by Rachel Wise
When I got out of class at 10:45, I was right by the newsroom. I crossed my fingers that Trigger would be there and that he’d be alone, and I was in luck.
“Knock, knock! Hi, Mr. Trigg!” I called.
“Ms. Martone! How lovely to see you!” he replied, pushing back from his desk so he could see me through the doorway of his small office. “How’s the news business?”
I crossed the room quickly. “Not so great, Mr. Trigg,” I confessed quietly, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one had followed me into the newsroom.
Mr. Trigg’s face was concerned. “Is everything all right? Are you in trouble again?” Earlier this year, I had been cyberbullied by a girl who didn’t like the advice I gave her in my Dear Know-It-All column. Mr. Trigg felt terrible because he had been away when the cyberbullying started. Anyway, I had to reassure him that what I was upset about now wasn’t like that.
“No, nothing bad or dangerous. Thanks. I just . . .” I didn’t know where to begin. “I . . .”
The newsroom door opened and it was Michael. “Hey, Sam! Hey, Mr. Trigg!” he called out enthusiastically. He was all fired up still and raring to go. He crossed the room to where I stood, leaning in Mr. Trigg’s doorway.
“What’s up?” he asked, seeing the serious looks on our faces.
“Hello, Mr. Lawrence,” said Trigger. “How are things with you?” I noticed Mr. Trigg eyeing Michael carefully.
“Well, terrible and great. The terrible part is that the PTA is looking to move ahead on the Pay to Play idea. They’re voting on it this Monday. The other terrible part is the football team has lost its star player because his family needs money, and he had to quit the team and get a job. The great part is, we have a plan to fight Pay to Play, right, Sammy?” He nudged me.
I smiled weakly. “Right,” I said. Trigger looked back and forth between us, trying to puzzle out what was going on beneath the surface. I wished I could have pushed a pause button on Michael’s arrival and explained everything to Trigger first. Who knew when I’d have the chance again?
“So Sam and I are going to make up some flyers here. We won’t be in your way, will we?” asked Michael.
“Flyers about what?” asked Mr. Trigg.
“Telling kids to come to the PTA meeting on Monday and bring their parents, so we can fight this thing!” Michael ditched his book bag and sat down at a computer and began typing furiously. Mr. Trigg and I looked at each other, and I knew then that he sensed my lack of enthusiasm. He nodded slowly, then folded his arms and cupped his chin while he thought for a moment.
“Sam! What are you waiting for? Come on!” called Michael.
“Ms. Martone was actually just about to run a quick errand with me,” replied Mr. Trigg. “Are you ready, Ms. Martone?” He stood up and grabbed the long green-and-blue-striped wool scarf that he always wore when he left the office (even just to go to the cafeteria). I guess it was his trademark.
Feeling weak in the knees with relief, I caught right on. “All set. Let’s do it!” I replied cheerily. “Be right back, Michael!” I chirped, and I followed Mr. Trigg out of the office.
Michael was so engrossed in his flyer that he just waved absentmindedly at us as we left. A clean getaway! Out in the hall, Mr. Trigg strode ahead until we reached an empty classroom and he ducked inside, flipping on the lights, closing the door behind him, and sitting down at the desk farthest from the door.
“What gives, Martone?” he asked. I smiled, knowing how he loves mysteries. This hiding out for a private conversation was right up his alley. I decided to start small.
“A couple of things. For one . . . I have three Dear Know-It-All letters I like, and I can’t decide which one to print.”
“Hmm. Would all three make interesting columns?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yup. They’re all good.”
Mr. Trigg cupped his chin again. “My first instinct is to say run one and hold two for later use. But on the other hand, I hate stale news. What if . . . what if we run a ‘harvest bounty’ issue and do all three, each a little shorter than usual?” he suggested with a smile.
“Harvest bounty? Oh, wait, you mean like a bonus of Dear Know-It-Alls?” I asked, getting the concept.
Mr. Trigg clapped. “Excellent! Yes! A three-for-one sale! Could you do it? It’s not too much work?” His bushy gray eyebrows drew together in concern.
“No. It’ll be fun. I can do it. It’ll be good to change it up, anyway, keep it fresh.”
Mr. Trigg beamed. “Listen to one of my protégés! Music to my ears! News is all about being fresh!”
“Okay, now for the harder stuff. I’m not sure how to say this . . .”
“Just shoot,” said Mr. Trigg. “I’m all ears.”
“Well . . .” I tried to choose my words carefully. “It’s just . . . Michael and I don’t see eye to eye on the Pay to Play issue,” I said finally.
“I sensed that,” said Mr. Trigg. “Your enthusiasm is not as great as his.”
“It’s not that I’m not enthusiastic,” I said. “It’s just, he’s against it and, well, I’m kind of for it. I thought we could approach it from two sides and write an objective article, but it’s not quite shaping up that way. Michael hates the idea of Pay for Play. I’m afraid any article we write about it is going to be completely slanted against it.”
“Interesting. And why is he against it?” asked Mr. Trigg.
“I think mostly because he plays sports and because now he has a teammate who had to quit because of money problems at home, and he thinks there will be more kids like him.”
Mr. Trigg nodded. “Mmm-hmm. And you?”
“I’m for it because, well, I’m not an athlete, for one. And I think tax dollars should be used on things that help everyone, not just stuff that some people do.”
Mr. Trigg nodded again. I couldn’t tell which side he was on. Of course, he was the poster boy for objective news reporting. He was quiet for a moment, thinking. “It sounds like we need three articles, all on one page,” he said finally. “One—maybe even a small box—that explains the issue objectively. Then maybe two opinion articles? One for it and one against it?”
My journalist senses tingled. That would be a great feature. I could already map out in my head what I’d say. I felt I had a pretty strong case. But could I really go head–to-head with Michael like that? My writing partner? My future co–editor in chief, I hoped? My future . . . boyfriend, maybe? Or at the very least, my dance partner for next Friday?
“Well, Ms. Martone? What do you say?”
I took a deep breath. “As a journalist, I love it. As a . . . friend, I’m not so sure,” I confessed.
Mr. Trigg looked disappointed. “I guess it would be quite awkward for you and Michael, wouldn’t it?”
I nodded sadly. “And I’m not sure I can risk that right now,” I admitted.
“I can see that would be difficult. But maybe by each of you stating your case, you can meet in the middle and find parts of each of your arguments that you agree with?”
Journo Convinces True Love He’s Wrong.
“I’m sure Michael and I can write an objective article,” I say slowly. “And I think he’d really like writing the opinion piece. But I’m not so sure I want to write one too.”
“Well, I’ll leave that up to you.” Mr. Trigg smiled at me. “You have until the deadline to change your mind, and I’ll speak to Mr. Lawrence about the opinion piece.” He stood up and started to leave the classroom.
“Wait! Mr. Trigg! What was our errand?” I asked urgently.
“Right! Uh . . .” He cast a look around the classroom, and then, spying a dictionary, snatched it up. “This! I couldn’t find the newsroom dictionary and you were showing me where I could borrow one!”
I grinned. “Lying and stealing. You’ve got to love journalism!”
Mr. Trigg smiled. “I’ll bring it back. Anyway, it’s all in the name of truth, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, and I ran off to help Mi
chael make the flyers. I didn’t disagree with inviting people to the PTA meeting. I could still do that! Maybe everything was going to work out after all.
Chapter 9
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN, TORN APART BY WORK
Half an hour later, Michael and I stood at the door to the cafeteria, handing out the flyers.
COME ONE, COME ALL!
Cherry Valley Middle School
Parent-Teacher Association meeting
Monday, November 14, at 6:00 p.m.
Cherry Valley Middle School Auditorium
*Pay for Play debate!*
Google “Pay for Play” for more information!
*Let the administration know how you feel!*
* Take our survey tonight on
Buddybook!*
*Please give this flyer to your parents!*
I convinced Michael to make it as objective as possible in the name of journalism. He reluctantly agreed. But so many kids are taking flyers that Michael was pumped, feeling like he was really doing something good for the community, while I felt like a worm, knowing I’d betray him in the press next week.
I handed out my stack as quickly as possible, just trying to get through it, and when Michael offered me some of his stack to hand out, I turned him down, saying I was starving. He knows how hungry I get, so he didn’t protest, and I was so relieved to be done that I rushed through the line and ran to join Hailey, forgetting even to save a seat for Michael. Whoops. A few minutes later, he came to join us and there were no free seats at the table. He still had a stack of flyers in his hand. He must’ve gotten hungry too. His tray had a bowl of homemade organic chicken noodle soup on it from the premium table.
I stood up. “Hey, hand me the soup and you can ditch your tray. Then we’ll drag up an extra chair and you can wedge in here.” But Michael wasn’t interested. He even seemed a little annoyed.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll go sit with Jeff.” Jeff Perry is the newspaper’s photographer and one of Michael’s best friends. I felt terrible.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be done so fast. I thought these people would all be gone by the time—”
Michael shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” He turned and walked away. I turned and looked at Hailey.
“Whoops,” she said.
“Big whoops,” I agreed. “Why am I such an idiot?”
“You’re not an idiot,” she said. “But you kind of are, actually. Not about saving the seat, but about handing out the flyers. Listen, Pay to Play is happening, Sam. It can’t not. The school district has to cut something, and it’s not going to be language farts, unfortunately.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know, Hailey. I don’t really care either way since I’m not on any sports team anyway.”
“Wait, you’re not?” joked Hailey.
“Very funny. Anyway, I was just trying to be supportive of Michael,” I said. “So much for that, now that he hates me.”
“Love is too time-consuming for me,” said Hailey breezily. “It’s like a whole extra class. Or being on a team.”
“Yeah. You have to practice,” I said. I looked over at Michael. “And sometimes you get cut,” I added.
Thursday night I tracked down the reporter from the Massachusetts articles on Pay to Play and e-mailed her to see if I could contact some of her sources for quotes on their new program. Then I e-mailed the principal of the main school she wrote about and asked him for his comments or thoughts on their program. Finally, I got e-mail addresses from Hailey for her cousin and her aunt, and I wrote to both of them asking for quotes about Pay to Play. It was a good night’s work.
Afterward, just to relax, I logged on to our local newspaper to see what was up. In the community bulletin, they had listed the PTA meeting for Monday, I noted. Other than that, there were few articles of interest: one about the new parking meters downtown, one about a hair salon that had opened, one about the new elected officials in the town, but then, toward the very end of the paper, I spotted an article that caught my eye. The headline read From Making It to Not, in One Bad Week:
CHERRY VALLEY The Duane family of Cherry Valley has always stuck together. With five kids and two working parents, everyone knows their role, and they are always ready to pitch in to keep things moving along smoothly. Frank, age 13, often picks up little sister Cecilia, age 10, from soccer practice, and Jonas, age 15, pitches in by taking 8-year-old twins Jessie and Tom to swim meets. Parents Bob and Michele worked (until very recently) at the phone company headquarters in nearby Johnstown, but layoffs have left them scrambling to find jobs in a depressed region, during a recession, just as the holidays are about to hit.
“I know we’ll get by,” said Bob Duane, 44. “We’ve got great kids, and Michele and I will take any work we can find until we get back on our feet.” Mr. Duane has been delivering firewood on weekends, bussing tables at the Innskeep Tavern on weeknights, and doing odd jobs around town during the week, while Mrs. Duane has been cleaning houses.
Mrs. Duane, 42, is not as hopeful as her husband but is trying to keep her spirits up for the kids’ sake. “There aren’t a lot of jobs in the area. I’ll do anything to make ends meet, but not forever. Still, I’d hate to leave the area. We have some family here, and we love the kids’ schools and especially their sports teams. They get so much out of the community here.”
For now, sons Frank and Jonas have taken on part-time work as well, pitching in, in true Duane style. “They’re pluggers,” said their father proudly on a recent sunny Saturday as he watched Frank drying cars at a relative’s car wash. “I hate having them live so close to the bone, though,” he added, meaning there is no safety net or financial cushion for the family anymore. “There’s just no money for extras. Hard at this time of year. And I hate having the big boys miss their games and practices, just to put food on the table.”
Anyone in the Cherry Valley community looking to help can contact the Duanes through this reporter.
I sat back in my desk chair, feeling like the breath had been knocked out of me. It was so sad. Poor Frank Duane. His family sounded really nice. My head spun. How could I write for Pay for Play when families like this would suffer from it?
There had to be a happy medium. I wanted to go on Buddybook to see how Michael’s survey was going, but I’m not a member. In general, I hate Buddybook. I think it’s a major time suck and seriously addictive. That, plus my mom doesn’t really want me on. So I IM’d Hailey and asked her to check. Then I sat back to wait, knowing it wouldn’t take long.
Sure enough, it wasn’t two minutes before she replied: 442 for and 375 against. Lots of posts. You should join!
As if, I thought. Thanks, I typed back. So, people for Pay for Play were in the lead. I wondered what Michael thought of that. But not for long. The phone rang.
“Sammy! For you!” my mother called up the stairs. I dashed out in the hall and picked up the extension we have there.
“Hello?”
“Pasty?”
“Hey, Mikey,” I replied, my stomach doing backflips at the sound of his voice. “How’s it going?”
“Not good,” he said. “More people are in favor of Pay to Play than I thought—than I can believe! Are people crazy?” He sounded furious.
I gulped.
“Well . . . maybe you just have to look at it from all the angles,” I said, trying to remain neutral.
“What angles? The ‘Let’s take away everything until there’s nothing left but math and English’ angle? Or how about the ‘Kids are getting heavier, but let’s just make it as hard as possible for them to get fit’ angle? Or maybe—”
“Okay, okay,” I interrupted. “But there are ways around it.”
“Like what? Running a bake sale to raise three hundred bucks? Do you know how much work goes into that, for such a small payoff?”
“Lawrence, get a grip!” I commanded, surprising even myself. “You’re the one who always reminds me that reporters have to remain objective. Journal
ists are there to report, not to get involved. You’re the one that always warns me not to let my emotions get the best of me. And now listen to you! You’re a ranting mess!”
I was shaking. I couldn’t believe I’d vented like that. And at the love of my life, who doesn’t know he’s the love of my life, and now I’d never be the love of his! Uh-oh. There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Fine. Then I quit,” he said.
“What?” I sputtered. “You quit the paper?”
“Yes. I quit.” And he hung up.
I stood in the upstairs hall, looking at the receiver in shock. He quit? It’s not possible! He can’t quit! Woodward and Bernstein, Torn Apart by Work. I pressed down the button to get a dial tone and tried him back, but it went straight to voice mail. I dialed three more times and it went straight to voice mail every time. He must’ve known I’d call back and try to get him to change his mind. I looked at my watch. It was nine thirty. Too late for me to go over there without looking like a total weirdo (if my mom would even let me go out at this hour).
I paced in the upstairs hall, trying to decide on my next move. Finally, I decided to consult an expert.
Chapter 10
GOOD TIMES! GIRL POWER SOOTHES STRESSED SPIRITS
“Knock, knock,” I said, tapping lightly on my mom’s office door. My mom is a freelance accountant, so she works a lot when she’s at home.
“Come in, sweetheart!” she replied.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, coming in and flopping down on her sofa. She swiveled in her desk chair to look at me, her little reading glasses low on her nose and the lamp on her desk backlighting her so her dark ponytail seemed to glow.
“What’s up?” she asked. She leaned back in her seat and prepared to listen.
“Mom, I’m confused,” I said. And then I explained everything to her. About Pay for Play, about the opinion articles, about Michael and the Duanes, about the school dance and how I’m scared I’ll have no one to dance with—everything. But I left out the Dear Know-It-All stuff because, honestly, I wasn’t that stressed about it, and also, I didn’t want Allie to get wind of it. She was probably eavesdropping in some secret high-tech way anyway, so the less incriminating stuff I said, the better.
