Cast Your Ballot!

  Chapter 1

  POLLS A PROVING GROUND FOR RISING STAR REPORTER

  It is election season at Cherry Valley Middle School, and I cannot wait to cover it for our school newspaper, the Cherry Valley Voice. Everyone pays attention to the news around election time, so I’m really psyched to be in the middle of it. Plus, it’s good training ground for when I get older and am a star reporter covering the presidential election somewhere (watch for me!). I am obsessed with journalism and have spent years reading posts, blogs, newspapers, and magazines and watching coverage of real elections on TV, and I am ready to get in there and do it myself! I can just see the headline: Polls a Proving Ground for Rising Star Reporter.

  Elections have it all: person-on-the-street interviews, polls, background digging, daily highs and lows, analysis—the best stuff journalism has to offer. And what’s great is I’ll get to do it all–and under my own byline, Sam Martone. Oh, along with that of my writing partner and the crush of my life, Michael Lawrence. Michael and I make a good writing team. Luckily, the paper’s faculty supervisor, Mr. Trigg, agrees, so he partners us up for most stories. I have to say, we do make a great pair.

  Today Mr. Trigg announced in our newspaper staff meeting that we’d begin election coverage for the next issue. Everyone began whispering with their neighbor (Michael was late, as usual, so I didn’t have a neighbor to whisper with at that exact moment), and Mr. Trigg had to call us all to order again.

  “Wonderful enthusiasm here today!” He chuckled. “Nothing like an election to get the journalistic juices flowing! All right, then, let’s talk assignments. Nikil Gupta and Niall Carey, how about a piece on the election process here at Cherry Valley Middle? Let’s focus on: How do people get nominated? How do the campaigns work? Where and how do we vote?”

  Mr. Trigg looked at his notes, and just then, Michael entered with a sheepish grin. He nodded at Mr. Trigg apologetically and quickly joined me on the love seat just inside the newsroom door. I always grab this seat early and save him the other half—it’s the best seat for late arrivals, which is what Michael always is. Plus, it is called a love seat, right? Swoon!

  “Ah, Mr. Lawrence. So glad you could join us today,” said Mr. Trigg, peering at Michael over his reading glasses. Michael is one of Mr. Trigg’s favorites since he’s an amazing writer and has a photographic memory, so Mr. Trigg lets Michael get away with a lot of other stuff, like lateness. “I’d like you and Ms. Martone to do profiles of the candidates for school president. Front-page stories. Lots of background, person-on-the-street, and primary interviews with the candidates. Okay, you two?”

  He looked at us, and we nodded vigorously and smiled. This was a plum assignment. It would be fun to research and write, and we’d get to work together, which wasn’t always a given. I was ecstatic.

  “The two candidates are John Scott and . . .” He looked down at his notes. “It’s here somewhere . . . hiding . . . I wouldn’t want to be running against John Scott either! Oh, here it is! Anthony Wright. Okay?”

  “Got it,” I said, writing their names down in my trusty notebook even though of course I knew already. I had been reading a lot of posts about who was running, and paying attention for weeks already.

  “Good note-taking, Pasty,” whispered Michael.

  I nodded, happy enough to ignore his nickname for me for the millionth time, as well as the fact that he always teases me for writing things down in my notebook.

  Mr. Trigg continued. “Let us all remember, reporters, that we are impartial. As the press, we merely reflect what the public says, and we strive to be the ultimate in fair and accurate reporting, especially when it comes to elections. Now, opinion pieces are a different matter, but I don’t know that we’ll be using them this time around. Feelings do get hurt,” said Mr. Trigg, rolling his eyes heavenward. “In the words of the late, great Winston Churchill, ‘There is no such thing as public opinion. There is only published opinion.’ Too true, dear Winston, too true,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

  Everyone giggled, since Mr. Trigg has this unbelievable ability to find the perfect Churchill quotation for anything. Everyone makes bets on how many times Trigger will mention Churchill in a meeting. Some kids even think he makes the quotations up. I always write them down because I like them, so I’m here to say they’re all real because I’ve Googled them! I actually think they’d make a great article one day.

  After the meeting Michael and I both had to run to classes, but we made a plan to meet up later and brainstorm.

  “Who are you voting for, by the way?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

  “I am a journalist! I am objective!” I said indignantly. “I won’t know until I have all the facts and can make an informed decision!”

  “Innocent until proven guilty, then?” he teased with that adorable smile of his.

  “Of course,” I huffed, but I smiled back. How could I not?

  At lunch I ate with my best friend, Hailey Jones, and our friends Kristen and Jenna. We are going to the movies this Friday and out for pizza at Slices, and we wanted to talk about which movie to see.

  “Action is where it’s at, my friends,” declared Hailey. She wanted us to go see a movie about a spaceship that loses control or something.

  “Uh, nothing personal, Hails, but you know that’s not really my bag,” I said.

  Hailey rolled her eyes as she took another bite of her usual lunch: white rice with salt and butter (yes, it’s kind of gross, and yes, Hailey’s mother would not be happy if she knew that’s what she ate most days). She said, “You just want to go to one of those old-fashioned Jane Austen novel movies or talky-talky movies you like. I just can’t sit still for that!”

  Kristen and Jenna were used to Hailey’s and my battling over details, but everyone knows that underneath it all we’re best friends.

  “Well, I have to be true to myself,” I said, all fake righteous.

  “So do I! I just want to kick back, relax, and get scared!”

  Everyone laughed, as Hailey had intended, and she smiled a lopsided grin. I didn’t want to propose a vote because I knew Jenna and Kristen wanted to see the same movie about old-fashioned times that I did, and it wouldn’t be fair to gang up on Hailey. We’d just have to let the movie times decide what we saw and never mind accounting for people’s interests.

  “Oh, and by the way, there will be way more cute boys at my movie than yours!” said Hailey in one last attempt.

  “Hmm. You have a point,” I had to admit. “But any cute boys in particular?” These three girls all know about my huge crush on Michael.

  Hailey’s eyes twinkled. “We could invite him!”

  “No. It’s a girls’ night,” I said firmly. We’d been planning on this date for weeks. Not that I would really have the nerve to invite him anyway. Or maybe I would. Would that be weird? I realized they were all looking at me. “Anyway, I’m not going to base my activities on Michael Lawrence’s interests!” I declared.

  “Famous last words!” Hailey laughed.

  “Humph,” I said. “Let’s change the subject. What do you all know about the candidates for school president?”

  “Ooh, John Scott is sooo cute!” said Jenna.

  “Majorly,” agreed Kristen.

  “Hails?” I asked.

  “He’s cute, I guess. But I didn’t know we were voting on looks alone,” she said.

  “That’s my girl!” I cheered. “Good answer!”

  “Not that I know anything about the other guy,” she said.

  “Who is the other guy?” asked Kristen.

  “Anthony Wright,” I said, shrugging a little.

  “No, but who is he?” asked Jenna.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I agreed. “Pretty low on the radar.
”

  “Like, invisible.” Kristen nodded.

  “I’ve got to write profiles on both of them for the next issue of the Voice, so I’ll know a lot more very soon,” I said.

  “Need an assistant for the Scott interview?” joked Jenna.

  “I already have one!” I declared. And, spotting Michael across the cafeteria, I said, “And he’s right there!”

  “Old lover boy himself,” teased Hailey.

  Here are some of the reasons I love Michael: He is tall and in very good shape from being on the football and baseball teams. He has dark hair with bright blue eyes, which is a great combo, and dimples. He is a good dresser—lots of flannel shirts and khakis—but it’s not just the way he looks. He also has nice manners, and he’s an excellent writer and a talented cook.

  Michael and I mostly get along very well, but we sometimes fight, and I hate that. I want him to always like me, and I want for us to always get along, but when things aren’t right, I have to stand up for myself and to him, no matter what. It’s just the way I am. I might compromise on some things, but I won’t change just to make someone like me.

  Remembering my responsibilities, I snapped out of my love-struck dream. There was something I needed to grab from the newsroom, and now would be a good time.

  “Okay, chicas, I’m off,” I said, gathering up my tray and my messenger bag.

  “So soon?” said Hailey.

  “Yes, but I’ll meet you after school,” I said. I usually help Hailey with her homework if I have free time. She’s dyslexic and she has a school-appointed tutor, but only one or two days a week. I help the rest of the time, since she hates reading and writing and I love it.

  “Later!” called Kristen and Jenna.

  I walked a few steps away and looked up and there was Michael, standing with his lunch tray. “Leaving so soon?” he asked.

  Darn it!

  “Uh, yes . . . ?” I stammered.

  “Can’t you stay for a minute?” he asked.

  I sighed. I’d love nothing more, but what I needed to do couldn’t wait. “I’m sorry. I just can’t,” I said.

  Michael sighed now too. “Okay. Maybe later?”

  “I have to help Hailey with her homework after school,” I said. “Can we talk by phone tonight? Or . . . ?” I was hoping he’d ask me to meet him after school again like he did a few weeks ago.

  “Sure. Or maybe we can get together tomorrow,” he said.

  Yesss!

  Michael did a U-turn away from where he’d been heading (toward my table!) and scanned the crowd for his guy friends.

  “Great,” I said. “Sorry to miss you today.”

  “Yup,” he agreed. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Parting is such sweet sorrow, as Shakespeare liked to say. Oh well. Business is business, I thought, and I headed back to the newsroom.

  Chapter 2

  JOURNALIST BUSTED IN LOCKED OFFICE CRACKS UNDER QUESTIONING

  Back at the newsroom, I tried the handle to find that the door was locked. I could see through the opaque glass in the door that the lights were out, too. Good, I thought. It was just how I like it.

  Looking quickly over my shoulder in both directions, I slid my key into the lock, opened the door, slipped inside, and swiftly shut and locked it behind me. Phew! So far so good. Only Mr. Trigg, the editor in chief, and I have keys to the office, and only two of us know why I’m there. So I’m pretty safe.

  I took a deep breath; then I got my next key ready to open my mailbox.

  Suddenly, there was a rattling at the door. Someone was trying to come in! I froze right in the middle of the room. Should I hide? Act like I fell asleep on the love seat? What?

  Journalist Busted in Locked Office Cracks Under Questioning.

  Oh no.

  But the person gave up and went away.

  I resumed my creep to the mailbox and was just putting my key into the lock when I heard someone at the door again. This time, a key entered the lock neatly and the door opened. If it was the editor in chief, I was toast! I held my breath, nowhere to hide, nothing to mask what I was doing.

  Whew, what a relief! But oh boy, thank goodness it was just Mr. Trigg. He flicked the lights on and startled when he saw me.

  “Goodness, Ms. Martone, you gave me a fright!”

  “Likewise,” I said with a relieved grin. “Would you mind shutting the door for a minute?” I gestured at my mailbox.

  “Oh, certainly! So sorry! Of course. And I’ll turn the lights out, as it was, okeydoke?” he began to whisper. “Like Woodward and Bernstein in here!”

  I giggled at the reference to the two reporters whose top-secret investigation of election tactics brought down President Nixon. Mr. Trigg loves the cloak-and-dagger aspects of my other job at the paper, which is that I am the top-secret advice columnist who writes as “Dear Know-It-All.” If my identity is ever discovered, I lose my job, so the anonymity is something I work hard to maintain. Thus all the sneaking around.

  I quickly opened my mailbox and withdrew the three paltry letters inside, as Mr. Trigg put a finger to his lips and tiptoed to his office. I locked the mailbox back up and went to the door to unlock it and turn on the light while simultaneously jamming the letters down into my messenger bag and out of sight.

  Sighing in relief, I crossed the newsroom to Mr. Trigg’s office in the corner. A little bit of Fleet Street right in our very midst, it was decked in Union Jacks and Churchill posters, with a double-decker-bus pencil sharpener, a Keep Calm and Carry On poster, and other common British accoutrements, including a small electric teakettle, which he was just setting on to boil.

  “Fancy a spot of tea?” he asked me.

  “No thanks. I just had lunch.”

  “Anything good in the mail?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

  I smiled. “I don’t know yet. I can’t really check here. I’d hate to get caught.”

  “Very professional. Impressive as always. I’ll certainly make a note of that in your file.”

  “My file? What file?”

  Mr. Trigg looked at me in confusion. “I have files on all my writers and editors. I keep their clips in there, notes about their style, work, impressive judgment calls, all that sort of thing.”

  “Why?” I asked incredulously.

  Mr. Trigg looked back at me, equally incredulous. “References, applications, background checks. People ask me all the time for help with those things.”

  “Applications? Like to college?”

  “Certainly. And some to private high schools or even boarding schools. My editors and writers often apply as journalists for summer internships or jobs just out of school, and they want me to write their recommendations.”

  “Huh. Seems like they’re stretching back in time pretty far. Sixth grade? Eighth grade?”

  “You’d be surprised how short it seems to me,” he said, pouring his hot water over his tea bag. “In any case, I can easily tell what my students’ fundamental characters are at this stage, their work ethic, their punctuality, attention to detail. There are quite a few character traits that don’t change over time.”

  “Wow. I guess I’d better be nicer to you,” I joked.

  “Don’t change a thing,” he said, smiling warmly over the rim of his mug as he took a tentative sip. “Incidentally, most newspapers keep files on famous people. Used to be clippings; now I’m sure it’s all digitized. It helped when reporters needed to do a story on someone notable. They’d just order up the file and have plenty of info to get started. Also used it for obituaries, of course. But mostly very handy for business and politics.”

  “I guess now we just Google,” I said.

  “Of course. But Googling is not as good in some ways. It pulls up too much stuff, things that might be irrelevant or out of context, and then it doesn’t pull up some of the good stuff, like old profiles with analysis.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “I’ll remember that.”

  “Good. Now, anything el
se going on?”

  “Not at the moment!” I looked at my watch. “Except I have my next class in about two minutes! Gotta run.”

  “Cheerio, Ms. Martone,” he said as I turned to leave.

  “Bye!”

  I raced to make my next class on time, my messenger bag thumping my leg as I ran, and all I could think about was Imagine: Mr. Trigg is already thinking about me going to college one day!

  That night, after Hailey had left and my mom and my sister and I had finished our dinner (fajita night!), I finally had five minutes to myself to sit at my desk and open my Dear Know-It-All letters. They usually come in along certain themes each time, and these were no exception.

  There was the “my family doesn’t understand me” letter, on plain notebook paper in a white business envelope:

  Dear Know-It-All,

  My mom is always hounding me to clean my room, but I like it the way it is. I don’t see it as messy just because I have my things around and some snacks in there. Why should I have to clean it to her specifications?

  From,

  Messy with Style

  Hmm. I guess if your mom is paying the bills (including the exterminator bill), Messy, then you have to obey her standards. Find another form of self-expression.

  Next, there was the “homework’s getting me down” letter, on camp stationery from a boys’ camp in Maine.

  Dear Know-It-All

  When do we get a break I’m busy all summer with programs and camps and then busy all year with homework and studying for tests When do I get a chance to sleep late and lie around if I want

  WHEN

  Signed,

  Tired

  Wow. Too tired even to punctuate. Well, I hear you, Tired, and the answer is never, I think. I’m sorry.

  Finally, the third letter was a “love hurts” letter, on pink scalloped stationery, of course, with a matching envelope.

  Dear Know-It-All,

  I like an eighth grader (I’m in sixth), but he won’t even look at me. Do I stand a chance? If so, what can I do to get him to like me?

  Signed,