Black and White and Gray All Over Page 2

  Oh. Fresh? New?

  I felt like Michael had just punched me in the stomach. I had to get out of there before I cried (and I am not a crier).

  “Well, good luck!” I said, all fake cheery, turning to go. “I’m sure it will turn out great!”

  “Okay . . . ,” he said.

  I think Michael was confused by my sudden departure, but with tears pricking at my eyes, I could hardly stay. It was bad enough that they were on the article together and she was this great star reporter, but she had something I’d never have: newness. Michael and I have been in the same class since kindergarten and he might just be sick of me. But there is nothing I can do to change that except move away for ten years and come back with an accent!

  I speed-walked out of school and rode my bike home very quickly.

  After I stowed my bike in the garage, I climbed the stairs to the first floor and passed Allie in the kitchen.

  She said in a teasing voice, “How’s the star reporter today?”

  I told her to shut up and I kept walking.

  “Wow,” she said, shaking her head.

  Whatever. I knew my mom would make me apologize to her later, but it felt good to take out my anger on Allie for even a minute.

  Upstairs, I flung my bag to the floor, shut my door firmly, and flattened myself facedown on the bed. I felt like everything I’d been working toward had come crashing down. I wasn’t a star reporter: I was just a staff writer who was easily replaced by an untested newbie. And I wasn’t Michael Lawrence’s right hand, edging toward something more: I was just a replaceable writing partner who was stale and overly familiar, not fresh or new like some other people.

  The tears of self-pity started to flow.

  I wiped myself out with crying—I guess I’m not in good crying shape, because I do it so rarely—and I wound up closing my eyes for just a few minutes. But suddenly it was dark outside and my mom was coming in and waking me up for dinner.

  “Sweetheart, time to wake up. I let you sleep for a little while . . . .” She was rubbing my back and speaking in a soothing tone. The light from the hall spilled into my room and made me wince. I was uncomfortable, too, since I’d fallen asleep with my notebook under me at a weird angle.

  “Hi,” I croaked, turning over. “Can’t I just go to bed for the night?”

  “No, you need something in your stomach, and I’m sure you must have homework.”

  I moaned. “I’m tired.”

  “Maybe you slept too long. What’s the matter? Allie said you were cranky when you got home.” She sat down on the side of my bed, settling in for a chat.

  Ugh. I just wanted to go back to sleep and now this.

  “Is it something to do with your classes?” she asked.

  I shook my head and stretched.

  “Your friends?”

  Again, no.

  “Is it the paper?”

  I was actually surprised she hadn’t guessed that first, since I’ve had a lot of drama this year with the paper. I sighed and nodded.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” she asked, smoothing my hair back from my face.

  I did not want to start crying again, and it was hard to think of how to phrase it so that I wouldn’t. I took a deep breath.

  “Well . . . there’s this new girl at school . . . ,” I said, and I started crying.

  “Okay, shh. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me right now. Why don’t you come have something to eat and then you’ll feel better?” she said.

  I nodded and climbed off my bed.

  “Go wash your face and then come down for dinner. It’s lentil soup with those crispy broiled bread slices you like, with the olive oil and salt. And some prosciutto.”

  “Yum!” Suddenly I realized I was starving. I had barely eaten lunch, and anyway, the crying had made me hungry too. Relief Worker Saves Weary Girl.

  “Oh, and . . . you still need to apologize to Allie for telling her to shut up.”

  Snap!

  Downstairs, I slid into my seat at the table, apologizing very briefly to Allie. She had obviously been warned not to hassle me, so she accepted, and I ate my dinner in silence, interrupting only to ask for seconds.

  Afterward, I did feel much better. I sighed contentedly as my mom passed around a plate of tiny sea-salted, chocolate-covered caramels for dessert, one of my favorites that I know Mom keeps for when I’ve had a tough day. Maybe it was the chocolate, but after the food was finished, I felt all warm and fuzzy about my family and I decided to tell them what had happened. I didn’t even mind telling Allie.

  I explained about the British invasion of Kate Bigley, and how Mr. Trigg had given her my article and my writing partner in one fell swoop, while assigning me a girly article on fashion.

  “Bummer,” said Allie, shaking her head.

  My mom was thinking, her hands nested under her chin, a faraway look in her eye.

  “Mom?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was just thinking about a boss I had back at the big accounting firm where I started out. He’d give the female accountants the easy jobs, or the jobs relating to women’s issues or products, while the men got really meaty and exciting assignments and big jobs, like the government projects or software companies. But then he’d have the female accountants meet the clients, walk them to the conference room, and offer them coffee. He said it was just traditional and hospitable, but really an assistant should have done it. It made the clients think less of the women when we took that role from the beginning.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “A bunch of us tried to fight it, but the CEO at the time loved him and we all wound up quitting instead, while he stayed.”

  “That’s terrible!” cried Allie.

  “Yes, but we had the last laugh. The next CEO was a woman, and she transferred him to our office in Madrid, Spain, during her first month there! No one has heard from him since!” She laughed.

  “I guess she figured him out pretty quickly,” I said.

  “You betcha! And she gave me my first freelance jobs too. What a great lady, a great leader,” mused my mom.

  “So what do you think about me?” I asked.

  “Well, for one thing, I think you need to make the best of the uniform article. Approach it as a hard-hitting news article, not a fashion story. Do lots of research and interviews. And make sure to look at it from a gender-based perspective, to see if there is bias there.”

  She was onto something. I could tell because my fingers were itching for my notebook to start making a list.

  “Okay!” I said excitedly.

  “Just really make the most of the assignment. Make it as big as you can. See what happens then,” she said.

  I was fired up now; ideas were coming every second. “Do you mind if I run up and get my notebook?” I asked.

  “It’s okay. Go ahead. We’ll clean up,” said Allie generously.

  I looked to make sure she wasn’t joking, but she was serious. “Go ahead. I’ve almost finished my homework anyway,” she repeated.

  “Thanks!” I said, and I scrambled upstairs to get started before she could change her mind.

  Later, when my mom came into my room to say good night, she whispered, “Don’t forget that knowing the ropes and having a good, tried and tested reputation are equally as desirable as being new and fresh. They’re just different sides of the same coin, okay?”

  I nodded, sleepy again.

  “Also, make the most of Dear Know-It-All. That’s something you’ve got that no one else has, and you’re excellent at it,” she said. Besides Mr. Trigg (and possibly Michael Lawrence), my mom was the only person on earth who knew I wrote the column.

  “Thanks, Mom. I love you,” I said.

  “Love you too, little chickadee,” she said, and she kissed me good night.

  Despite Nickname, Little Chickadee Battles On.

  Chapter 3

  JOURNALIST GETS REPRIEVE FOR ONE MORE DAY!

  The next morning, as I organized my bag for
school, I realized I hadn’t looked at the Know-It-All letters the previous night. I had to take them out and leave them home because they made me nervous in my bag. What if Hailey needed to borrow a pen and went rummaging around in there?

  I closed my door and got the envelope out from behind my desk, where I stash all Know-It-All correspondence, but I couldn’t just shove them in without even a quick peek. I am a reporter, after all, and naturally curious!

  The first one was on lime-green stationery, handwritten, and very girly. It said:

  Dear Know-It-All,

  My dog misses me so much when I go to school. She chases the school bus when I leave, and my mom says she whines by the door all day until I come home. Why can’t we have a Bring Your Pets to School day? I think it would help my dog if she could see where I go when I’m not with her.

  From,

  Madison Jones

  Okay, first of all, Madison, this is supposed to be anonymous, my friend. Second of all, how do we know Rover won’t bite some kid, if she’s as attached to you as you say?

  I sighed and dropped that one into the big envelope. That one was definitely not going to make me shine as an advice columnist, and in this issue I needed to shine!

  The next one was in scratchy boy handwriting on loose-leaf paper. It said:

  Dear Know-It-All,

  My clothes stink. I hate everything my mom buys. It’s superpreppy and I want to dress gangsta, but she says that’s inappropriate for school. The dress code says we’re allowed to wear sweats and stuff, so why shouldn’t she let me? Maybe if you print this I can show her your response (if you’re on my side).

  Thanks,

  A dude

  Hmm. That was very tempting. But I don’t want to pigeonhole myself as a fashion writer. I jammed it in the file.

  The final one was dumb. It was on a postcard from Las Vegas and it said:

  Dear Know-It-All,

  Why can’t we have more vacation?

  From,

  Vegas Girl

  Whatever, Vegas Girl. If the year-round-school people get their way, you’re really going to be sorry.

  I sighed and stuffed the letters all into the big secret envelope, wishing I could give the Vegas postcard to Michael for his article research, but that would blow my cover. Anyway, why would I want to help him and Miss Big(ley)?

  After classes ended, I popped into the news office to see if I could check for more Know-It-All submissions, but I was out of luck—or maybe in luck: Michael Lawrence was there sitting at a computer, so I was unable to check my mailbox.

  My heart leaped when I saw him, but he looked weary and not that happy. He was rubbing his eyes and slumping in his chair.

  I decided to keep it fresh and new.

  “Hey, Michael,” I said. (I usually call him Mikey, or just Lawrence.)

  He looked up. “Yo, Pasty.”

  So much for fresh and new. Pasty is the nickname he gave me when I was caught eating paste in kindergarten. I grimaced but pressed on.

  “What are you up to?”

  He sighed. “Just trying to make sense of Kate’s notes for the article. We interviewed Mr. Pfeiffer this morning to see what his thoughts are, as principal, on year-round school.”

  “Are you transcribing her notes?” I asked, peering over his shoulder. I couldn’t keep my eyebrows from shooting up. Michael doesn’t take notes because his memory is incredible. I usually do take notes, and he used to mock me for always writing everything down. But then one time it actually came out to be a good thing that I did, since we ended up needing the notes for reference. Still, this was very out of character for him.

  Michael nodded wearily. “But I can’t make heads or tails of them. It’s all scribble scrabble.”

  “Why isn’t she doing it? Wouldn’t that be easier?” I felt a little annoyed seeing Kate’s notes in front of him.

  He nodded again. “Yes. It would. But she’s ‘frightfully busy’ right now getting acclimated, so I guess I volunteered, though I don’t remember volunteering.”

  I had to laugh, he looked so sad. “It’s not the end of the world, Mikey,” I said. “Just bounce them back to her. Tell her you can’t read her British handwriting.”

  He sighed again. “You think?”

  “Yes, I do. Do it!”

  “Why are women always so bossy?” he said, shaking his head. But he stood up and shoved the notes in his backpack.

  “I object to that gross generalization!” I said, putting my hands on my hips.

  Michael laughed and put his palms up in the “I surrender” pose. “You’re right! Let me correct myself. Why are you always so bossy?”

  “Wow, not much better,” I said, and he laughed. I had to smile. It was feeling like old times again.

  “Are you heading out?” he asked, and my stomach filled with butterflies. Maybe we’d get to spend some quality time together! That would certainly help take his mind off Ms. Bigley.

  “Yes, actually I’m . . .” I was going to invite him to go walk around outside school with me to do some research for my article. Then maybe that would lead to other things, and we’d go get a Gatorade together or something. But the door swung open and it was Kate Bigley herself.

  “What’s up, Mickey L.?” she said cheerily in that accent of hers.

  Mickey L.?

  “Hey,” said Michael sheepishly. “I’d actually just given up on your notes and was leaving.”

  “Given up? Where I come from, we never give up! Just think of what Mr. Trigg’s chum Winston Churchill said. ‘Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever give up. Never give up. Never give up. Never give up.’ ” Kate laughed.

  No wonder she and Trigg hit it off, I thought grimly.

  “Right,” said Michael.

  “So let’s have a go at it, shall we?” she said, settling her things on the sofa.

  Michael looked at me, then back at Kate. “I guess so,” he said. “Sorry, Sam.”

  He never calls me Sam. This was not good. Not good at all. I cast around for a way to salvage our outing, but my brain wasn’t working fast enough.

  “Okay. Bye,” I said. But I purposely didn’t say “good luck,” because I didn’t wish them any. I hated Michael right then. I closed the door after myself and slouched toward my locker. As I drew near, I spied Hailey up ahead, loading her things into her backpack. Thank goodness! I nearly ran the final thirty yards.

  “Hails!” I called. “Want to go interview subjects with me?”

  “Hey! No, sorry. I can’t! Jenna and I have to go do our watercolor homework. We’re supposed to go out in nature and paint something alive. Cool, right?”

  “Can’t you do that any old time?” I asked, sighing loudly. I knew I was being spoiled and pouty, but I needed her right then.

  “No, because we want to go together, and it’s the only day we both have free before the next class. By the way, the class was great. Thanks for asking.” She shut her locker and lifted her backpack onto one shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I said, wincing at my forgetfulness. “How was it?”

  “Great! And guess what? I’m really good at it!”

  I couldn’t help but be annoyed at Hailey for bragging after she’d harshed on me for it only days earlier. “Oh, who’s bragging now?” I asked, but I used a joking voice.

  Hailey grinned, taking it good-naturedly. “I know. I know. But the thing is, it feels so good to be good at something. I mean, besides soccer, but I’ve been playing that since I was a baby practically. This is something new. With school being so hard for me, I’m just not used to having something come so easily. I guess watercolors for me are like writing for you. We’re just naturally very talented at it!”

  I felt a little insulted. “Writing doesn’t come that easily for me, though. I mean, I do work really hard at it.”

  “I know you do, but you also enjoy that part of it. I work hard at soccer, too. And I work hard at painting, but it comes easily at the same time.”

  I knew I had to be h
appy for Hailey. I rose above my irritation for a minute and did the right thing. “That’s great,” I said. “Make a picture for me next. Something good, okay?”

  Hailey grinned and hugged me sideways. “Thanks! I will. You’ll love it. I promise.”

  Jenna came up and we said hi, and then with a pang, I watched them walk off together. Jenna and Hailey. Michael and Miss Big. I pulled my clipboard out of my locker, snagged a pen from my messenger bag, and went to interview kids outside school about the idea of uniforms.

  It’s funny, but even though I’m naturally kind of shy, when I’m reporting for an article, I’m not shy at all. It’s like I have the Cherry Valley Voice to hide behind, so it’s not really me who’s doing the interviewing and stuff; I’m just the mouthpiece for the paper. It gives me courage.

  Like, normally I wouldn’t approach kids I don’t know outside school, but today it was no problem. I pinned on this big press badge that Mr. Trigg had given me at one point, and I was good to go. Then, with my pen in hand, I stopped kids and asked them questions I’d come up with during math class when I was supposed to be listening to the teacher. They were:

  • How would you feel if our school adopted uniforms?

  • If you are for it or wouldn’t mind, what kind would you like to have?

  • If you are against it, why?

  • Do you have any other comments you’d like to add?

  Kids were pretty willing to speak out on the subject, and the interesting thing was that most of the girls were for it and the boys were against it. I asked one really popular girl, Della Pollen, and she thought it would be a good idea because then she wouldn’t have to worry about what to wear in the mornings. Another girl, Trina Jones, said if we had uniforms then she could save money or spend it on other things instead of trying to buy trendy clothes for school. Two girls who were dressed really cool said they’d hate uniforms, and I could easily see why, though one pointed out that if we had a uniform she’d never be late again, since it wouldn’t take so long to get dressed in the morning! This was turning out to be a surprising assignment.

  A quiet girl named Pam from my language arts class said it would be a good equalizer, so the nerdy and the cool and the kids who spent a lot and those who couldn’t would all look the same and we could judge people on themselves rather than their clothes. I thought that was a really good answer, but she didn’t want her quote to be used for attribution, which in reporter-speak means I could use it but not say who said it.