Read All About It! (6 page)

Michael was standing in the hall outside, tapping his foot
impatiently.

“Come on!” he hissed. “We can't be
late!”

“Sorry,” I whispered. “We're not,
anyway.”

We checked in with Mr. Pfeiffer's secretary and she told us to
have a seat in the waiting area. I busied myself getting my pen and notebook out, and
when Michael saw what I was doing he rolled his eyes and looked away.

“What?” I asked in a quiet voice.

He shrugged. “I just think it's more respectful to listen
carefully,” he said.

“Well that may be, but how are we going to be sure we get the
quotes right?” I asked.

He tapped the side of his head again.

I wasn't buying it. “But your fancy memory isn't
written out as proof, in case for some unbelievable and rare reason, you get a word
wrong. We can't misquote the principal!” Michael had a lot of nerve.

“We won't,” he said definitively.

“You know what? Fine. Have it your way.” I snapped my
notebook shut and stowed it and my pen back in my bag. I wished I had a tape recorder,
but if he wanted to do it this way, then it was his responsibility.

“Okay, kids, he can see you now. Go on in,” said the
secretary.

We stood up and crossed to the door to the office. Mr. Pfeiffer was on
the phone and smiled and waved us in. It was an awkward moment. Michael gestured for me
to go first through the door, but then I wasn't sure if I should stand in the
doorway
or head right in and sit down. I started to go in, then
changed my mind and backed out again, right into Michael. He must have been just
shutting the door, and it was crazy chaos but somehow the door shut on his hand.
Hard.

“Ow!” he shouted.

I whipped around to see what was happening, and Michael was clutching
his left hand and biting down hard on his lip.

“What?”

“Ow. My fingers. Ow.” His eyes were closed and for a
horrible moment I wondered if he might actually cry. (Do boys cry? I mean big boys? I
have no idea!)

Mr. Pfeiffer had hung up the phone and was at Michael's side in a
flash.

“Michael, I saw that whole thing happen. Oh gosh. I'm so
sorry.” Mr. Pfeiffer ducked his head out of the office and called to his
secretary. “Mary, can you get us some ice from the nurse, please? Michael Lawrence
just had his hand slammed in the door!”

“Uh-oh! Right away!” she called back.

“Michael, why don't you sit down . . .” Mr. Pfeiffer
reached and pulled one of his guest chairs toward Michael.
Michael sat down heavily.

I didn't know what to do.

“Can you move it?” Mr. Pfeiffer asked.

“I don't know . . .” muttered Michael, his jaw
clenched tightly.

It seemed like an eternity but finally the door opened and the nurse was
there. “Hi, honey. You poor thing. Let's take a look . . .”

Michael opened his eyes and looked up at her, and I could see that there
actually were tears in his eyes! Oh my goodness! I took another step back and banged
into a little side table, nearly knocking it over. I looked up in embarrassment but no
one had seen. Phew.

“What happened, sweetie?” asked the nurse gently.

Michael could hardly speak through the pain. His voice came out in
little gasps. “I was walking in behind her . . . and I had my hand on the door . .
. to pull it closed. Then . . . she backed into me . . . and I didn't get my hand
out in time.”

Wait, me? It was my fault?

Mr. Pfeiffer was nodding in agreement.

Oh my goodness. My hand flew up to cover my mouth.
“Michael, I'm . . . I didn't realize!”

They all looked up at me like I'd just appeared from Mars.

“Don't worry, honey. Accidents happen,” said the
nurse.

Accidents! But I didn't even think I'd done anything! I
mean, he was the one who slammed the door.

The nurse called Michael's mom to see if it was okay to give him
aspirin. Then she gave Michael two aspirin to take with some water. Next she brought a
bucket of ice and told Michael to soak his hand in it for a while, and to come up and
see her again afterward. “It's not broken, sweetie,” she said.
“But we might wrap it up in an ACE bandage just to be safe. It's not your
throwing hand anyway, is it?” she asked.

But Michael nodded. That's right. Hailey had said he throws lefty.
Darn it!

Michael was nodding. “Yep, I'm a lefty.”

The nurse bit her lip. “Well, let's just see how it does
with a little ice, okay?” She and Mr. Pfeiffer exchanged a look that seemed to say
they'd discuss all this later, then she
nodded, patted Michael
on the back, and left.

“Okay, where were we?” said Michael with a little laugh.

I was still standing there in shock. “Michael, I'm so . . .
I didn't mean to . . . I mean, I'm sure I didn't . . .” Should I
apologize for something I didn't even think was my fault? Maybe it was my fault.
But it was truly an accident.

Michael shook his head. “Don't worry about it. It was an
accident.”

Mr. Pfeiffer leaned back against the front of his desk. “We can
reschedule the interview, kids. Just relax here for as long as you need and then I can
move some stuff around on my calendar and get you back in here . . .”

“No, no, I'm fine,” protested Michael. “Really.
Now that the numbness is kicking in . . .” He winced.

I felt terrible. “I'm so sorry,” I said finally.
“I'm really, really sorry.”

Michael looked up at me and smiled. “It's fine,” he
said. “Let's start the interview.”

Mr. Pfeiffer looked at him carefully. “If you're sure . .
.”

Michael nodded. “I'm sure.”

The next twenty minutes were, without a doubt, the most interesting time
I'd ever spent in school. Mr. Pfeiffer outlined how the new curriculum was
designed to help students deal with the onslaught of information that grows every day
from thousands of different directions. He talked about books, magazines, the Internet,
TV news, social media, libraries, newspapers, blogs, Wikipedia, and how to evaluate the
quality of your sources, how to incorporate what he called the quantifiable information
(facts) with qualifiable information (opinions and feelings) to create what he called
“the whole understanding.”

At first I had a really hard time listening to Mr. Pfeiffer without
writing everything down. I was also really nervously looking down at Michael's
hand and hoping that I just
thought
it was swelling. It looked
kind of puffy. But when I started to relax and really hear what Mr. Pfeiffer was saying,
I found I was able to ask useful questions and have more of a conversation with him than
an interview. It was actually fun!
Michael was into it too, and it
felt cool to have a conversation with a grown-up where he wasn't talking down to
us, but really explaining himself and making sure we understood. Plus, he was so
enthusiastic, it was contagious.

“Our goal, in essence, is to have you leave here with the skills
to be able to tell a great story,” Mr. Pfeiffer said. “Because when you
think about it, isn't that what everything comes down to in life? Telling a great
story?”

“Wow,” I said, nodding. “True.”

“Very cool,” agreed Michael.

“Are you going to come to the Parent Teacher Association meeting
on Thursday?” Mr. Pfeiffer asked. “There should be some lively debate there
that you might incorporate into your article.”

I nodded hard. “Definitely!” I said.

“Good.” He nodded happily. “Michael, how's the
hand?”

Michael had it resting out of the ice on a pile of paper towels on his
lap. “It's going to be okay, I think,” he said.

“All right. Well, I've got to run to a meeting
with the superintendent of schools. And you know what? I'll
see if he'd mind if one of you gives him a call to get a quote for your article,
okay?”

“That would be great! Thanks!” I said, standing. “And
thanks for your time and everything. It was really interesting.”

Michael stood too. He looked around to see how he was going to carry
everything.

“Here. I'll help you,” I offered, reaching for his
book bag.

“Stay back!” he said, half joking. “I don't need
another injury.”

I bit my lip. That was kind of mean. It's not like I had directly
hurt him before.

So Mr. Pfeiffer lifted the ice bucket and Michael's backpack and
helped us out through the door.

“Mary, will you get Mr. Lawrence an elevator pass, please?”
he asked his secretary.

“Really, let me help,” I said. I lifted Michael's
backpack from Mr. Pfeiffer and hoisted it on my back. It was heavy. “Ready?”
I asked.

Mary handed Michael the elevator pass, and we shook hands with Mr.
Pfeiffer.

“Thanks again, Mr. Pfeiffer. You really made
me see this in a whole new way,” I said.

“Glad to help,” said Mr. Pfeiffer. “See you kids soon!
And I'll let you know what the superintendent says!”

We walked out into the hallway and I suddenly felt really awkward.

“I can carry my backpack,” said Michael.

“Well, at least let me get you to the elevator,” I said.

Michael shrugged. “Thanks. I don't want to take you out of
your way.”

“It's not out of my way. I've got to go up to science
anyway and the stairs are right there.” We were speaking like we were strangers.
And suddenly I could see that in most ways, we were.

Michael looked down at his elevator pass. “I'm only going
one floor up to the nurse's office. But it says I'm allowed to bring a
friend on the elevator with me.”

“Oh,” I said, looking down at the elevator pass.

“But I'm not sure you're my friend,” he said.
“Friends don't try to maim each other.”

My head snapped up in shock, but then I saw that he was smiling.

“I am your friend,” I said. And I smiled
back.

“Okay, then right this way. Good thing there's a wide door .
. .” He gestured me onto the elevator.

“Very funny,” I said.

I sighed as we climbed aboard.
Martone Back from
the Brink of Disaster,
I thought.

“I didn't know you threw lefty . . .” I said as the
doors closed.

My mom was waiting for me when I got home from school that
afternoon.

“Samantha, Allie tells me you joined Buddybook without my
permission,” she said before I'd even put down my messenger bag.

“Well . . .” I was caught off guard. “I did, but
I've already quit. Wait, when did she tell you?” Our mom had been at the gym
when we'd left for school this morning, so we hadn't seen her.

“She texted me,” said my mom.

“That is so annoying! Now she's texting to meddle in my
life?”

My mom smiled a wry smile. “Isn't that what social
media is all about? Meddling in people's lives?”

“Yeah, it sure seems like it.” We walked up the steps to the
kitchen and I started making a big snack of melted cheddar cheese on Triscuits. I was
still suffering the effects of not eating lunch.

“Listen, sweetheart, Buddybook is a big commitment. I don't
want to see you wasting your time on it before we've had a chance to discuss our
family's rules and guidelines for using it. If you decide you're going to do
it again, you'll need my permission.”

I waved my hand at her. “Don't worry. I'm over
it,” I said.

My mom looked at me for a long minute. Then she said, “Okay, but
since I have your attention on the subject, there are just three things to always
remember: One, only you can control your image online—written, video,
photographic, all of it. And you need to be vigilant about it. Two, whatever goes online
stays online forever. It never goes away. And three, never put anything online that it
wouldn't be okay for everyone to see, including me, or your grandmother, or Dr.
Sobel . . .”

Dr. Sobel is our dentist. “Mom!” I laughed.

She smiled. “Just so you get my point.
Anyone
.”

I nodded and started eating my crackers. “Okay. I get
it.”

We were quiet for a minute and then she said, “How's the new
curriculum?”

“Fine. Oh, that just made me remember . . .” I pulled the
envelope out of my messenger bag and carefully took out the new curriculum materials. I
didn't let my mom see the Know-It-All letters. I had my professional standard of
anonymity to uphold, after all. Even if Mr. Trigg
had
told
her, we didn't have to talk about it.

I laid the curriculum materials out on the table between us and we
looked at them.