Set the Record Straight! (8 page)

Michael and I laughed. “No, it's great,” I protested. “It's like what we're learning about in . . .” And I stopped, thunderstruck. “Hey! I just had an idea! You know how we have this new curriculum?”

Mary nodded. Michael was looking at me curiously.

“Well, in Earthonomics, which is like science, we learn about all this stuff—agriculture and business and health and the environment and whatever. Maybe we could incorporate something into the class about growing and harvesting our own food.”

“Wonderful!” said Mary. I glanced nervously at Michael. Was I being objective enough for him? I was actually getting involved with the news!

But Michael had a pleased, kind of impressed expression on his face. He nodded. “Great idea, Paste—uh, Sam.”

Now it was my turn to smile. Michael almost never calls me by my real name.

“We could do a series of articles,” I suggested.
“One article about how bad lunch has been and the suggestion box. Then one about your plans and then a follow-up. What do you think?”

Mary was nodding. “I'll put together a proposal—I'll include something about Earthonomics and make sure to credit you, Sam—and I'll get a meeting with Mr. Pfeiffer. Maybe you two would like to come?”

Michael and I looked at each other and laughed as we stood to leave. I put my notebook and pen away in my bag. “Why don't you present it as your own idea first. Then see what he says. We'll report on it after that,” I suggested.

Mary looked confused, but she let it go. “Great! And I'll go through the recipes on my blog and see what we can pull together for fresh herbs. It's a start!”

“Wait, you have a blog?” asked Michael.

Mary nodded. “Just with healthy recipes and stuff like that. Ideas.”

I pulled my pen and notebook back out of my messenger bag. “What's it called?” I asked. I'd look it up and incorporate it into the article.

“Mrs. Moseby's Home Cooking,” said Mary with a smile.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I'd have to get Allie's stats on Mary's popularity at the high school and incorporate it into the article. This was just crazy! I was almost speechless. “You're Mrs. Moseby?” I sputtered.
Girl Dies of Shock in School Kitchen. A Few People Mourn.

“But you're Mrs.
Bonner
,” said Michael.

“Mrs. Moseby was my grandmother's name,” said Mary. “It just had a certain charm to it, so I used it for my blog.” She shrugged. “Thanks for coming, kids!”

Out in the hall I turned to Michael and laughed. “So much for objective journalism. Huh, pal?”

He just shook his head and laughed.

I had to think for a minute. Between the “be objective” issue with the school lunch article and the advice I'd given Tired, plus her backlash, I was so confused about my role as a journalist. Could you get excited about a story and still be objective? And did it make me less of a journalist if I cared what people thought about what I wrote? I wished I could talk to Michael about the
Tired problem, but it wasn't like I could exactly tell him. I thought for a minute. Maybe I could . . .

“You know, some days you think you're right, and it turns out you're wrong. And other days you think you're wrong, but it turns out you're right! So what do you do when you're wrong?”

Michael looked taken aback. “I know I was wrong. I'm sorry. I . . .”

“No, no, no, not you, silly. I was wrong about something. Really wrong. Now what do I do?”

Michael looked uncomfortable. “You've got a good head on your shoulders, Pasty. You always know what to do. I wouldn't . . . uh . . . worry about being wrong. Unless it's about someone else, who . . . ”

Who what? What was he trying to say?

“Oh never mind. I've got football,” he said, and he walked off.

“Bye!” I called. “Weirdo,” I whispered. “And thanks for nothing.”

Boys. Can't live with 'em, can't live . . . with 'em.

COVER BLOWN, ANONYMOUS JOURNO MOVES TO SIBERIA

I practically ran home. I was dying to tell Allie about meeting Mrs. Moseby and what a coincidence the whole thing had been.

“Al-
leeeee
!” I yelled as I flung open the front door.

I could hear her chatting away in her room, probably on the phone.

“Al!” I yelled, taking the stairs two at a time. “Guess what?”

Out of habit I knocked on her door, even though it was open. I winced at myself for being so well trained. She was at her desk on the phone.

“Allie,” I whispered hard.

She held one finger aloft, telling me to wait.

I sighed and stood in the doorway, tapping my foot. There was nothing to do but eavesdrop.

“Wow. Uh-huh. Crazy stuff! No, never when I was there. But then they didn't really have Buddybook then. Yeah. Well, my sister just walked in, and she goes there, so I'll ask. Okay, I'll call you back. Bye!”

Allie turned in her desk chair. “Oh my goodness! You'll never believe this!” she said dramatically.

Since most things are dramatic for Allie and her friends, I knew, by my standards, that it could probably wait. “No, mine is better, I'm sure. Guess what?” I grinned, sitting down on her bed.

Allie folded her arms across her chest, a smug look on her face. “Okay, but I am
positive
that mine is better. But whatever, by all means, you go first.”

Ugh. Why does she have to torture me so? I refused to take the bait. “Fine, whatever. Guess who I met today?” I smiled and folded my arms as she had.

“Justin Bieber,” she said with a bored inflection.

“No, better.”

“Better than the Beebs? Impossible!” she scoffed.

“Come on, Allie! Be serious! It's someone you really like but don't know.”

“Zac Efron?” she said with a smile.

I couldn't stand the teasing any longer. “Argh! Mrs. Moseby!” I blurted.

“Hey, random! That's pretty cool! Where?” At least Allie was reacting appropriately, even if she wasn't as excited as I thought she'd be.

“She is—drumroll, please—our school chef!” I was pretty pleased with myself as I delivered this news.

“What? No way! Then why does the food stink so much?” Allie asked.

“Well, funny you should mention it. We were interviewing her today, and it was supposed to be all about why is the food so bad, but it turned out—”

We were interrupted by the ringing of Allie's phone. So annoying! And of course she picked it right up.

“No!”
she said to whomever. “I haven't had a chance to ask her yet! I will call you back when I find out.” She hung up.

Was she talking about me?

“Wait, so what's your big news?” I asked.

Allie got all dramatic again and made her eyes go really wide. She sat forward in her chair and then said, “Do you know who Dear Know-It-All is this year at your school?”

What?
My heart began to thump in my chest, and I instantly felt hot and sweaty. How did she find out?

“Wait, Allie, please—”

“Get a load of this!” she said, and she thrust her phone at me.

I looked at it, not comprehending. Then everything came into focus. There was a post on the wall of the high school's Buddybook page from someone called TiredofWaiting. It said: “Dear Know-It-All at Cherry Valley Middle School is a chicken and an idiot. Come out, come out, wherever you are!!!”

I froze. My heat had turned to an icy chill. This was scary.

“How did you get this?” I asked. I felt my heart starting to beat really fast, and my palms were sweaty. This had just taken things to a new level. A dangerous one.

Allie shrugged. “They wrote it on the school's Buddybook wall that I administer. Can you believe it? What did Know-It-All do? I don't follow middle school ‘journalism.'” She made quotation marks in the air with her fingers to show just what she thought of our paper.

Even in the midst of a crisis, Allie found a way to be superior.

“Well, there was a column this week about a girl asking a boy out. She said, I mean, he or she said to do it.”

“Huh,” said Allie. “Well, that's not bad advice, but I guess it didn't go so well. Probably some dramatic kid overreacting. Definitely not as interesting as I thought. Nobody will care by tomorrow.”

Right. As if.

I stood carefully and collected my messenger bag.

“Well, I guess I'll go start my homework now,” I said casually.

“Listen, news hound, let me know if you hear anything. The poor kid who writes that column. He's really in for it! I wish I could be a fly on the wall!”

I turned to walk away, so she wouldn't see my
face. “I'll let you know. . . .”

Allie started texting away on her phone. “I'm going to text this post,” she said. “Maybe one of my six hundred or so Buddybook friends has an idea who is Know-It-All.”

“Allie, wait—” I began. But Allie already looked up with a pleased smile. “Done,” she said.

I got to my room as fast as I could without looking suspicious. Then I quickly closed my door, sat down at my computer, and started to shake. I was shaking so hard, I couldn't even type to send an emergency e-mail to Trigger. I had to sit on my hands. Thoughts raced through my mind. Was Tired going to find me? Could she actually find out who I was if she wanted to? I didn't know what to do. All I knew was this: I did not want to be the Dear Know-It-All anymore.

Minutes passed, and I collected myself. How could I talk to Mr. Trigg without someone seeing me and guessing? Could I call him at home? But what if Allie heard me? I felt so alone.

And then I heard my mom come in. “Hi, girls!” she called.

Thank goodness!

“Hey, Mom!” Allie replied.

I paused for a minute, so I wouldn't make Allie think anything, then I stood and opened my door and crept down the stairs. In the kitchen, I tiptoed to find my mom.

“Mom!” I whispered.

“Ooh!” She jumped in the air and dropped the bread she was putting away from the grocery bag.

Despite myself I had to grin. “Sorry.”

She leaned back against the counter and put her hand to her chest. Then she laughed. “Why so quiet?”

I spoke urgently, in a low voice, and my mom's smile faded as she listened. “Mom, a major emergency has come up with the paper. We can't let Allie know. Do you have Mr. Trigg's cell phone or address or anything by any chance?”

“I think so, but, honey, what is it? Can't I help you?” she asked quietly.

I shook my head. “I need the number and your cell phone and then I need to go on a walk and call him in private.”

My mother looked at me suspiciously, hesitating.

“Please. I'll tell you everything after,” I promised. My eyes were about to fill with tears, but I willed them away. If I cried she would definitely insist on getting involved right now.

She sighed heavily. “Fine, it's just down at my desk. I'll go get it. But I want to hear the whole story when you get back, okay?”

“What whole story?” asked Allie, coming into the kitchen. Darn it!

“Uh . . .”
Think, Martone! Think!
“Uh.” I looked at her, then a stroke of pure genius hit me. I crossed my toes in my shoes, and began. “Michael Lawrence and I are in a fight. I don't know how to fix it. I'm going over there to make a stand. I'm going to tell him that I like him. That I've always liked him. So there!” I spoke like a heroine in a movie, adding a little toss of my hair at the end, just like I'd seen Allie do.

Allie's face looked like I'd just given her the best birthday present ever. Her jaw dropped and then she smiled a huge smile and reached out and
hugged me! Then she held me away from her by the shoulders and said, “All right, sister! You go! Go get your man!” She swatted me on the butt in encouragement. Then she spun me around. “Is that what you're wearing?”

Just then my mother came back into the kitchen with her cell phone and a number.

Allie's eyes narrowed suspiciously. She looked back and forth between the two of us. “Wait . . .”

“Sheesh, Mom. It's not
that
far. I just couldn't remember the name of the street. I didn't need you to write it down for me!” I lied. I took the piece of paper from my (poor, innocent) mom and rolled my eyes at Allie. My mom was holding out her cell phone in the other hand. “What? And the phone too? Oh please!” I lied again, and I took that too. “Fine. I'll call you when I get there. Mothers,” I said to Allie, shaking my head.

Her face relaxed into a smile. “I know,” she said.

I didn't dare look at my mother, but instead headed out the door. Phew.

Once I was safely around the corner, I ducked
into a hedge and dialed Mr. Trigg's number.

“Hello?” he said.

“Mr. Trigg,” I began. And then I started to cry.

Objectivity Fails When Journo Is Scared.

JOURNALIST FLOODS NEIGHBORHOOD WITH RECORD TEAR FALL!

“I'm sorry, who is this?” Mr. Trigg's voice was patient and kind, and that made me cry harder. Wow, three times in one week. That was a new record for me. Usually I only cry about once every other month!
Journalist Floods Neighborhood with Record Tear Fall!

I hiccupped and tried again. “Mr. Trigg, it's—” But the crying got me again. Now I was embarrassed on top of it.

Mr. Trigg said very slowly and nicely, “Okay, whoever this is, just cry for a minute and don't try to talk. Then, when you're ready, I'll still be here waiting. I'm at my computer, so I can keep myself busy until you need me.”

I cried a little more, with the phone tipped away from my mouth. Then I began to regain control. I took a few deep breaths. I swallowed, wishing Marcy was here with her mints and her Kleenex.