Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential)

by Sandra Byrd

  Jack had stopped walking and was just looking at me now. He wasn’t eating his lunch. His frown had softened into a grin that I knew was going to lead to that smile.

  “And then,” I continued before he could start looking for holes in my idea, “they’ll already have the paper open. So of course they’ll read the rest of it. And the new adverts.”

  I sat down on a stone bench, and he sat down next to me.

  “What do you think?” I asked, unable to bear the silence any longer.

  “I think it’s brilliant,” he said. “But who would write it? A faculty adviser?”

  “Oh no, no,” I said. “Have you ever read when Auntie Agatha answers a teen or a kid? Bad news. Literally.”

  He nodded and pulled out his sandwich.

  “Actually,” I dared, “I thought I might write it.”

  He looked up at me. “I dunno, Savvy. It’s a great idea. But you’re new. Then again, it is your idea. Let me think on it, all right? Let’s keep it confidential for now, okay? I’ll propose it at the newspaper staff meeting next Tuesday.”

  “Okay,” I said. I’d been expecting a bit more enthusiasm . . . and perhaps even a Wexburg Academy Times pen. But that was sure to come later.

  “Give me your phone number,” he said. “So I can ring or text you this time.”

  My heart skipped a beat. I looked at his face for any sign of personal interest. But he still looked all business.

  I told him, and he wrote it down on a piece of paper. Just like Penny had, only she’d never texted me after all.

  “I’ll text you before the next meeting and let you know what I’m going to do. That way you’ll have a heads-up but no one else will see me planning with you. Just to keep it fair. All right?”

  “All right,” I said and kept the smile glued to my face. Inside, though, I was a mix of worry and excitement. I understood his caution. But I didn’t want my chance—and my dream—to slip away from me. Like the last one had.

  Chapter 19

  I walked home, and as I rounded the corner to Cinnamon Street, I saw that it was what the Brits would call “chockablock” with cars, which was odd. Because normally people parked in their driveways or garages, and anyway it wasn’t time for everyone to be home from work yet.

  “I’m home!” I called out. Growl ran down the stairs and barked at me as if I were Jack the Ripper, back after a hundred-year hiatus.

  Louanne called him from upstairs. “Giggle! Here!” And then, “Hi, Sav.”

  My mom hunched over the kitchen table, music playing in the background. She had her calligraphy pens out, and her Bible was open nearby. I looked at it. Her bookmark was way beyond where she’d been reading last time I’d looked. And she seemed calmer and more peaceful lately. As a journalist, I put those two facts together. As a person, I hadn’t done much Bible reading myself in the past few weeks. But I would! I promised myself and the Lord.

  “Whatcha doing?” I asked, and then I gave her a little kiss on the cheek.

  “Making invitations,” she said. “For the Christmas cookie exchange. What do you think?” She held out one of the linen cards on which she’d inked a perfect gingerbread boy and girl holding hands, the words You’re invited! underneath.

  “They’re beautiful, Mom.” I went through the mail—the post, as the British called it—sitting on the counter. “So what’s with all the cars?”

  “Vivienne is having her book club today,” Mom said. She didn’t look up from her work, just kept a steady hand. Obviously, Mom had not been invited. But she seemed pretty okay.

  I dug through my backpack looking for a stick of gum and came upon my papers from art club. I grinned at the off-kilter face I’d tried to draw. Then I saw the list Penny had written for me.

  “What do you have there?” Mom asked without looking up. How did she do it? Moms see everything. Moms hear everything. At least, based on her question, they don’t know everything. I hoped.

  “This girl I met at the art club made a list of fun things to do in London.”

  At this, Mom looked up, and then she set down her pen. “Really? Can I see it?”

  “Sure.” I handed over the list.

  She read through the suggestions and started smiling. “These look kind of fun, don’t you think?”

  I was so happy to see her happy. “Yes, I do!” I said.

  “Can I keep the list?” She had the “I’m brewing something up” look on her face.

  “Okay,” I said. “For a while.”

  Mom nodded and tucked the list into her pants pocket. She started humming as she finished up the invitation she was working on. It was infectious. I started humming too. And I felt like I could keep humming. At least till Tuesday—when Jack made his announcement.

  Chapter 20

  The whole newspaper staff was at the usual table at lunch on Tuesday. “I want to make sure everyone is in the newspaper office straightaway after school,” Jack said. “I want to go over the ideas for improving the paper so we can implement them immediately.”

  He was excited and as hopeful as I’d seen him. The others must have thought so too, because everyone looked more positive than they’d been lately. Hazelle even made a little small talk with me about maths.

  After school I got to the staff office as fast as I could, and nearly everyone was already there. Jack called us all into his cubicle. He’d texted me, like he’d promised he would, to tell me what he was going to do. I felt honored to be trusted with the confidential information—even though I wished he would make a different announcement. But he was the editor, after all.

  “So then, we’ve had quite a few suggestions from staff and others,” he said. “I’ve narrowed it down to a handful of things we’re going to try. First, we’re going to solicit a few adverts. Which was suggested by Melissa.” The room groaned but looked kindly toward Melissa, who was well loved and respected.

  “Next, we’re going to try to change a bit of the content. Maybe make it a little younger. One new column we’re adding is a sport column with student interviews. Rodney’s in several teams and has been writing with us for two years, so he’s earned the column.”

  Rodney and another reporter grinned at one another at that. Hazelle looked very serious, taking notes with her WA Times pen.

  “And finally, an idea that I’m very chuffed about,” Jack said. “We’re going to launch an advice column. Savannah came up with that idea.”

  “Oh, fantastic!” Melissa enthused in a low voice. She was the only one who looked at me. The others all looked at Jack or chattered among themselves. Why had everyone looked at Melissa and Rodney when their ideas had been put forth . . . but ignored me?

  Because I’m the American delivery girl.

  “We’re going to ask the students at Wexburg Academy to drop off their questions in a box I’ll place outside the newspaper office so they can remain confidential,” Jack said. “The column will be kind of like Dear Auntie Agatha, but it will deal with problems teens have, not adults.”

  “Splendid!” our faculty adviser, Mr. Abrams, said.

  Hazelle’s hand shot up.

  “Hazelle?” Jack asked.

  “Who’s going to write the responses?” she asked. I knew her well enough by now to see that she was angling for the job.

  “Glad you asked,” Jack said. He pulled out a stack of orange papers and handed one to each of us. “As is always our practice, we’re going to accept written samples as an application. The rules and prompts are on this piece of paper. I’m going to post them in a few appointed places around the school, and we’ll run a full page in the next edition of the paper inviting anyone who wants to write to give it a shot.”

  I saw Hazelle scanning the orange paper, her eyes turning glassy like someone with a really high fever.

  I took my paper and casually slid it into my book bag, but I needn’t have bothered. No one expected me to enter, much less win—I could tell by the way they pretty much stared at Hazelle. After all, she was Julia�
�s little sister. And Julia was brilliant and clever and had been the most successful journalist in the history of the Wexburg Academy Times.

  That counted for something, I knew. But exactly how much?

  “When the contest is over, Mr. Abrams will gather all of the responses and take the names off of them,” Jack continued. “Because, uh, I want this to be completely impartial, I’ve asked Julia, our former editor, who is studying at Oxford, if I could post a packet of the sample advice letters to her. She has agreed to read them and then choose the new columnist. May the best journalist win.”

  Chapter 21

  The next day was an early-release day, so I’d planned to spend the entire afternoon at home reading over the orange instruction paper and then writing careful answers. I wondered if Julia was like Hazelle. Should I slant the answers to be slightly snobby?

  Nah. I knew the only way I had a chance, the only way I knew how to write, was in my own voice.

  I put my hand on the knob to my front door and then stopped. I could hear my parents inside—not exactly shouting, but not exactly using calm, reasonable voices either.

  I knew I shouldn’t eavesdrop. I wasn’t really eavesdropping. I was just allowing them to finish before going inside.

  “I thought it would be fine,” my dad said. “I thought we’d have an adventure, travel in Europe, see some things together as a family. Give the kids a chance to do something not many kids get to do. I certainly didn’t travel when I was a kid!”

  “Yes, dear, I know that was your intention,” Mom said. “But we’ve been here two and a half months. I have no friends. Savannah has no friends. Louanne makes the best of it, but no one has invited her over. We have no church. It’s fine for you. You’re at work all day with colleagues.”

  “Fine for me?” Dad said. “I’m busy trying to figure out how to do a new job.”

  I changed my mind about letting them finish. I’d better go in and blow the whistle and call a time-out. I opened the front door, making as much noise as possible. “Hi.”

  “Savannah.” Dad checked his watch. “What are you doing home?”

  “It’s early release for me today, remember?” I looked at my mom before turning back to my dad. “What are you doing home today? Early release?”

  “No, no, I came to, uh, have lunch with Mom.”

  “Well, don’t let me interrupt your romantic interlude,” I teased, trying to keep a light voice. Then I walked upstairs. I wasn’t sure whether they kept fighting or made up, but in either case, their voices were lower. Half an hour later I heard the car start, and my dad drove away.

  I took a deep breath and spread out my stuff over my bedroom floor. I pulled the laptop toward me, and as I did, I spied my Bible tucked under my bed.

  My heart fell. In spite of my good intentions and promises, I had spent nearly no time with God in the past few months. In Seattle, we’d gone to church all the time, and that kept me in touch with the Lord. Now here I was, at my loneliest time ever, when I needed Him most. I’d kind of shoved all that under my bed.

  I pulled out the Bible and put it next to my computer. Then I squeezed my eyes shut tight. Not that I thought you only had to pray with your eyes closed. But I didn’t want to be distracted. And I knew how easily I could be distracted.

  Jesus, I’m sorry about . . . You know, kind of pushing You to the back of my life. I’ve been kind of occupied trying to fit in and make some friends, and now my parents are fighting? Everything has just taken a lot of my time. I do miss You, though.

  I sat there for a minute to let Him answer if He wanted, but I didn’t really hear anything. I felt kind of warm inside though.

  I opened my eyes and looked at the orange paper and at my computer. Can You help me do a good job on these letters, Lord? It’s really, really important to me to get to write this article. I want this column so bad—I want to be helpful again, like I was in Seattle. I want to have friends. I want to be wise. And this time, I’m being honest. No experience required.

  I opened my Bible at the back and looked up the word wise. My eyes came to James 1:5, and I looked it up: “If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you. He will not rebuke you for asking.”

  Help me be wise. Then I closed the Bible and opened my computer.

  I grinned at the screen saver—good old supercute Ryan. I wondered if he was going out with anyone at home. I wondered if he even knew his picture didn’t make it into the yearbook but made it onto my laptop.

  I read the instructions on the orange paper out loud:

  Here are three sample letters to our future advice columnist. Read them carefully, and then answer exactly as you would answer for the paper. Watch your spelling and grammar; conventionals count. And good luck!

  Jack and Julia

  I unbuttoned the starched white cuffs of my school uniform and rolled them up. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and anchored it with a nice, sharp pencil. Journalist style. And then I got to work typing the answer to question one:

  Dear Advice Columnist,

  How impersonal. Nothing warm and inviting like “Dear Cousin Savvy.”

  What do you do if you like a guy but he doesn’t like you? Should I start acting the way the girls he does like act?

  I closed my eyes and asked for wisdom. I remembered that last year I’d read a psalm that seemed to fit, and I flipped through my Bible looking for the page I’d made notes on. Oh yeah, there it was. Psalm 139. I read the whole psalm over again and then started to type.

  Dear Sad and Single,

  It doesn’t feel good when someone you like doesn’t like you back. But an even worse feeling is not liking yourself—and that’s how you feel if you start faking it. It might be that you and this guy really don’t have much in common. You don’t want to force your foot into a shoe that’s too tight—even if it’s to-die-for gorgeous. Because once you get it on and start walking, it’s going to pinch all the time. That’s what changing yourself into someone else is going to feel like inside.

  Now, how to finish this off? I chewed my gum to within an inch of its life and started typing again.

  Just be yourself—do the things you like to do, be happy, and show others you’re fun to be around. God made you unique, special, one of a kind. No one can replace you, so don’t try to be someone else. Soon enough, the type of guy who likes the things you do will like you for yourself.

  Since I’d lived through something similar the year before with a crush of my own, I felt satisfied with my answer and went downstairs to get a Coke from the fridge before attempting the second answer. I even put in a few precious ice cubes—the British don’t drink ice with their pop. I guzzled it down in several satisfying gulps before returning upstairs to continue with question two. If I could pull this off, I’d be known as Brilliant Advice Columnist! If the rest of the questions were about things I’d already conquered—how easy could that be?

  As I walked up the stairs, I had a bad sense that something was wrong. I went through a mental checklist. I’d saved my answer to the computer. I’d closed the case. Wait a minute—where was Giggle/Growl?

  I raced to my room and found him, all right. The orange paper with the last two questions—the questions I needed to answer right now—was completely shredded next to my bed. He grinned at me—if dogs can do such a thing—and then shot out of the room like a circus clown out of a cannon.

  I was absolutely not going to ask anyone else on the staff for the questions and blow my cover.

  Chapter 22

  The next morning I got to school early, of course, because it was Thursday and I had to deliver the paper. They were all stacked neatly, ready to be slipped into my Au Revoir bag. The only other staff member in the room was Hazelle. I needed to take another orange paper, but I just couldn’t face doing it in front of her. I wasn’t sure whether I didn’t want her to know that I was trying for the column or that I had somehow lost or mangled the first one. I felt certain she’d make fun of me either way.r />
  I didn’t ask her to help slip the papers into the bag, and she didn’t offer. She sniffed and turned back to the article I supposed she was writing on the computer at her own personal staff desk.

  I huffed out of the room. I don’t know why she thinks she’s all that, anyway. I’d just look up the sample advice column questions in today’s paper and save one to take home for myself.

  As I delivered the papers by the front office, I saw the Aristocats standing around chatting. I don’t know how they managed to make the same uniform that we all had to wear look more fashionable than the rest of ours, but they did. I knew I was no slouch in the wardrobe department, but I didn’t quite have that posh.

  Penny looked up at me and smiled but said nothing.

  I decided to be bold. “Hi, Penny,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Savannah,” she said. “You?”

  “Fine. Have a good weekend.”

  “You too,” she said and then waved a little royal wave before turning back to her group.

  Have a good weekend? Argh. It was only Thursday! I don’t know why I felt so stupid talking to her. She was actually really nice.

  As I placed the papers in the holder, I heard one of the girls say, “Savannah? I thought she was from America, not Africa!” The rest of them twittered. “And, um, she starts her weekends on Thursdays?”

  I knew they wouldn’t let that one go.

  “A paper delivery girl,” another one said. “Though I do like her bag.”

  “Her hair grip is nice too,” Penny added loyally. Thanks, Penny.

  But she still hadn’t texted me, and I just didn’t have the courage to make any more first moves toward London friends.