Set the Record Straight! Read online

  I clanked my way down the bleachers, like an ill-timed oaf, stumbling on the last one, and jogged over to Hailey. She was gathering up her snack pouch and had a defeated air about her.

  “Did the boys beat you?” I asked, trying to keep it light.

  She looked at me, but didn’t say anything.

  “How did it go?” I asked, serious now.

  “He’s not that nice,” she said.

  I hadn’t prepared what to say. “What do you mean?” I asked, pretending I couldn’t tell that from a mile away.

  “I tried to talk to him a little, and he was just really . . . unfriendly. Like, he didn’t smile or really try to have a conversation or anything. At the end it seemed like he was warming up, but then Amanda Huxtable was here again. . . .” She gestured in the direction toward where Scott and the girl had walked. Aha! So I’d been right. Not that I was glad about it, but still. Radar Still Working for Lame-o Journalist.

  “Maybe he’s just not Mr. Personality,” I suggested.

  “He talks to the boys and jokes around with them!” She had started trudging up the hill to the front of the school. I followed, talking all the way.

  “Maybe he’s just shy around girls!”

  “He’s not shy around Amanda Huxtable,” she said quietly. She turned to face me. “Tell me the truth. Will a boy ever like me?”

  “Oh, Hailey! Of course! Lots of boys. You will have a lifetime of admirers, I promise! What about Jeff Perry?” I know he’s interested in Hailey, and if she’d only like him back—It would be so convenient! We could double date, if Michael and I ever end up dating! But Hailey is not into him.

  “Stop with Jeff Perry! Please! Okay, I guess you’re right about Scott. I need some time to get to know him. Some time when Amanda Huxtable isn’t around,” she said darkly.

  “Yeah, but just play it cool. Don’t come on too strong, you know? He might be kind of shy, so go slow. Pretty soon you’ll have him eating out of your hand.”

  “Right,” she said. “As soon as Amanda’s out of the picture.”

  “If she’s actually in the picture.”

  “Right. Anyway, we’ve been talking about me all the time, and I don’t even know what’s going on with you. Anything up in the world of tabloid journalism?” We were out on the street now, walking slowly to Buttermilk Lane. The late afternoon sunlight fell in long shafts between the trees, and there were little mounds of dry leaves scattered everywhere.

  “Oh, nothing.” I waved my hand in dismissal. It wasn’t like I could tell her. Oh yeah, I’m being stalked by a crazy person who I gave bad advice to, under the guise of an anonymous column that you don’t know I write. Instead I said, “Working on the lunch article, which I need to interview you for when we get home. In love with Mikey as usual. Hating Allie as usual. All status quo.” I crossed my toes as I lied to my best friend.

  Hailey squinted at me, but I kept my face neutral. Luckily she was not a news hound like Allie. She let it go. Antennae Broken, Friend Misses Signals for Help.

  At home we raided my kitchen and made a huge (junky) snack and then I interviewed Hailey.

  “Okay, tell me what you think about the cafeteria food,” I began, my pen poised above my trusty notebook on the kitchen table.

  Hailey looked at the ceiling while she thought. “Well . . . there’s not a lot I like to eat. Most days, I usually find just one little thing.”

  I pressed on. “Okay, like, what kinds of things do you like, when they have them?”

  “Um, rice . . . with butter and salt. Rice Krispies Treats. JELL-O. Glazed doughnuts. French bread pizzas . . . That’s kind of it.”

  “Wow,” I said. Journalists aren’t supposed to make value judgments about what their subjects tell them, usually, but it was hard to restrain myself. “Aren’t you worried about cholesterol?” I teased. Hailey’s mom was always yelling about not getting high cholesterol. Hailey made a face. “Seriously, though. If you could improve the food, what would you ask for?” I said.

  “Easy!” said Hailey. “Either better, recognizable food, like the kind my mom would buy in the store, or something like Pizza Hut or McDonald’s.”

  “O-kay . . .” I was getting it all down. “Interesting. Not sure others would say the same, but okay. And if you had one piece of advice for the chef, what would it be?”

  Hailey laughed. “Go home!”

  “I don’t know if we can print that.”

  “Is that it?”

  “For now. I might call you to follow up with a few more questions, once we have our thesis.”

  We went up to my room to do our language arts homework (Hailey always likes my help because she’s dyslexic and she hates reading), and I left all my newspaper cares behind for a while.

  We spent some time on Buddybook after we finished, and we found a treasure trove of Scott Parker photos from soccer on Jeff’s sports page. I was happy for Hailey. It was fun to have a crush. It gave you focus. You just had to remember to keep everything in perspective. Unlike poor, crazy Tired, who was now actually really worrying me.

  Chapter 6

  JOURNALISTS AT WAR!

  It was Thursday, the day of our interview with the kitchen staff. Michael and I didn’t have a lot of prep work to do for this one because the questions were kind of simple. We were going to ask the cafeteria people point-blank why the food had to be so gross, and they were going to tell us. That was pretty much it.

  Michael and I met in the hall at 2:50 p.m. as planned. He looked adorable in a white polo shirt and jeans—fresh and clean and classic. I had dressed up a little too—in a long hippie skirt and a pink T-shirt, with a scarf and dangly earrings—and the first thing Michael said was, “You look nice!”

  I know I blushed, and I wasn’t sure how to respond because it caught me off guard. I’m so used to him teasing me that my first instinct was to say something sarcastic back.

  “Just say thanks, Pasty,” he said, and the nickname allowed me to whomp him gently with my messenger bag and then the tension was broken. However, I made a mental note to make a bigger effort more often when choosing my clothes (or ask Allie for help) and also to try to pay him compliments too. Plus, it felt good to be on the receiving end.

  I changed the subject. “So we’re just going to go with the flow, right? Keep it loose and see what they say?”

  Michael nodded. “I don’t have an agenda. We’ll probably have to do a follow-up once we have our thesis, anyway.”

  I nodded, and we entered the cafeteria. Sitting at a far table were three grown-ups, each dressed in kitchen whites and each holding a cup of coffee or tea. I recognized them all but realized with a pang of guilt that after more than a year at this school, I didn’t know any of their names.

  Michael strode ahead confidently, and when he reached them, he introduced himself and shook hands all around. I followed suit, feeling shy. There was one man and two women. I wondered which one was the chef, but didn’t have to wonder long.

  “Mary couldn’t be here. She says sorry. She had to go to a meeting with the superintendent of schools,” said one of the ladies whose name was Marcy. She had a raspy voice and thick blond hair in a braid and covered by a black hairnet. She looked about the age of a lot of moms.

  “The meetings never end! I would not want that job,” said the other woman, Carmen, who was younger. Her hair was short, dark, and curly, but matted down under the hairnet. I wondered why they kept the nets on when they weren’t in the kitchen.

  “Pay’s better,” said the guy, who had a big blond mustache and also a long blond braid of hair under his hairnet. His name was Bob, and he had tattoos up his arms and a little on his neck. He looked like he should be driving a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

  I could tell that Michael felt things drifting out of our control. He cleared his throat. “Thanks for meeting us today. We are doing an article for the Cherry Valley Voice on school lunches. . . .”

  “What’s the Cherry Valley Voice?” asked Carmen.

 
; “Uh . . . the school newspaper?” said Michael, and we looked at each other. We were both surprised she didn’t know. She must’ve been new.

  Carmen nodded, and Michael continued. “We want to learn a little about how you guys decide what to make and why it’s . . .” Now that we were face to face with these people who worked hard to feed us every day, it was difficult to be aggressive.

  “Why it isn’t so tasty all the time,” I said in what I hoped was tactful phrasing.

  Bob rolled his eyes, and Marcy leaned back in her seat. “I get it,” she said. “We’re the bad guys in this article, right?”

  Michael cocked his head. I guess this wasn’t going to go as smoothly as we had expected. “No, there are no bad guys,” he said. “We know you’re doing your jobs here, and that it’s not easy.”

  “Not easy!” said Marcy. “It’s darn near impossible! We’ve got bureaucracy coming out of our ears! Every time Mary wants to try something new, they just shut her down. And the restrictions and regulations!”

  Bob shook his head. “Phew!” he said. I guess he was a man of few words.

  Carmen was nodding. “Mary’s gotta plan out a menu a year in advance and have it approved by April so the central ordering can start. It’s a lot of work.”

  “We’re understaffed,” said Bob.

  “The food needs to be healthy, and it can’t be imported. There are standards of how much of each food group each kid needs to get each day, plus portion control,” explained Carmen.

  “We’re not allowed to give big portions ’cause kids are getting obese,” said Marcy. Michael and I exchanged a glance.

  “What are some other issues you’re dealing with?” Michael asked quietly. We were on the retreat now instead of the attack. My hand was already sore from taking notes.

  Marcy started ticking things off on her fingers. “Gotta make three meals a day. Lunch is our biggest meal, but we also serve breakfast and an after-school snack to kids who need extra help. This might be all the food they get for the day. That’s not a problem you two have, I can see, but there’s more of them than you might know.”

  Marcy continued. “We need to look out for allergens—no nuts, no shellfish in the main course—so that knocks out a lot of possible protein sources for us. Food needs to be cooked to a certain temperature and kept there because of E. coli and mad cow disease, so a lot of the food dries out. Those last two are per the department of health and human services. Oh, and the budgets were all cut this year. We have no money.”

  “Also we have to triple wash produce, so we can’t serve anything fragile, like berries or fancy lettuce, ’cause they don’t hold up. You wash it hard three times, and it falls apart or gets bruised. So it’s mostly iceberg and bananas or apples,” said Carmen.

  Oh boy, I thought. Serving lunch food that wasn’t gross was a lot harder than we thought.

  “How long have you been working here?” asked Michael.

  “Eighteen years,” said Marcy.

  “Twelve,” said Bob.

  “Sixteen,” added Carmen.

  And none of them knew the name of the school paper! I think my jaw actually dropped.

  “So you must like it here, then?” asked Michael.

  “Mary’s great to work for,” said Carmen with a smile. “She really loves food, and she makes it fun.”

  “Wow. I’m looking forward to meeting her,” I said.

  “So what do you hear from the kids?” asked Carmen. “Is there anything they like?”

  I laughed. “The junk.”

  Marcy shook her head sadly.

  “That’s kids for ya,” said Bob.

  “Is there anything you can do to make the food . . . I don’t know . . .” I didn’t want to say “better” because it seemed mean.

  “Better?” said Bob, echoing my thoughts.

  I laughed. “Yeah.”

  Marcy spoke up. “Mary has piles of good ideas. It’s just hard to develop ’em and get ’em approved.”

  “Takes lots of time,” agreed Bob.

  “And with the budget cuts . . .” Carmen added.

  I looked at the three of them. “You guys are dealing with a lot. I have a whole new appreciation for what you’re up against and what you’re trying to accomplish.”

  Marcy shrugged. “It’s what we do,” she said.

  “Four thousand meals a week, counting the one hundred breakfasts and after-school snacks each day.” Carmen nodded with a wry smile.

  I put my forehead in my hand. “And there’re only four of you?” I muttered.

  Michael stood, ready to wrap it up. We were heading into complaining territory, and he always has a nose for when the news is done and the repetitive complaining takes over. “I have to go to practice, so we’re going to have to go now. Thank you so much for your time and your thoughts,” he said.

  I stood and shook hands with Marcy, Carmen, and Bob. “We’ll come find Mary another time,” I said. “And we’ll probably have more questions for you once we shape up the article. I’ll be in touch if we need a second interview.”

  “Thanks for coming,” said Bob. “It’s the first time any of you kids ever talked to us, except to ask for seconds.” He laughed.

  “Bye!” Michael and I said in unison.

  Out in the hall, I slumped against the wall. “Are you kidding me with that? I feel terrible now that I know what they’re up against,” I said to Michael.

  He nodded. “It’s crazy. But it’s still not an excuse for bad food,” he added.

  “That’s pretty harsh,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve got to stay objective.”

  “I’d love to hear your thoughts on how they could improve it,” I said. I knew I was being a little testy, but why did he have to be so mean about the poor cafeteria people? At least they were trying!

  “I’d love to hear Mary’s,” Michael said, “but she blew us off.”

  “Is that what you think?” I asked.

  “You never know,” he said.

  “Wow. That’s a pretty negative attitude.”

  “I’m just saying you never know. You’ve got to keep your antennae up at all times, Sam. Don’t let your emotions get the best of you.”

  Ha! Me? Emotions? I’m all about facts. I’m all about being objective!

  Michael looked at me, like he was going to say something else, but then he decided not to. “Look, journalists are there to report, not to get involved.”

  I set my jaw firmly. “That’s not necessarily true. Journalists get involved all the time. And then they print stories that make change happen.”

  Michael looked at me for an extra second. “I’ve gotta go,” he said.

  “Bye,” I said, looking away. Journalists at War!

  Were we in a fight? I wondered as I walked away. It felt weird. I was annoyed at him for being uncaring, but a tiny part of me did worry that he was a better reporter than me. Michael was right. I shouldn’t have let myself feel sorry for the cafeteria workers. And now I was mad because I was embarrassed at being caught making a rookie mistake. But how are you going to write about things if you can’t feel them yourself? I know journalists need to remain objective, but they need to care, too. It’s a really hard balance to keep.

  I thought of Tired, and that maybe I was caring too much about her mean notes. Maybe it was time for me to toughen up and take charge! Why hide from my responsibilities, just because I was scared off by the rantings of some nut job? Journalists get letters from kooks all the time!

  The Cherry Valley Voice office is usually empty at that time of day. I took a left and strode down the hall toward the office. My heels struck the floor hard, and rang in the emptiness. I was trying to be brave. But as I drew closer to the office, I decided I’d only check e-mails. (Yes, I knew Tired only wrote letters but still. It was a start!)

  At the office, I unlocked the door, took a quick look around, and seeing no one there, I went to the computer that was farthest away, and logged into the s
erver, then I accessed the Know-It-All file with my password. “Bring it on, Tired,” I muttered, confident I’d find nothing.

  The computers are slow in the Cherry Valley Voice office, so I gazed at the posters on the newsroom wall while I waited for the e-mails to load. Like the one in Mr. Trigg’s office, these were mostly British World War II posters (“Loose Lips Sink Ships!” and “Keep Calm and Carry On”). They were kind of inspiring.

  Feeling brave, I glanced back at the screen to see if it had loaded, and I gasped.

  There were forty-two new e-mails in the file.

  And they were all from Tired.

  Chapter 7

  IMPARTIALITY IMPOSSIBLE FOR JUVENILE JOURNALIST

  I could feel myself turning bright red—whether from embarrassment or fear or anger, or a combination of all three, I wasn’t sure. I just knew I couldn’t breathe. All my bravery and objectiveness had evaporated.

  My hands shook as I clicked on the first e-mail, starting from the bottom.

  Why are you Know-It-All, anyway? You’re probably ugly and stupid, and no one likes you.

  I cringed. Nervously I clicked on the next e-mail. The next one said:

  YOU ARE A FAILURE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  And the next one:

  I hate you, Know-It-All. You ruined my life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Tears pricked my eyes. My hands were shaking so badly, I had to fold them together. I had ruined someone’s life with my dumb advice! I thought I was so snappy and clever, and look what I did! Now this person, Tired, was coming totally unglued. I wanted to read all of the e-mails, but I was too scared. If these were the first three, I could only imagine what number forty-two looked like. Part of me wanted to read them, just to punish myself, but the rational part of my brain knew that this person had gone crazy. and I should keep away.

  Tears poured out of my eyes as I shut the computer down, locked up the office, and then fled the Voice office. I wiped my face on my sleeve and prayed I wouldn’t run into anyone. I had almost reached the front door of the school when I saw someone ahead of me, and it was too late for me to turn away and hide. It was an adult, with long blond hair in a braid. Marcy, from the cafeteria.