edges. Supercute and girly, with a matching envelope. It said:
Dear Know-It-All,
I am sad. Every day at lunch, there’s that yummy–looking organic food option, but my mom won’t give me any extra money to buy it. She says my lunch is supposed to be included in school and that’s what we pay our taxes for. What should I do so I can eat some of that good food too?
Signed,
Hungry
Oh boy. I cringed at that one. I felt responsible for the pay option, and I also felt guilty that someone couldn’t get an extra five or ten dollars a week to buy decent food like I could. I wondered if the girl’s mom really couldn’t afford it or if she was just taking a stand on principle. I also wondered which of these three letters I would run this time. Maybe I’d save them and run each one in a row, one week after the other. Or maybe I should just pick one out of a hat. Even though each of the letters was kind of tough in its own way, it felt great to have some meaty D
ear Know-It-All issues to ponder, and way before deadline, too.
To celebrate, I went back online and checked out videos of people dancing. Then I replayed one and started practicing to the music in front of my mirror. I was actually pretty good at it. I didn’t look like a weirdo. Well, okay, when I did the hair-smoothing thing, I looked a little weird, but no one said I had to do that on the dance floor.
I imagined myself at the school dance, dancing away with Hailey by my side. A crowd gathers to watch us. The headline pops into my mind: Martone Has Moves After All: Classmates Astounded by Grace of Onetime Klutz! And out of nowhere, Michael Lawrence appears and crosses the room toward me. He sweeps me into his arms—
Suddenly, there was a knock on my door. “Sam? Are you dancing?”
It was Allie, and my Know-It-All letters were still spread out all over my desk! I quickly grabbed them and shoved them under my bed, then crossed the room in two quick strides and opened the door. Luckily, she assumed I was breathless from the dancing, but she still entered with a look of suspicion. I tell you, Allie has a better nose for news than even I do. I am sure that one day soon she will figure out that I am Dear Know-It-All. She just has that kind of brain.
She looked all around the room, and then her eyes stopped at the side of the bed. I looked and realized with a sinking sensation that there was a pink scalloped edge of stationery poking out from under the bed.
Allie looked up at me. “What’s that?” she said.
I looked down, faking innocence. “Oh . . . that’s . . . a love letter I’m working on, to Michael.”
“Can I see it?” she asked.
“No way!” I squealed.
“Where’d you get the paper? Can I have some? It’s so cute!”
Was it my imagination, or was she watching me a little too closely?
“Oh, it’s Hailey’s. She gave me a sheet to use.”
Allie’s eyebrows drew close together in suspicion. “It’s pretty girly for Hailey.”
I am an idiot. Everyone knows what a tomboy Hailey is. Think, Martone, think!
