Flirting with Disaster (18 page)

Chapter 39

Thursday finally arrived, and my column was in the paper—the one I’d based on real Scripture again. Before I left to deliver the papers, I stopped Hazelle in the newspaper office. “Can we meet today?”

“Sure,” she said, but I couldn’t read her expression. “After school, in here, okay?”

“Okay.” Maybe things weren’t going to be so bad after all. She’d let me do the Be@titude piece, and we’d be okay. I let my mind turn to happier things—the group date with Tommy on Saturday night.

At lunch, Jack pulled me aside. “Savvy, I wanted to let you be the one to tell Hazelle the news that you were writing the Asking for Trouble column. But when her sister found out Hazelle had made editor, she started discussing things with her, including your writing the column and how Julia had thought it was a brilliant idea.”

“Oh,” I said. “How did Hazelle take it?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. I won’t be here after school today, as I’ve got a tennis match. But I wanted you to know.”

To be warned, he meant.

After school I stepped into the Wexburg Academy
Times
office. One look at Hazelle’s bright red face when she glanced in my direction slowed me right down. I heard the breathing under the bed again.

Something was very wrong. She pulled me into Jack’s office and closed the door behind her. She sat down at Jack’s desk, and I sat on the other side, like a kid in the headmaster’s office. All I could think was,
You made this monster, Savvy. You voted her in.

Yes, but after prayer
. It was bewildering. Had I heard incorrectly?

“I’m really disappointed,” Hazelle started. “I mean, well, I do see that you have some—or the beginnings of some—writing talent. But above all, I thought I could always trust you to be honest with me. And all this time you’ve been lying, kind of. Keeping the secret that you were the writer of the advice column. Julia told me that hadn’t been a part of the deal. That it had been
your
idea.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

My own face was red now; I could feel it. Hazelle was calling me a liar when my motives had been pure. However, she was the new editor, and it was going to be up to her whether or not I wrote the story about Be@titude—and also whether or not I kept my column.

She was waiting for an answer, I could see. Here were some of the things I could have told her, all of them honest, though I had no idea if any of them would even wash with her:

1. We weren’t friends then, and apparently we aren’t really friends now, though I kind of thought we were. So why should I tell you anything?

2. Because I felt that God wanted me to do my good deeds in private, but you wouldn’t understand because you think religion is for fruitcakes.

3. Because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings since I was chosen and not you. I knew you’d feel bad that your sister didn’t pick you.

4. Because no one thought our school would listen to an American.

Oh, all right.
“Well, I didn’t think anyone would listen to an American. So I needed to build credibility first.”

She stared at me, but I could practically read her thoughts:
Oh. Right. Makes sense, then.

“Well, Savvy, journalistic integrity is critical. Critical! I have to know what you’re doing and why and that you’ll be honest with me and that I can trust you to do what the paper needs.”

“You can,” I said. “Really.”

Hazelle looked at me. “All right, then. Here’s an assignment for you. Up till now, Natalie has been in charge of getting our horoscope column delivered to us from one of the local syndicates. She’s decided to leave the paper immediately.”

What? Natalie was quitting?

“That means we need a new horoscope column. Whoever was supplying it to Natalie was doing it for free as a courtesy to her. She’s angry, and she said she’s going to put an end to that. That’s where you step in. You need to keep the horoscope column going.”

“But . . . how?” I asked.

“That’s your problem to solve,” Hazelle said. “Be resourceful. Ask Natalie who she was using. Find another source and get reprint permission. Or—” she snorted—“write it yourself. Seems easy enough to do. Like giving advice.”

I could have closed in for the kill right then and told her that if just anyone could write them, they obviously weren’t true. But I thought it might be better to hold that comment for another day.

Horoscopes. This was a test, all right. A test of my loyalty to her, to the paper. To my promise to God.

“I need the column by Monday night. You’ll have no trouble making that deadline, I’m sure.” She stood up. I was being dismissed.

“And what about my other work? the Asking for Trouble column? the article for the paper at the end of June?”

“I don’t want to divert your attention away from this important task,” she said. “So I’ll just put those others on hold till we talk next week.”

I turned to leave.

“Oh, Savvy? You can keep delivering the paper, though.”

Chapter 40

Penny agreed to meet me at Fishcoteque for an emergency serving of fish, chips, and Fanta, even though she said she was feeling really tired.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I’m trapped. If I tell her I’m not going to do it, she’s made it very clear she’ll reassign my other work.” I didn’t come clean on exactly what that entailed, since my column was still mostly a secret. “My article for Be@titude will be killed.”

“Killed?” Penny dipped a chip into some ketchup while she waited for me to reply.

I tucked one leg under the other to find a more comfortable position in the leatherette booth. “
Kill
is a term journalists use when an article has been assigned and then the editor cancels it.”

“Why not use the term
cance
l
?” She went for a second piece of fish.

“I dunno,” I said.

Jeannie must have noticed my glum face when we walked in because she brought around another paper-wrapped cone of chips. “Here you are, luv. It’s on me.”

“Thank you, Jeannie,” I said. Penny, of course, dove right in. “And then there are deadlines,” I said. “Why do writers have to use the word
dea
d
? I mean, can’t we just say due dates or something?”

“Makes sense to me.” Penny sneezed. “Excuse me. Writing is a lot more violent than I ever thought.”

Thinking back to Hazelle and Natalie, I had to agree.

“So why did you vote for her?” Penny asked.

“Two reasons. One, she is a good writer and editor. I felt like I could trust her, and well, I felt she would be the better person for the job.”

“And the second reason?”

“I never really trusted Natalie. She made a lot of promises, but I never fully believed she’d come through.”

“Hazelle might not either,” Penny said. “But at least she didn’t make promises. So . . . why not just ask Natalie for the name of the horoscope writer?”

“For starters, I doubt she’d give it to me. Besides, it seems like it was a friend who was doing her a favor. And maybe the biggest reason, I’m not going to arrange for horoscopes. They’re malware.”

Penny stopped eating and smiled. “That’s the difference between you and Hazelle,” she said.

“That and the fact that she’s the editor of the paper and can write whatever and whenever she wants,” I said.

“Well, yes, there’s that, too,” Penny said, sneezing again. “Sorry about that. Must be the vinegar. Well, you’ve got till Monday to figure it out. And we have Saturday to look forward to.”

“True!” I said, fervently glad that there was one bright spot in my life.