by Rachel Wise
“Really, let me help,” I said. I lifted Michael’s backpack from Mr. Pfeiffer and hoisted it on my back. It was heavy. “Ready?” I asked.
Mary handed Michael the elevator pass, and we shook hands with Mr. Pfeiffer.
“Thanks again, Mr. Pfeiffer. You really made me see this in a whole new way,” I said.
“Glad to help,” said Mr. Pfeiffer. “See you kids soon! And I’ll let you know what the superintendent says!”
We walked out into the hallway and I suddenly felt really awkward.
“I can carry my backpack,” said Michael.
“Well, at least let me get you to the elevator,” I said.
Michael shrugged. “Thanks. I don’t want to take you out of your way.”
“It’s not out of my way. I’ve got to go up to science anyway and the stairs are right there.” We were speaking like we were strangers. And suddenly I could see that in most ways, we were.
Michael looked down at his elevator pass. “I’m only going one floor up to the nurse’s office. But it says I’m allowed to bring a friend on the elevator with me.”
“Oh,” I said, looking down at the elevator pass.
“But I’m not sure you’re my friend,” he said. “Friends don’t try to maim each other.”
My head snapped up in shock, but then I saw that he was smiling.
“I am your friend,” I said. And I smiled back.
“Okay, then right this way. Good thing there’s a wide door . . .” He gestured me onto the elevator.
“Very funny,” I said.
I sighed as we climbed aboard. Martone Back from the Brink of Disaster, I thought.
“I didn’t know you threw lefty . . .” I said as the doors closed.
My mom was waiting for me when I got home from school that afternoon.
“Samantha, Allie tells me you joined Buddybook without my permission,” she said before I’d even put down my messenger bag.
“Well . . .” I was caught off guard. “I did, but I’ve already quit. Wait, when did she tell you?” Our mom had been at the gym when we’d left for school this morning, so we hadn’t seen her.
“She texted me,” said my mom.
“That is so annoying! Now she’s texting to meddle in my life?”
My mom smiled a wry smile. “Isn’t that what social media is all about? Meddling in people’s lives?”
“Yeah, it sure seems like it.” We walked up the steps to the kitchen and I started making a big snack of melted cheddar cheese on Triscuits. I was still suffering the effects of not eating lunch.
“Listen, sweetheart, Buddybook is a big commitment. I don’t want to see you wasting your time on it before we’ve had a chance to discuss our family’s rules and guidelines for using it. If you decide you’re going to do it again, you’ll need my permission.”
I waved my hand at her. “Don’t worry. I’m over it,” I said.
My mom looked at me for a long minute. Then she said, “Okay, but since I have your attention on the subject, there are just three things to always remember: One, only you can control your image online—written, video, photographic, all of it. And you need to be vigilant about it. Two, whatever goes online stays online forever. It never goes away. And three, never put anything online that it wouldn’t be okay for everyone to see, including me, or your grandmother, or Dr. Sobel . . .”
Dr. Sobel is our dentist. “Mom!” I laughed.
She smiled. “Just so you get my point. Anyone.”
I nodded and started eating my crackers. “Okay. I get it.”
We were quiet for a minute and then she said, “How’s the new curriculum?”
“Fine. Oh, that just made me remember . . .” I pulled the envelope out of my messenger bag and carefully took out the new curriculum materials. I didn’t let my mom see the Know-It-All letters. I had my professional standard of anonymity to uphold, after all. Even if Mr. Trigg had told her, we didn’t have to talk about it.
I laid the curriculum materials out on the table between us and we looked at them.
“It’s interesting,” said my mom. “I can see both sides.”
“What are both sides?” I asked. A lot of this was still unclear to me.
“Well, the traditionalists like the subject-based approach, where in math you learn math and in English you learn reading and writing. But in the new curriculum you learn to look at topics from many angles. You learn how to sift through different kinds of information. You learn how to ask questions. It might not work for every kind of student.”
“I already know how to ask questions,” I said with a grin.
“You sure do, sweetheart,” said my mom, rubbing my back briskly. “So you will do just fine. Just remember, not everything has a one-word answer. Not everything is cut-and-dried.”
“I know, Mom. I tried to remember that when I was sitting in the principal’s office this afternoon.”
“WHAT?!” Her shocked reaction was just what I’d hoped for.
“Gotcha!” I laughed. “I interviewed him about the new curriculum.”
“Oh, Samantha, you nearly gave me heart failure! Well, just remember to always be polite and be pleasant. My dear grandmother used to say . . .”
“I know, I know . . .”
“You catch more bees with honey!” We said it at the same time and laughed.
Chapter 8
STOMACH RUCKUS DRIVES AWAY HOTTIE
I was lying in bed that night, thinking back over the day and especially about the meeting with Mr. Pfeiffer, when suddenly, I sat bolt upright.
Oh my goodness! We’d been snowed!
The whole time that Michael and I had been meeting with Mr. Pfeiffer, the principal’s enthusiasm swept us along and we’d never asked him any hard questions or anything! How had I, of all people, not asked any probing questions? How had I, of all people, gone though that whole half hour without trying to poke any holes in his story or his facts? Was it because I wasn’t using my notebook? Yes. Was I distracted by Michael’s presence? Yes. Was I distracted by the hand-slamming incident? Yes. Was I intimidated by the principal? Yes, yes, yes, and yes!
Martone Blows First Major Interview!
I was ashamed of myself. I’d wasted an important opportunity and Mr. Trigg would have been very disappointed in me. It was not the behavior of an editor in chief in training! I was behaving like a rookie!
Now my adrenaline was pumping and I had to turn on the light and grab my notebook. I brainstormed some questions for Mr. Pfeiffer and wrote them down, vowing to myself that I would ask them at the PTA meeting. I could not let another opportunity escape me.
Once I had everything safely logged in my notebook, I began to calm down. Reviewing my new set of questions, my heart stopped racing and I began to feel like I was back in control. I turned off my light and lay there in the darkness, resolving to be tougher than ever in my reporting. Facts matter, I scolded myself. Don’t be distracted by your emotions, I chanted in my head.
As much as I love news reporting, I still have a long way to go.
The PTA meeting in the school auditorium on Thursday night was mobbed. Nearly everyone who was there was ready to debate for and against the new curriculum. It could get rowdy. Actually, I hoped it would! That would make a great story.
I got there early and snagged a seat in the second row near the center. I put my messenger bag on the chair next to me. Michael had said if I got there first, I should save him a seat, but I hadn’t seen any sign of him. I knew he had football practice, but it didn’t usually run late. Meanwhile, I wished I’d had a chance to get a snack between study hall and visiting the final day of soccer tryouts for my story on that. I was starving.
The room filled quickly. I didn’t realize this was going to be such a hot event! About twenty people asked if someone was sitting in the seat next to me and after I’d said yes enough times, I started getting a little annoyed with Michael. If he didn’t come, I would look like a liar.
Finally at 6:01, Mrs. Jo
nes, the parent head of the PTA, called the meeting to order. She and Mr. Pfeiffer and the dean of students and the assistant principal were all sitting at a table up on the stage. They did a bunch of meeting-ish stuff, like making announcements, and then Mrs. Jones said they would welcome any commentary on the curriculum changes so far. I didn’t want to lead with my questions so I sat back and bided my time, taking notes.
The first person to stand was a sixth-grade parent. She read from a prepared statement that said American education is about learning the basics in common with everyone else in the country. To take a new approach was un-American. A bunch of people clapped. Mr. Pfeiffer listened thoughtfully, but he didn’t say anything.
Next Mrs. Perry stood up. Jeff was at the event taking photos for the Voice and I looked at him to see if he was happy or embarrassed that his mom was talking. It looked like he was pretending he didn’t know her, but he did snap her photo.
“Our children spend enough time on the Internet,” she said angrily. “We are not paying huge school taxes to have our children sit on computers all day. They can do that at home!” Mrs. Perry sat down in a huff.
A bunch of people clapped and now Jeff’s face was red. Looks like Mrs. Perry is a little sick of Jeff’s Buddybook obsession.
Just then there was a little activity at the end of my row and I turned to see Michael sidling in, apologizing. A smile bloomed on my face and I tried to force it away. This was business after all and he was late.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey,” I whispered back, trying to collect myself now that he was sitting so close I could feel the warmth radiating off his arms. He had obviously come straight from football practice, since his hair was wet and he smelled all soapy. All of my annoyance melted away.
“Did I miss anything?” he asked.
“Only Perry’s mom freaking out about Buddybook in the classrooms,” I whispered.
“Seriously?” he said, turning to face me.
“Nah.” I shook my head and smiled, and he swatted my knee with a flyer he had in his hand.
“You should’ve been there yesterday when Andy Ryan threatened to beat the tar out of Perry if he didn’t take down his photo,” whispered Michael.
Some lady shushed us, and Michael turned to listen to the meeting.
Mr. Pfeiffer was still answering Mrs. Perry, saying that schools need to educate kids how to sift through all the junk out there, and part of that is using the Internet, and that our school is educating kids for the future, not just the present. “Though computers will in no way replace books or teachers at Cherry Valley Middle School,” he added. I wrote that down as a quote.
Mrs. Perry looked skeptical but didn’t say anything more.
Meanwhile, my stomach knew it was my usual dinnertime. I only hoped it wouldn’t growl audibly, with Michael sitting right next to me. Holy embarrassing! Stomach Ruckus Drives Away Hottie, Girl Dies of Embarrassment.
An eighth grader’s father stood up to ask how the school was planning on handling reading levels now that even science and math would incorporate reading. “With some kids very proficient, and others at a more remedial level, how will you handle such a reading-driven curriculum?” he asked. That was a great question, I thought, thinking of Hailey and writing it down.
Oops. I could feel a stomach growl coming. I bent to look for gum in my bag and ended up accidentally tossing my notebook on the floor. It made a loud rustling slam as it hit the floor, and a bunch of people turned to look—Michael among them. He reached to pick it up for me, and my face burned as I took it from him. Great. Another strike against my notebook—it was noisy and sloppy and always subject to my klutziness. And after all that I didn’t have any gum to hold off my hunger pangs!
Worse, I had missed Mr. Pfeiffer’s reply about reading levels.
“Did you get that?” I whispered to Michael.
He nodded.
“Good.”
There was a lull in the questioning so I flipped my notebook open and decided it was now or never. I had to rectify our snoozing through the interview with Mr. Pfeiffer the other day and, I had to admit, I also wanted to impress Michael.
“Mr. Pfeiffer.” I was on my feet and talking before I’d even had a chance to get nervous about it.
“Yes, Samantha,” said Mr. Pfeiffer with a smile. He obviously figured this would be an easy question from a friendly person on his team. Ha!
“Mr. Pfeiffer, who made the decision to change the curriculum and what are you doing to train the teachers in the new curriculum?”
I didn’t think I was being harsh. Mr. Pfeiffer had been nice to us in his office and about Michael’s hand and everything, but news is news.
Mr. Pfeiffer’s smile faded. “That is a very good question, Samantha. Ahem.” Mr. Pfeiffer cleared his throat. It seemed like he was stalling for time. “The decision was reached in agreement with the superintendent of schools and the board of education.”
“On behalf of our school who made the decision?”
“It was . . . just me. I did.” Mr. Pfeiffer looked uncomfortable.
Ooh! This was news! Now I was getting somewhere!
“So you volunteered for us to be guinea pigs, without input from anyone else on staff?”
A lot of the parents clapped and a couple of people shouted, “Bravo!” I tried not to listen to them. This wasn’t about me.
“It was an opportunity for our school. This is the wave of the future. It also allowed us to secure additional funding in state grants. The teachers were all behind it.” Mr. Pfeiffer’s lips pressed into a straight line. He looked away, as if to call on someone else but he hadn’t finished answering everything yet.
“And about the teacher training?” I pressed. It was hard to copy his words into my notebook as I spoke. I looked up.
Mr. Pfeiffer had an unsure expression on his face. “I think that . . . ah . . . this is a work in progress and we will be supporting the teachers all the way along.”
Ooh! I’d just found the weak spot in all this!
“So it’s kind of on-the-job training?” I summarized. Outside, I was cool as a cucumber, but inside I was shaking like a leaf.
Mr. Pfeiffer’s face hardened. “The teachers are being given every kind of help that they need. Next question?” He looked around the audience and called on a teacher who asked something easy. I sat down.
“What was that all about?” Michael asked in a whisper. He looked kind of mad.
I was fired up, though, so I didn’t really care. “I just had a sense that that part of it hasn’t been thought through all that well. And I was right.”
“Wow. You were pretty harsh though, pressing him like that. You don’t want to alienate a source before the article is finished.”
“News is news. We need to present all the facts.”
Michael looked at me like he was just really seeing me for the first time. I couldn’t tell if it was in a good way or a bad way. I looked away and busied myself with copying down notes in my notebook. Did Michael think I’d gone too far? Had I? Did I care?
My stomach chose that moment to wail in protest of its hunger. I clamped my hand over it and felt my face turn beet red. I didn’t know what to do. Should I acknowledge it or just pretend it hadn’t happened?
There was a long moment where I had the sinking feeling that I’d just completely turned Michael off with my aggressive questioning and now with my noisy body. As my adrenaline wore off and my hands steadied, doubt began to creep in. I had a sinking feeling that Michael was angry with me.
But suddenly Michael was nudging me in the ribs. I looked over and he was holding a granola bar. Okay, now I was totally mortified that he had heard my stomach. But maybe this meant he didn’t think I was an awful person for grilling Mr. Pfeiffer.
I looked up at his face and he was smiling. “Go on. Take it,” he said, wiggling it at me. I palmed it from him and casually opened the wrapper. I broke off half the bar and handed him back the other half, but he w
aved it at me. I was so ravenous I could barely contain myself, but I didn’t want to look like a pig, guinea or otherwise.
“Thanks,” I whispered, taking a bite. Unfortunately it was the hard kind, so I had to kind of suck on the bite for a while to soften it up. I didn’t want to make a racket sitting there eating Michael’s snack.
Mr. Pfeiffer was now discussing how the curriculum changes would affect state testing. I copied down a few more choice quotes and started to get bored. Now that I had asked my questions and had a little snack, I was starting to feel tired, but I couldn’t leave until the meeting was over. What if I missed something?
Michael nudged me again. “Hey. I’ll follow up on that state funding he was talking about.”
“What?” It rang a bell but I wasn’t sure what he meant. I flipped through my notes but I couldn’t find any reference to it.
Michael rolled his eyes at my notebook. “I’m going to head out,” he said.
I was surprised that he would bail before the end of the meeting. “Really? Things aren’t even close to over,” I replied.
“The good stuff is,” he whispered with a shrug. “Later, Crunchy.” And he stood up and left.
Crunchy?! Aargh! Just what I need. Another nickname!
And the worst part was, Michael was right. The rest of the meeting was boring. At the very end it kind of fell apart with people arguing but not in an interesting way. Everyone pretty much stood up and left, and there was no change or resolution in the end. The new curriculum was here to stay and everyone was just going to have to get used to it.
I had wasted an extra hour trying to get more scoop, but it was Michael who had the real nose for news, knowing when to pull the rip cord and just bail. Annoying.
I was now late for dinner, behind on my homework, and I hadn’t started the Dear Know-It-All column. I comforted myself by thinking back to Mr. Bloom, one of my teachers at journalism camp. He used to say 99 percent of being a journalist is just waiting around for something to happen. For the second half of tonight’s meeting, he was right.
Chapter 9