Set the Record Straight! Page 2

  I looked at Hailey, and she was kind of pouting. “Why? Do you think he’d say no if I asked?”

  Poor Hailey. She finally likes someone legit (as in, someone who has not been my crush for the past seven years), and now I’m telling her not to go for it. Or, at least, not yet.

  I scrambled to make her feel better. “No. I just think . . . he’s not the type of guy that . . .”

  Hailey narrowed her eyes at me. “Do you think he’s a jerk?” she asked.

  “No! I barely know the guy!” I protested. Oh boy. I was really getting myself in trouble here. “Look, Hails, just take it slow. Baby steps. You’ve just decided you like him. Live with it for a week and then we’ll make a plan, okay?”

  “We?” said Hailey.

  “Yes, we.” I patted her on the arm, and smiled.

  Hailey exhaled. “Okay. But I’m not as patient as you are.”

  “I know. Seven years is a long time to wait. But he’s worth it!”

  Hailey laughed, and we began to collect our trays. “Do you need some help?” she asked, eyeing my pile.

  “Thanks. That would be great.” I shifted the JELL-O and the little plate with a Rice Krispies treat on it onto Hailey’s plate, then I turned to hoist my messenger bag from the floor. When I looked back at Hailey, she was eating the Rice Krispies Treat and had the JELL-O in her other hand.

  “Hailey!” I cried.

  She whipped her head around in surprise. “What?!”

  “I thought you meant if I needed help carrying it, not eating it!”

  Hailey blushed. “Sorry. I didn’t see these when I was up there, though. And you know how I love—”

  “High-fructose corn syrup. I know. But to eat all that stuff at once, that’s just gross. Let’s go.”

  Reluctantly, Hailey stood, still chewing, and we deposited our trays and then left the cafeteria without mishap.

  We still had a little time before the next period, so as we walked to our next class, I tried to boost Hailey’s confidence but warned her to still be cautious. I felt like I’d been too hasty at lunch, and I didn’t want to make her feel badly (Advice Columnist Retracts Advice!). “Listen, Hails, that letter . . . the Dear Know-It-All thing. That girl . . . It sounded like she had liked that guy for a really long time. She was lovelorn and devoted, she was ‘tired of waiting.’ But you’ve just started liking Scott. Like, hello—new crush! So I think you need to play it cool a little, you know? Get to know him, find out what you have in common besides soccer. Maybe first come up with a casual group plan with a bunch of friends, okay?” I turned to look at Hailey and found her walking very close to me, peering at me intently.

  “What?” I said, pulling back in surprise.

  Hailey wagged her finger at me. “Wait a second! I know who you are! Now it all makes sense!’

  Oh my goodness. Panic coursed through my veins. What did I say that finally revealed I’m Dear Know-It-All? I gulped.

  Hailey stopped dead in her tracks with an incredulous smile on her face. “You’re Tired of Waiting! Tired of Waiting for Michael Lawrence! I should have known!”

  I laughed weakly. “Oh, yeah. Ha-ha.” Relief washed over me as I realized my cover was safe, for now anyway. “Right. That was me—Not.”

  Hailey looked at me suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Positive. Trust me. I’d have asked my best friend for advice first, obviously!” I gave her a soft punch on the upper arm.

  Hailey gave me another look. “You actually give really good advice, you know. Maybe next year they’ll ask you to be the Dear Know-It-All!” And she slapped me on the back and then turned into the science lab. “Ha-ha! As if!” she called over her shoulder, laughing.

  “Thanks!” I called after her. “Great idea!” Sheesh! That was a really close call. But why ‘as if’? Sure, I didn’t love being Dear Know-It-All, but did I stink at it? Why didn’t she think I was qualified? Now I was annoyed again.

  I walked to language arts thinking about Tired, the real Tired of Waiting. I wondered what had happened, if she had asked her guy out after all, and if so, how it had turned out. I felt kind of sick about my pithy advice (“pithy” is Mr. Trigg’s favorite word, by the way). It means you say something strongly and forcefully, like you’re sure of it. But, really, what did I know about asking out boys?

  For about the one millionth time, I thought about what a terrible choice I was to write this column. After all, I can barely lead my own life, let alone tell other people how to lead theirs! And, anyway, my expertise is facts. That’s why I like journalism. It’s all about what really happened, not about feelings or things that are hard to prove. So even though it’s fun and a huge honor to write Dear Know-It-All, I do secretly kind of hate having to do it.

  After school I hustled to the Cherry Valley Voice office for our staff meeting. I was hoping to get there early and quickly touch base with Mr. Trigg about the Dear Know-It-All reaction. Since he’s the only person besides my mom who knows that I write it, I love chatting with him about it (except for when I’m late on my deadlines; then I avoid him like the plague!). I was really nervous to hear what he’d heard or what he’d thought. My stomach had butterflies in it and I prayed no one was in the office to prevent us from talking.

  I was lucky. I flew past the door and the newsroom was still empty. Mr. Trigg was at his desk in his little private office at the back of the room.

  “Mr. T.!” I called.

  “Ms. Martone!”

  I crossed the room quickly and poked my head into his office, which is filled with World War II memorabilia. He is British and obsessed with journalism, World War II, and Winston Churchill—not necessarily in that order. A huge British government war poster hung over his desk. It said, “Your Courage, Your Cheerfulness, Your Resolution Will Bring Us Victory.” I gulped.

  “What did you think of the column?” I whispered.

  It’s not like he hasn’t been involved with it every step of the way. Mr. Trigg has to download the anonymous Dear Know-It-All e-mails from the server (there’s a scrambler to hide the senders’ e-mail addresses), and he has to forward to me any letters submitted to the Know-It-All mailbox outside the Cherry Valley Voice office. He also has to approve my choice of letter for each column and read my answer before it’s printed. But he actually lets me have a lot of leeway in what I write. The advice is all me.

  He smiled. “Wonderful. And lots of chatter.”

  I nodded. “But not all of it positive.”

  “That happens. We just want to get people talking, debating, thinking, without being inappropriate or irresponsible. That’s our job as journos, right?” He winked at me.

  I tried to look more confident than I felt. If he wasn’t worried, then why should I be worried? “Righty-ho, then!” I said, using one of his expressions back at him. Trigger guffawed his trademark horsey laugh.

  “Wonderful, just wonderful,” he said, taking out a hanky and blowing his nose. “Now, Ms. Martone, I will be announcing this in the meeting, but just to let you know, I am out of town for a few days this week, starting tomorrow. Heading to a newspaper conference in Washington, DC. I’ll be back Monday. I am reachable by e-mail. . . .” And with that he held up a note for me to read, winking and nodding while he kept talking. It said, “KNOW-IT-ALL PASSWORD ON SERVER: wwiinston.”

  “And you can leave me a note in my mailbox . . .” he continued, handing me a key with a London taxi keychain (clearly the key to the Know-It-All mailbox). Winking and nodding again, he then handed me a manila envelope containing this week’s submission letters so far. Then he continued, talking about other general newspaper details.

  Did I mention Mr. Trigg loves cloak-and-dagger stuff? I think he actually wishes he were a spy. Here he is in an empty newsroom, where he easily could say whatever he wanted without revealing who I am, or he could have left an envelope in my mailbox with both the key and the password. But instead he chooses to stage the whole thing like a spy exchange, as if the office is bugged by
. . . the enemy? Which is who, exactly?

  The door opened in the outer office behind me, and kids began to arrive for the meeting. I jammed the keychain and envelope down into my messenger bag. Spies Caught Midtransfer, Covers Blown!

  “Okay, Mr. Trigg. Have a great trip! I’ll be in touch if I need you!” I winked and nodded, and then backed out of the room while he sat at his desk, grinning and winking, obviously pleased that the whole “transfer” had gone so well. I had to give the guy credit for how he had managed to merge his two passions—WWII and Winston—into a password. Clever.

  Out in the Voice office, I chose a seat on a little beat-up couch and put my messenger bag next to me to save a spot for Michael. I wondered vaguely if he’d realize I loved him just by the fact I’d saved him a seat. Nah. Probably not, I decided. He sure didn’t act lovey-dovey when he rushed in at the last minute.

  “Thanks, Paste,” he said. I love having a nickname for my nickname. Not.

  The meeting went well. Everyone was pleased with the new issue and had heard good feedback out around school. Mr. Trigg had even had a call from Mr. Pfeiffer, the principal, to say how great he thought the new issue was. (Phew!) Most of the other writers and editors said that lots of people were talking about Dear Know-It-All. When they said this, they looked around the room searchingly (with an anonymous writer, everyone was suspicious of everyone else), but I kept my cool, even when Katherine Thomas mentioned she’d heard a lot of people saying it was bad advice. I gulped.

  “Please keep me apprised of anything more you hear,” said Mr. Trigg, moving on before everyone started to guess who wrote the column, which happened after almost every meeting.

  Next it was time to brainstorm article topics for the next issue. I let Michael raise his hand to present our idea.

  “We’re thinking ‘School Lunch and Why It’s So Gross,’” said Michael.

  A couple of kids clapped, and Jeff let out a long whistle of approval. Michael and I grinned.

  Mr. Trigg folded his arms tightly and tapped his chin with his index finger. That’s what he does when he’s thinking. “Yesss . . .” he said slowly, drawing out the word. “But let’s not say that’s definitely the thesis and certainly not the headline. Start out with some reporting, and when I get back from my trip, we’ll review what you’ve discovered, all righty? Next?” Mr. Trigg turned away.

  Michael and I looked at each other, a little surprised Trigger hadn’t embraced our idea as fully as we’d expected.

  “Weird,” I said.

  Michael shrugged. “Do you think he likes the food?”

  I giggled. “Probably. What with his history of war rations . . .” Mr. Trigg hadn’t lived through World War II, so I was only joking.

  Michael didn’t laugh, though. He was distracted, thinking.

  I sighed.

  Men. Boys. They’re so unpredictable.

  Chapter 3

  ADVICE COLUMNIST A SHAM, READERS REVOLT!

  The next day was busy from start to finish. I raced from class to class, wolfed down a plate of rice with butter and salt (thanks for the recipe, Hailey), and at the very end of the day, commandoed past the Cherry Valley Voice office and swiped a letter from the Dear Know-It-All mailbox when no one was around.

  That night, after I had finished my homework and read the days’ blogs and news websites, which is always my reward for finishing my homework, I pulled out the manila envelope from Trigger and took out the letters inside. I had had piles of homework the night before and hadn’t had a chance to look through the package Trigger had given me. (Well, okay, I kind of did have time, but I procrastinated. I was still queasy about the feedback from my printed answer from this week’s column, and I couldn’t face a new set of letters.)

  There weren’t too many in his package—four, in fact—and I read through them quickly, having by now realized that most Dear Know-It-All letters fall into strict categories. They are: the medical (“What can I do about my acne?” or “How can I grow taller?”), the standard domestic drama (“I hate my little brother, he’s always fooling around with my stuff”), the nerdy (“What are colleges really looking for in a candidate?”), and the lovelorn (“No boys like me”).

  The fifth letter was the one I had picked up from the mailbox today. It was handwritten and in an envelope, with a return address, and it turned out that it didn’t fall into any of those categories.

  It was from Tired of Waiting.

  I turned the envelope over in my hands, and paused. I was dying for feedback, but what if it wasn’t good? Or maybe it was great! Maybe she’d asked him out, and he’d said yes! I almost ripped it open, but my stomach clenched. Oh gosh. I couldn’t do it!

  I sat with the letter in my hand, staring off into space. What if . . . ? What if . . . ?

  Finally, I shook my head. Your Courage, Your Cheerfulness, Your Resolution Will Bring Us Victory, I thought. I ripped open the letter, like I was tearing off an old BAND-AID, and my eyes skimmed it quickly. It said:

  Dear Know NOTHING AT ALL,

  Thanks a lot. I asked out my crush, and he not only said no, he told all his friends. And now they all laugh at me whenever I walk by. And he doesn’t even talk to me.

  Thanks for nothing.

  Tired of Bad Advice

  Oh no! I collapsed into a heap and threw down the letter, as if it had burned me. My hand flew to cover my mouth in shock, and I sat there, slumped in my chair while panic coursed through my veins. This was what I’d been dreading ever since I’d agreed to write the Dear Know-It-All column a month ago. I had given bad advice, and someone had taken it, and now I’d wrecked her life! Advice Columnist a Sham, Readers Revolt!

  My first thought was, Thank goodness I stopped Hailey before she went too far! I could only imagine what Scott would have done if she’d asked him out, point-blank. But poor Tired!

  There was a knock on my door, and it opened, without me even saying, “Come in.” It was my sister, Allie, who is obsessed with her own privacy but doesn’t care a bit about anyone else’s.

  “Hey, I know you’re Ms. Blog, and I was wondering . . .” Suddenly Allie stopped and actually looked at me for a change. “What’s wrong? You look like your best friend just died!”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just . . . middle-school drama, you know.” I tried to smooth over it. The last thing I need is Allie finding out that I’m Dear Know-It-All, and a mediocre one at that. She’d have a field day critiquing my work and torturing me.

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Allie has a better nose for news than I do, actually. She runs the high school’s website, the student section, and so I guess she is kind of involved in current events. But what she mostly does is text about events and post stuff on Buddybook, and talk on the phone with her friends, all of whom she likes better than she likes me.

  “Does this have anything to do with Crushie Crusherson?” Allie pressed.

  She knows I like Michael. And she’s friends with his older brothers, so she has access to him, which really scares me. I’m always praying she doesn’t say anything to him if she sees him.

  “No.” I sighed impatiently.

  “Hailey?”

  “No, stop fishing! It’s nothing.”

  Allie stared me down, and I looked away. I would not crack, even if she gave me a major interrogation.

  Suddenly her phone began ringing, down the hall in her room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her react to it, then will herself to remain standing in my doorway, staring me down. Once, twice, three times . . .

  And then Allie cracked!

  “Oh, whatever!” And she stormed down the hall to her room. I was pleased with my steely nerve, and also grateful to whomever it was who had called her.

  I looked back at the letter from Tired. I didn’t know what to do. My first instinct was to call, e-mail, or write to her, but I had no idea how to get in touch with her. I couldn’t publish an apology in the Cherry Valley Voice because we weren’t due for another issue of the paper until th
e week after next. Plus, it wouldn’t exactly make me look good to issue an apology in the third column I ever wrote.

  I thought about calling Mr. Trigg, but that seemed babyish, like I was running to my mommy for help. Speaking of which, I thought of telling my mom. She is the one person besides Mr. Trigg who knows that I am Dear Know-It-All, but we never discuss it because she knows I need to remain mum on the subject. But maybe… or Hailey? Could I just fess up to it all? Gosh, I felt like I really needed her support right now. But . . .

  No.

  It wasn’t that serious. I could handle it. I would just chalk this up to a learning experience. My future advice should just avoid concrete tips and instead focus on telling people to do what they feel is right. That way I’m not on the hook. I’ll just kind of coast through this assignment. That’s all.

  I sighed heavily, knowing that was a cop-out, and I was not feeling better. I couldn’t stop wondering who Tired was and who she liked. And what kind of mean boy would treat a girl like that?

  “Hey.” Allie was back in my doorway.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Listen, if you want me to, I can tell little Mikey’s brothers that you like him. That way maybe he’ll—”

  “No!” I bellowed, jumping out of my seat and running toward Allie. “No way!”

  Allie looked shocked. “Okay, okay. Sheesh! I was just trying to help. Sometimes if you do a little work behind the scenes . . .”

  “No! Just . . . no.” I closed my eyes.

  “Fine, whatevs.” Allie was not one to dwell on other people’s problems. Well, unless they were her friends. She certainly wasn’t going to dwell on mine. She abruptly switched gears. “Listen, I need to post a link on the high-school website to a blog or another site that has healthy snack recipes. I thought with all your Internetting around, you might have seen something.” Allie folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorway.