by Rachel Wise
“So you kept acting like everything was fine.”
He looked at me. “Yeah.”
“I wish you’d reached out earlier. I could have helped you,” I said.
“I know. I won’t ever do that again!” he joked.
“You’re a stubborn one, Mr. Lawrence!”
“Well, Ms. Martone, if the shoe had been on the other foot . . . ,” he said.
Why is everyone always talking about shoes around here?
“Good-bye, Mikey,” I said, knowing I’d see him again soon.
Then I stepped into the newsroom and found Mr. Trigg blessedly alone in his office.
“Mr. Trigg?” I called. “Are you free?”
“Ah, Ms. Martone! How delightful to see you! Oh dear, am I allowed to say that?” he asked worriedly.
I laughed. “Yes. Compliments are always fine,” I said. “As long as they’re gender neutral.”
“Good. Now, about the column . . .” He looked over his shoulder, shooed me into his office, and shut the door.
“Tea?” he asked, gesturing toward his electric teakettle.
“No, thanks,” I said.
He began to whisper (Mr. Trigg loves all the cloak-and-dagger aspects of the Dear Know-It-All column. I sometimes almost think that’s why he keeps it on at the paper). “Ms. Martone. I think you’ve quite outdone yourself with this column.”
“Outdone in a good way or a bad way?” I asked skeptically.
“Both,” he whispered. “The writing is lovely, the brainstorming is excellent, but you’ve forgotten the most important question a good journalist must ask herself: Is it newsworthy?”
“Aha,” I said, embarrassed.
“Do you think it is?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not so much. I just . . . I wanted to do something splashy. But a splashy letter never came along, so I had to make the most of what I had.”
“And why would you, of all people, need to be splashy?”
I didn’t really know what to say, so I told the truth. “To stay on top.” I shrugged.
Mr. Trigg sighed and dropped the whisper. “I’ve been chatting with Mr. Lawrence, and I can see I’ve made a dreadful mistake with this issue, Ms. Martone. Now, I don’t want to get into specifics or criticize anyone’s hard work. All our hearts are in the right place. But I am certain that I made an error when I allowed my sentimentality to overrule my intellect. I was spontaneous, when I should have been more measured and deliberate. Do you follow?”
“Um . . . ,” I said.
“Ms. Martone, I do apologize for giving away your year-round-school article so abruptly to Ms. Bigley. Her accent played on my heartstrings, and I do know how it feels to be so far from home and without friends. I have walked in those shoes, and I hate to see someone else taking their first steps in them as I once did. That’s why I did it. I do apologize and hope you will forgive me.”
“Oh, Mr. Trigg, it wasn’t my story anyway. And I do understand. It’s fine now.”
“Well, yes. I suppose it is. It certainly clarifies things for me. I understand from Mr. Lawrence that you’ve got a marvelous article for us for this issue anyway?”
I grinned. “I hope so!”
“Well, if it’s anything like what he describes, I might have to assign you a regular fashion column!” He winked at me.
“Yeah, right!” I said. “Not for me, thanks. But I do have someone in mind who would be just perfect for the job . . . .”
“Great. We can discuss it after we put this issue to bed. Now, hurry out of here and pare down this overwrought column, please! You need to lighten up and lighten it up!”
I laughed. “Thanks, Mr. Trigg.”
“No, thank you, Ms. Martone.”
Well, the issue finally did come out, and you’ll never guess what happened. My story—the school uniform story—was the front-page lead. And the year-round-school story wound up buried on page three! It was really well written but kind of boring. I thought about it, and it made sense: Michael was really good at the facts, but I was good at the quotes and about making it “relatable.” I wasn’t happy exactly, but just vindicated. It was good to know I wasn’t so easily replaced and that I had been missed—by Michael and by Mr. Trigg.
Mr. Trigg comforted Michael by telling him it was a learning experience all around and that he was free to revisit the topic in a future issue, with or without a new cowriter.
My article got me lots of compliments. At lunch the day they published the online edition, tons of kids came up to me and congratulated me. I was sitting with Hailey, and she started to laugh after the third person came over.
“What?” I said.
“I’m starting to think maybe you are the best writer in the school.”
“Oh, please. That was just pure egomania talking. I know better now.”
“Well, I’m still the best soccer player, just so you know. And on my way to being the best watercolorist.”
“Of that I have no doubt!” I laughed.
Just then Kate Bigley arrived. “Mind if I join you girls?” she asked.
“Not at all. Slide in!”
“Great article,” said Kate, and Hailey and I burst out laughing.
“What?” said Kate, truly confused. “Was it something I said?”
“No, just don’t fuel the egomaniac’s fire,” I said.
“Oh, Hailey, you’re not an egomaniac,” said Kate. “Now, Michael Lawrence, on the other hand . . .”
“Now Michael Lawrence what?” said Michael Lawrence himself, sliding his tray in next to mine.
“Hello, Mikey,” I said.
“Great article,” he said, and Kate, Hailey, and I cracked up. “Seriously. You’re the star reporter,” said Michael.
“Stop,” I protested.
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Hailey. She dove under the table and pulled something flat out of her bag and handed it to me. It was two sheets of cardboard taped together. “For you,” she said with a flourish.
“Um, thanks?” I said.
“Open it!” she instructed. “Gently.”
“Why are all my friends so bossy?” I said.
Hailey and Michael rolled their eyes at each other, but then Hailey turned back and watched me again eagerly.
I slit open the masking tape and peered inside. It was a piece of artwork of some kind. I slit another edge, and the two pieces of cardboard opened like a book. Inside was a beautiful watercolor signed by Hailey Jones with the date.
It was a picture of my beat-up, beloved messenger bag with my trusty notebook and a pencil propped next to it and a full-color edition of the Cherry Valley Voice with my byline on the article at the very top, above the fold (prime placement!). It was so realistic and beautiful and thoughtful that I started to cry.
“Whoa, girl! This is only like the third time I’ve seen you cry in all the years we’ve been friends!”
“It is so incredible, Hails. And so thoughtful and generous. I love it. I’ll get it framed for my room.”
Hailey grinned proudly.
“And I can definitely say you are the best artist in the school, hands down.”
“Aw, go on!” said Hailey. There was a pause, and then Hailey said, “Really. Go on.”
And we all laughed. I passed around Hailey’s watercolor, cautioning everyone to be careful, and everyone oohed and ahhed over it. It was amazing, and I couldn’t believe someone my age, let alone my very best friend, had done that painting.
“You are so lucky,” said Kate, squeezing my shoulder.
“Lucky, nothing! It’s hard work!” said Michael.
Just then Jeff Perry sat down at the table and started talking a mile a minute about how he’d just overheard Pfeiffer in the stairs ranting about how furious he is that the whole school wants uniforms now, how he never should have participated in my article, and how he always regrets it when he talks to the press!
I was thrilled. It’s not that I like stirring up trouble. I just like it when my work gets
people talking. Then I sighed. Oh dear, I had just done an article with Mr. Pfeiffer where I’d thought it went well.
Michael looked at me, knowing what I was thinking.
“Don’t worry, Pasty,” he said. “Next time you interview him, I’ll be there with you.”
I grinned, and Kate squeezed my leg under the table and smiled.
I couldn’t wait for the day to end so I could go home and show my mom Hailey’s painting and discuss all the reactions to the new issue.
Finally I was at my locker, packing my messenger bag, and Michael walked up.
“Hey, so maybe we’ll get assigned an article together for the next issue.”
“That would be nice, for a change,” I joked.
Michael didn’t smile, though. “Listen, uh, Sam. Do you think . . . Would you ever want to go grab a slice of pizza or something? Even if, uh, we don’t have an article together?”
“Oh, Mike! I thought you’d never ask!” I joked nervously.
He looked kind of hurt, so I had to be serious.
“Yes, Michael Lawrence. I would love to get pizza with you. Anytime. All the time. How’s that?”
“Better,” he said with a grin. “Hey, did you see the new Dear Know-It-All?”
Uh-oh. I’m totally convinced that he knows it’s me who writes the column, and I’m always waiting for him to trip me up and somehow get me to confess it. I have to choose my words very carefully when he brings it up.
“Um, no. Why?” I said, the picture of innocence.
“It kind of reminded me of us. Did you write it?”
What????
“Um . . .”
“I mean, maybe I wrote it,” he said with a half smile.
“Did you write it?” I asked, giddy with relief now that I knew he meant the question and not the answer.
“Maybe yes and maybe no.”
“Well, what does it say?”
“I’m surprised you waited this long to ask me that. Are you sure you didn’t write it?”
Oh dear.
“Just tell me!” I cried.
“It says, ‘Dear Know-It-All. I miss my friend. We used to spend a lot of time together, but now we’re both really busy and we don’t see each other very often. I’m not sure what to say or do. Any advice? From, Feeling Left Out and Lonely.’ ” He looked at me.
“So did you write it?” I asked quietly. I was scared to breathe.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “But I could have. Did you?”
I gulped. “No.” We were quiet for a minute. “But I could have,” I said.
He nodded.
“So what did he say?”
“Who?” Michael asked.
“Dear Know-It-All?”
“Oh. She said, ‘Dear Lonely: Don’t despair. Just tell your friend you miss him or her. It’s really that simple. Good luck, KIA.’ ”
“I noticed you called Know-It-All a ‘she,’ ” I said bravely.
“And I noticed you called Know-It-All a ‘he,’ ” said Michael.
I shrugged. “Maybe it’s you.”
“I couldn’t fill those shoes,” he said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“They’re girls’ shoes.” He smiled and shrugged, starting to walk away.
“Hey, Mikey?”
“Yeah?” he said without turning around.
“I miss you!”
“I miss you, too, Pasty.” Journalist Struck by Cupid’s Arrow Dies of Love in Hall.
Oh boy. I couldn’t wait for the next issue. Or the next meeting tomorrow, when I’d sit next to Michael Lawrence and we’d get assigned another article. I made a mental note to ask Allie for some outfit advice. All I could think about was what shoes I’d wear.
Extra! Extra!
Want the scoop on what Samantha is up to next?
Here’s a sneak peek of the eighth book in the Dear Know-It-All series:
Texting 1, 2, 3
BREAKING NEWS: YOUNG GIRL MELTS ON SIDEWALK DURING RECORD HEAT
It’s hot. Right now as I sit on my front steps waiting for my BFF, Hailey Jones, and her mom to take us to the air-conditioned mall on the third day of an awful heat wave, it’s the kind of hot that makes me wonder if I could actually dissolve into a unrecognizable blob of goo by the time Hailey gets here. Breaking News: Young Girl Melts on Sidewalk During Record Heat is what I’m thinking.
It’s also the kind of hot that makes me wish for a chill in the air and sweaters and, believe it or not, school. School just goes with fall. School also goes with seeing my forever and ever crush, Michael Lawrence, every day. I haven’t seen him since the town’s Fourth of July fireworks display, which was awesome. Hailey, Michael and his friend Frank, and I all went together. I couldn’t really call it a double date since Hailey says she doesn’t have a crush on Frank, but he definitely has a crush on her and maybe one of these days Hailey will like him back. Hailey says he’s a really nice guy, but his hair is too dark and his ears are too big for her taste. I think she’s actually afraid to like someone she knows has a big crush on her. But that secret’s just between me and me.
The only thing that bums me out about the start of school is that I’ve finished my tenure as Dear Know-It-All, the anonymous (I think!) advice columnist. It was a year-long gig, and since I did it all last year, my time is up. I can’t imagine not doing it, but I guess I’ll have more time to focus on the other writing I do for the paper.
I’ve been obsessing about who the new Know-It-All will be all summer, but I guess I’ll never know since it’s top secret. I managed never to blow my cover, as far as I know. That wasn’t an easy job, but I really grew to love it and found that every time I had to give advice to someone else, I learned something new about myself. Still, it was a lot of stress. Maybe it will be good to focus on other things now. Like not melting.
Finally just in the nick of time, Hailey’s white car pulled up. The sun glared on it so brightly, I had to shield my eyes just to look at it. I was sweating after walking the twenty feet to the car.
“Ugh, I’m surprised I didn’t melt!” I said, slumping down into the backseat. The A/C was blasting in the car. “It feels so good in here.”
“I know,” Hailey said from the front. “You have A/C in your house, though, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but my mom is always turning it off when we’re not in the house.”
“Us too,” Hailey’s mom said. “It always costs a fortune!”
“Well, at least walking around the ice-cold mall is free,” Hailey said. “Unless you buy stuff.”
“And speaking of buying stuff, my mom gave me some money for a back-to-school outfit,” I said, holding up my shoulder bag as if Hailey could see the money inside.
“I did the same for Hailey,” Mrs. Jones said. “I used to love getting together the perfect back-to-school outfit. It would take me weeks,” she added dreamily.
“Yeah, well, I just want to be cool and comfortable,” Hailey said, rolling her eyes, ever practical. She wasn’t one to fuss over her clothes unless a boy was involved.
I just nodded, but secretly I wanted to get the cutest outfit I could possibly find for Michael. Since he hadn’t seen me in a while, it was a chance to wow him a little bit. It’s not that I wanted to look different, just a little new, I guess. I should have asked my older sister, Allie, for some advice. She always looks great.
“I don’t know,” Hailey said as I tried on a red tank top with ruffles down the front. “It’s not really you.”
“Yeah, but what if I wanted to try out a new look?” I said, looking past her in the mirror and flipping my hair from side to side. I knew it was a little much, but I felt like taking a risk.
“I think what you’re looking for is the You-Only-Better top, not the Who-Are-You? top, which is what that is,” she said, pointing at me. Then she held up a blousy white cotton shirt.
“Nah, kind of boring,” I said, waving the white shirt away. I already had a few blouses like it.
“What about this one?” Hailey said, and held up a purple tunic style tee with a really cool green design embroidered on the front.
“Hmmm,” I said. “It would look nice with those leggings.” I pointed to a simple black pair. I grabbed it from Hailey and tried it on. It was supercute, and the green embroidery highlighted my eyes.
“Perfect! You only better,” Hailey said.
“Why not just me? Why the better part?” I asked.
“I’m just kidding with you, beauty queen,” Hailey said, grinning. She went and tried on a white T-shirt, the kind that she had a million of.
I looked around quickly and grabbed a plain turquoise tank top. The color would look fantastic on her, and it wasn’t frilly or anything.
“Okay, okay,” she said, and disappeared into the dressing room with the tank top. She came out looking amazing. That was the thing with Hailey. It didn’t take much for her to look great.
“See, it makes you look even tanner! And those white capris look perfect with it.”
Hailey was looking in the mirror, a big smile spreading across her face.
“Okay, you win,” she said.
When I came home, the house felt nice and cool since my mother and Allie were home and the A/C had been blasting for a while. I went into the kitchen and got a peach and sat at the counter. One of my favorite things about summer was peaches. I ate at least one a day. I took a big bite, and the juice dribbled down my chin.
My mom came into the kitchen and handed me a napkin.
“Thanks,” I said, and wiped my mouth.
“Did you see my note that Mr. Trigg called?” Mom said.
I looked at the phone. There was a pink sticky note on it. I squinted my eyes. Sam! Mr. Trigg called. Call him back. 555-1873.
“Sam?” my mom said in a worried tone. “Are you okay?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, snapping back into reality. “I should call him back.” I got up, threw my peach pit away, and took the phone into the den. I paused for a moment before dialing. Then I took a deep breath and went for it.
“Hello?” said Mr. Trigg’s peppy British-accented voice. I had to admit I’d missed it.