Cast Your Ballot! (11 page)

I ran into Allie in the hall, and she seemed to have calmed down a little. She was brushing her
teeth, and she stared at me for a moment, not saying anything. I was quiet as well, and so the only sound was Allie's toothbrush swishing back and forth.

“I just want him to win,” she finally said through a mouthful of toothpaste.

“I know. I do too. And I'm not even supposed to say that,” I said.

She nodded and kept brushing, but I knew we were at peace now.

Michael and I met after school on Wednesday and walked to Slices, where we had a snack and swapped articles to edit. It was comfortable reading in silence next to him, but I did sneak a couple of peeks to see if he looked like he was enjoying what I'd written. Also because he had on my favorite of his shirts—a faded denim button-down that had belonged to his oldest brother and made his eyes look amazing.

Once he caught me looking, and I quickly looked back down at what I was reading, though I know my eyes swam over the page since I'd lost track of where I was.

“Paste,” he said in a cautioning tone.

I looked up innocently, and our eyes met.

“Don't you like it?” he asked.

“What? Oh. Yes, of course. It's great. I was just trying to see if you liked mine.”

He nodded. “It's very good. Very objective.” I'd told him about Allie, so I smiled at the reference. We both looked back at the articles in earnest and finished reading.

His article about John Scott covered all the basics about John's life, his activities, his family, and his background in general. Though it was very detailed and well written, it felt bland, and I flashed back to this issue's Dear Know-It-All letter, suddenly wondering if John's parents were behind his run or if it was all him. He suddenly seemed so . . . packaged. In contrast, my article really gave a sense of who Anthony Wright was, where he was coming from and why, and most of all, that it was all his. His ideas, his drive, his motivation, his experience. I don't want to toot my own horn, but my article was better. Not the writing, but the subject matter, for sure.

“Well?” said Michael.

“You first,” I said, taking a careful sip of my soda. I really, really hoped he liked mine.

Girl Bursts Awaiting Compliment.

“Okay. He has my vote,” he said with a chuckle.

“Oh no! It's not supposed to be an endorsement!” I sighed and slapped the table hard with my hand in frustration.

Michael shook his head as he sipped his soda, too. “It doesn't read like one. Anthony sells himself. I actually kind of agree with Allie. I can see why she was annoyed. You almost bend over backward to
not
sell him.”

“Uh-oh. Now I feel bad the other way,” I said.

“Don't! You did the right thing. I made a couple of little corrections and suggestions, but overall, I think it's almost perfect. Great job, Pasty. Again.” He grinned. “Now, what did you think of mine?”

“Great writing, great reporting, I love how you worked in the man-on-the-streets, the Buddybook poll info. Actually, it's interesting, because in person, John's amazing, but on paper . . .”

“He wilts,” admitted Michael, nodding.

I nodded back.

Michael sighed hard and put his face in his hands in a gesture of exhaustion. Then he looked up at me again. “I tried. I
really
tried hard to make him come alive on the page. The problem is, there's no
there
there. No backstory, no life challenges, no passionate hobbies. The drowning thing looks lame when you spell it all out. And the campaign promises . . .” He sighed again in aggravation. “New team uniforms, iPads, gourmet lunches, less homework? It all sounds like . . . fantasy!”

I sighed in agreement. “I know. I like how you handled that, though. ‘The
Cherry Valley Voice
staff will be interested in hearing specifically how John intends to follow through on his promises.' Good one. But this is still tough.”

We looked at each other, our mouths in identical grim lines.

“What can we do?” I asked finally.

Michael shrugged. “I'm just worried that the contrast in the profiles will make it seem like we're not being objective. Like we're really selling Anthony and not John. And I do feel bad about that.”

I nodded. “It's so funny, because I think we were worried at the beginning that it would be the opposite problem, right?”

Michael nodded vigorously. “For sure. John is so good in person. I thought he'd be the clear winner.”

“What should we do?” I asked.

Michael thought for a minute; then he said, “I think we just go home, make the corrections, and e-mail them to Trigger. Let's ask him what he thinks.”

Hailey IM'd me that night.

Trying to be a warrior. It's tougher than I thought. Kind of getting better at it.

I smiled and wrote back.

You already are. You just need to remember it.

Still smiling, I saw an e-mail come into my in-box, and I clicked over to see what it was. It was from Mr. Trigg, addressed to me and Michael both. It said:

Please stop in to see me first thing tomorrow.

—PT

I forwarded it to Michael with just a question mark, and he replied with the same. Was Mr. Trigg mad? Happy? There was no way to know. I slept uneasily all night, worried that my career at the
Cherry Valley Voice
might be over.

Journalists Fired on Eve of Election.

Gulp. Would he do that?

Thursday morning, Michael and I met at my locker and hustled wordlessly to the newsroom. Mr. Trigg was in his office, brewing tea, of course, and reading yet another well-thumbed book about Winston Churchill.

“Ah, my star political reporting team! Come in. Do come in! Fancy a cup of tea, do you?”

Exchanging a nervous glance, we declined and leaned awkwardly in Mr. Trigg's office doorway. He arranged his own tea, took a sip, and pulled up our articles on his screen, side by side. Then he made his hands into a tepee shape and tapped them against his lips as he thought. Michael and I exchanged a nervous glance. Where was this all going?

Finally Mr. Trigg spoke. “Same word count, almost. Same number of paragraphs. Identical column inches. Was that intentional?”

Michael and I looked at each other again. “No,” said Michael.

“Well done, then,” said Mr. Trigg.

Michael and I raised our eyebrows at each other.

“I can see your predicament,” said Mr. Trigg after another pause. “And now,
my
predicament. I don't think . . . I really think there's nothing we can do. Sometimes things just become very clear when you write about them. Maybe . . . certainly, I could run the Scott article above the fold, a little more prominently? Even things up that way? But no. That's not right either. That would look like an endorsement too.” He sighed heavily and looked up at us. “I think you've really done your best, you know? We just run them and see what happens. Of course, there will be the speeches tomorrow, and that should take some heat off you. The speeches are always the biggest deciding factor. But, of course, we've never had a candidate with
such an interesting backstory before.”

Michael and I both sagged a little in relief. We weren't in trouble. We were Mr. Trigg's coworkers, trying to solve an editorial problem.

“So we're not in trouble?” said Michael, slightly joking but serious, I knew.

Mr. Trigg looked up at us in alarm. “Trouble? Certainly not! Why would you be in trouble?”

“Because we weren't objective enough?” I said.

“Ms. Martone, if you'd been any more objective . . . why, I think I would've said you were against Anthony Wright!” He chuckled.

I rolled my eyes. “I've heard that before.”

Mr. Trigg clapped his hands and stood up. “No. There's nothing more to be done but run it and let nature take its course. That's all we can do.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said, still nervous. Part of me was glad I wasn't the one who'd had to write the John Scott article.

The
Cherry Valley Voice
hit the Web just after midnight that night, and the hard copies were
being distributed by sixth graders at the front door to school as usual. I stood back and watched as people eagerly took copies—did this many people usually take a copy?—and began reading the candidate profiles on the front page immediately.

I was dreading the day. I was nervous about reactions to our articles, nervous about reactions to my Dear Know-It-All column, and really, really nervous about the speeches. I knew it was going to be a challenge for Anthony, and I really, really wanted him to win. Allie was even taking the afternoon off to come and prep him and watch. She'd gotten special permission from her guidance counselor.

Finally I steeled myself against the day and entered the school, grabbing a hard copy of the paper (even though I'd read it online as soon as I got up this morning), more to hide behind if need be.

Inside, everyone was chatting about the paper, the speeches, the election. There were more posters on the wall than ever, and Anthony and
John were both in the main hall, handing out flyers again while Hailey scurried to replenish Anthony's supply. I slunk to my locker, hoping to avoid conversation, and I nearly managed it until I saw Michael's friend Frank Duane walking in the hall.