Black and White and Gray All Over (12 page)

Michael sighed loudly. “I'm not surprised,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked haughtily.

Michael sighed again and then said, “Sam,
Kate is not a journalist. I'm not quite sure what she is, but she is definitely not a journalist. She doesn't like research. She doesn't like . . .”

“Notes,” I offered.

“Right. Or, frankly, even facts. She doesn't like doing any of the hard work. She really just likes to write!” he said.

I giggled. “I know. She was really hoping for a fashion column. And instead she got the lead article with the meanest taskmaster in the school as her writing partner!”

“What?” Now Michael was the indignant one. “That's not fair! And it's not true! I'm not mean.”

“No, I'm just teasing. She didn't say you were mean. But she did say it's hard work and very different from her paper back home.”

“I know. I know. She tells me that all the time.”

We were silent for a moment.

“So it needed that much work, huh? My little uniform article?”

“Little? That sucker was eight pages long!” cried Michael.

I grinned. “I know. I wrote it.”

“Well, it wasn't up to your usual quality. That's all. And I hate to see your byline on something inferior to what you're capable of. You don't have to fix anything I said if you don't want to, obviously. It's a free country.”

“Nah, I'll fix it. It's just annoying. You're right as usual.”

“No, you're the one who's usually right around here,” he teased.

“Oh, good thing I just got that on tape. I've been recording this whole conversation, in fact. I might just play it for one Kate Bigley . . . ,” I joked.

“You'd better not, Pasty! I'll get you!” Michael said, laughing.

“Well, I'd better go. I've got
tons
of work to do on my article,” I said.

“Hey, Paste? Thanks for asking me. Seriously. I was glad.”

“Yeah. Anytime,” I said. And we hung up, smiling. Both of us, I'm sure of it.

Mr. Trigg got back to me late Sunday night. He'd been at a World War II conference (his favorite topic) in Normandy, Michigan (for real), and he'd had no Wi-Fi on his flight to reply sooner.

But the gist of what he said was,
This is way too long of a reply to this lame letter.

Why was everyone suddenly so down on my writing?
I wondered.
Defeated Journalist Gets Kicked While Down.

It didn't seem fair. But I made a mental note to stop by his office and catch him that day. It would be more efficient than a lot of e-mailing back and forth this close to deadline.

At school I ran into Kate and almost told her how Michael had ripped apart the article she had
thought was “perfect,” but I couldn't think of how to phrase it without making both of them look like jerks, so I just kept it to myself. I had lunch with Hailey, who had so loved her outdoor watercolor class on Saturday that she was planning another for this weekend, all with an eye toward doing an art show or even making a series of gift cards that she could sell to make money.

It was Michael whom I was most pleased to see, on my way to the news office. He walked me there, asking why I was going, and I made up some story about running something by Trigger before I sent the uniform article in to Susannah for editing.

We stopped just outside the newsroom, since Michael was on his way somewhere else. It felt good to be with him again, and I was glad the air was cleared about Kate, even though he'd never known it wasn't clear. But there was one nagging detail that was still bugging me. I had to know.

“So, Mikey, one question: Why didn't you tell me that you were having a hard time working with Kate?” I asked, shocked at my own nerve for asking and semidreading the answer.

Michael bit his lip, and his eyebrows knit together as he searched for the right words. “I guess . . . At first it was because I was giving her the benefit of the doubt. I just thought, you know, I couldn't presume to judge her, and if the shoe were on the other foot, I'd want to be given a fair chance to prove myself. Then, after a bit, I decided maybe there were cultural differences in the way we report things in our two countries. And finally I just decided she had no interest in doing the hard work. Which is fine, but I would have rather known sooner, so I could do it myself before the eleventh hour.” He looked at me. “I guess I've gotten spoiled working with you, Pasty. You carry more than your fair share of the load.”

“Whatever,” I said, embarrassed again.

He was quiet for an extra second. “And really, most of all, I just didn't want you to think I couldn't do it without you, that I couldn't handle it.”

“So you kept acting like everything was fine.”

He looked at me. “Yeah.”

“I wish you'd reached out earlier. I could have helped you,” I said.

“I know. I won't ever do that again!” he joked.

“You're a stubborn one, Mr. Lawrence!”

“Well, Ms. Martone, if the shoe had been on the other foot . . . ,” he said.

Why is everyone always talking about shoes around here?

“Good-bye, Mikey,” I said, knowing I'd see him again soon.

Then I stepped into the newsroom and found Mr. Trigg blessedly alone in his office.

“Mr. Trigg?” I called. “Are you free?”

“Ah, Ms. Martone! How delightful to see you! Oh dear, am I allowed to say that?” he asked worriedly.

I laughed. “Yes. Compliments are always fine,” I said. “As long as they're gender neutral.”

“Good. Now, about the column . . .” He looked over his shoulder, shooed me into his office, and shut the door.

“Tea?” he asked, gesturing toward his electric teakettle.

“No, thanks,” I said.

He began to whisper (Mr. Trigg loves all the
cloak-and-dagger aspects of the Dear Know-It-All column. I sometimes almost think that's why he keeps it on at the paper). “Ms. Martone. I think you've quite outdone yourself with this column.”

“Outdone in a good way or a bad way?” I asked skeptically.

“Both,” he whispered. “The writing is lovely, the brainstorming is excellent, but you've forgotten the most important question a good journalist must ask herself: Is it newsworthy?”

“Aha,” I said, embarrassed.

“Do you think it is?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not so much. I just . . . I wanted to do something splashy. But a splashy letter never came along, so I had to make the most of what I had.”

“And why would
you
, of all people, need to be splashy?”

I didn't really know what to say, so I told the truth. “To stay on top.” I shrugged.

Mr. Trigg sighed and dropped the whisper. “I've been chatting with Mr. Lawrence, and I can see I've made a dreadful mistake with this
issue, Ms. Martone. Now, I don't want to get into specifics or criticize anyone's hard work. All our hearts are in the right place. But I am certain that I made an error when I allowed my sentimentality to overrule my intellect. I was spontaneous, when I should have been more measured and deliberate. Do you follow?”

“Um . . . ,” I said.

“Ms. Martone, I do apologize for giving away your year-round-school article so abruptly to Ms. Bigley. Her accent played on my heartstrings, and I do know how it feels to be so far from home and without friends. I have walked in those shoes, and I hate to see someone else taking their first steps in them as I once did. That's why I did it. I do apologize and hope you will forgive me.”

“Oh, Mr. Trigg, it wasn't my story anyway. And I do understand. It's fine now.”

“Well, yes. I suppose it is. It certainly clarifies things for me. I understand from Mr. Lawrence that you've got a marvelous article for us for this issue anyway?”

I grinned. “I hope so!”

“Well, if it's anything like what he describes, I might have to assign you a regular fashion column!” He winked at me.

“Yeah, right!” I said. “Not for me, thanks. But I do have someone in mind who would be just perfect for the job . . . .”

“Great. We can discuss it after we put this issue to bed. Now, hurry out of here and pare down this overwrought column, please! You need to lighten up and lighten it up!”

I laughed. “Thanks, Mr. Trigg.”

“No, thank you, Ms. Martone.”

Well, the issue finally did come out, and you'll never guess what happened. My story—the school uniform story—was the front-page lead. And the year-round-school story wound up buried on page three! It was really well written but kind of boring. I thought about it, and it made sense: Michael was really good at the facts, but I was good at the quotes and about making it “relatable.” I wasn't happy
exactly, but just vindicated. It was good to know I wasn't so easily replaced and that I had been missed—by Michael and by Mr. Trigg.

Mr. Trigg comforted Michael by telling him it was a learning experience all around and that he was free to revisit the topic in a future issue, with or without a new cowriter.

My article got me lots of compliments. At lunch the day they published the online edition, tons of kids came up to me and congratulated me. I was sitting with Hailey, and she started to laugh after the third person came over.

“What?” I said.

“I'm starting to think maybe you
are
the best writer in the school.”

“Oh, please. That was just pure egomania talking. I know better now.”

“Well, I'm still the best soccer player, just so you know. And on my way to being the best watercolorist.”

“Of that I have no doubt!” I laughed.

Just then Kate Bigley arrived. “Mind if I join you girls?” she asked.

“Not at all. Slide in!”

“Great article,” said Kate, and Hailey and I burst out laughing.

“What?” said Kate, truly confused. “Was it something I said?”

“No, just don't fuel the egomaniac's fire,” I said.

“Oh, Hailey, you're not an egomaniac,” said Kate. “Now, Michael Lawrence, on the other hand . . .”

“Now Michael Lawrence what?” said Michael Lawrence himself, sliding his tray in next to mine.

“Hello, Mikey,” I said.

“Great article,” he said, and Kate, Hailey, and I cracked up. “Seriously. You're the star reporter,” said Michael.

“Stop,” I protested.

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Hailey. She dove under the table and pulled something flat out of her bag and handed it to me. It was two sheets of cardboard taped together. “For you,” she said with a flourish.

“Um, thanks?” I said.

“Open it!” she instructed. “Gently.”

“Why are all my friends so bossy?” I said.

Hailey and Michael rolled their eyes at each other, but then Hailey turned back and watched me again eagerly.