by Rachel Wise
The first two interviews were what I expected. The seventh-graders I talked to lamented how unfair it was that they had to take a test over just because of someone else’s bad decision. I knew I was going to get a lot of quotes along this line. I mean, how could someone not feel that way, right? But I summoned my inner objective reporter. I needed another view, something unexpected, something that would show another side to the story. Then I saw Will Hutchins walking down the hall. He wasn’t wearing a hoodie, which made him look a little more accessible. He was looking down at the floor, his hands tightly holding the straps of his backpack. I took a deep breath and went up to him.
“Hi, Will. Can I talk to you for a sec?” I asked, clutching my notebook to my chest.
He looked up at me, then looked behind him as if he wasn’t sure I was really talking to him.
“Uh, sure,” he said when he realized I was actually talking to him.
“I’m doing a story about the test scandal,” I said, and then paused to clear my throat. That wasn’t really an objective way of putting it. I started again. “I mean, the security issue with the math department computer files.”
He smirked, but didn’t say anything.
“I just wondered,” I went on, “if you had any other thoughts about it, um, besides what you said in math class.”
“Not really,” he said back.
“Yes, but—”
“Feel free to quote me.” He continued walking past me, down the hallway. I watched his back as he disappeared around the corner. Something was going on with that kid. Middle School Reporter Discovers Suspect! I know I was getting carried away, but “objectively” Will’s behavior was suspicious, whether he intended it to be or not.
A few minutes later I saw Michael coming down the hall.
“So how’s it going?” Michael said, coming up to me, pointing to my notebook. “Got anything good?”
“I don’t know if I’ve earned my cinnamon buns just yet,” I said, and sighed, leaning against a locker. Then I lowered my voice, turning to Michael. “Do you know Will Hutchins?”
“Yeah, sort of. What about him?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He had a lot to say about the test sca—I mean, security breach—in math class the other day. He was saying that maybe the person who did it was really overwhelmed and didn’t realize how much chaos it would cause.”
“Really, he said that?” Michael sounded surprised. “Do you think he was talking about himself?”
“I doubt it. I mean, who would be that obvious? But then this morning when I asked him if he wanted to say more, he said he didn’t and just walked away.”
“I guess this story is just going to get more and more interesting.”
“I guess so,” I said. Be objective. Be objective, I thought over and over as Michael and I walked to class.
I got some pretty good quotes by Wednesday. Michael hadn’t said anything about our work date since he’d IM’d me on Monday. Is it possible that he’d forgotten? Should I just come right out and ask him if we were still on? I needed a consult with Hailey ASAP.
Finally lunch rolled around and I walked into the cafeteria slowly, looking around for Hailey before I saw Michael. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the back of Hailey’s head talking to someone. I started booking over there until I realized she was talking to, you guessed it, Mr. Michael Lawrence himself, along with some of his friends from the baseball team.
“Hey, Paste,” he said when he saw me. “What’s up?”
“Hi,” Hailey said, a big smile on her face.
“Hi,” I said back, feeling a little flustered. “So how are your quotes going?” I blurted out.
“Really, really awesome,” Michael said, and smiled. He whipped out his notebook. “Want to sit here and talk about it?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, staring at Hailey so she’d get that I was trying to tell her something. “But Hailey and I just have to, um, go over some stuff for something. Right, Hails?”
Hailey looked at me, confused. “Yeah . . . that stuff,” she said, trying to figure out what was going on.
Michael looked at me and then at Hailey. Now he was confused. They both stared at me.
“You okay?” Michael asked, turning his head to one side.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I said, gathering myself. “What I mean is, why don’t Hailey and I go over . . . that stuff . . . and then come over to your table?”
He just nodded. “Great.”
When Michael had turned to grab his backpack off the table, Hailey gave me her “what the heck is going on?” shrug. I gave back my “just ignore me; I’m out of my mind” eye roll.
“You know what. I have to talk to Frank,” Michael said. “Maybe I’ll catch you after lunch, okay?”
“Okay,” I said weakly.
“What in the world was that all about?” she said when Michael finally left.
“I know I was acting like a freak. But now I still don’t know if I’m supposed to go over to his house tonight. I wanted to talk to you before I saw him. That obviously didn’t work out.”
“Well, why didn’t you just ask him?”
“I felt funny about it.”
“Sammy, I’m still going to be giving you the same advice about Michael when we’re seniors in high school.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, and sighed. How do I get myself into these things? “So what should I do now?”
Hailey gave me an exasperated look. “Just ask him!” she said. “Hang out by his locker, look real cute, and say something like ‘Hey, Lawrence, are we on tonight?’”
“I don’t know,” I said. Hailey rolled her eyes. Where was all this shyness coming from? Hailey was right. My crush on Michael was probably going to stay just a crush forever. “But no pushing me into him this time or anything!” A while ago, Hailey had developed the incredibly annoying habit of shoving me into Michael whenever we saw him to try to move things forward between us. Not a good plan.
“Scout’s honor,” Hailey said, and crossed her fingers.
I hoped she’d stick to it, but now what was I going to do? Track him down and ask him, or not? For some reason I was still thinking not.
Chapter 4
Young Journalist Sinks Article Out of Fear of Inviting Herself Over
I didn’t see Michael for the rest of the day. I came home, did my homework, and barely said a word through dinner. Afterward, I threw myself on my bed. I looked over at my computer. All I had to do was turn it on and message him. Why was it such a big deal? Maybe I had just wanted him to confirm with me because he was the one who invited me. The truth was, though, that we had to meet soon and start figuring out our angle for the article. If it wasn’t tonight, then it had to be tomorrow. Young Journalist Sinks Article Out of Fear of Inviting Herself Over. I had to get in the “business” frame of mind and not worry about what Michael would think, like, immediately. I did a little Allie-style breathing and turned on my computer. I had to be brave and message him. What if he thought I was blowing him off? As the computer was starting up I heard the phone ring. Allie bounded into my room.
“Don’t you ever knock?” I asked her.
She held up the cordless phone she’d been holding behind her back. “It’s lover boy,” she whispered, and handed me the phone
I glared at her and took the phone. “Hello?” I said, sounding like I had no idea who it was.
“Hi, Sam. It’s Michael,” he said.
“Hey,” I said, playing it all cool.
“I thought you were coming over?” he said now, a worried tone in his voice.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I—” Ugh. I wasn’t even sure what to say. “I didn’t think you said
a time, and then I wasn’t sure if we were still on, or if I should call you, and I was going to message you, but . . .”
“Well, can you come over now? We’ve really got to get started.” His worried tone was now turning into an impatient one.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be right over!” I said, praying my mom would let me, and hung up the phone.
“Sam, why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Mom was already in her sweatpants, making popcorn for the dance contest show she and Allie watched every Wednesday night. Sometimes I joined them, if I was in the mood to listen to Allie criticize the dancers, who all seemed pretty awesome to me.
I wasn’t about to explain to my mom everything that had gone through my head about it. “I forgot, and Michael just called wondering where I was. We really have to work on the article.”
She looked at me and sighed. “I understand. I just wasn’t planning on heading out. It’s hard to keep up with your schedule!” She poured the popcorn into a bowl and grabbed her car keys. “Allie!” she called. “Be back in ten minutes! Just dropping Sam off at Michael’s!”
Allie appeared out of nowhere.
“I didn’t know you had a hot date,” she said. “And that’s what you’re wearing?”
I looked down. I was wearing jeans and my favorite green T-shirt. I was comfortable, and green looked good with my hair.
“It’s my lucky T-shirt,” I said, my hands on my hips. “And for your information, I’m not going on a date. It’s for the paper.”
“Wait one sec,” she said, and skidded off in her socks toward her bedroom.
“Allie,” Mom called. “We’re going.”
She appeared again in five seconds flat with a purple sweater, boots, and hanging earrings.
“Just put these on! Trust me.”
My mom rolled her eyes, and I was about to tell Allie she was crazy. I just wanted to put the work first and not get wrapped up in my crush. This article was super important, and possibly, as Mr. Trigg had said, the most important one I’d work on all year. Still, I couldn’t help myself.
“Okay. Maybe you’re right,” I said, and started changing right there in the middle of the hall.
“Oh, Sam, you looked fine,” Mom said, jingling her keys. “The train is leaving in T-5.”
I pulled on my boots and stood up to fluff my hair. “Okay?” I asked Allie.
She gave me a thumbs-up.
“Thanks!” I said, throwing her my T-shirt. Big sisters might be annoying, but she was ultimately on my side.
“Have fun!” she called after me.
On the way over, I was happy that Allie had given me her mini-makeover. Who was I kidding? A chance to hang out at Michael Lawrence’s house on a random evening? Priceless. I should at least put a little effort into it.
Michael answered the door in a T-shirt and jeans, looking a lot better than I had in my T-shirt—or at least I thought so.
“Pick me up at nine?” I called to Mom. She nodded and drove away.
The house smelled good, but it wasn’t cinnamon buns this time.
“Mmmm, something smells delicious.”
“Oh, it’s just banana bread,” he said, shrugging, and walked quickly into the kitchen. I followed him.
His mom and dad were there, putting the dinner dishes away.
“Hi, Sam,” his mom said. “You look nice.”
Michael looked at me again and his dad nodded and smiled at me.
“You do,” Michael said.
“Thanks,” I said, giving a little wave, feeling the warmth rush to my cheeks. Now I was wondering if I should have stuck with the T-shirt and stayed under the radar.
Mrs. Lawrence wiped her hands on a towel and looked at me again. “Michael tried out a new recipe for you.”
“Mom,” Michael said, now a little color rising on his face. “I just wanted a good snack, so I made one,” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Just giving credit where credit’s due.” She grinned.
Michael was not only a great athlete and a great writer. The guy could actually bake, and to top it off he was a little shy about it. Swoon. I wondered, though, had he really gone to all this trouble for me, or was I just an excuse to bake something?
“Do you want some?” he asked quickly, as he started cutting the loaf on the counter in slices. I nodded vigorously. He put two pieces on plates and poured us glasses of milk.
“Let’s go into the dining room,” he said, handing me my plate and a glass of milk.
“Okay,” I said, and followed him. We put our food down on the table. I still had my backpack on. I took it off and got out my notebook.
“Use place mats!” his mom called after him.
“Okay,” he called back. He turned to me and shook his head in an exasperated way. “Let me get those and my notes. Be right back.”
While he left, I stared at the piece of banana bread. I knew it was polite to wait for him to come back before I had a bite, but I couldn’t help myself. I pinched off a small piece from a corner and popped it into my mouth. It was still warm and moist and completely amazing. I wondered if his parents could see me from the kitchen.
He came bounding into the dining room with place mats in one hand and a notebook in the other. I quickly wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Started already, snacky?” he joked.
“Ha-ha,” I answered back. “I couldn’t help myself. You can’t leave me alone with warm homemade banana bread. You should be a baker when you grow up.”
He smiled and sat down and took a big bite himself. “Pretty good. Needs a little more sugar, though. Yeah, I’m thinking I’ll be a professional baseball player and a journalist, with a bakery on the side.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, now freely scarfing down the rest. “Okay, Mr. Talented. Let’s get down to business.”
“I wouldn’t call mixing up some banana bread batter and throwing it in the oven a talent,” he said, ever modest. Another item for the Michael Lawrence great personality checklist.
“I would, since I can’t bake to save my life,” I said, thinking of a few months ago when Allie and I tried to bake our mother a birthday cake from a mix. It came out as dry as sawdust and as flat as a pancake because we’d used the wrong amount of butter and had forgotten to get eggs. Mom seemed happy anyway. She even ate some. I could sit here all night and just talk to Michael Lawrence. But Mom was coming at nine and we had an article to write. “Okay, let’s figure out our approach,” I said, trying to get into serious work mode. “I’m seeing a few angles here.” I looked over my notebook. “There’s the ‘this is so unfair’ kind of comment. Then there were some people who actually feel some sympathy for the hacker, like maybe it was about pressure.”
“And there’re also people who don’t seem to care that much at all.” Michael leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, which showed off the muscles in his arms.
Stay focused, Sam, I thought. “Um, or some people who feel like they’re getting another chance to do better at the test,” I said quickly, trying to distract myself.
“Yeah,” he said excitedly. “So which group do you put yourself in?”
“Me?” I asked, surprised. I had been spending so much time trying to be objective, I had blocked out, or almost blocked out my anger toward the hacker. “I have to admit I’m in the ‘this is so unfair’ group.”
“Yeah, at first I totally felt that way. But now, listening to all these other opinions, I find myself wondering about the kid who did it. We are under a lot of pressure and my parents are really understanding about that. But what if they weren’t? What if they just wanted me to get straight A’s all the time because I needed a full schol
arship to college or had to go to an Ivy League college just to get their approval. How would I feel then?”
Michael was definitely better at looking at all the sides than I was. “Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t think you would do that even if you felt more pressure. I mean, how could the person not think about all the people they might affect? I think it’s a really selfish way to handle your problems,” I said. Honestly, no matter what Michael said, I couldn’t feel any sympathy for someone who would make choices that hurt others.
“I just want to make sure we cover the whole story and show every opinion,” he said, and made his worried face where he squished his eyebrows together and got this little crinkle in his forehead. “I think student pressure is an important issue.”
“It is, but I don’t want to lean so far to the other side where now we’re showing sympathy to the hacker. It’s still wrong,” I said. “I studied hard for that test and it wasn’t fun.”
“I mean, I’m angry, too, but it’s like I’m two people.” He took a swig of milk before he continued. “The me that’s mad about having to take the test over and the reporter me who’s trying to put together a fair story.”
Why was it so hard for me to do that? Maybe I needed to back off a bit. Michael was right. “Yeah, of course. I feel that way too,” I said. In theory. Reporter Fakes Sympathy Toward Hacker to Save Writing Relationship.
“Good,” he said, and leaned back in his chair, seeming relieved. “More banana bread before we start to outline?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” I batted my eyes. At least Michael could be a bit more levelheaded than I was sometimes. Maybe that’s why we worked so well together. It was certainly never boring. And, I thought, biting into my second piece, it was delicious to be working together, too.
Chapter 5
Two Middle School Reporters Crack the Case
“How was your date last night?” Hailey asked me first thing the next morning at my locker. She looked the way she always looked in the morning—much more awake than I felt. Her hair was wet and shiny from her shower, and her blue eyes shone brightly at me. I really needed to start exercising more, and then maybe I’d feel a little more like Hailey in the morning.