Don't Kiss Him Good-Bye

by Sandra Byrd

  He looked so pleased with himself and happy to be helping me out. I felt like saying no, but as I was about to politely decline, I sensed that I should say yes instead. Was it faith? or idiocy? “Okay.”

  “Brilliant!” Joe whipped out a notebook—which reminded me that I was supposed to be carrying mine around to take notes in—and asked, “What charity would you like to support, then?”

  Charity? I had no idea. I didn’t even know any charities. Then the ad I’d seen in the paper flashed through my mind. “How about Be@titude?” I offered. “I think they do charities for homeless mothers and stuff.”

  “Fantastic. The woman who runs it is a Christian, and our church already supports them a little. Good choice. We’ll talk more next week about the guidelines for the song selection. See you then!” And with that, he and his notebook were off.

  Dad was waiting for me as I exited the church. I laughed aloud as I remembered what I’d told him on the way there. I can just hang out in the back and do nothing for a couple of months until I get to know more people. Lie low. You know.

  Ha! For better or worse, there would be no lying low now. I was going to be in the wretched spotlight, playing guitar, in three weeks.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning I got to school early, as I’d promised Jack I would. Starting this week, we had a couple of new spots around campus to put the newspaper. I was especially glad to have a great delivery bag today because I knew I’d be meeting . . . Natalie.

  I walked into the newsroom, and she and Melissa were already there. Natalie was sitting at the one computer station that had been open since I’d joined the staff. I had been hoping that station would eventually be mine. I’d already planned it out—I would take all the junk off the desk and tidy everything up. I’d cover the tired wallpaper behind the station with some amazing fashion clips, a few motivational quotes from the Society of Professional Journalists, my beach-themed Son Worshiper button, and perhaps my melded American-British flag poster from home. In no time at all, it’d be the place everyone gathered to plot out and plan the next issue of the paper.

  “Savvy!” Melissa’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. “Are you okay?”

  I shook myself out of my daydream and answered in as focused a voice as I could muster. “Oh yeah, I’m fine.”

  “I was just telling Natalie that you’ll be working with her on the May Day Ball story.”

  “She’ll be gathering information for my story, right?” Natalie said.

  “Savvy has a lot of good ideas,” Melissa said. “I think she’d have a lot to offer.” But she didn’t force anything on her, and I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I was going to have to earn my spot. Besides, I had the Asking for Trouble column. Even if I wrote it secretly at home. Alone.

  “Hey.” I offered my hand for Natalie to shake it, but she ignored it.

  “I’ve written up some guidelines—the focus of the article, some of the background information I’ll need . . . oh, and we’ll need the angle. So you’re not going to the ball?” she asked, business straight off.

  “No . . . not yet,” I said.

  She snorted, reflecting the general opinion that if you didn’t have a date months in advance, it was not likely to happen. “Fine, then. You can gather some of the background information. And take photos at the event. Melissa led me to believe that you have some useful experience in photojournalism?”

  I nodded. Sigh. Snapping pics again. But at least I was a stringer doing some interviewing and fact-gathering this time.

  “I’ll e-mail your assignment to you along with my direction.” Natalie glanced at Melissa, who was watching her closely. “And you can send me any ideas you have,” she said. With that, she turned to her desk—my fantasy desk—and got back to work. I, on the other hand, loaded the papers into my bag with a little help from Rob, the paper’s printer, and Rodney, a year-eleven sports reporter.

  I delivered the papers pretty quickly. The day was dry for the middle of March, and the sun warmed the top of my head and spread clear through me. I loved the Thursdays when my column was in the paper. If I had time, I sat down and read it on a bench after delivering them and before first period, savoring the sight of my words in print. It felt good to help others, to let the Lord use me to do the good works He’d prepared in advance for me to do. Even with the additional papers, I had time to plop down on a bench outside the front office and open the last paper in my bag.

  Dear Asking for Trouble,

  I never thought I’d be writing to an advice column like this. Well, a guy I know has asked me to go out with him next weekend to a huge party in the country. He’s cute and nice, and a lot of other girls are jealous. Great, right? Not so much. I know he likes me, but I only consider him a friend. If I accept, I’m afraid he’ll think I like him, even though I’ve told him we’re just friends. If I don’t go to the party, I’m home alone—again—for the weekend. I’ve told everyone I don’t care about being by myself, that I study a lot. But I do care. What should I do?

  Sincerely,

  Wishing for More

  Dear More,

  I know it’s dull to be home when your friends all seem to be out. But I’m betting there are other girls who are home during the weekends too. Can you ask around and plan a movie night for that weekend? Even though you’ve tried to tell him you’re just friends, he seems to believe otherwise. Guys can be thick! If you go to the party, you might be giving this guy the wrong idea, and you’ve said he’s a friend, right? You don’t want to do that if you can help it. Hang in there. The right one will come along. In the meantime—Blu-ray, anyone?

  Patiently yours,

  Asking for Trouble

  I left the paper open and let the sun come down on my face while I thought about that. I sounded so smart and on top of things when I wrote in the column. I wished I were going with someone special too. But I envied her. She had someone to go to the May Day Ball with, if she wanted to, even if he was only a friend. If I had an unattached guy friend, I’d be going too, instead of snapping pics for Natalie.

  “New edition?”

  I opened my eyes to see Tommy standing over me. The paper was still folded to the Asking for Trouble column.

  “Oh . . . yeah,” I said, folding the paper and standing up straight.

  “You write anything in there?” he asked.

  Now what? No one else had ever asked me straight out. And yet I’d promised myself—and Jack—months ago that I wasn’t going to tell anyone I was writing the paper’s advice column.

  “No byline yet,” I answered.

  “What were you reading?” he asked.

  “Asking for Trouble,” I said honestly.

  “Cool.” He slung his backpack over his arm and we headed inside. “Nice to see you at church last night. Are you going to do something for April Fools?”

  I nodded. “Joe convinced me to play guitar. You?”

  He shook his head. “I’m usually at football practice during the week, so I can’t commit to Wednesday nights too often. Also, my mum broke her foot and can’t drive for another month or so. My dad doesn’t usually get home from work in enough time for me to make it in the middle of the week.” He looked at his watch and then at me. Yes, his eyes were definitely Johnny Depp in Pirates. “Talk to you soon.” He grinned at me and I melted back—I mean, smiled back—as he ducked into his classroom.

  The bell rang. Uh-oh. I was still two hallways away from my class.

  Chapter 10

  “You’re late, Miss Smith.” My maths teacher, Mr. Thompson, picked at the mole on his face till it bled and looked disapprovingly at my disheveled appearance. I had just booked it down the hallway. “Detention at lunch or after school today.”

  I’d promised to meet Rhys to help him with his paper during my lunch hour. I needed to honor my commitment. “After school,” I answered.

  “Very well.” He called the class to attention.

  Chapter 11

  At lunchtime I mad
e my excuses to Penny, and even to Hazelle, who for some unknown and therefore questionable reason was being very sweet and asked me to sit next to her at lunch. Then I headed to the library to meet with Rhys. When I got there, all the computers were occupied. But not by Rhys. Five minutes later, a computer opened up, and rather than hanging around looking like an idiot, I sat down and logged on to my e-mail. There was a short list from Natalie, as promised, of the things she wanted me to do.

  1. Suggest several couples to feature in the paper.

  2. Talk to local businesses to see if they’d be interested in sponsoring adverts before the dance.

  3. Research the history of May Day.

  4. Think through some good picture angles.

  I sighed. Research, but no writing. I’d suggest a few story ideas to her. I was hoping that I might be able to do a write-up on Be@titude for the paper, maybe drive some business their way. It was funny—I had never even been there, but just from one simple piece in the newspaper, I was already involved with them on two levels. It was the power of the written word. Which was what I loved about writing.

  I looked at the large face clock on the wall. Lunch hour was half over. I logged off and got up from the computer. I wandered the library to see if Rhys was in one of the rows and I had missed him somehow. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. A few minutes later I hid in the corner and gobbled my protein bar, then washed it down with water from the drinking fountain. Three minutes before lunch was up, I finally conceded that he’d stood me up. Part of me was mad—I’d wasted a whole lunch, and besides, it never felt good to be left hanging. Part of me was relieved, though. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but I was.

  On the way to fourth period, composition and literature with Mrs. Beasley, I thought I saw a familiar ponytail duck into the lunchroom. He was laughing with his “mate,” the same one I’d seen him with the other day. A gaggle of girls was following them. Rhys sat down at a table facing me, and he spotted me as I was passing through the hallway outside the lunchroom. I kept walking, not wanting to be late for another class.

  “Hey, there’s my girl Savannah,” he called out.

  My girl?

  Rather than make a scene, I went into the lunchroom and walked over to his table. “Hey—weren’t we supposed to meet at the library last period?” My lunch period, I wanted to add.

  “I am so sorry.” Turning to his friends, he said, “Savannah is really smart—and generous, too. She promised to help me with my paper, and I totally forgot. Forgive me?” he asked, turning back toward me. He looked genuine.

  Well, I was supposed to forgive, right? “All right,” I said, unable to resist as he turned on his charm.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked. “I’ll type it into my phone right now so I won’t forget. I really need your help. And while I’m at it, what’s your number?”

  I watched as he punched my number into his phone.

  “You’re the best.” He reached over and hugged me just a second longer than absolutely necessary. It felt good to be needed. “See you tomorrow.”

  As I turned to leave, I glanced at the tables right behind Rhys. It looked like another set of Aristocats. Well, of course, they’d have a set of tables in second lunch too.

  A moment later I felt rather than saw someone looking at me. I looked up, and for a second I locked eyes with Tommy. He looked at Rhys, and I wondered if he’d heard the entire exchange. Probably. And no doubt he’d caught the shout-out to “my girl” too. I gave him a feeble little smile, and he smiled back, reserved but friendly. And then he turned back to the girl at his right arm—Chloe; I recognized her from my visit to The Beeches.

  She leaned toward him till they were thisclose.

  Chapter 12

  “You’re late, Miss Smith.” My composition and literature teacher, Mrs. Beasley, took off her glasses and rubbed them clean as I took my seat in front of the entire class. I was still sucking wind after having run down the hallway.

  “Detention after school today,” she said, frowning.

  “I can’t come after school today.” The whole class eyeballed me.

  “Why not?”

  I sighed and told the truth. “I have detention with Mr. Thompson today.”

  She gave me the I’m extremely disappointed look, one I hadn’t been used to getting from teachers . . . until lately. She rubbed her tongue over her teeth, sighed, and finally said, “Very well. Tomorrow, then.”

  Chapter 13

  Usually there was nothing like time with my family and at church to refresh my priorities. But the weekend had felt a little off for some reason. Both Louanne and Dad seemed to be coming down with something. Mom thought it was probably allergies because there were new plants blooming in England that neither of them had been exposed to before. Louanne seemed worse off than Dad, which was odd, because except for rabbits, cats, and horses, Dad typically had way more allergies than Louanne.

  Sunday the pastor preached through “One and Two” Corinthians. I thought that was cute. At home we’d have called it “First and Second” Corinthians.

  “Not riding horses in secret, are you?” I teased Louanne after she sniffled her way through church. “National Velvet, maybe?” Ever since we’d moved to London, she’d idolized that movie. But as soon as I said it, Louanne got angry and left the room. Touchy, touchy. I wondered if she was just having a rough week or if something else was going on. She wasn’t usually so moody. When I was ten, there’d been a mean girl who’d picked on me for a couple of weeks. Was Louanne being bullied at school?

  On the way home, I turned on my phone and saw ten texts from Rhys asking where I was. I started texting him back when Louanne elbowed me.

  “What?” I was irritated—I’d made two typos. I hated making typos.

  “Dad just asked you a question.”

  I kept reading Rhys’s text, and before I could respond, a new one was incoming.

  “What do you want?” I asked. The car grew quiet. I felt the silence like ice in my bones.

  “Were you talking to me?” Dad asked. “Turn off the phone.”

  Great. I had a feeling I was going to pay for this later, with Rhys.

  “Sorry,” I said, not really feeling sorry. After all, Dad had interrupted my conversation.

  “Who were you texting?” Mom asked.

  “Rhys,” I said. I saw a look go between her and my dad. But neither said a word.

  Chapter 14

  As I headed out the door on Monday morning, I noticed Mom’s geraniums were starting to pop to life in the flower boxes. The streets were slick with the remembrance of last night’s rain, and the world smelled cool and fresh and new. And I have to admit, I had another reason for hope. Last night I’d thought of a wonderful plan.

  Before first period I stopped in the newspaper office. Natalie was hard at work at “her” desk, and Melissa and Jack were at theirs.

  I stood behind Natalie and asked, “Did you get my e-mail about the May Day stuff?”

  Natalie kept typing; she didn’t even pause when she responded. “I’m thinking about it, Savvy. I’m just not sure how I want my article to shape up yet. I’ll let you know. Send the history of May Day when you can, okay? As for Be@titude, I’m not interested in that religious stuff.”

  I rolled my eyes. Helping low-income mothers was religious stuff?

  I headed to first period, restored to Mr. Thompson’s good graces because I’d scored 100 percent on a quiz the day after my detention. He’d been good enough not to suggest that the extra studying at detention had been what pushed me over. We got to work in groups that morning, and I headed over to Hazelle.

  “How’s the romance coming?” I asked.

  She blushed deeply. I was shocked. I’d never seen her blush. She was a no-nonsense reporter. Her face was nearly the color of her lipstick, which I knew to be Ruby Desire. “Oh, I’d hardly call it a romance,” she said. “But I suppose the May Day Ball has inspired that kind of thought in nearly everyone.”

  Just t
hen Brian came up and joined our group. He sat thisclose to Hazelle and . . . I got it! I’d been asking Hazelle about the romance novel she was writing, and she thought I meant her relationship with Brian. Aha, now I understood why she was in maths early and not at the paper office. My Brian. Well, not really my Brian. But we were gum-chewing, cover-for-you-if-you-cover-for-me friends. And if we’d both understood that we were only friends, it might have been fun to go to the May Day Ball together.

  After class I walked toward second period with Hazelle. “I had no idea you and Brian were, um, dating,” I said.

  She grinned. “We’re not . . . not yet, anyway. But he asked me to the ball some time ago, and I said yes. Just as friends. I mean, we both knew we were just friends. But since then we’ve been talking and texting a lot more, and I’m not sure. He’s a really nice guy.”

  Her voice was so sweet and sincere and happy and . . . soft—for the first time ever. I tried hard not to resent her or be jealous. “I’m very glad for you,” I said.

  “Do you have a date?” she asked hesitantly.

  I shook my head. “I’ll be helping Natalie with her article about the ball, taking snaps, you know.” I tried to force sunshine and butterflies into my voice.

  “That’s nice,” she said. But my journalistic instincts were honed as sharp as acrylic fingernails. I knew she didn’t mean it. But she was trying, and her voice had no edge to it for once, so I let it go.

  At lunch Penny tried her best to cheer me up with some new clothes ideas she’d been sketching, and we also planned to get together at her house the next week. Inevitably, though, the conversation at the table turned to the May Day Ball. Apparently all the Aristocats were going shopping for dresses together that weekend.