Cast Your Ballot! (2 page)

Michael sighed now too. “Okay. Maybe later?”

“I have to help Hailey with her homework after school,” I said. “Can we talk by phone tonight? Or . . . ?” I was hoping he'd ask me to meet him after school again like he did a few weeks ago.

“Sure. Or maybe we can get together tomorrow,” he said.

Yesss!

Michael did a U-turn away from where he'd been heading (toward my table!) and scanned the crowd for his guy friends.

“Great,” I said. “Sorry to miss you today.”

“Yup,” he agreed. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

Parting is such sweet sorrow, as Shakespeare liked to say.
Oh well. Business is business
, I thought, and I headed back to the newsroom.

Back at the newsroom, I tried the handle to find that the door was locked. I could see through the opaque glass in the door that the lights were out, too.
Good,
I thought. It was just how I like it.

Looking quickly over my shoulder in both directions, I slid my key into the lock, opened the door, slipped inside, and swiftly shut and locked it behind me.
Phew!
So far so good. Only Mr. Trigg, the editor in chief, and I have keys to the office, and only two of us know why I'm there. So I'm pretty safe.

I took a deep breath; then I got my next key ready to open my mailbox.

Suddenly, there was a rattling at the door.
Someone was trying to come in! I froze right in the middle of the room. Should I hide? Act like I fell asleep on the love seat? What?

Journalist Busted in Locked Office Cracks Under Questioning.

Oh no.

But the person gave up and went away.

I resumed my creep to the mailbox and was just putting my key into the lock when I heard someone at the door again. This time, a key entered the lock neatly and the door opened. If it was the editor in chief, I was toast! I held my breath, nowhere to hide, nothing to mask what I was doing.

Whew, what a relief! But oh boy, thank goodness it was just Mr. Trigg. He flicked the lights on and startled when he saw me.

“Goodness, Ms. Martone, you gave me a fright!”

“Likewise,” I said with a relieved grin. “Would you mind shutting the door for a minute?” I gestured at my mailbox.

“Oh, certainly! So sorry! Of course. And I'll turn the lights out, as it was, okeydoke?” he began
to whisper. “Like Woodward and Bernstein in here!”

I giggled at the reference to the two reporters whose top-secret investigation of election tactics brought down President Nixon. Mr. Trigg loves the cloak-and-dagger aspects of my other job at the paper, which is that I am the top-secret advice columnist who writes as “Dear Know-It-All.” If my identity is ever discovered, I lose my job, so the anonymity is something I work hard to maintain. Thus all the sneaking around.

I quickly opened my mailbox and withdrew the three paltry letters inside, as Mr. Trigg put a finger to his lips and tiptoed to his office. I locked the mailbox back up and went to the door to unlock it and turn on the light while simultaneously jamming the letters down into my messenger bag and out of sight.

Sighing in relief, I crossed the newsroom to Mr. Trigg's office in the corner. A little bit of Fleet Street right in our very midst, it was decked in Union Jacks and Churchill posters, with a double-decker-bus pencil sharpener, a
Keep Calm and Carry On
poster, and other common British accoutrements, including a small electric teakettle, which he was just setting on to boil.

“Fancy a spot of tea?” he asked me.

“No thanks. I just had lunch.”

“Anything good in the mail?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

I smiled. “I don't know yet. I can't really check here. I'd hate to get caught.”

“Very professional. Impressive as always. I'll certainly make a note of that in your file.”

“My file? What file?”

Mr. Trigg looked at me in confusion. “I have files on all my writers and editors. I keep their clips in there, notes about their style, work, impressive judgment calls, all that sort of thing.”

“Why?” I asked incredulously.

Mr. Trigg looked back at me, equally incredulous. “References, applications, background checks. People ask me all the time for help with those things.”

“Applications? Like to college?”

“Certainly. And some to private high schools or even boarding schools. My editors and writers often apply as journalists for summer internships or jobs just out of school, and they want me to write their recommendations.”

“Huh. Seems like they're stretching back in time pretty far. Sixth grade? Eighth grade?”

“You'd be surprised how short it seems to me,” he said, pouring his hot water over his tea bag. “In any case, I can easily tell what my students' fundamental characters are at this stage, their work ethic, their punctuality, attention to detail. There are quite a few character traits that don't change over time.”

“Wow. I guess I'd better be nicer to you,” I joked.

“Don't change a thing,” he said, smiling warmly over the rim of his mug as he took a tentative sip. “Incidentally, most newspapers keep files on famous people. Used to be clippings; now I'm sure it's all digitized. It helped when reporters needed to do a story on someone notable. They'd just order up the file and have plenty of info to
get started. Also used it for obituaries, of course. But mostly very handy for business and politics.”

“I guess now we just Google,” I said.

“Of course. But Googling is not as good in some ways. It pulls up too much stuff, things that might be irrelevant or out of context, and then it doesn't pull up some of the good stuff, like old profiles with analysis.”

“Hmm,” I said. “I'll remember that.”

“Good. Now, anything else going on?”

“Not at the moment!” I looked at my watch. “Except I have my next class in about two minutes! Gotta run.”

“Cheerio, Ms. Martone,” he said as I turned to leave.

“Bye!”

I raced to make my next class on time, my messenger bag thumping my leg as I ran, and all I could think about was
Imagine: Mr. Trigg is already thinking about me going to college one day!

That night, after Hailey had left and my mom and my sister and I had finished our dinner
(fajita night!), I finally had five minutes to myself to sit at my desk and open my Dear Know-It-All letters. They usually come in along certain themes each time, and these were no exception.

There was the “my family doesn't understand me” letter, on plain notebook paper in a white business envelope:

Dear Know-It-All,

My mom is always hounding me to clean my room, but I like it the way it is. I don't see it as messy just because I have my things around and some snacks in there. Why should I have to clean it to her specifications?

From,

Messy with Style

Hmm. I guess if your mom is paying the bills (including the exterminator bill), Messy, then you have to obey her standards. Find another form of self-expression.

Next, there was the “homework's getting me down” letter, on camp stationery from a boys' camp in Maine.

Dear Know-It-All

When do we get a break I'm busy all summer with programs and camps and then busy all year with homework and studying for tests When do I get a chance to sleep late and lie around if I want

WHEN

Signed,

Tired

Wow. Too tired even to punctuate. Well, I hear you, Tired, and the answer is never, I think. I'm sorry.

Finally, the third letter was a “love hurts” letter, on pink scalloped stationery, of course, with a matching envelope.

Dear Know-It-All,

I like an eighth grader (I'm in sixth), but he won't even look at me. Do I stand a chance? If so, what can I do to get him to like me?

Signed,

Adoring Underclassperson

Hmm. A tough one. My short answer to that would be: An eighth grader will never like a sixth grader because that is just totally uncool. Maybe in a few years, when age doesn't matter as much, but probably not too soon.

None of these letters was the juicy, meaty kind of letter I liked. I was disappointed but not surprised. Often I'll get batch after batch of tired clichés and I'll get discouraged. I don't want to print the same thing over and over, even though this is clearly what's on everyone's mind. I like things that inspire some debate or make people think.

Columnist Solves World's Problems One Kid at a Time
.

Ha! As if!

Well, I still have some time before the next issue is due
, I thought. Something will come up. It always does. And sometimes I'll get, like, four really good letters and have an impossible time choosing. My mom calls it “feast or famine.” I know what she means.

I hid the letters in my new Know-It-All hiding spot, behind my headboard. My sister, Allie, is very snoopy, and more than once, I've caught her in here where she could have stumbled upon my trove of letters. I can't risk it because she is a major blabbermouth. If she found out I'm Know-It-All, I'd lose my job and be ruined.

It was time to wrap up my homework, but I couldn't resist a little Googling.

First I looked for information on John Scott, the school presidential candidate. It was unfortunate that he had such a common name. Tons of stuff came up, and it was nearly impossible to wade through. Sure there were obvious things I could weed out, like I knew he hadn't robbed a bank, but I couldn't be sure that it wasn't him who'd had
his bike stolen from the Cherry Valley mall last year, or who'd saved a little girl from drowning at the town beach. I began to yearn for the days of Mr. Trigg's clipping files.

Anthony Wright wasn't much better. It was definitely him who'd won the state chess championship, because I remember seeing the massive trophy in the lobby at school. I didn't even recognize him in the picture (waaaay under the radar), but nothing bad came up about him, and I couldn't wade through the sea of other Anthony Wrights (Fighting off muggers! Winning the lottery! Heading off to Iraq!) to find more.

I made a note to search the back issues of the
Cherry Valley Voice
as a start and packed it in for the night.