Everyone's a Critic

by Rachel Wise

  Dear Know-It-All,

  I’m good friends with a boy who I like. We do stuff together, but I never know if it’s a date. How do I find out?

  Sincerely,

  Just Friends?

  Yeah, I know a little something about that. Lately, though, I’ve been wondering if Michael and I even fall into that category anymore, since we haven’t spent much time together.

  “Sam! Can you help me set the table?” my mom called from the kitchen. I guess the Dear Know-It-All column would have to wait. I stuffed the letters back into my pocket.

  The next day, at lunch, Hailey and I sampled the organic sweet potato fries from the premium table, where we can pay extra to get something healthy. Believe it or not, it’s usually extra-yummy, too, and I’m talking about things like kale chips, chickpea fritters, and whole-grain carrot muffins. Even Hailey eats it, or some of it, kind of.

  “These are awesome,” I said, waving a fry in Hailey’s face. “Have one.”

  “Are they mushy?” she asked, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed.

  “Just take one!”

  “Oh, all right,” Hailey said. She sat up and took a bite. Her face lit up. “They’re just like regular fries, only, um . . .”

  “Sweeter? As in sweet potato?”

  I looked up and saw Michael come into the cafeteria. He didn’t even walk over to our table to say hello, which he usually does, but sat at a table full of guys on the baseball team.

  “Is he ignoring me?” I asked.

  “No, why would he be?” Hailey said, stealing another one of my fries.

  “I don’t know. No reason.”

  “Don’t worry. He didn’t forget about you when he wrote that story with Austin.”

  “I know.” I just wanted to get back to our routine. For the last issue, Michael worked on a story with Austin Carey about the school district’s investments. Now we were skipping this issue. By the time we really got working on it, a month would have gone by since we’d actually spent some quality time together. When you have a crush, it seems like every day something happens to change your situation one way or another.

  Hailey must have seen the panic on my face. “Okay, I have an idea. Get out a pen and paper and write down what I say.” Girl Saves Best Friend from Losing Crush! At least I hoped so. Since Hailey has dyslexia, it’s hard for her to write fast. I’m usually the list person.

  “‘How to Keep Michael Lawrence’s Interest,’” she said.

  “Shh!” I hissed.

  “Okay,” she said in a lower tone. “Ask him about the play.”

  I wrote that down.

  “Ask him how baseball is going.”

  Kind of boring, but maybe.

  “Ask him who he has a crush on,” she said, as if she were reciting a grocery list to me.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Just write! Show up at his house really hungry and ask if he could make you some cinnamon buns or else you might die of starvation.”

  “Are you insane?” I rolled my eyes and crumpled up the list.

  “Why’d you do that? I was just joking on the last one,” she said. She suddenly seemed kind of hurt. Now I was wondering if my reaction was too honest. I know she was joking on the last one, but Ask him who he has a crush on? Really?

  “I might do the first two,” I said.

  “Good!” She perked back up. “Let’s get started!”

  She grabbed my arm and I stuffed the crumpled paper in my bag. At least I was wearing the cute green shirt and my favorite little silver hoop earrings that I got last year for my birthday.

  “What are we doing?” I whispered.

  She turned to me and put a finger on her lips. Then she motioned for me to follow her. I did, hoping I wouldn’t regret it. We walked over to Michael’s table.

  “Hi, Michael,” Hailey said, and fluffed her hair in her flirty way. Whoa, she’d better not start with that again. At the beginning of the year, she had a crush on Michael, too, but we sorted it out. I gave her a look. Michael turned and saw us.

  “Hey, Hailey. Hey, Pasty,” he said, and smiled, showing off the dimple in his left cheek.

  I just smiled and waved. Then she shoved me toward him and whispered “Baseball!” in my ear.

  “So, how’s baseball?” I said, trying to look at some of the other boys at the table too so my head wouldn’t explode. What did Hailey think she was doing?

  Michael looked around, as if he wasn’t sure if I was speaking to him or not.

  “Um, good?”

  “Okay; well then . . .,” I said, my cheeks on fire. “Oh, Hailey, I just remembered something really important that I left in my locker.” I grabbed her hand.

  “What?” she said, all smiley and oblivious.

  “Just something really important.” I put my arm around her, leading her away from the table.

  Michael looked back and forth at each of us. “You okay, Paste?”

  “Oh, sure. See ya,” I said, and tugged Hailey out of the cafeteria.

  “Ow! What’s so important?” she said when we finally got out into the hallway.

  “Nothing, I just wanted to get out of there. Why did you do that?” I asked. I put my hands on my warm cheeks. “I felt like such a dork.”

  “Well, you didn’t want him to forget about you,” she said. “Hey, I was trying to help. Are you seriously mad?”

  I took a deep breath. “No,” I lied.

  “Are you sure you’re not mad?”

  “I’m sure. Are you coming over this afternoon?” I asked, trying to move off the subject.

  “Yup!” she said.

  The fifth-period bell rang and we hurried off to our classes before the stampede from the cafeteria took over the hallways, and at this point I hoped I’d never see Michael again. Well, at least not today. It was hard to be honest sometimes, but I didn’t want to get into an argument with Hailey. I know she wants the best for me and Michael. Sometimes she can just get a little carried away. Just a bit.

  Chapter 3

  POSSESSED WASHING MACHINE EATS SECRET LETTERS!

  Hailey came over and we did our homework together. Hailey usually needs some help with her homework because of her dyslexia. Afterward she showed me photos of Michael that Jeff, the Voice photographer, posted on Buddybook of him goofing around after a baseball game. There was one where he was in his uniform balancing a baseball on his bat, and somehow managing to give the camera a gorgeous smile. I wanted to print it out and make a poster of it. Of course, I had to restrain myself. Imagine if he ever saw I made a poster of him? The probability of him ever seeing my room is probably a big fat zero, but still. Then Hailey had to leave because her mom wanted her home for dinner. Hailey said she wished she could stay because she was probably going home to soy burgers and spinach soufflé, and the smells coming from our kitchen were delicious.

  “Potatoes?” Mom asked when Allie and I sat down for dinner. She held out a thick white bowl heaped with her awesome roasted potatoes. She puts these little sprigs of rosemary on them. They rock. She also made steak and sautéed string beans. Mom only makes steak for our birthdays or when we have special guests.

  “Mom, what’s the occasion?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Steak and everything,” I said, taking a small scoop of potatoes.

  “No occasion,” she said cheerfully. “I just wanted to have a nice dinner with my daughters and catch up. I miss you guys. We’ve all been so busy.”

  Mom is a freelance bookkeeper, and sometimes her schedule is pretty light. But sometimes she has to work like crazy, which is how it’s been during the past few weeks. We’ve been grabbing quick dinners at the kitchen counter. When she’s really busy, my mom puts something in the fridge for us to heat up in the microwave.

  “Allie?” Mom said, holding the bowl in front of her.

  “No thanks. I’m going low-carb for the play,” Allie said with a toss of her hair, and she heaped up her plate with steak and string
beans. Then she nudged her phone out of her jeans pocket and started texting with one hand under the table, her phone on her knee.

  “You seriously have a problem,” I said.

  Mom looked up. “Allie, we’re having a media-free dinner.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Mom said, holding out her hand for Allie’s phone. “So, tell us. How’s the play going, Miss Low Carb?”

  Allie rolled her eyes and gave Mom the phone. Then she took a deep breath and started twirling her long, shiny hair into a bun. Whenever she starts playing with her hair, it’s going to be a long story.

  “It’s okay. I just can’t believe I didn’t get the part of Maria. I mean, Julia Gowen is okay, but my audition was awesome. She might be able to sing, but she can’t dance. She’s so awkward. The only reason she got the part was because she and the director’s daughter went to some theater camp together last summer and she gets straight A’s and the director wanted the person who plays the lead to be able to handle it academically. But I could have totally handled it, and I’m a much better dancer.” Then she sighed and let her hair spill over her shoulders again.

  “But do you like your part?” I asked. Allie was playing the lead’s best friend, Anita.

  Allie shrugged and took a big bite of the string beans. “It’s one of the big roles. But I wish I were Maria.”

  Allie does a lot of theater, and as much as I hate to admit it, she’s a great dancer and a pretty good singer. It’s her thing. She always got the lead parts in middle school, and she used to think she was the next Disney starlet before our school district decided to combine both theater programs into one. Now there’s a lot more competition for the roles. Allie always gets good parts—sometimes the lead, sometimes a supporting role. Mom says it’s more of a challenge to shine in a supporting role, but Allie doesn’t agree.

  “There’s no business like show business!” Mom sang out in a loud, comical voice. I laughed. Allie just rolled her eyes again, but I saw a smile sneaking onto her lips.

  After dinner I went into my room to get started on the Dear Know-It-All column. I remembered that I’d stuck the letters into my jeans the day before. I looked on the back of my chair. No jeans. I looked in my closet, where my hamper was. No jeans. My heart started beating fast. Where in the world did I put them?

  I headed downstairs to the washer and dryer. Don’t panic, don’t panic, I repeated in my head. Usually, when Mom finished our laundry she put it on the steps for us to take upstairs. I saw a neat little pile of my clothes. I searched through it, but still no jeans. I went down to the laundry room. There was big basket of laundry on the dryer. But even if I found the jeans, wouldn’t the letters be destroyed by the washer? Possessed Washing Machine Eats Secret Letters! I looked in the basket, and only stacks of sheets stared back at me. The washer was empty and the dryer was empty.

  “Mom!” I called as I ran upstairs to the kitchen. She was putting detergent in the dishwasher. She looked up. I glanced around, making sure Allie wasn’t there, and told her my problem.

  “Hmm. I just saw Allie taking a big pile of laundry upstairs. Maybe I put your jeans in her pile. I can’t tell your clothes and Allie’s apart these days.”

  “That means my letters were washed!”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. They’ll probably still be intact if they were tucked into your pocket. Did you read them already?”

  “Yes, but I have to type them exactly the way they were worded.”

  Off I ran to Allie’s room. My mom followed me.

  I turned to her. “Mom, if we both go in, she might get suspicious and ask too many questions about why we care so much.”

  She nodded. “Okay, tell me what happens,” she said, and went back to the kitchen.

  Right outside Allie’s door, which was always closed these days, I took a deep breath. I had to handle this the right way. This was no time for honesty. I knocked on the door.

  “What?” Allie yelled.

  “Um, can I come in?”

  “Why?” she yelled back. “I’m busy!”

  “Please?”

  I heard her stomp to the door. She flung it open. She wore lots of eyeliner and bright red lipstick, and a robe.

  “What on earth are you doing?” I asked, suppressing a smile. My sister can be pretty strange sometimes.

  “Actress-related.” She went back to her desk and started putting on green eye shadow. “Working on my character.”

  I looked around for the pile. There it was, on the corner of her desk! I couldn’t tell if my jeans were in there or not. I walked over to her and the pile.

  “I think Mom mixed up our clothes in the laundry. Can I just look in this pile?”

  “Suit yourself,” she said. She was putting a fake beauty mark on the side of her cheek. Delusional Sister Believes She’s Marilyn Monroe. This actress thing was really going to Allie’s head. I lifted up a couple of T-shirts and folded sweatpants. Still no jeans. Then, at the very bottom of the pile, I saw them and pulled them out. Score. Now I just had to take them to my room and check the notes.

  “Hey!” Allie looked over at me. “Those are mine!” Her arm came at me as fast as a frog’s tongue and she snatched the jeans away. My folded-up letters fell out of the pocket, onto the floor. I was relieved that they looked somewhat intact.

  We both looked at the floor. I grabbed the Dear Know-It-All letters faster than she swiped the jeans.

  “What are those?” Allie wanted to know.

  “That proves it. They’re my notes and my jeans,” I said, clutching the letters tight.

  Allie looked more closely at the jeans and the size tag. Even though we’re both pretty tall, I wore a smaller size than her.

  “Fine,” she said. “But what are those notes you’re clinging to so passionately? Letters from your boyfriend?” she teased, and tried take them out of my hand.

  I held on tight, but was afraid I’d crush them. They felt slightly damp.

  “Actually, kind of, yes!” I said.

  She stopped trying to grab them. “Really?”

  My heart was pulsing in my ears. “Well, from the boy I wish was my boyfriend.” Just keep talking, Martone. Allie loved to listen to guy gossip.

  “Notes professing his undying love for you?” she said, and put her hands over her heart.

  “No, just notes for our next assignment.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you. What’s the assignment?” she asked, her hands on her hips now, her green-eye-shadowed eyes staring me down.

  “Reviewing the, um . . . play?”

  Allie took this in for a second. I’m not sure what was going through her mind.

  “My play? West Side Story?” she finally said.

  “That’s the one,” I said nervously. I just wanted to leave. The letters were getting really sweaty in my hand. “Okay, gotta go!” I announced, and ran out of her room.

  “Your jeans!” she called after me. For crying out loud, this was the conversation that would never end. I ran back into her room. She held the jeans up in the air.

  “You better give me a good review,” she said. “If you don’t, you’re in big trouble!”

  I nodded. I was surprised she would care about what the middle school paper had to say about her and the play.

  “Promise?” She held the jeans even higher.

  “Yes, yes!” I jumped up and took my jeans.

  Finally in the safety of my own room, I examined the letters. They were a bit wrinkled, with the ink a little runny on some of the words, but still readable, thank goodness. Where could I put them where no one could find them—or wash them, for that matter? After all that drama with Allie, I wouldn’t be surprised if she came snooping into my room to find the letters and read them herself. I stuck them under my mattress and collapsed on top of it, too tired to do any work. Older sisters were exhausting. It also seemed like it was getting harder and harder to tell the truth. I hoped I could keep my promise about the play review, or I would hav
e to add another lie to my suddenly growing list of untruths. Lately, it seemed I had the opposite problem that Too Honest did.

  Chapter 4

  GIRL TELLS THE TRUTH. BEST FRIEND SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUSTS

  Hailey came up to me the next day while I was unloading my book bag.

  “Hey,” she said. Then she leaned against my locker and gave me the once-over. “Why are you looking so blah lately?”

  “Gee, thanks. Good morning to you, too.”

  “I just think you need to be more proactive,” she said.

  Oh no, this meant she had an idea. Whenever she used big words, that meant she was going to try to convince me of something. Sometimes I get a little tired from Hailey’s energy. That’s part of the reason she’s so good at sports. She needs to put all that energy somewhere. I’ve never been a morning person. It usually takes me until third period to feel fully awake. I checked her out. Her hair was still a little wet from the shower, and she was looking bright-eyed as she always did, but maybe too bright-eyed.

  I took out my earthonomics folder and put it in my bag. Then I stood up. “What are you talking about? How proactive am I supposed to be at eight in the morning? And about what?”

  She started putting her stuff in her locker. “Well, just look at you.”

  Now she sounded like Allie. I only needed one person in my life giving me unsolicited fashion advice, and usually it was the other way around. Hailey was always asking me for advice on her outfits. I looked down at myself. I was wearing respectable dark jeans, a long gray cardigan, and black flats. Maybe not bright and peppy, but I’m the writer. Aren’t writers supposed to be kind of dark?

  “At least I’m wearing lip gloss. What about you, Miss Fashion Plate?” I said, eyeing her plain white T-shirt, jeans, and Converse sneakers.

  “Look.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice. “I don’t care what you wear. But I remember how sad you got when Michael wrote a story with Austin and you had no time with him. You need to make yourself more noticeable. You look like . . . like a rainy day.”