by Rachel Wise
“Oh. Right. Well. Is she nice?”
“She’s okay, but I think she wants my life. First she steals my job, then my crush, and now she wants my future, too.”
My mom laughed, and I turned to glare at her. “Sorry,” she said. “But what’s your future?”
“Editor in chief. She said her mom wants her to go for it. And you know that’s my dream.”
“Hmm. But did she say she wants it?” asked my mom.
“Noooo . . . but come on! Who wouldn’t want editor in chief?”
“Lots of people,” said my mom. “It’s a lot of work, and on top of your regular course load and any other extracurriculars you might do. Is she busy?”
I cringed a little, thinking of my eavesdropping. “Yes,” I said quietly.
“Well, then, she might not want it, despite the fact that you do. And why do you think she likes Michael? I mean as more than just a cowriter?”
I shrugged.
“Has she said anything about him being cute, or does she get giggly around him?” asked my mom.
“No,” I said quietly.
“Hmm,” said my mom again. And then, “You know, sometimes when there’s something we really like or something we really want, we assume that the rest of the world must want it too. But that’s not always the case. You’d be surprised. Maybe Kate likes skinny guys with glasses! Who knows?”
I laughed, and so did my mom.
“Does she have any other friends yet?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Actually, I don’t think so.”
“Is she nice to you?” my mom asked.
I hated to admit it. “Yes,” I said quietly.
“Do you think she could be a friend one day, if you weren’t competitors?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Samantha?”
“Yes. Fine, yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. We both like the news and writing. She’s funny and nice.” I hated to admit it.
“Do you think Kate could use a friend?”
“Whatever. Yes.”
My mom was quiet for a minute, and I turned to look at her. “What?”
“I think you need to make three different plans with three different people. I can help you think them up, if you like, and I can handle the funds and transportation.” My mom was grinning.
“Maybe for Kate and Hailey. But the Michael thing: no. Just not happening.”
“Whatever you say,” said my mom. “Maybe there’s another way to let him know you miss him, though.”
“Humph,” I said. I couldn’t think of any.
The next day I went into high gear for my uniforms article. One thing about me is that I am never afraid to pick up the phone and make a call, especially if it’s for an article. Face-to-face meetings are something else, but the phone is my friend. It calms me down.
So I called the principal’s office and I booked an interview with Mr. Pfeiffer, the principal, later that afternoon. (I was terrified since I’ve always interviewed him with Michael at my side; I considered asking if it could be a phone interview, but that seemed weird, since we spend all day in the same building.)
Then I Googled a school uniform company and got the marketing director on the phone and was able to get some great quotes both for and against the wearing of uniforms in school. She also said she’d overnight me a bunch of materials, catalogues and stuff to look at, and an e-mail with links to studies that have been done showing how great uniforms can be in a school setting.
I also called Father Powers, the head of the parochial school in our town, and talked to him on the phone about school uniforms, since they have them at his school. He was very for them, since he sees them as “lessening outside distractions in a school setting” and “equalizing the economic playing field,” but he pointed out that it was very time-consuming for faculty and administration to enforce the dress code. That was a pretty good point. You’d have to have a system in place to deal with infractions, and I’m not sure we needed more things we could get punished for in school.
Online, I found a really good quotation from former President Clinton about school uniforms, which would go in the “pro” side of the argument. To be honest, I was mostly having a hard time finding information against school uniforms. After all, if the great Allie Martone, fashion fiend of the century, is for school uniforms, who could be against them?
Chapter 7
PEACE TALKS THAW DIPLOMATIC FREEZE
The principal, as it turned out. That’s who was against uniforms.
I was practically shaking as I waited my turn outside Mr. Pfeiffer’s office. Michael and I had had a couple of run-ins with him doing interviews, and I wasn’t his favorite student, that’s for sure. Kids coming and going to see the vice principal (in charge of discipline) gave me oddly pitying looks on the sofa, assuming I’d done something so bad I had to see the head honcho. It was embarrassing.
When Mr. Pfeiffer came to the door to call me in, I managed a weak smile and a firm handshake (hoping he wouldn’t notice my hands were like ice cubes, which is what happens when I’m nervous).
“Ms. Martone, always a pleasure,” he said, though I didn’t really believe him. Mr. Pfeiffer is a pretty good guy and actually a really good principal, but there was no love lost between us.
“So we’re here today about school uniforms?” he said. He’s always pretty prepared, so I wasn’t surprised that he was ready for me.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Trigg assigned the topic just as an exploration. I’ve been asking around and looking to hear from people who are for or against it, and what their reasons are.” I pulled out my notebook and pen and sat ready to jot down Mr. Pfeiffer’s list of pros and quotes about why the PTA always gave him a hard time about adopting uniforms, but that wasn’t how it turned out at all.
“Well, Ms. Martone, you might be surprised to know I’m one of the only principals around who is not for uniforms in our school.”
My jaw must’ve dropped because he laughed.
“I know.” He continued. “Surprising. But let me tell you why. Certainly I can see all the pros, and I know all the arguments well. I do think uniforms are an equalizer of sorts. However, I would argue that it is still obvious—sometimes more painfully so—what the cliques are and who the rich and poor are, even with uniforms. Uniforms are easily tweaked—skirts shortened, sleeves rolled, pants worn low, accessories added to within a millimeter of the guidelines—and I think that kids, especially tweens and teens—are able to make uniforms their own in a very distinct way. It almost becomes a challenge for them. How far can I go and still be in dress code? I am not interested in policing clothing any more than we already do.”
My pen flew over the pages of my notebook, filling the lines with his surprising words.
“I don’t think that uniforms are more economical for families, as the rich family that buys the designer shoes will still buy the designer shoes, and the poor family that has little to spend will still stretch to afford the uniforms; only now they’ll need those in addition to weekend clothes.
“But here’s the crux of it for me: If we do not teach our kids from a young age how to deal with the differences in life—economic, stylistic, self-expressionistic—then when will they learn to deal with them? How can we tell kids it’s important to look beyond the surface when we’re trying to make the surface all the same?”
“Hmm,” I said. He had a point. A good one.
“I think differences in style, taste, clothing, and self-expression are something kids should learn to live with, work with, and move beyond. And that’s why I am against uniforms in schools.”
“Okay,” I said, still writing. I finished the last sentence and then I looked up. He was smiling at me. It startled me, and I guess it showed on my face.
“Not what you expected, eh?”
I had to laugh. “Not at all.”
“Do you think the students will be pleased or disappointed to hear my opi
nion on this?”
I thought for a moment. “Probably pleased, though more of them are for it than against, judging from my random sampling. Or, I should say, if they’re not actually for it, they wouldn’t be totally against it.”
“Well put,” said Mr. Pfeiffer.
“Have you had any pressure from the community to adopt uniforms?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
I glanced at my list of questions. “What about from the superintendent of schools or other governmental bodies or officials?”
“No. They distribute the research, but there is no pressure.”
I had one question left. “Did you have to wear a uniform as a child?” I smiled.
“Yes,” said Mr. Pfeiffer with a laugh. “And I swore I’d never do it again!”
“Aha!” I said.
“Aha!” he echoed, and we laughed.
Too much laughter in an interview usually means you’re not asking tough enough questions; I’ve learned that the hard way. Was there something I should be asking that I hadn’t thought of? Totally off the cuff, I asked, “Do you think there’s a gender divide when it comes to school attire that would be corrected by uniforms?”
Mr. Pfeiffer was thoughtful for a moment, and then he said, “If you’re asking if the female students spend more time thinking about what they’re going to wear, then my cautious answer is yes, but it’s only because there are so many more options for them. I think many of the boys care just as much what their clothing says about them. I just think they have fewer choices to work with.”
“Good observation,” I said, writing it down.
“Yes, well, we’ve had quite a lot of gender-blindness training around here, and I wouldn’t presume to know what someone’s thinking until I’d walked a mile in her shoes—whether they’re UGGS or sneakers or flats.” There was that expression again! I laughed again. “Well, thank you very much for your time, Mr. Pfeiffer. I think there will be a lot of relieved kids out there.”
“Thank you for contacting me for my opinion. I do like to be asked! And thanks for covering the topic. It’s a good one.”
We shook hands and I left for lunch.
On line in the cafeteria, I played a little game with myself where I tried to guess who was friends with whom based on their clothing, or whether kids were rich or poor, or “cool.” I decided it had as much to do with clothes as it did with makeup, hairstyle, accessories, shoes, and book bags as with anything else. Uniforms probably wouldn’t be the great equalizer people make them out to be. I got my soup and half a bagel with cream cheese and was looking for a seat when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Hi!”
It was Kate with her tray. My heart sank a little.
“Hey,” I said.
“Looking for company?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. I tried to channel what my mom had said about Kate maybe not being interested in being editor in chief and maybe not being interested in Michael. It kind of worked.
I looked around for Hailey but didn’t see her, so we sat near the window in an area where I don’t usually sit and began chatting and eating. We got into talking about our favorite writers and the best books we’d ever read . . . something I never discuss with Hailey or even Michael, despite the fact that he’s a words guy. It felt great to realize we had a lot of the same tastes, and we exchanged e-mail addresses because Kate promised to e-mail me a list of the books she’d loved in the past year. She actually keeps a list of every book she’s ever read (I hope she doesn’t tell Michael that, because then he’ll start calling her Listy too and I’ll be jealous!). We decided that if we had time after lunch, we’d stop by the library and pick out some books, just for pleasure reading. I was psyched.
We were having such a good time that it wasn’t until we stood to leave that I spotted Hailey eating in another corner of the cafeteria all by herself.
I crossed the room quickly, calling, “Hails!” as I walked.
She looked up, but she didn’t smile. She was just starting her lunch.
“Hey, why didn’t you sit with us?” I asked in surprise as Kate drew up behind me.
Hailey shrugged. “You guys were engrossed. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Are you nuts, Jones?” I said. “Interrupt?”
“Whatever,” she said. It seemed like she was mad at me.
I put my tray down. “We can sit with you now, if you like? I still have ten minutes till my next class,” I said, conveniently forgetting about going to the library with Kate.
“No, I’m fine. I have to study. I have a quiz after this.” She reached down and brought up a workbook.
“Want me to quiz you?” I offered. Usually we would have studied together.
“That’s okay,” she said.
Behind me, Kate said, “Girls, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to go choose a book for later. See you soon, I hope!” And she left.
I felt torn. I would have loved to go to the library with Kate and look at books, make comments and recommendations, chat about writing. But I could hardly walk away from my best friend eating lunch alone in the cafeteria.
“Bye, Kate,” I called after her, feeling like a traitor all around.
I sighed heavily.
“You don’t have to stay,” said Hailey.
I looked at her. “I want to. I . . . I miss you,” I said.
Hailey melted. “I miss you, too! I feel like we never see each other anymore!”
“I know. It was like we got into this rut of doing only homework together and that wasn’t fun. And then you’ve been spending time with Jenna, and I’ve been jealous, and . . .”
“I know. And now you’re besties with Kate,” added Hailey, looking away.
“What?” I sputtered, disbelieving. “Are you kidding?”
Hailey looked back at me and grinned. “Yes.”
I fake whacked her with a napkin. “You got me, you jerk.”
“Busted. She isn’t bad, though, right? I do like her. I think you’ll be friends when all this newspaper stuff blows over.”
“I hope so,” I admitted. “Not best friends, of course. That job is filled. Meanwhile, my mother has invited you to the movies and a sleepover. When can you come?” I asked with a grin.
Hailey laughed. “Just your mother? Thanks a lot, Sam.”
“And me too, of course. And probably Allie, since she does love to have her fans around at all times. Are you free this weekend?” I asked.
“Yes, for sure. I have an outing Saturday for my class, but I am free tonight or late Saturday.”
“Let’s do it tonight, then,” I said, happy to have a weekend plan.
“I’m glad you admitted you miss me,” said Hailey.
“I lied,” I said with a grin and a wink. Peace Talks Thaw Diplomatic Freeze.
When I got home, I e-mailed Kate. It said:
R u free Saturday afternoon? Want to go to Starbucks n bookstore? LMK!
It wasn’t even a minute before she replied.
Y! Can’t wait! Thanks for asking!
Good old Mom. She did give good advice, I had to admit. Conveniently, I pushed out of my mind her advice to invite one last person to do something. That was just not going to happen.
Chapter 8
SELF-INFLICTED INJURIES LEADING CAUSE OF DEATHS IN THE WORKPLACE
I was walking at full speed, on my way for one last check of the Dear Know-It-All box before I picked a letter and drafted a reply over the weekend, when I crashed into Michael Lawrence, who was coming the other way.
“Whoa!” he said, steadying himself against the wall.
I slipped a little and banged my elbow against the molding on the wall.
“Ow!” I said, cradling my throbbing elbow. Self-Inflicted Injuries Leading Cause of Deaths in the Workplace.
Michael laughed. “I should have known. It’s been about a full week since you’ve hurt me or done something klutzy in front of me, Pasty. We were overdue.”
“Very fu
nny, not!” I said. “Ouch!” I moaned again.
Michael was grinning at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. I haven’t seen you in ages,” he said.
“Really?” I asked. I was being defensive, since I knew exactly how long it had been, but when I saw the hurt look in his eyes I quickly realized I’d been too tough, bordering on rude, so I changed my tune. “I mean, I know! I noticed that too!” I wanted to add that I was surprised he had noticed since he’d been so busy with Miss United Kingdom, but I bit my tongue (not literally!).
“What’s up with you?” he asked.
“Not much. You?” I already knew the answer but had to ask out of politeness.
“Just working. School, practice, and the paper. I miss—” But he stopped himself.
“What?” I asked. Please say me! Please say me! I was thinking it so hard I almost thought he could hear me.
“I miss your work ethic,” he said.
Oh.
“Thanks, I guess,” I said, deflating.
There was a tiny pause. “Anything you miss about me?” he prompted.
“Oh. Um. Your cinnamon buns?” I joked. Michael happens to make the best cinnamon buns in the world.
“That’s all?” He pretended to be wounded and staggered a little.
I laughed. “No. I miss your steel-trap memory, too. I interviewed Pfeiffer this morning and it was a doozy! I wished I didn’t have to write everything down.”
Michael was excited. “You interviewed him alone? How did it go? What was it about?”
“The school uniforms debate. He was very interesting about it, actually.”
“Wow, Paste. I can’t believe you dialed that guy up and just marched on in there all by yourself. Way to go!” We grinned at each other, and then he said casually, “So how is it working alone?”
“Oh, it’s . . .” I was going to fake it and say “great,” but that was mean, and it was actually the opposite of the truth. “It’s lonely,” I said, shrugging. “I miss having a partner.”
Michael smiled. “That’s too bad,” he said.