A Level Playing Field

by Rachel Wise

  “Yes siree. Reminds me of my days on Fleet Street!” he said. Fleet Street is an area in London, considered the home of the national press. Yet another British reference from Trigger. Michael and I smiled. And then, spying someone he needed to speak with across the room, Mr. Trigg left us alone again.

  Michael flipped open the paper, and together we looked at our page. My piece came first and had my byline front and center, which I knew would please my mother. She’d been right, of course.

  “Good Dear Know-It-All column this week too,” said Michael, flipping to the back inside cover, where it always runs.

  Uh-oh, this was always sticky for me. I played it cool, reading over his shoulder what I’d finally written to Hungry:

  Dear Hungry,

  Times are tough all over, but everyone deserves to have healthy, nutritious food. You picked a good time to ask this question because the school’s administration is taking a look at making lots of changes right now. If you and anyone who’s reading this wants to make the organic lunch option a free standard offering, send an e-mail to our principal, Mr. Pfeiffer. Tell him you’d like to see all of lunch be free, and let’s see what happens when we make our desires known.

  Good luck to us all!

  From,

  Dear Know-It-All

  “Wow, three letters this issue. Isn’t that unusual?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I never read it,” said Michael. My jaw must’ve dropped, but I recovered before I thought he even noticed. “Just kidding, Pasty. It’s the first thing I turn to!” he said with a grin.

  “Uh-huh. Me too,” I said. “Want to go get some lunch?” I asked hastily, to change the subject.

  “Sure thing. Even if I have to pay to eat,” he said.

  “Not for long, I hope.”

  Out in the hallway, I looked at kids reading the paper and discussing it. And who should come walking along, reading Dear Know-It-All, but Frank Duane.

  “What’s up, Dee-Wayne?” asked Michael.

  “Hi,” said Frank, smiling at me.

  “I’m Sam Martone, by the way,” I said.

  “I know. Michael talks about you. I’m Frank Duane,” he said.

  “I know. Michael talks about you, too,” I said, and we laughed. Inside, I was dying to know what, when, and how much Michael talked about me, but I could never ask one of his friends something like that, as much as I’d love to!

  “I liked what you said the other night, at the PTA meeting,” said Frank kindly.

  “You did?” I was surprised. “You mean that I’m for Pay to Play?”

  “Well, that part maybe not so much, but the part about not having to pay to eat. I agree with you. Those healthy lunch specials should be free—part of our everyday lunch. They’re sooo good, but sometimes I can’t afford them.”

  “I know. It’s really not fair that the more nutritious lunch choice is the more expensive one,” I agreed.

  “And good news,” Frank said to Michael. “I’ve been looking for you all day. Guess what? My uncle José said if we end up with Pay to Play, his car wash business will do a corporate sponsorship for the football team!”

  “Sick!” said Michael enthusiastically, and they high-fived. “How did you get him to do that?”

  “I just asked! Oh, and I said some of the guys on the team would come out and dry cars for free on the weekends.”

  “Duane!” joked Michael, pretending he was going to grab him.

  Frank threw his hands in the air. “Sorry, but it seemed a small price to pay! Plus, we get to keep the tips!”

  “All right, I’m in.”

  It was pretty cool that Frank—a kid like me—had pulled off securing a corporate sponsorship on his own. I was impressed. Maybe it was true what Hailey said when she talked about her cousins and Pay to Play. Maybe kids would take more ownership of the team, and make more of an effort on behalf of it, if they felt they really had money at stake, or “skin in the game,” as the jocks like to say.

  “Well, we’re heading to grab a bite,” said Michael.

  “Catch you later. Hey, you guys going to the dance tonight?” Frank asked.

  I nodded and looked at Michael out of the corner of my eye to see if he did too. And he did. Phew.

  “Cool. Well then, Samantha, I have a job for you, too. I need you to find me a cute girl to dance with, okay?” He pointed at me and walked away grinning.

  “You know, I have just the person in mind,” I said grinning back. “Just the person!”

  That night Hailey, Tricia, and I gathered at Meg’s to get ready for the dance amid lots of loud music, heavily sprayed perfume, and outfit tweaking. Meg’s mom made us a delicious pasta dinner (no garlic—we didn’t want the boys to smell it on us!), and we all took turns changing upstairs. Pretty soon it was time to go. Meg’s mom snapped pictures, saying how adorable we all looked. When Meg protested, she changed it to “gorgeous.”

  I was so nervous, I never wanted to leave Meg’s house, but before I knew it, we were out the door and her dad was walking us over to the school with a huge flashlight. I could see kids coming from all directions. There were shouted greetings and some running to catch up here and there, but I didn’t want to rush—the last thing I wanted to do was get all sweaty before I even set foot in the gymnasium.

  Inside, the gym had been transformed into a Moroccan-themed tent, with fabric gathered at the ceiling and cool throw pillows and low tables forming a lounge area. There were tin lanterns hung all around with fake candles in them, and the music was an exotic mix of mystical melodies and wind chimes. The DJ was set to start in twenty minutes.

  Hailey and I stood side by side, taking it all in. “I can’t believe this is the gym!” she said. “I’ve logged a lot of hours here and it never looked this good!”

  “I’ve never logged any hours here, except for gym class, but I would definitely hang around more often if it looked like this,” I said.

  Hailey suddenly grabbed my hand and gave it a shake.

  “Sammy, I have to dance with a boy tonight! I just have to! I can’t be such a loser that I only dance with girls all night!” She was really nervous, I could see now. Well, so was I.

  “I know. I have to dance with Michael tonight. I just have to. And his friend Frank Duane told me to find him a cute girl to dance with. So let’s look around and see if we can spot them.”

  We circled the gym, saying hi to friends and sampling the pita bread and hummus and lemonade at the snack station. (There was no punch bowl anywhere—ha-ha, sorry, Mom.)

  “Maybe they didn’t come,” I said dejectedly as we leaned against the wall near the corner of the DJ booth.

  Suddenly, the DJ appeared next to us. “Hey, kids, it’s time for me to go on. And since you are the first two people I’ve seen, you get to pick the first song! How ’bout it?”

  Hailey and I looked at each other in delight. We picked the song that Allie had us practice dancing to over and over.

  Hailey and I dove into the frantic crowd that had gathered the second the music began, and we started dancing, confident that we looked great. Then, out of nowhere, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Michael.

  Next to him was Frank. I pointed at Hailey and said, “She needs a partner.” He nodded and asked Hailey if he could dance with her.

  I looked around at all the smiling faces in the gym as the crush of my life danced by my side, and I was completely happy.

  Martone and Lawrence: Reunited in Print and in Person.

  Michael grabbed my hands and spun me, and even though it wasn’t one of the dance moves Allie had taught me, I whooped and laughed and didn’t care how I looked. Michael and I were finally on the same page, and it felt perfect.

  JOURNALIST CAN’T KEEP QUIET, TROUBLE ENSUES!

  When I am the editor in chief of the Cherry Valley Voice next year, I will let people pick their own article topics. I will not assign them whatever boring story I want, just because I can.

  The headline of my first issue will s
ay, Martone Frees Writers from Shackles, Staff Rejoices!

  So there.

  In case you can’t tell, I am a little annoyed right now at the editor in chief of our school paper. I don’t like the article that she and our faculty advisor, Mr. Trigg, have assigned to me for the next issue. And I really don’t like the fact that they have separated me from my unofficial writing partner and crush of my life, Michael Lawrence.

  I have known Michael Lawrence forever, but I only started loving him last year, and we only began working together this year. He is by far the best-looking boy in the school, and I say this not as an opinion but as a fact. Lots of other girls think it too, and I can cite my sources, like the good reporter that I am. But I won’t, because if there’s one thing I don’t like to think about, it’s other girls and Michael. My best friend (also forever) is Hailey Jones, and she says Michael likes me back. She also has concrete facts and evidence that point to this, but most days I find it a little hard to believe, since nothing has ever come of his so-called liking me.

  For instance, Michael insists on calling me “Pasty,” a nickname he made up in kindergarten when I tasted the paste in art class (I was five, I thought it was frosting, blah, blah, blah). But Hailey says that Michael calling me nicknames means he likes me.

  She also points out that he has baked his famous cinnamon buns just for me on more than one occasion. I argue that it could be coincidence, or they might have been leftovers, but she is firm on this point.

  Hailey also insists that Michael intentionally stole (rather than “found,” as he claimed) my trusty reporter’s notebook that I carry everywhere, in order to learn my secrets. Luckily, I had blacked out all the sensitive information in there before it fell into his hands (a reporter can’t be too careful!).

  Another thing Michael does is carry granola bars around in case I get hungry. Hailey says that if a boy consistently brings you a snack, it means he is thinking about you (and not just that he wants to prevent your stomach from rumbling in an interview).

  Anyway, all I know is that if there are this many (and more) reasons why Michael Lawrence supposedly likes me, then why doesn’t he ask me out or something?

  We get along pretty well, and he likes to tease me (Hailey says this is a good sign too), and we certainly work well together. Or we used to, anyway. Who knows if we ever will work together again?

  Here’s what happened: At our bi-weekly editorial meeting yesterday after school, where we get together to go over the previous Friday’s issue and make plans for the next one, Michael pitched an article about the school district’s investments. I perked up, waiting to see if Mr. Trigg (faculty advisor) and Susannah Johnson (editor in chief) would like it enough to assign it to us, since by now it’s basically an unwritten rule that Michael and I write together.

  Well, they liked it all right, but out of nowhere, Susannah suggested that Michael write it with Austin Carey because his dad works in finance, and Mr. Trigg thought that was a “smashing idea!” (He’s British and he always says things like that.) Well, I can tell you one thing I wanted to smash after that meeting, and it wasn’t an idea.

  Michael was excited that they liked his idea, and then Austin came over and high-fived him and they began brainstorming right away, so I don’t even think he was sad we wouldn’t be working together. And if that’s the case, how can he possibly like me? Humph. He didn’t even say good-bye to me when I left the room. Well, Michael can just see if Austin Carey saves him a seat when he’s late for events, or if Austin Carey takes great notes in interviews to back up Michael’s supposed steel-trap memory, or if Austin Carey comes up with amazing headlines.

  Well, that was how I felt all last night. Just plain mad. Now I’m also disappointed, hurt, frustrated, and sad, and I’m sure more feelings are on the way. Oh, I’m also scared. That’s actually the main one. I’m scared that if Michael and I aren’t paired together on a story, then we won’t see each other at all. Because when we are working together, we usually have lunch together, then we sometimes meet to go over stuff, then we e-mail back and forth. And now, without a reason or excuse to be in contact, I’m not sure he’ll ever speak to me again! After all, without a story to work on, I can’t exactly ask him to have lunch with me, can I? I might as well put a headline on the front page of the paper that says Martone Loses Her Mind, Openly Declares Love to Crush.

  Anyway, I will be very busy, so it’s not like I’ll have time to hang around and pine over my lost love. Susannah gave me a boring assignment for the next issue, and that is part of what makes Michael’s assignment so annoying to me. I know on the one hand that I should be glad to have an easy gig this issue, because many of the articles I’ve worked on lately have taken up a lot of my time. This one won’t. But the thing is, my recent assignments have been interesting. This one just isn’t.

  Here’s what I have to do: interview a bunch of eighth graders who are graduating this year and ask them what their happiest memories of Cherry Valley Middle School are, whether they have any regrets, and what advice they would give to other students in the sixth and seventh grades. Fascinating, right? A regular snoozefest if you ask me.

  I don’t mean to be a bad sport, but come on. This is sixth-grader work, not ace-reporter-probably-next-year’s-editor-in-chief-unless-Michael Lawrence-gets-it work. It will take me all of a day. I can probably take a nap at my desk while some boring eighth grader drones on and on at the other end of the phone, and I’ll still catch the gist of it. The only hard part is going to be making the article seem interesting.

  Meanwhile, I do have quite a lot of mail coming in to my secret, private mailbox. As Cherry Valley Voice’s Dear Know-It-All columnist, I give advice to students who submit letters or e-mails. And it’s all anonymous. Nobody—and I mean nobody other than Mr. Trigg and my mom—knows I’m Dear Know-It-All. Not even Hailey.

  When Mr. Trigg called me at home at the beginning of the school year, I thought he was firing me from the paper. But it turned out he wanted me to write the advice column. This actually is a top assignment, and for the person who writes it, it usually means you’re at least on track to be editor in chief the following year. If you don’t make a mess of things, that is.

  Well, I’ve been in a few sticky situations so far this year, but I haven’t made a total mess of anything yet. One thing is for sure. The volume of letters I get has been increasing. And that’s a good thing, because it gives me more options to choose from when I pick what I’ll answer each week. Many of the questions are pretty dumb, like “How do I pass math?” (um, study?), but some are juicy and a few are even really sad. Sometimes I need Mr. Trigg’s help in dealing with some of the situations, and he’s been really great so far. I do like him a lot, even if he agreed to separate me from my crush like a wicked king in a fairy tale.

  After morning classes today, I stormed off to the cafeteria to find Hailey so I could rant and rave. Luckily, I spotted her right away on the food line looking for me. I got a tray and skipped the line in favor of the special table where they offer an organic option every day. Today it was lentil soup with a whole-grain roll. Pretty tasty, and only a dollar!

  I looked around for a place to sit, and as I glanced around the room, I spied Michael Lawrence and Austin Carey sitting at a table in the corner, chatting away. My blood began to boil all over again. That should be me sitting there with Michael, not Austin! Michael is my writing partner, not his! I realized I was staring, and I quickly looked away, pretending I hadn’t seen them. I hoped Michael hadn’t noticed me looking. I knew one thing, though: I was not going to act like I cared that we had been separated. After all, hadn’t Michael had a chance to say, I’m sorry, but as much as I’d like to work with Austin, I’d love to work with Sam again?

  Humph!

  “Ready, Sammy?” said Hailey, suddenly at my side. Her tray was loaded down with her usual odd food choices—rice with butter, chocolate pudding, chocolate milk, and saltines.

  “Just as long as we’re sitting far away from
Michael,” I grumbled.

  “Yeah, sure.” Hailey laughed, thinking I couldn’t be serious. Usually, I want to be as close to Michael Lawrence as possible. Then she looked at me and saw I wasn’t joking. “Whoa, what’s up?” she asked.

  “Let’s just get a spot and I’ll tell you everything.”

  In silence we walked to a table at the opposite side of the cafeteria from Michael. We wedged ourselves at the very end of the table, leaving a gap between us and a group of eighth graders sitting at the other end. As soon as we were seated, I began venting, filling Hailey in on the whole annoying story.

  “That is a bummer,” she agreed when I’d finished.

  I paused to slurp my soup, and she took a mouthful of rice, chewing thoughtfully. Then she said, “I guess you can see this as an opportunity, though, if you look at it one way.”

  “How? It’s nothing but the end, as far as I can see,” I said miserably.

  “Well, now you get to find out for sure if Michael likes you or not. It also gives him a chance to see what it’s like without you around and available all the time. You get to play hard to get without even trying!”

  “Well, it’s not like I have all that much else going on. I mean, besides my article and—” I gulped. I’d almost said, Dear Know-It-All.

  “And what?” asked Hailey suspiciously.

  “And . . .” Mentally, I skimmed the calendar of upcoming school events that we’d reviewed for coverage in our staff meeting. “And gymnastics team tryouts!” I blurted. Uh-oh. I regretted it as soon as I’d said it. Journalist Can’t Keep Quiet, Trouble Ensues!

  RACHEL WISE loves to give advice. When she’s not editing or writing children’s books, which she does full time at a publisher in New York, she’s reading advice columns in newspapers, magazines, and blogs, and is always sure her advice would be better! Her dream is to someday have her own talk show, where she could share her wisdom with millions of people at once; but for now she’s happy to dole out advice in small portions in Dear Know-It-All books.