Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (8 page)

That night at the dinner table Louanne asked, “So, Sav, do you have an article in today’s paper? I noticed you brought a bunch home in your bag.”

Oh yeah. I had forgotten to drop off the extra papers at the newspaper office at the end of the day.

“I noticed that too,” Mom said eagerly.

I grimaced. They thought I’d brought the extras home because I had an article to share. And copies to FedEx to Grandma and Auntie Tricia and everyone else who would be happy I’d at last found a place to belong here.

I took a deep breath. “I didn’t have enough experience to be a staff writer. I deliver the newspapers.”

“Deliver the papers?” Dad asked, his voice incredulous. Mom gave him the stink eye. “I mean, oh yes, good, you deliver the papers.”

“Yes,” I said softly. “I only deliver them. So we don’t need to send these to anyone in Seattle. Maybe we can wrap up some fish-and-chips with them, though.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mom said and put her arm around me. Even Growl looked down at the ground, silent for once. I gave my mom a hug back and then dragged myself upstairs.

Jack
had
to like my idea.

I looked for Jack before school the next morning. I mean, I didn’t chase all over asking people where he was. I didn’t want to look like a stalker. But I did really look, because I knew my idea was a winner.

I didn’t find him, so I’d have to wait for lunch. I looked at my watch. Three and a half long, long hours.

First period, maths. “Now, let’s follow along,” the instructor said. I tried to follow along with what he was saying, honestly I did. But most of the time I couldn’t get over the fact that he had a really large mole on his cheek, and I wondered if it had been checked for cancer.

Concentrate, Savvy. It’s not going to do you any good to fail out of maths.
People with failing grades couldn’t participate in clubs, even to deliver the paper.

I dutifully copied the equations the teacher was writing on the board. I sneaked a look at Hazelle, who was sitting two rows to my left. She was writing in ink, of all things. And I knew why. So she could use her Wexburg Academy
Times
pen. Only people who wrote for the newspaper got to use the pen. The printers didn’t get a pen. The photographer didn’t get a pen.

For sure, the delivery girl didn’t get a pen. Columnists did, though.

Second period, health. I’m not exactly sure who thought it would be a good idea to have both guys and girls in the same health class, but looking at pictures of the body—even though it was only muscle and bone and nothing personal at all—was still really, really awkward in mixed company. I should address the topic in a Dear Cousin Savvy column. Without pointing fingers, of course. Maybe I’d write a dummy column from a pretend student who wanted separate health classes.

Nah. Dummy columns weren’t good, honest journalism. One more class and then lunch—and Jack!

“Miss Smith!” the teacher called out to me. “Care to come back down to earth?”

Guess my boredom showed.

Third period, science. With an instructor who spoke in a thick Scottish accent and said things like, “Oon is the doon of Magoon.” I had no idea what that meant. Thankfully, Gwennie and Jill, the other girl from Fishcoteque, were in that class and didn’t hold the popped crawfish eye or the science club beaker explosion they’d heard about against me, and they let me be their lab partner. I was still the odd girl out—it was clear they’d been BFF for a long time. And they didn’t let me handle any glass. But it was still better than trying to beg for or scare up lab partners.

“Come along, Savvy,” Jill said as we brought our equipment back to the sinks to wash. “You’ve done quite well for a . . . for someone who, uh, doesn’t fancy science.”

Well, that was polite. And anyway, it was lunchtime.

It’s not like I was going to run to the lunchroom like a kid, but I was pretty eager. I tried to play it cool. Jack was deep in discussion with Melissa. I thought he looked especially cute when he was serious. But enough of that. I caught his eye.

“Jack, could I talk with you for a minute?” I said.

“Sure, Savvy. Here?”

“Would it be all right to walk in the courtyard?” I asked. I’d never asked him for anything personal or significant, so I wasn’t sure how he was going to answer. But he was great, of course.

“Of course,” Jack said. He took his lunch sack, and I just left mine in my book bag.

Once we were in the courtyard and out of earshot, I started right in. “Well, yesterday afternoon when I was checking on the papers, I did a bit of reporting,” I said.

I saw him frown.

“Not officially!” I rushed in. “I just talked to some people about why they liked, or didn’t like, the paper.”

I could tell he was a little miffed that I’d done that research without checking but also that he was dying to know what I’d found out.

“And?” he asked. “What did they say?”

I told him that most people felt like there wasn’t enough interesting, teen-specific stuff in there. Too academic. “
Dull
was the word one really nice guy used,” I said. I saw him wince at that. And who could blame him? He was editor in chief.

“But then . . . I had an idea. I was at Fishcoteque reading Auntie Agatha, and it struck me: why couldn’t we have our own Auntie Agatha column right here at Wexburg Academy? You know, with students writing in and then having their questions answered. Anonymously, of course, but publicly. Because everyone likes to read advice columns.”

Jack had stopped walking and was just looking at me now. He wasn’t eating his lunch. His frown had softened into a grin that I knew was going to lead to that smile.

“And then,” I continued before he could start looking for holes in my idea, “they’ll already have the paper open. So of course they’ll read the rest of it. And the new adverts.”

I sat down on a stone bench, and he sat down next to me.

“What do you think?” I asked, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“I think it’s brilliant,” he said. “But who would write it? A faculty adviser?”

“Oh no, no,” I said. “Have you ever read when Auntie Agatha answers a teen or a kid? Bad news. Literally.”

He nodded and pulled out his sandwich.

“Actually,” I dared, “I thought I might write it.”

He looked up at me. “I dunno, Savvy. It’s a great idea. But you’re new. Then again, it is your idea. Let me think on it, all right? Let’s keep it confidential for now, okay? I’ll propose it at the newspaper staff meeting next Tuesday.”

“Okay,” I said. I’d been expecting a bit more enthusiasm . . . and perhaps even a Wexburg Academy
Times
pen. But that was sure to come later.

“Give me your phone number,” he said. “So I can ring or text you this time.”

My heart skipped a beat. I looked at his face for any sign of personal interest. But he still looked all business.

I told him, and he wrote it down on a piece of paper. Just like Penny had, only she’d never texted me after all.

“I’ll text you before the next meeting and let you know what I’m going to do. That way you’ll have a heads-up but no one else will see me planning with you. Just to keep it fair. All right?”

“All right,” I said and kept the smile glued to my face. Inside, though, I was a mix of worry and excitement. I understood his caution. But I didn’t want my chance—and my dream—to slip away from me. Like the last one had.

I walked home, and as I rounded the corner to Cinnamon Street, I saw that it was what the Brits would call “chockablock” with cars, which was odd. Because normally people parked in their driveways or garages, and anyway it wasn’t time for everyone to be home from work yet.

“I’m home!” I called out. Growl ran down the stairs and barked at me as if I were Jack the Ripper, back after a hundred-year hiatus.

Louanne called him from upstairs. “Giggle! Here!” And then, “Hi, Sav.”

My mom hunched over the kitchen table, music playing in the background. She had her calligraphy pens out, and her Bible was open nearby. I looked at it. Her bookmark was way beyond where she’d been reading last time I’d looked. And she seemed calmer and more peaceful lately. As a journalist, I put those two facts together. As a person, I hadn’t done much Bible reading myself in the past few weeks.
But I would!
I promised myself and the Lord.

“Whatcha doing?” I asked, and then I gave her a little kiss on the cheek.

“Making invitations,” she said. “For the Christmas cookie exchange. What do you think?” She held out one of the linen cards on which she’d inked a perfect gingerbread boy and girl holding hands, the words
You’re invited!
underneath.

“They’re beautiful, Mom.” I went through the mail—the post, as the British called it—sitting on the counter. “So what’s with all the cars?”

“Vivienne is having her book club today,” Mom said. She didn’t look up from her work, just kept a steady hand. Obviously, Mom had not been invited. But she seemed pretty okay.

I dug through my backpack looking for a stick of gum and came upon my papers from art club. I grinned at the off-kilter face I’d tried to draw. Then I saw the list Penny had written for me.

“What do you have there?” Mom asked without looking up. How did she do it? Moms see everything. Moms hear everything. At least, based on her question, they don’t know everything. I hoped.

“This girl I met at the art club made a list of fun things to do in London.”

At this, Mom looked up, and then she set down her pen. “Really? Can I see it?”

“Sure.” I handed over the list.

She read through the suggestions and started smiling. “These look kind of fun, don’t you think?”

I was so happy to see her happy. “Yes, I do!” I said.

“Can I keep the list?” She had the “I’m brewing something up” look on her face.

“Okay,” I said. “For a while.”

Mom nodded and tucked the list into her pants pocket. She started humming as she finished up the invitation she was working on. It was infectious. I started humming too. And I felt like I could keep humming. At least till Tuesday—when Jack made his announcement.