A Level Playing Field

by Rachel Wise

“Samantha!”

  I turned around. It was Mr. Trigg.

  “Hey, Mr. Trigg!”

  “You ready for this?” he asked cheerily. “Looking forward to some good debate? Don’t forget to take notes on the atmosphere, so readers get a true sense of the event when you report on it. Lots of parents, chatter, nervous energy . . . Well, you know what to write!”

  I nodded but I was distracted. “Has Michael said anything to you about quitting the paper?” I asked.

  Mr. Trigg looked confused. “No. Certainly not. We just chatted this morning about what he’d write for this week. I told him the two of you would write a box together on Pay to Play, explaining exactly what it was, and then he could also write an opinion piece on the concept. I said I’d find someone else to write an opposing opinion piece and that you hadn’t wanted the assignment.”

  “You did?” I gasped.

  “Oh dear,” said Mr. Trigg. “I thought it was public knowledge.” My mother’s advice rang in my ears, about not being afraid to express my opinions.

  Speaking of my mom, she ducked in behind me and greeted Mr. Trigg. They chatted about current events and then the principal, Mr. Pfeiffer, arrived and called the meeting to order.

  The first half hour of the meeting was boring. The school board secretary reviewed the last meeting’s minutes and some improvements to the school building (new windows, new paint in the auditorium, etc.). People started to get restless and whisper, and Mr. Pfeiffer had to shush the crowd twice, the second time saying, “We’ll soon get to the reason you’re all here. Please be patient.”

  And then it was showtime. Mr. Stevenson, the person who’d proposed the idea, stood to read his plan, explaining that in tough economic times like these, hard decisions sometimes have to be made, but Pay to Play had been met with a great deal of success in other communities around the nation. Therefore, he proposed reducing the school’s commitment to covering sports teams’ costs by 50 percent this year, 75 percent the next, and finally, 100 percent in the third year. There were scattered boos around the room, a few from the front row, I noticed. I jotted that down as part of the “atmosphere” in my notes.

  Mr. Stevenson sat down, and I felt kind of bad for him. “I detest booing,” said my mother. “Everyone deserves to be able to present their point of view, whether you agree with it or not. Plus, I think it’s so rude and tacky to boo.” That’s my mom. Worrying about everybody, as usual.

  Mr. Pfeiffer stood and said, “We will now open the microphone for comments.” Michael leaped to his feet and was the first one at the microphone. He seemed nervous when he looked at the crowd, but he was prepared and he was clutching a handful of note cards. “Pay to Play cannot stay!” he said loudly. His words boomed across the room like a tidal wave. “Mr. Stevenson’s proposal, while well delivered, is not a good match for this community at this time.” A bunch of people cheered.

  “Sports teams are a vital part of a child’s life. They promote health, in a time when our nation is facing the world’s largest obesity epidemic. They teach kids responsibility and time management, how to take care of equipment, show up on time, and give their all. They build communities and friendships among players, coaches, and parents, and they offer life lessons through their highs and lows. It has been proven that kids who participate in team sports are less likely to get involved in drinking or drug use and more likely to apply to college. If you take the free benefit of sports away, if you saddle families with additional costs, you will lose participants in the team programs and it will be a loss for the entire community. Look at a family like the Duanes here,” he said, gesturing to the front row.

  “They have five children; each one plays on a minimum of three sports teams a year, sometimes up to five. You are talking about adding thousands of dollars in costs to their bottom line, and they just can’t sustain it. And then what?”

  Frank Duane stood up. “We have to quit.”

  I saw Jeff Perry scuttling around low on his knees, trying to get good photos of everyone for the paper. Michael nodded sadly. “We’ve lost our star quarterback because his family needed him to help out in the family business to help make ends meet. Imagine if they had to pay hundreds of dollars in fees so his brothers and sisters could continue to play on their teams.”

  I looked at Mr. Pfeiffer, and he was listening thoughtfully. Mr. Stevenson was rapidly scratching notes in his notebook. People in the audience were nodding along with Michael.

  “Why start here, when cutting costs? Why not turn down the heat a degree in the winter? Kids could wear an extra sweater to class! Why not have kids do the yard work, instead of hiring an outside service? Why not make the school newspaper cost a buck?” Here Mr. Trigg nodded and clapped, and the crowd laughed. Michael cracked a small smile. “All I’m saying is, Pay for Play cannot stay, Pay for Play cannot stay, Pay for Play cannot stay,” he chanted into the microphone, and pretty soon the crowd joined in. Or about half of the crowd, anyway.

  Mr. Pfeiffer let it go on for about thirty seconds, and then he stood and said, “Thank you, Michael. Well said. Next?”

  Before I knew it, I was on my feet and out of my seat.

  “Yes, Samantha Martone will be next,” said Mr. Pfeiffer, and he went to sit and listen. I was not prepared. I didn’t have notes. I didn’t even know I’d be speaking today, or I would’ve worn something nicer. But I felt like I needed to represent the other side. I didn’t dare look at Michael as I climbed the stage stairs to the microphone.

  “Good evening. I am Samantha Martone.”

  “Woo-hoo!” yelled a kid from the back, and a lot of people cracked up.

  “Thank you,” I said, and more people laughed. I started to feel a little more comfortable. I remembered some of the key points about Pay to Play from my research.

  “Pay to Play is an interesting proposal that will help trim our budget in a time of reduced revenue. Other proposals have not been as easy or user-friendly to implement. The school would ease us into it and help people who could not afford it, correct, Mr. Pfeiffer?”

  He looked over and nodded. “We could offer scholarships,” said Mr. Pfeiffer. “They do that all over.”

  “Right. So in special cases or maybe for short periods of hardship”—I nodded at the Duanes—“exceptions could be made. Help could be offered. In addition, lots of towns have corporate sponsors for their teams, which is a great way to build community spirit. Bake sales, car washes, and parties are all good ways to raise money for teams. From what I hear, the time spent off the field together can be just as enriching for a team. I am for Pay to Play because I don’t see why tax dollars need to be spent on programs that not everyone participates in. In fact”—I thought of the Dear Know-It-All letter this week from the student who hoped to make the basketball team but might not be asked—“programs that not everyone is even invited to participate in.” Some supporters cheered and clapped for me, and it felt good. I thought of the other Know-It-All letter. “I’d like to see some of the freed-up money go to the new organic option at lunch. Everyone eats. I would say, with all due respect to Mr. Lawrence, that Cherry Valley Middle School could really benefit from Pay to Play so that we no longer have to pay to eat.”

  There was lots of clapping, and I walked blindly back to my seat, only then allowing the nerves to overwhelm me. “Well done, sweetheart!” said my mom. “I couldn’t agree with you more!” I smiled and gulped. I was proud of stating my case clearly in front of a room full of strangers. Then my eyes searched for Michael and quickly found him, glowering at me from the front of the auditorium. Uh-oh. What had I just done? Did I just end my chances with Michael Lawrence forever? I didn’t know. But I did know that I had an opinion piece to write. I had just enough time to get it in before deadline.

  Chapter 12

  FLEETING HOPES DASHED AS MARTONE ACCEPTS THE TRUTH

  The meeting ran long, with lots of people standing to voice their opinions. It sounded pretty evenly split, and at a certain point, as people began to
repeat what others had already said, I remembered admiring Michael’s early departure from another meeting like this, when he’d said, “All the news has already happened. This is just complaining.”

  So I nudged my mom and we left. I tried to catch Michael’s eye as we exited the auditorium, but he was steadfastly not looking my way. I wondered if we’d ever make up. Certainly not before the dance, anyway. I felt proud of what I’d done tonight, but I was really disappointed in Michael’s reaction—the way he’d glared at me after I’d finished speaking was burned in my brain. And now I dreaded the dance and having no one to dance with me. And how would we write our news box together if we weren’t speaking? I wished I’d thought to ask Mr. Trigg before. The draft would be due to Mr. Trigg no later than Wednesday, which was really cutting it close. That left me tomorrow to write back to Hungry for the final Dear Know-It-All letter, and to decide how to proceed on the Pay to Play article. I realized I could write something similar to the speech I had just given. I just needed to formalize it a bit with notes from my online research.

  I went to bed that night with my head spinning, unsure of how to proceed and hoping the light of day would bring some clarity.

  Luckily, it did. I arrived at school at 8:15, and who was standing at my locker but Michael himself. He looked adorable in fresh-pressed khakis and a button-down striped shirt over a dark green faded tee, with workboots with red laces on his feet. Like a dressy lumberjack. By instinct, I smiled at him, but he remained serious and my smile faded.

  “Hey, Martone, we need to meet to hammer out our article,” he said curtly. “Are you free at lunch?” I nodded, feeling nervous, disappointed, and frustrated all at once. So he was still mad. This was how it was going to be from now on. No more “Pasty.” No more joint reporting. We’d never be co–editors in chief. He’d never be my boyfriend. I bit my lip. Fleeting Hopes Dashed as Martone Accepts the Truth.

  “Good. See you there,” he said. And he turned on his heel and left. I had a feeling lunch was going to be horrible.

  As it turned out, lunch was actually delicious. But the meeting was strained. At least at first, anyway. Then it turned out great. Michael appeared a little late (I’d briefly wondered if he’d set this lunch up intending to ditch me again), but he got his lunch on a tray and came to join me. The chef had made a delicious “Picnic on a Bun” chicken sandwich as today’s organic option, with coleslaw and pickles, and she was giving away a free tiny compost cookie, which was her specialty. Everywhere I looked, kids were buying the daily special. Michael bought it too.

  “Hey,” he said as he pulled out his chair.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to gauge his mood. He took a big bite of the sandwich and chewed. While he was occupied I blurted, “Michael, I’m writing the opinion piece that’s running against yours in this week’s issue of the paper.” My face flamed red, but I just couldn’t keep it a secret anymore. I braced myself for his reaction.

  “I figured,” he said. “You did a really good job last night, by the way.” I looked up at him, but he was still staring straight ahead, chewing. I watched his jaw muscle work in his cheek.

  “Really?” I was pleased.

  He nodded as he swallowed. “I wished you’d been on my team, though.” He glanced over at me. “I kind of thought you were. But then you weren’t.”

  “Wait a minute! I’m always on your team! We are a team!” I protested. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have differences of opinion! Look, I respect you and where you’re coming from, and I deserve your respect in return. It’s not like I’m some uninformed idiot, you know!”

  “Just a sports hater,” he said.

  “Not even! I can appreciate all the good that sports do. I’m just not very good at them myself. But that’s not why I’m for Pay to Play. It has nothing to do with it. I just think that in tough times our schools need to find extra money wherever they can, whether it’s cutting out extras or changing how they spend the money they do have. I’d love it if they could find a way to make this lunch free.” I gestured at the organic sandwich.

  He looked down. “I know. I just hate it to be at the expense of the teams. And I hate to see people like the Duanes suffer.”

  “Listen, you can’t build an entire policy around one family. And those kids are all such great athletes that I’m pretty positive someone—a former school athlete, a wealthy local sports lover, someone—will step up to include them on the teams for free, even if it’s Mr. Pfeiffer himself. And maybe, in the long run, people will take their commitments more seriously if they know it’s costing their parents or whoever something extra.”

  Michael toyed with his sandwich wrapper. “Well, anyway, you win.”

  “What?”

  “On Buddybook, you won. Don’t know if you saw it, but the final count was six hundred fifty-four for Pay to Play and only four hundred twenty-five against. I was pretty bummed.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael,” I said. “It’s not like you didn’t bring up valid points. You gave a very persuasive speech last night.” I put my hand on his arm comfortingly.

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. I think you made some good points too. And I’ll play whether I have to pay or not. I just . . . hated us being so out of sync.”

  “You did?” I nearly leaped out of my seat. “I mean, why?”

  Wait, was Michael blushing, or was it my imagination?

  “It’s just . . . I don’t like being in a fight with anyone,” he said.

  “Me neither,” I admitted, though I’d been hoping for a little more of a love declaration. I’m not just anyone! I wanted to yell.

  We were quiet for a minute.

  “So, Pasty, are we writing this news box together or what?”

  I grinned. “You’re on, Mikey.”

  I showed him all the quotes I had in my notebook from the e-mails I’d sent, and he teased me about writing everything down, just like old times. He told me about the in-depth research he’d done on other Pay to Play programs, and he had to admit that he thought Cherry Valley’s phase-in plan was very generous and pretty unusual. I was glad to hear that. We hammered out an outline and divided it in half, promising to swap drafts right around eight o’clock tonight.

  When the bell rang, I put out my hand for him to shake, and he took it, sending shivers straight up my spine.

  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Pasty, even when we disagree,” Michael said, and his blue eyes sparkled at me.

  “Likewise, Mikey,” I said, pumping his hand up and down. “A real pleasure.”

  I couldn’t stop smiling all afternoon. I still had a huge grin on my face when I spontaneously decided to wait for Hailey after soccer practice.

  “Reunited, huh?” she said as we walked home.

  “I don’t know about that. But he said I won.” I glanced at her sideways and smiled.

  “See, you really are competitive! Maybe not in sports, but in life!”

  I shrugged. “Maybe,” I admitted. “I am pretty competitive in Scrabble, too.”

  “You’re a tiger!” Hailey laughed. “I’d hate to face you in a word game. Of course, I spell everything wrong anyway, but I’d be scared to meet up with you in a dark Boggle alley!” We both cracked up at that.

  “So who am I going to dance with on Friday if you and lover boy tango the night away?” Hailey pouted.

  “I’ll still dance with you. And so will Meg and Tricia. We can just all dance in a group. And then once Michael sees how much fun we’re having, well . . .”

  “Then he’ll pull you out from the herd and start tango-ing.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “You know how I love to tango!”

  “Yes, weren’t you a competitive tango dancer once?”

  I struck what I imagined was a tango pose, and we both cracked up all over again.

  After dinner that night, I worked on my draft, polishing and tightening it into one of the best (if shortest) pieces I’ve ever written. I was proud to push the send key and wait for Michael�
��s reply. His piece of the article arrived a little while later and was also pretty good. I made a few notes on it and sent it back. Just as I sent his article back to him, Michael e-mailed me back my piece with his comments. I clicked open his note to see what he’d written. I hoped he’d been fair. And he had been. More than fair, in fact. He’d written only, Excellent. Don’t change a thing.

  I hugged myself happily and replied, Thanks. Now that the news portion of the feature on Pay to Play was done, I set out to write my op-ed piece promoting the idea and also to finish up my final Dear Know-It-All response.

  Chapter 13

  MARTONE AND LAWRENCE: REUNITED IN PRINT & IN PERSON

  The paper came out Friday morning, and the school was abuzz the minute it landed. Everywhere I walked, kids who knew me said, “Great articles,” and each time, I panicked for a minute and wondered how they knew I was Dear Know-It-All. But of course they meant the two Pay to Play pieces.

  As soon as I could, I stopped by the newsroom, which is what all the staffers do when a new issue comes out. We always have an unofficial staff meeting around lunchtime to go over reactions to the paper, and Mr. Trigg will note things we need to work on. Then we’ll have our next official editorial meeting on Monday, when it’s time to get our new assignments. I love how the news world is so fast-paced. There’s always something happening, something changing. Things that seem life-or-death today might turn out to be nothing compared to tomorrow’s news. It’s really exciting.

  In the newsroom, Susannah, this year’s editor in chief, came over and shook my hand. She congratulated me on my pieces, and her praise meant a lot to me. I crossed the office to say hi to Mr. Trigg, but then I spotted Michael on the way and I plopped down next to him to chat.

  “Well, we did it!” he said with a grin.

  “It looks great,” I agreed.

  Mr. Trigg spied us and came over to say hi.

  “Terrific job, kids. Top-notch! Real professional stuff. And I love the way the art department designed the page, with the informational box across the top and your two opinion pieces side by side underneath.” He folded his arms across his chest and rocked happily up on the balls of his feet.