Black and White and Gray All Over Page 3

  The girls who were “for” uniforms all thought a plain skirt maybe in gray flannel material plus a solid-colored polo shirt or blouse on top would be just right, with some footwear restrictions but not requirements.

  But the boys I interviewed were not into the idea of uniforms at all. Tommy Sheehan felt that the boy uniform options were dorky—ties, flannel pants, blazers, and button-down shirts were not appealing at all. Santi Diaz said that boy uniforms looked uncomfortable and like they’d restrict his movements. Kevin Kurtz didn’t like the idea of being told what to wear because it was unconstitutional and threatened his freedom of expression. I put a star next to his answer; I thought that was a really good point.

  Other people I talked with told little anecdotes about their cousins who had to wear uniforms or friends they knew at private or parochial schools who had them. Some kids swore the uniform wearers hated it; others said for sure they loved it. It seemed kind of evenly split. I made a mental note to have Hailey help me do a poll on Buddybook to get a broader idea of what people thought. (I hate Buddybook because I think it’s a time suck, but it’s good for stuff like this. That’s why I don’t have my own account anymore. I just use Hailey’s or Michael’s if I need it for research.) In all, I’d interviewed about fifteen kids, pretty evenly split between boys and girls, and I had some good points. I sat on the wall by the bike rack and cleaned up my messy notes so I could make sure I got the quotations right. A bunch of kids were still milling around, getting their bikes out of the rack. I was waiting to see if maybe some more kids would come by when I saw Michael and Kate walk out together. I felt my stomach drop when I saw them, but they couldn’t really see me, since I was behind them and hidden by the bustle of the bike rack.

  Please don’t let them leave together, I hoped silently. Please!

  As I watched them intently, two girls unlocking their bikes in front of me saw them too.

  One of them said, “Michael Lawrence has a new girlfriend. Bummer.”

  The other said, “New? Who was the old one?”

  “Oh, I think that girl from the paper he’s always with.”

  I held my breath and turned my face away so they wouldn’t see me. My cheeks were flushed deep red, and I strained to catch every word they said.

  The second girl said, “No, she’s not his girlfriend. I know they write together a lot. Maybe she’s, like, his best friend.”

  “Sure looked like a girlfriend to me!”

  “Well, I don’t know about her, but I think this one is for sure,” said the second girl.

  “Why?”

  “Just . . . I’ve seen them together a few different times this week.”

  “Well, were they acting all lovey-dovey or what?” said the first girl, exasperated.

  “No.”

  “You think every time you see a boy and a girl together that they’re dating. But boys and girls can be just friends, you know,” huffed the first girl.

  And they hopped on their bikes and left.

  I wanted to throw up. I hardly dared turn around because I did not want to see Michael Lawrence, love of my life, stroll off with Kate Bigley. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the right to. I mean, we’d never dated or anything, and I’d certainly never declared my love to him, which I suddenly regretted.

  Inch by inch I turned my head until I could see them. And then I let out a huge sigh of relief. Michael was heading home and Kate Bigley was walking away in the opposite direction. Thank goodness! Journalist Gets Reprieve for One More Day! I had to stop my imagination from running wild.

  Things were not going my way. I needed some advice, and there was only one place to turn.

  Chapter 4

  JOURNALIST’S BRAIN EXPLODES FROM CONFUSION

  Allie and I were eating our pizza at the kitchen table when my mom swept in looking really pretty and smelling like her fancy perfume. She kissed us sideways so she wouldn’t get lipstick on us, and she cautioned us to finish our homework and not fool around just because she was going to her book club. And then she was gone and Allie returned to her lecture.

  “See, part of the problem is you’ve gotten lazy. You’re used to letting Mr. Trigg do all the work for you, assigning you articles together and whatnot,” she was saying. She peeled a piece of pepperoni off her slice and dangled it into her mouth.

  “Gross,” I said, and she shrugged and ate it.

  “Yes, it’s all Trigger’s fault,” I said, fake mad.

  “That sexist!” joked Allie.

  But I was serious now. “Do you think he is?” I asked.

  Allie nodded, chewing her pizza. “I think what he said was,” she said, swallowing. “And you should call him on it. I mean, he’s not as bad as that old boss of Mom’s, but he might get worse. You should nip it in the bud.”

  “Like, I should go talk to him?” The idea made me nervous. Sure, I’ve talked to Trigger about tons of stuff before, but accusing him of being sexist seemed pretty heavy.

  “Yeah. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Just tell him he insulted you and that you hope in the future he’ll be careful to keep his comments and assignments as unbiased and gender neutral as the Cherry Valley Voice tries to be.”

  I had to admire Allie’s way with words. It didn’t sound confrontational that way. “Very well put, Allie Cat!”

  “Not everything has to be made into a federal case, as long as you get your point across.”

  “True. I want to keep getting articles from him anyway, so he can’t be my enemy. Just no more fashion stuff!”

  “Right. And lots more coauthorship with Michael.” She laughed. “By the way, I don’t think uniforms would be the worst thing in the world,” Allie added as she sat back down at the table.

  “You don’t?!” I was surprised, to say the least. Allie is so fashion conscious, I thought she would have come down on the side of freedom of expression in this case.

  “No. Sometimes there’s too much focus on what to wear or who is wearing what, and with a uniform you could concentrate more on school, without the distraction. Just keep it simple.”

  “So you’re saying people might do better in school if they didn’t have to worry about their clothes?”

  “Maybe not to that extreme, but there’d definitely be more time in the morning if I didn’t have to go make sure my shoes matched my outfit, I had the right accessories, and I was wearing the latest trend. You know, things like that.”

  “Interesting, especially coming from you!” I said. “I would have thought you’d be anti-uniform.”

  Allie laughed. “Never presume to know what a girl thinks until you’ve walked a mile in her stilettos. Remember that!”

  “Oh boy,” I said, rolling my eyes. “So what should I do about Michael?”

  Allie tilted her head and thought. “You said you haven’t seen much of him, right?”

  I nodded.

  “You said he looked frustrated when you saw him in the office because Kate had dumped the work on him?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You said they didn’t walk off together after school?”

  “Yes!” I sighed dramatically.

  Allie tapped her chin, thinking. “Okay. Do nothing.”

  “What?” I was confused.

  “Do nothing,” Allie repeated.

  I was stunned. “I do nothing while Miss UK steals the love of my life?”

  “That’s right!” said Allie, standing again and stretching.

  “But why?” I said frantically.

  “You just wait and see,” said Allie mysteriously. “Trust me. Things are going to go your way.” And she left, leaving me sitting at the table stumped. Journalist’s Brain Explodes from Confusion.

  Huh.

  The next day I nearly stabbed Hailey with my fork at lunch in the cafeteria.

  How’s that for a lead sentence? A lead (rhymes with steed, not head) is the first line a journalist writes in an article. It’s meant to grab the reader’s attention and also answer the five W’s
of journalism: Who, What, When, Where, and Why.

  Who: Hailey and I

  What: Fork stabbing

  When: Lunchtime

  Where: The cafeteria

  Why: It’s complicated. (Okay, the lead didn’t answer that, but I will now.)

  Here’s why: Hailey and I were finally having a fun lunch, just the two of us—no Jenna, no Kristen or Meg or Tricia or any randoms, just a good old-fashioned catch-up between besties. I didn’t even mention Michael Lawrence. It was that good. We talked about the school uniform thing, and Hailey said she liked Allie’s “keep it simple” concept. She’d be for uniforms, but preferred a pants option for girls, of course. We talked about her watercolor class and how nice the teacher is and how most of the other students are adults and one is this really cute college guy who’s nice to her and Jenna and shows them how to perfect their techniques. We chatted on and on, and then Kate Bigley walked into the cafeteria. My eyes instinctively searched the room for Michael Lawrence, but to my relief he was sitting with his whole basketball team at a table way off in the corner. You’d have to really know what you were looking for to find him, because he was pretty hidden.

  Kate got her lunch and stood with her tray in her hand, looking around for a place to sit.

  Hailey spotted her and said, “Hey, there’s that girl who stole your life.”

  We looked at Kate in silence for a second, and then Hailey said quietly, “She’s actually pretty nice. She was cracking me up in PE yesterday.”

  I rolled my eyes. “She isn’t that nice; trust me.”

  “I hate to ask, but do you really think it was her fault that Mr. Trigg assigned her the article?”

  I scoffed and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I guess that wasn’t technically her fault, but she could have turned him down.

  “Oh, great. Now she’s looking this way,” said Hailey. “The poor thing. She has nowhere to go. I’m waving her over.”

  And before I could stop her, Hailey was up out of her seat, waving Kate Bigley to our table.

  Kate smiled a huge smile of relief and headed our way.

  “Hailey!” I hissed. Journalist Stabs Former Best Friend with Fork.

  “Samantha Martone, you should be ashamed of yourself. How would you like to be new in a foreign school in a foreign country?” said Hailey indignantly.

  “But she stole my—” I couldn’t finish because Kate was upon us.

  “Hello! Thank you ever so much! I felt like such a dolt standing there with no friends,” Kate chattered as she sat down.

  “No problema,” said Hailey. “That’s American for ‘no problem,’ by the way,” she said graciously.

  “Hailey!” I laughed in spite of myself. “That’s Spanish, you dope!”

  “Oh, whatever. I’m dyslexic,” she announced. Hailey always made that announcement up front when she met new people. I think it took the pressure off her a little, and it kept things from getting awkward in case someone said or asked the wrong thing.

  “Really? So’s my brother,” said Kate, taking a bite out of a big turkey sandwich. The girl had an appetite, judging from what was on her tray. My feelings toward her softened a millimeter based on just that. I really can’t stand tiny salad eaters. I mean, come on! I know they’re hungry! Why won’t they just admit it?

  The two of them launched into discussing the special boarding school Kate’s brother had started attending in the fourth grade and how it had changed his life.

  “I really think he was depressed before. He always felt dumb, the poor bloke, even though he was a star on the cricket pitch and the football field. Now he knows he’s smart as anything and he just needs to approach things sideways rather than head-on. I’ve bet him he’ll end up at Oxford.”

  Hailey was fascinated, and I could see she wanted to learn more.

  I hadn’t said anything yet and it was a little awkward. “So it’s pretty funny that you ended up as a writer, with your brother having such a hard time of it,” I said.

  “I know. We always joke about it. We complement each other. I need him for sports and activity encouragement, and he needs me to proofread his work.”

  Hailey and I smiled at each other. “That’s like us!” said Hailey.

  “I love writing,” I said, warming to the conversation in spite of myself.

  “Oh, me too,” agreed Kate, beginning a bowl of fruit salad. “And Mr. Trigg is so nice. I’m not just saying that because he’s British, either.”

  “I know. He’s great. But I’m a little annoyed with him right now,” I said.

  Hailey shot me a warning look, but I wasn’t going to bring up Kate’s article, obviously. Just the sexist thing.

  “Why?” asked Kate.

  I winced. “Well . . . he made a pretty sexist comment, and it bothered me,” I said. And I filled her in.

  “Wow. I can’t believe that. You should stand up to him on that,” she said. Her eyebrows arched and her cheeks turned pink. “Just on principle. But the truth is”—her voice lowered to a whisper—“girls really do tend to like fashion more than boys do, right?” She giggled.

  I smiled a little. “I guess,” I said. It made me think for a minute: Was I madder at Trigger for giving my article to Kate, or for the sexist comment? It was hard to say.

  “I’m still jealous you got that article,” said Kate.

  What?

  I swallowed hard. “Why?” I asked, trying to keep the shock out of my voice.

  Kate’s bright blue eyes sparkled. “My dream is to be an entertainment reporter. I absolutely love writing articles about celebrities and lifestyle and, most of all, fashion. Anything to do with clothes is right up my alley. Not that it isn’t fun working with Michael,” she added.

  I’d been growing comfortable with our conversation, and now I felt like I’d been punched. And anyway, what was that supposed to mean? They were having fun? Or weren’t they? Was she saying it just to be nice or bragging? I couldn’t tell.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes.” I searched Kate’s face for clues, but she looked neutral.

  “I’d love your advice sometime on all this, by the way,” said Kate. Her eyes were downcast as she toyed with the brownie on her plate.

  “Sure,” I said stiffly. Advice on what? Michael? The paper? Was she going to ask for tips on how to get him to ask her out? OMG.

  “Well, as much as I find it fascinating to hear you two talk about journalism,” said Hailey dryly, “it’s time for me to head off to language arts. Have fun in earthonomics, Sam.”

  Kate laughed. “Where on earth do you get these class titles?”

  “Ha! Read Sam’s article!” Hailey picked up her tray and took off. “Catch ya later, Martone,” she called out over her shoulder.

  “Is there an article?” asked Kate.

  I tried to relax and forget that Kate might be in love with my crush. Other than that, she was pretty nice and we definitely had some common interests.

  “Yes, when they changed it all around in the fall, Trigger had us—Michael and me—write an article about it. It was pretty heated,” I admitted, smiling at the memory of all the drama that surrounded not only the curriculum changes but Michael’s and my reporting of it. I wondered now if we’d ever have that opportunity again.

  “Aha! One of the famous Martone/Lawrence stories! I can’t wait to read it!” said Kate brightly. “I’ll look it up in the archive.”

  We brought our trays to the window and headed out together. I glanced at the table where Michael had been sitting, hoping he’d see his former and current partners walking together and worry what we were saying about him, but I was out of luck. He was gone.

  As we walked to class, Kate began to fill me in a tiny bit on how homesick she was, how awkward she’d been feeling as the new girl, and how grateful she was to have stopped by the newspaper office, since it gave her a reason to talk to people. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. Certainly I’d seen how it would be scary and lonely to start at a new school, but the newspaper
—or any activity, for that matter—did give you a good “in” for finding people you’d have something in common with. But I’d assumed she was a hotshot journalist looking to show off her skills and teach us Americans a little thing or two about how they do it on Fleet Street (that’s the journalism capital of London). Little did I know.

  I guess what Allie had said was true: You do have to walk a mile in someone’s stilettos to know what they’re going through. Who knew Allie would be the soul of sensitivity?

  We reached my classroom door, and Kate said, “Thanks so much for letting me sit with you girls today. I had a lovely time.”

  “Yeah, that was fun,” I said, surprised but kind of meaning it.

  “We should get together again and you can fill me in on the paper and everyone there and how it all runs,” she said.

  “Okay,” I agreed. It might be nice to have a good girlfriend on the paper, I suddenly realized. Someone who loves writing as much as I do, someone who shares my interests, the way Hailey now has Jenna.

  “Great. Because I was on track to be editor in chief at my school paper, and now my mom is pushing me to go out for it here.” She laughed. “Is your mom pushy?”

  But the blood had drained out of my head. “Um. No,” I said distractedly. Editor in chief? But that was going to be my job. I felt sick suddenly and needed to sit down. “Okay, bye,” I said.

  “Toodles!” said Kate, and she walked off.

  Toodles?

  Oh dear.

  I don’t even remember what we learned in earthonomics that day. Only that I bit my nails down to nubs, something I hadn’t done in a year. Job Security Threatened, Journalist Caves.

  Chapter 5

  SPY MAKES THE MOST OF HIDDEN OUTPOST