by Sandra Byrd
Thursday was also Mom’s day to do the shopping, so I put dinner in the oven before I went upstairs to my room. I wrote an e-mail to Jen—my second one without a response back from her—and then got back to history. Besides writing and literature, history was my favorite subject. I kind of got wrapped up in the execution of Anne Boleyn. Well, come on! Having your head chopped off is an engrossing subject. Anyway, I forgot the meat loaf till I heard Louanne shouting. I ran downstairs, but it was too late. I’d murdered dinner. Even though I didn’t think it was going to make the history books, I knew my mom would be mad.
Dad saved the day. “Let’s go to Criminal Barbecue for dinner tonight,” he said, arriving just as Mom got home, looking ready to blow her stack. The kitchen was filled with smoke, so I think she knew something was up. I hoped the smoke wouldn’t ruin Aunt Maude’s curtains.
“Great idea, Dad!” I threw my arms around him and whispered, “Thanks. I owe you!”
He grinned, and we drove off for dinner. I had a barbecue pork sandwich, and it tasted so sloppily good. Louanne, the vegetarian, gorged herself on corn bread. Mom even perked up with some ribs.
“So why do you call this Criminal Barbecue, anyway?” I asked.
My dad stabbed the menu with his finger. “Look at the prices. Criminal!”
We groaned but couldn’t help laughing. By the time we got home, most of the smoke had cleared. And none of us had asthma, thankfully.
Then I went to bed, and when I got up, of course, it would be Friday.
Jack had promised to let us know who got the column on Friday.
Chapter 26
Friday morning I woke up, got dressed, and walked to school. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, though I pushed a toast soldier around on my plate a little bit, not willing to dip it into the runny egg, which looked like a sick stomach on a plate.
I wasn’t feeling too good about my chances, really. I mean, I was a stranger in this school. I didn’t even have the lingo down exactly. Case in point: when I first got here and tried out for after-school track, the coach asked me if I had trainers. I said no, of course. I mean, who has a personal trainer when they’re fifteen years old? So he told me I couldn’t join the team.
I kept thinking, Wow, these people are serious about their running. Later someone filled me in that trainers are really running shoes. Well, no wonder! But by then, it was too late to join.
But in spite of all my doubts, my hopes soared when I walked into my first period class. Why? Hazelle was already there, looking mighty, mighty glum. I still hadn’t given up on winning her over, though, so as I sat down I waved at her. She raised a hand and waved back, once. More like a swat for a mosquito than a greeting, really, but it would do.
I figured there was only one thing that could make Hazelle so upset today: she’d already heard she hadn’t been chosen. Maybe even from her sister.
I unwrapped a stick of gum and put it into my mouth in the most obvious way in front of the kid who’d whispered his little cow poem at me. I’d swallow it before the instructor arrived so I wouldn’t be breaking the rules.
Class dragged on, though I was careful to write every homework equation in my grid notebook. It was going to be even more important to keep my grades up . . . if things went my way.
As soon as first period was over, I heard my phone beep. Actually, so did everyone else—they all looked at me as if I were barmy and didn’t know to turn off my phone. Well, duh! I hadn’t had a text since I’d been in England. Except from my mom and Louanne, which didn’t count.
I hurried out of the room and felt around the inside of my messenger bag for the phone. Found it! The text was from Jack.
Savvy, I do need to speak with you in private, but I’m leaving early today for a rugby match. Is there somewhere we can meet over the weekend?
I didn’t know if this was good or bad. Hazelle had obviously gotten her news in private too, and she looked like she’d swallowed dish soap.
I texted back.
Fishcoteque? 5 on Sunday? It’s pretty quiet then.
Right away my phone beeped again.
Jolly. See you then.
I hoped. I prayed. Did Jack think I could write a successful column? And if I was really honest with myself, did I?
Chapter 27
Friday night. Family game night. Mom made chili. We had fun, but time still dragged on.
Chapter 28
Saturday. Chores. I was taken off of laundry and dinner duty for now. I did bathrooms instead. Couldn’t really mess that up.
Chapter 29
Sunday finally arrived. It felt sad—and wrong, somehow—to still not be going to church on Sunday morning. My dad read from the Bible and we all read along with him, and we prayed. It was better than nothing, but it was still kind of lonely.
“I’ve arranged for us to try another church next week,” he said, and sort of surprisingly, I was really glad. At home, even though I’d liked my youth group and pastor, there were a few mornings when I would have rather stayed in bed and gotten some extra sleep. But now that church had been taken away from me, I realized how much I missed it . . . how much it kind of kicked off and shaped my week, in a good way.
We’d tried two churches since we’d been here, and sadly, they had both been full of only old people. Nice people. Loving people. But we were hoping for a place we could fit in, with people our own age too. After that, we hadn’t tried again.
I was an American in London. Not among my people. It would sure be good to be among my Christian people again. If it happened.
“I’m going to Fishcoteque,” I told my mom about 4:45. I don’t know why, exactly, but I didn’t really want to tell anyone about the column yet. If I got it, they’d all be really happy. If I didn’t, they’d feel bad all over again. And maybe even disappointed in me—I don’t know. I just thought I’d keep it quiet for now.
When I walked in, Jack was already there. He spied me at the door and raised his hand to me and smiled that smile. It was still the cutest smile I’d ever seen on a guy, except maybe Ryan from the baseball team.
“Hullo, Savvy,” he said. “Sit down.”
I hoped I looked calmer on the outside than I was on the inside, which felt more like one of those jelly baby candies the Brits like to eat, which I found disgusting. That reminded me. I needed to find some British candy I liked. My stash of Hershey Kisses had run out.
“How’s your weekend been?” Jack asked.
“Fine, very nice.” It had dragged by, but of course I wasn’t going to say that. “And your rugby match?”
“We won,” he said. “Thanks for asking. Listen, Savvy, I’ll get right to the point. Julia and I loved your answers to the sample column. The writing, actually, is fantastic. Especially with you having no experience and all.”
My head felt like it was going to pop with the rush of excitement. I managed to squeak out, “Thank you!” in what I hoped was a normal, calm voice.
“We feel that there’s real potential for your column to be a fabulous, well-liked addition to the paper. But we have one concern.”
My head—and my excitement—came back to earth. “What is that?”
“Well, there are quite a few obvious Americanisms in there. I can buff out the language, but sometimes, you know, there might be deeper differences. An American approach to life versus a British approach to life. That’s nothing I can rewrite, nor should I. The writer has to carry that on her own.”
My friend Jeannie, the counter lady, brought me a Fanta, unasked, and winked at me as she looked at Jack and then back at me. I grinned at her before turning back to Jack.
“I can do it,” I said. “I’m sure I can.”
“Brilliant. I think you can too, Savvy. But here’s what we’ve decided. We’ll run two test columns—with the new sport column running the weeks in between. If the word on the street, er, um, around school, is that the columns are a smashing success, the job is yours. If not, we’ll have to give it to the second-place candidate. And
Julia can help her get up to speed privately.”
Aha! The second-place candidate was Hazelle—or at least a “her” that Julia could get up to speed quickly. I wondered if Hazelle knew I’d won.
And then, as if he were reading my mind, Jack answered. “However, there is one small caveat. The columnist must remain secret till we decide who it’s going to be, okay? So it doesn’t look like we’re floundering around or like we’ve made a mistake if we end up changing the writer. No one knows the column is yours as of now.”
Jack paused. “Shall I give you a few days to think about it?” He sprinkled vinegar over the top of his fish fingers and took a bite. The music from the darts and pool area in the back was pounding bass in time with my heart.
“No. I can do it,” I said with more confidence than I felt. After all, I had the same reservations that he had about my grip of British English.
“Good,” he said. “You can still sit at the lunch table, of course, because you’re still our paper delivery girl. And if the column doesn’t work out, you can still deliver papers!”
Big whoop-de-do, as we said in Seattle.
“Will I get a Wexburg Academy Times pen, like the rest of the writers?” I asked, finishing off my Fanta.
“If you keep the column permanently, absolutely. Everyone who has a byline on the paper gets one.”
I could already envision the stack flying off, via FedEx, to Grandma and Auntie Tricia.
Chapter 30
That night I actually paid for a phone call to Jen.
“Savvy!” Jen screamed into the phone before I could even say anything. “I can’t believe you’re calling. We just got home from church. Mom, it’s Savvy.” I could hear her turning her head from the phone. “I’m going upstairs.” I heard the thud, thud, thud as she ran to her room, and then a slam as the door shut behind her. “What’s going on? It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Well, I got the column . . . for now!”
She screamed again. “I knew it. I just knew you would. They’d be crazy to pass you by.”
“Yeah, well, there must be a lot of crazy people here then,” I said. “I’m not exactly overfilling my social calendar. But at least this is a place to start. And . . . if the column is a success, then maybe I’ll start filling up those weekends.”
I pictured it now. I’d have to keep a whiteboard in my bedroom with the month on it and a dry-erase pen so I could mark down what I’d be doing on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. And erase them if something better came up. Which it just might!
“Savvy! Are you zoning out again?” Jen’s voice popped my imaginary bubble and snapped me back to earth.
“Oh, yeah, right, I’m here,” I said. “Anyway, do you think I’ll do okay?”
“Okay? I think you’ll do great. They’ll love you.”
“One minor detail: they won’t know it’s me.” I filled her in on the rest of Jack’s plan.
“Well, they’ll find out eventually. You’re always good at keeping other people’s secrets—you can help out without making people feel stupid. And your writing is great. I think you’ll do fine. Oh, hey, Savvy, Samantha is beeping in. We’re all hanging out at the church today and then we’re going bowling and to pizza. So I gotta go, okay? I’ll be praying. Good luck, Savvy.”
“Okay, bye then.” But she didn’t hear me because she’d already hung up. Yes, my heart said. This time it really, truly is good-bye.
I lived in London now—I’d accepted that. But would London accept me?
Chapter 31
“Has anyone seen my blue silk blouse?” Mom called out on Thursday morning.
Uh-oh. The one ruined in the Great Laundry Disaster. “Wear that salmon-colored one,” I told her. “It’s a better color on you.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I confirmed. Disaster avoided, for the moment. We were skipping school today because it was Thanksgiving—at home. Not that they celebrated it here, but Dad had taken the day off and so did we, and Mom had scared up a turkey from Wexburg Village Butcher’s Shoppe.
I wondered if the paper was being properly delivered. I’d given the staff plenty of warning that I’d miss today, but Jack had forgotten already when I’d reminded him of it at last Tuesday’s staff meeting.
“Hazelle, you can do it. With Rob.” Jack had nodded toward one of the printers. They’d both groaned.
“I’m . . . not really prepared to do that,” Hazelle had said, pushing her coarse brown hair back from her face. What she meant was, That’s beneath me. I’d stood there, silent, and looked at the ground.
“Well, then, you’d best get prepared to. Or be prepared to forget about your article on falling A-level scores at the Academy,” Jack had said.
She’d sighed dramatically and pushed her hands deep into the dark brown wool jacket she wore over her uniform. The color really didn’t do much for her. If she’d have accepted my overtures of friendship, I could have suggested something more flattering.
She’d nodded her agreement and then headed toward her desk in the newspaper office. She had to pass by me to get there. She walked around, avoiding me the way you’d maneuver around a sticky spill on the floor. Melissa must have noticed, because she came up and put her arm around me.
“I think it’s fab that you’re taking an American holiday,” she’d said. “And when you get back, would you like to read the outline for my Father Christmas article?”
“Sure!” I’d said. I had the idea that she hadn’t been planning on having me read anything at all before this. I hoped Father Christmas brought her good things in her stocking this year. If he delivered presents to stockings here, that is.
So now it was Thursday afternoon, and the paper presumably had been delivered.
Mom hollered from the kitchen. “I could use a little help down here.”
My dad flipped through the telly channels, trying in vain to find sports. “No football,” he grumbled as I rounded the stairs. “Not even the European kind.”
Louanne was sneaking bits of turkey skin to Giggle. “Hey, that dog’s going to get sick,” I said. “Turkey skin is too rich for him.”
“I’m the dog person around here,” Louanne insisted. “I know what’s best for my dog.”
Giggle/Growl looked at me and curled his lip. How could he possibly know I was putting an end to his treats? But he did. He bared his teeth a little, and I bared mine right back.
That shut him down.
A few minutes later I carried the mashed potatoes to the table and Dad carved the turkey, such that it was. Apparently American turkeys took steroids or British turkeys were underfed, but this looked more like a greedy chicken than a turkey to me. Even so, our turkey had barely fit in our tiny fridge. I thought it was going to pop the door open just like that red stick popped out of a roasted turkey. Seriously, this fridge was about the size of my cousin Kevin’s dorm room fridge.
“Dear, you’ve outdone yourself,” Dad complimented Mom, and she blushed prettily. I looked at Louanne, and she looked back at me and rolled her eyes. While I was glad they were no longer fighting, I wanted to keep the cheese in the meal and not at the table.
We held hands, and Dad prayed.
“Lord Jesus, thank You for this day and for our home and for our family.” I heard Louanne lightly kick his leg under the table.
“And for the dog, too, Lord,” Dad quickly added. “Please help us to find a church family and also some friends, because it’s kind of lonely for us here. But in the loneliness, may we depend more on You. Amen.”
After that, Dad started handing out meat. Louanne, the animal-loving vegetarian who couldn’t bring herself to even kill a spider, sliced a big piece of vegetarian tofurkey and popped it into her mouth.
Wow. I hadn’t thought that Dad might be lonely too. But he didn’t really have friends here yet either.
“Anything new at school, Savvy?” Dad asked.
I chewed slowly to give myself time to think. I didn’t want to tel
l them about the advice column just yet. No more excited—and then embarrassed—calls to Grandma and Auntie Tricia.
“Not much,” I said. “But Melissa asked me to read her Father Christmas article. I guess he comes to the village every December to hear gift requests.”
Louanne looked at me and then at my parents. I don’t think they noticed.
After dinner I went and lay down on the couch and started reading Romeo and Juliet. I thought about Shakespeare. I thought about writers. I thought about my writing. I hoped that next year I’d be giving thanks for a successful column and a solid reputation as a brilliant friend and advice giver.
It was almost in the bag, right?
Chapter 32
Louanne knocked on my door. “Can I come in, Savvy?”
“Sure, I said, tossing my book, The Six Wives of Henry VIII, on the floor. “What’s up?”
She came in and sat on my bed. “Will you get to meet Father Christmas?”
I smiled. “Do you believe in Father Christmas . . . and Santa Claus?”
“I believe in kind people who keep their identity secret but like to give good things to kids who ask nicely at Christmas,” she said with a grin.
I looked at her hands, each finger glittering with a shiny plastic-crystal ring that she got as a ten-pack at Boots, the chemist.
I leaned over and tweaked her ponytail. “I just might get to meet him. Want a French braid tomorrow? It’ll look good with your rings.”
“Okay!” she said. “I’ll look . . . smart!”
Smart: the British word for fancy, dressed up. I thought it was cute that she was already adapting British words into her vocabulary.