by Rachel Wise
Contents
Chapter 1: Martone and Lawrence: Together Again!
Chapter 2: Martone a Born Wallflower
Chapter 3: Writing Partners Give Each Other the Ax, Paper Suffers
Chapter 4: Martone Has Moves After All: Classmates Astounded by Grace of Onetime Klutz!
Chapter 5: Columnist Cracks Under Pressure, Reveals All
Chapter 6: Martone Gets Chance to Comfort Partner! Is Romance in the Air?
Chapter 7: Journo’s Nose for News Fails Her!
Chapter 8: Journo Convinces True Love He’s Wrong
Chapter 9: Woodward and Bernstein, Torn Apart by Work
Chapter 10: Good Times! Girl Power Soothes Stressed Spirits
Chapter 11: Martone Tries to Strike Zen Balance, Gets Lesson from Mom
Chapter 12: Fleeting Hopes Dashed as Martone Accepts the Truth
Chapter 13: Martone and Lawrence: Reunited in Print & in Person
‘Old Story, New Twist’ excerpt
About Rachel Wise
Chapter 1
MARTONE AND LAWRENCE: TOGETHER AGAIN!
Michael Lawrence is the best-looking boy at Cherry Valley Middle School, and he loves me.
Ha! That got your attention, right? It’s what’s called a great “lead” in a news article. The first line in any article is the lead, and it’s meant to capture the reader’s attention right from the start.
I love writing leads almost as much as I love writing headlines. I write headlines in my mind all day, just kind of narrating the action of my life. Headlines are short and snappy and fun to write, but a lead has to really draw you in and make you want to read the entire story.
Unfortunately, this lead is not true. Michael Lawrence does not love me. Or I don’t think he does, anyway. But now that I have your attention, let me flesh out the who, what, when, where, and why of my news story, just as my teachers at journalism camp taught me.
My name is Samantha Martone. I am a student at Cherry Valley Middle School, where I write for our school newspaper, the Cherry Valley Voice. I think I’m a pretty normal middle school kid. My best friend since kindergarten is Hailey Jones. My older sister, Allie, goes to high school and is perfect, which is a pain. I live with her and my mom on Buttermilk Lane. I have a really big secret.
The secret is, I am Dear Know-It-All!
Shh! Don’t tell anyone!
I guess I should explain who Dear Know-It-All is. Dear Know-It-All writes the advice column in the Cherry Valley Voice. Every September, Mr. Trigg, the newspaper’s advisor, picks a different person to write the column for the year. And this year he picked me! The only hitch is, you can’t tell anyone it’s you if you’re picked. You have to stay anonymous. Well, actually, there’s one other hitch. Writing the column is really hard. Oh, and one more major hitch: so is picking which letter you’re going to answer in your column each issue.
When things get really hard, I sometimes think of quitting. But honestly, writing the column is kind of interesting, and also, I really, really want to be editor in chief of the Voice next year, and quitting Dear Know-It-All would totally take me out of the running.
And most of all, I really like writing a column that everyone in school reads. I mean, it’s really the first thing people turn to when the new issue of the Voice comes out every other week. And everyone talks about it too.
See, the most gratifying thing for a journalist is to know you’re writing interesting stuff that people are reading and talking about. That’s why I know in my heart I’ll never really quit being Dear Know-It-All.
Oh, I also write regular articles for the paper. I know people read those, too. My best ones are the big investigative pieces I write with my writing partner/lifelong crush, Michael Lawrence.
The good news is that Mr. Trigg thinks we’re a great team, so now he assigns us to report together for almost every issue of the paper. The bad news is that Michael is so cute it can be distracting. The other bad news is that he insists on calling me “Pasty,” the nickname I got in kindergarten, thanks to a paste-eating incident. (It looked just like vanilla frosting!) And we often disagree on things. He can be annoying sometimes. On the plus side, though, since we work on so many stories together, I get to hang out with Michael Lawrence a lot.
Yay!
For example, I’m going to see him in just a few minutes! We’re about to have a newspaper staff meeting. Right now I’m in the Voice office, saving a seat for Michael. But he’ll probably be late (as usual) and five different people will ask if anyone is sitting in the seat I’m saving, and when I say yes, they’ll scowl at me and then he’ll get here so late that he won’t even be able to get from the door to the seat I’ve saved. I usually try to sit near the door so he can just quietly slink in and sit next to me, but somebody else always seems to get to that seat first. If only Michael could get here on time for once in his life! See what I mean? I’m annoyed at him already and he’s not even here yet. But at least I’ll get to hang out with him for a little while afterward. I hope he’s wearing something blue today. Blue matches his eyes and makes them really sparkle against his dark hair and tan skin. Swoon!
At 3:00 on the dot, Mr. Trigg called the meeting to order and began asking for article ideas. Kids were raising their hands and tossing out topics, and the whole group of us made comments. I love being in the newsroom. The energy, the team feeling, the smell of toner . . . it’s a happy place.
I had finally given up and released Michael’s seat to an eighth grader when he snuck in the door and quietly pulled it shut behind him. He looked over at me and raised his eyebrows in greeting, then looked around the room. It gave me an extra second to check him out, which is my favorite pastime.
Tall, long legs, dark wavy hair, bright blue eyes, a dark BLUE (yes!) short-sleeve T-shirt over a long-sleeve light BLUE (yes!!) shirt, plus tan corduroys all add up to major cuteness! He glanced back at me in his scan of the room, and I looked away, blushing for getting caught staring at him. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door, biting his lower lip in a serious, Brad Pitt kind of way. I could see his arm muscles through his sleeves. Sigh.
Michael is a major jock. He plays varsity football in the fall and varsity basketball in the winter, and he is cocaptain (with an eighth grader!) of the varsity baseball team in the spring. All of this contributes to his hunky bod and graceful coordination. I, on the other hand, am so not a jock. I am a superklutz and not even that big of a sports fan. My best friend Hailey is a jock too. She’s cocaptain of the girls’ varsity soccer team, and she and Michael have this kind of macho jokey athletic relationship that sometimes makes me feel jealous and left out. Anyway, I’m more of a bookworm. I love reading and writing and quiet activities, and I don’t really see why people think it’s so fun to run around and get all sweaty. It seems like a lot of pointless effort to me. I’m just saying.
I turned my attention back to Mr. Trigg, who was going through the week’s assignments.
“Righty-ho, we have Susannah on the new safety patrol regulations, Tyler is covering this week’s performances of the school concert, Amy is doing a piece on the new Learning Center. I need one more meaty article up front. Any ideas?” He looked around the room. I looked with him. Besides the Dear Know-It-All column I’d have to write, I was fresh out of ideas and hadn’t heard anything too inspiring from the crowd today either. Some weeks are just slow news weeks. There’s nothing you can do about it.
But then there was Michael, raising his hand.
“Mr. Lawrence, yes?” said Mr. Trigg, adjusting his Union Jack tie. The Union Jack is the British flag. Mr. Trigg is British and is obsessed with World War II, Winston Churchill, and British tabloid newspapers, not necessarily in that order.
Michael
cleared his throat. “I heard a rumor that the school district is going to start charging for after-school sports programs.”
Mr. Trigg dropped his tie and raised his eyebrows. “Really? That could be quite interesting. Where did you hear this?”
“The coaches were talking about it yesterday before practice.”
Ho hum, I thought. Who cares? I’d pay for our school to not have after-school sports. Then I could hang out with Hailey or Michael after school anytime instead of waiting for them to finish running around and getting all grimy.
But Mr. Trigg had folded his arms tightly across his chest and was tapping his chin with his index finger, which is what he always does when he’s thinking. “Right. Why don’t you and your partner in crime start digging on this one, and let’s check back on Wednesday morning and see if we’ve got a story?”
By “partner in crime,” I knew he meant me. I didn’t want to smile, but it was hard. Trying to look serious, I nodded at Mr. Trigg, then I turned to look at Michael. He nodded at me and Mr. Trigg.
Martone and Lawrence: Together Again!
I was ecstatic! Not only do I love, love, love Michael Lawrence, I love, love, love writing stories with him. Even though he calls me nicknames, and I usually do klutzy stuff in front of him, and I’m always hungry and my stomach makes a lot of noise when it rumbles . . . except for all that, I love working with Michael Lawrence.
I imagined another headline: Martone and Lawrence: A Modern-Day Woodward and Bernstein!
Woodward and Bernstein were the famous journalists who reported some illegal stuff President Nixon was doing in the 1970s. Nixon ended up resigning because of what they reported. Anyway, Woodward and Bernstein were, like, the best investigative reporters ever, and I want to be just like them.
When the meeting broke up, Michael was waiting for me by the door. “How’s it going, Pasty?” he asked.
Ugh. I bet Woodward never called Bernstein “Pasty.”
“Good, Mikey,” I replied, calling him by the family nickname that I once heard his mom use. Two could play at this game.
“All right, that’s enough of that,” he said, but he was grinning.
I grinned back.
“So how do we get started?” I said.
“Let’s meet at lunch tomorrow to brainstorm. I’ve gotta run to football right now.”
I rolled my eyes. “All play and no work makes Mikey a dull boy,” I teased.
He smiled. “I think you’ve got that backward.”
“No, I don’t, Mikey. I really don’t.”
He laughed as he walked away, and I tried not to swoon.
Chapter 2
MARTONE A BORN WALLFLOWER
Hailey came over after soccer practice so I could help her with her homework as usual. She is dyslexic and gets some help from a tutor the school district provides, but she prefers to work with me when she can. I don’t mind. By the time she gets here after soccer, I’ve usually finished most of my other homework anyway.
We followed our usual routine: I offered Hailey a snack. She declined. I made myself a snack. Hailey ate it. Then we got down to business. Talking about boys, that is.
“I get to write another article with superhunk!” I cried.
Hailey was munching on a cracker with melted cheddar cheese. “What else is new?” she said, spraying crumbs all over her plate. “Oops!” She laughed, spraying some more.
I rolled my eyes. “Why ‘what else is new’?” I asked.
“You guys are totally a team at this point. It’s like . . . a given that you write everything together. You’re like . . . peanut butter and jelly. Like . . . cheddar cheese and crackers!” Hailey laughed again and crammed the last cracker in her mouth.
“You think?” I couldn’t suppress my smile.
Hailey nodded, her mouth too full to speak.
“Really?” I could talk about this forever. I wondered if other people thought we went together like that. Other people like Michael Lawrence, and also any other girl who might have a crush on him. My stomach did a nervous flip as I was thinking of the possibilities.
Finally, Hailey swallowed. “Really,” she said, nodding her head hard.
I grinned again. “Wow.”
“Are you going to ask him to dance?” said Hailey.
What?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“At the school dance next Friday! Duh!”
“Wait, that’s next Friday?!” I started to panic. “How can it be? Already?” I jumped up and ran to the calendar by the kitchen desk. Stabbing the Fridays with my finger, I counted ahead and there it was on November 18: School Dance/Sam, it said in green ink. (Green is my color on the family calendar. Allie’s is blue and my mom’s is red.)
My stomach got all clenchy and I had to sit down.
“Aren’t you psyched?” asked Hailey. “I am!”
“No. Definitely not psyched. More like terrified! What if no one asks me to dance?”
“Oh, stop. I’m sure someone will! Probably Michael. Or what about Alex Martinez?”
“Puh-leez!” I protested. “And you’ll be busy dancing with Scott the whole time and won’t want to hang out with loser me.” I put my head down on my arms and shook it from side to side. I imagined another headline: Martone a Born Wallflower.
“Scott who?” asked Hailey, perplexed.
I looked up. “Scott Parker? Hello? Crush of your life? Obsession of the year?”
Hailey laughed. “Oh, Scott! Scott Parker!” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m totally over him. He’s too shy. Anyway, he had that weird stalker, and I’m just going to stay away from him and that whole scenario with a ten-foot pole!”
I had to laugh. “Okay, so who are you going to dance with?”
“You!” Hailey jumped up and turned on the iPod on the counter. Some horrible ’80s music of my mom’s came wailing out of the thing, and Hailey began doing a really funny dance, all rubbery arms with her head pumping up and down. I couldn’t help laughing.
Hailey stopped. “Why are you laughing? Do I look funny dancing?”
“Wait, um . . . I thought you were just fooling around.”
“No, that’s my real dance,” she said. “Is it bad? Do I look like a total geek?”
“Oh! Oh, no. Totally not. No. It’s fine. It’s . . . well, Hailey, actually . . . we have some work to do.” I went over to the iPod and searched around for some music from this century. When I found a song I liked, I turned it way up loud and began to dance.
“C’mon, just copy me,” I instructed.
Hailey watched me out of the corner of her eye and began trying to imitate my moves. We shook our hips from side to side and gave a little wiggle to the right, a wiggle to the left, and I pumped my bent arms at my side. Then I jumped in place to do a turn and Hailey did the same.
Hailey and I looked at each other, and I knew we were thinking the same thing: dance lessons!
“Where could we take dance lessons?” I asked, just as I noticed someone hovering in the doorway. It was my sister, Allie, who was filming us with her phone and laughing hysterically.
“Allie!” I screamed, and dove at her, grabbing for the phone, but she held it away from me. “Stop!” I yelled.
Hailey, meanwhile, went and switched off the music. Her face was beet red. She has two brothers and no sisters, so she worships Allie as if Allie is the high priestess of all things cool. Which she kind of is. She’s pretty and funny and the star of the volleyball team. Plus, she coordinates the high school’s student web site, so she’s super plugged-in and has more than six hundred followers on Buddybook. Six hundred!
“Hey, Allie,” said Hailey.
Allie turned off her phone. “You two are too much. I can’t wait to post this on the school web site.”
“Allie! I’m telling Mom!” I cried.
“Oh, stop. I’m just kidding,” she said. “But you two could really use some dance lessons. No joke.”
“We’d love dance lessons,” I s
aid. “But who would we get them from?”
Allie put her phone in her pocket and opened the fridge to stare inside. “From me, silly,” said Allie. She took out some cottage cheese and carrots and sat down at the table.
Hailey and I rushed to her side and sat down. “From you?” I said. “When?”
“How about now?” asked Hailey politely, her face hopeful.
Allie looked at her watch. “Well . . .” She dipped a carrot in the cottage cheese and chewed thoughtfully.
Hailey and I glanced at each other. We were hopeful, but I was also annoyed, knowing how much Allie was enjoying the power she had over us right now.
Allie swallowed. “All right. I could do it for a little while now.”
“Oh, Allie! You’re the best!” cried Hailey.
I wouldn’t go that far, but I was grateful. “Thanks, Al.”
“Let me finish my snack and then I’ll show you,” she said. “Here. Plug my phone into the speakers and open up the music files.”
Hailey couldn’t act fast enough. She grabbed the phone, set it into the player, and scrolled through to Allie’s playlist. Allie walked over and selected a song. “Okay, here’s a good one,” she said, and turned up the volume.
The rhythm was slow, but the chorus was kind of hypnotic. Allie began dancing in place, swaying from side to side, her knees bent and her arms swinging out to shoulder height in front of her. Her silver bangle bracelets jangled up and down her arm, and her hair spun out as she shook her head, looking left and right.
“See? Like this,” she said. She pointed one bent knee out to the side, then the other. Left, right, left, right, left, left, right then right, right, left. All the while kind of standing in one place, with her arms moving in front of her like they were steering a car. Her head bopped to the right, then to the left. It was pretty impressive.
“And here’s the coolest part, so pay attention,” Allie commanded. She lifted her right hand and passed it over her head and down her back, like she was smoothing out her hair. She then did the same with her left hand. She smiled proudly. She was really good at it.