Black and White and Gray All Over (6 page)

“Not much, Mikey,” I said, playing it cool.

“Haven't seen much of you lately.” He looked away, then looked back at me.

“Yeah,” I agreed.
You don't seem that upset, since you have a replacement,
I wanted to yell.

He looked away again. “I guess we only see each other when Trigg sets it up,” he added.

My head snapped up and I searched his face, but it was neutral. Was he saying he liked that or didn't? I couldn't tell. “I guess so,” I agreed.

There was an awkward pause, and I got the sense I was supposed to be saying something, but I didn't know what. What I wanted to say was,
I know, and that's pathetic, since I love you. Now, let's go to the movies on Friday and forget all this!
But I didn't. I couldn't.

“Well . . .”

“How's your . . .”

We both spoke at the same time, then laughed.

“You first,” he said.

“Oh, I was just going to ask you how the article's going,” I said neutrally, like I was just being polite.

“You know. It's good. It's a lot of work.”

“Isn't it always?” I groaned.

He looked at me. “I guess it is. I hadn't really thought of it that way before.”

Had I just offended him? I wasn't sure. Oh dear. “Well, I mean . . . it's fun and all. It's just, you know, all the notes and the interviewing and
the quotes and the surveys and the research, then the writing . . . .” I was babbling now.

“Yeah. Kate told me about what Trigger said, by the way. The sexist comment. That's bad.”

What? Kate had already told him?
When?

“Right. I know. I'll say something.” Now I wanted to just get away. I felt betrayed in all directions. “Um, where are you headed now?” I asked, now desperate to wrap this up. I was sick of the Michael and Kate thing, and I couldn't be late for my next class.

“Oh, I'm heading to earthonomics,” he said.

“Okay. Well . . .”

“Yeah. Bye,” he said.

We both trudged away in opposite directions, and even though I was annoyed with everyone, the overwhelming feeling I had in parting was sadness and loneliness. And like I'd missed something, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what.

At lunch I wanted to avoid everyone. I didn't need Michael's weirdness, Kate's aggressive
friendliness, or Hailey's pity party for Kate. They were all annoying.
Independent Journalist Strikes Out on Her Own.

I decided to grab a quick sandwich to go, stop by the newsroom and pick up any Know-It-All letters, then head to the library to get organized. I'd lain awake half the night, stressing about Kate Bigley, her article with Michael, and the editor in chief job. When I awoke this morning, I knew that the only thing to do was write a huge Know-It-All column for this issue that would blow everyone away and a school uniforms article so impressive that it would make the front page.

I wolfed down my sandwich on a bench in the hall and then ducked into the newsroom. No one was there, so I locked the door and quickly pulled two letters out of the Know-It-All box. But as I was tucking them into my bag, the door handle rattled. Someone was trying to get in.

Gulping, I silently closed the Know-It-All mailbox and thought quickly. Should I hide and let the people open the office door with a key, or should I open it and fake that it had gotten locked
behind me? Not that many people had keys to the office, but a few did, like Mr. Trigg, obviously, and Susannah Johnson, the current editor in chief, and maybe one or two other people. If anyone found me in there with the door locked, they'd think only one thing: that I was Dear Know-It-All. I couldn't let that happen. If I blew my cover now, I'd lose the column and Mr. Trigg would probably give it to Kate!

That was all it took for me to reach my decision. I ducked into Mr. Trigg's office and closed the door most of the way without turning on the light, just in time to hear a key turn in the lock and people entering. I fervently hoped it wasn't Mr. Trigg, because he'd really wonder what I was doing in his office.

But it wasn't Mr. Trigg. It was Kate and Michael!

“Okay, it won't take a minute to find this,” said Michael.

“Fine,” said Kate. “In the meantime, I want to look up the curriculum article by the famous Michael Lawrence and Sam Martone.”

My ears pricked up at hearing my name.

“Oh, yeah. That was a good one,” said Michael.

“Weren't they all?” said Kate dryly.

What was that supposed to mean?

I could hear typing and I held perfectly still. I hoped this wouldn't take long!

I looked around Mr. Trigg's office, where I'd been many times before. The walls were covered with British memorabilia: his Winston Churchill quotes, his photos and postcards of scenes from London, his “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster, the Union Jack. I realized at that exact moment how much Mr. Trigg loved his home country. He must be really homesick. He was always so jolly and chipper, but he did speak of England in such reverent tones. No wonder he'd been ecstatic to hear Kate's accent. I'd never really thought of him as a person with feelings, so it was weird, but it made me think again of what Allie had said about walking a mile in someone's stilettos (or in Mr. Trigg's case, his dorky desert boots). Who would ever believe that Allie's advice would become so important? Still, he had made that sexist comment, so I didn't want
to go feeling too sorry for him.

Outside, Kate and Michael began talking again and I strained to listen.
Spy Makes the Most of Hidden Outpost.

“This is quite good,” Kate was saying admiringly. My ears twitched. Was she talking about my article?

“Yeah, Sam's . . . ,” began Michael. But he didn't continue.

Sam's what?
I wanted to yell.
Sam's great? Sam's a nerd? Sam's better than you? Sam's over?

I was dying to peek out and see what he was doing that wouldn't let him finish his sentence. I pictured his head bent, his dark hair falling over his brow, his blue eyes squinched in concentration as he typed quickly with two fingers.

“Who does the writing between you two?” asked Kate.

“Umm . . . we both kind of do,” said Michael.

“Isn't that difficult to pull off?” asked Kate.

I leaned against Trigg's wall, fascinated but feeling guilty, sick, and scared for the hiding and eavesdropping.

“No, it just kind of works. I don't know,” replied Michael. I could picture him shrugging, his shoulders popping up once, then down.

“Hmm,” said Kate. “So who does all the research for a big article like this? How do you divide it up?” she asked.

Michael laughed. “Both of us. It just seems to work out.”

“Your school papers are a little more . . . professional than ours were back home,” said Kate.

Oh, really? Good to know,
I thought.

“How so?” asked Michael.

“Just a lot more interviewing people, research, the polls you take. It's like real journalism.”

Michael laughed again. “That's the point, isn't it? Don't you want our newspaper to look as professional as possible?”

“I guess so. Our paper was more about popular culture and everyone having a chance to write,” said Kate.

They were quiet, and I silently tried to send them brain waves to wrap it up and leave.

“Okay, that should do it,” said Michael. “Ready.”

Thank goodness!

“Almost finished,” said Kate.

Hurry, hurry!
I mentally telegraphed to them.
Get out!

“Hey, guys!”

“Hi, Jeff!”

Oh no! The photo editor, Jeff Perry, had arrived! I suddenly realized I might be trapped here all day. I closed my eyes and sank down against the wall.

“What's up?” asked Michael.

“Just picking up a contact sheet,” said Jeff. “Where's Sam?”

My eyes snapped open and my heart thudded.

“Don't know,” said Michael briskly.

“I'm sure she's very busy,” said Kate.

What was that supposed to mean?

“So let's meet at eleven thirty to interview the head teacher tomorrow,” said Michael.

“Oh bother. I can't go then. I've got a cello lesson. So sorry. Any other times work for you?”

“Okay, how about after school Thursday?”

“Soccer club.”

“Hmm,” said Michael. “We've got to get this done.”

“I don't mind if you do it without me. We can just discuss it afterward,” said Kate.

“O-kaaayy . . . ,” said Michael.

“Bye, guys! Good luck!” said Jeff.

“We're leaving too,” said Michael firmly.

There was some rustling; then the lights went off and the door shut. I waited an extra three seconds to be sure they were gone, and then I ducked out of Trigg's office. And it was a lucky thing, too, because literally two seconds later the newsroom door opened and in walked Trigger himself.

He clicked on the lights and blinked at me.

“Ms. Martone! What a pleasant surprise! What are you up to?”

“Uh . . . hi, Mr. Trigg.” I gulped nervously but tried not to show it. “I was just hiding some letters in my bag.” I patted my messenger bag.

“Good! Hope you got some juicy ones,” he said, crossing the room to his office door.

“Me too,” I said weakly.

“How's the uniform piece coming along?” he called over his shoulder. “Any fun field trips to the mall with your girlfriends?”

Suddenly my blood boiled.

“Mr. Trigg, can we talk for a minute?” I followed him back to his office door as he snapped on his desk lamp.
Keep calm and carry on,
I told myself.

“Certainly. What's up?”

“Well . . . I . . . I . . .” I stammered, wishing I'd given myself a moment to think of what I needed to say to him.

He looked at me expectantly.

“I think it's a little, uh, sexist of you to keep bringing up the mall and shopping with girlfriends, and everything, in light of this being a serious journalistic article.” I bit my lip, knowing my face had turned red and hating myself for it. “And me being a serious journalist,” I added.

Mr. Trigg's expression turned to confusion and then surprise.

“Why, Ms. Martone! I'm so very sorry! I hadn't
seen it that way at all!” He looked off in the distance and seemed to be thinking.

“Well, I did,” I said quietly.

“I suppose you're right, and I do apologize,” said Mr. Trigg quietly. “That was awfully insensitive of me. But quite honestly, I hadn't been thinking of it that way. I'd more been thinking that you work so hard, you track down every lead, you interview every possible subject, you dot every
i
and cross every
t
, and sometimes I think you need to have a little more fun in your life. That was what I'd hoped you'd do with this article.”

“Oh,” I said. Now I was the surprised one. “I thought it kind of belittled me and my skills.”

“My goodness, no! You're the best reporter we have! I rely on you and am constantly adjusting my expectations upward as you continue to surprise me with what you deliver.”

“Well, it's me and Michael together, mostly,” I said modestly, but inside I was jumping for joy.

“Ms. Martone, I will henceforth maintain gender neutrality at all costs. I am ashamed to see
that I have not done so in the past. I hope that you will forgive me and continue to deliver the wonderful work we've all grown accustomed to around here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Trigg. I appreciate that.”

“How is the uniform piece going, by the way?” he asked.

“Well . . .” I looked up at the wall. “Let's just say I'm keeping calm and carrying on,” I said with a smile.

“I would expect nothing less, Ms. Martone,” Mr. Trigg said with a smile. “Nothing less, indeed.”