Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (12 page)

Friday morning I woke up, got dressed, and walked to school. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, though I pushed a toast soldier around on my plate a little bit, not willing to dip it into the runny egg, which looked like a sick stomach on a plate.

I wasn’t feeling too good about my chances, really. I mean, I was a stranger in this school. I didn’t even have the lingo down exactly. Case in point: when I first got here and tried out for after-school track, the coach asked me if I had trainers. I said no, of course. I mean, who has a personal trainer when they’re fifteen years old? So he told me I couldn’t join the team.

I kept thinking,
Wow, these people are serious about their running.
Later someone filled me in that trainers are really running shoes. Well, no wonder! But by then, it was too late to join.

But in spite of all my doubts, my hopes soared when I walked into my first period class. Why? Hazelle was already there, looking mighty, mighty glum. I still hadn’t given up on winning her over, though, so as I sat down I waved at her. She raised a hand and waved back, once. More like a swat for a mosquito than a greeting, really, but it would do.

I figured there was only one thing that could make Hazelle so upset today: she’d already heard she hadn’t been chosen. Maybe even from her sister.

I unwrapped a stick of gum and put it into my mouth in the most obvious way in front of the kid who’d whispered his little cow poem at me. I’d swallow it before the instructor arrived so I wouldn’t be breaking the rules.

Class dragged on, though I was careful to write every homework equation in my grid notebook. It was going to be even more important to keep my grades up . . . if things went my way.

As soon as first period was over, I heard my phone beep. Actually, so did everyone else—they all looked at me as if I were barmy and didn’t know to turn off my phone. Well, duh! I hadn’t had a text since I’d been in England. Except from my mom and Louanne, which didn’t count.

I hurried out of the room and felt around the inside of my messenger bag for the phone. Found it! The text was from Jack.

I didn’t know if this was good or bad. Hazelle had obviously gotten her news in private too, and she looked like she’d swallowed dish soap.

I texted back.

Right away my phone beeped again.

I hoped. I prayed. Did Jack think I could write a successful column? And if I was really honest with myself, did I?

Friday night. Family game night. Mom made chili. We had fun, but time still dragged on.

Saturday. Chores. I was taken off of laundry and dinner duty for now. I did bathrooms instead. Couldn’t really mess that up.

Sunday finally arrived. It felt sad—and wrong, somehow—to still not be going to church on Sunday morning. My dad read from the Bible and we all read along with him, and we prayed. It was better than nothing, but it was still kind of lonely.

“I’ve arranged for us to try another church next week,” he said, and sort of surprisingly, I was really glad. At home, even though I’d liked my youth group and pastor, there were a few mornings when I would have rather stayed in bed and gotten some extra sleep. But now that church had been taken away from me, I realized how much I missed it . . . how much it kind of kicked off and shaped my week, in a good way.

We’d tried two churches since we’d been here, and sadly, they had both been full of only old people. Nice people. Loving people. But we were hoping for a place we could fit in, with people our own age too. After that, we hadn’t tried again.

I was an American in London. Not among my people. It would sure be good to be among my Christian people again. If it happened.

“I’m going to Fishcoteque,” I told my mom about 4:45. I don’t know why, exactly, but I didn’t really want to tell anyone about the column yet. If I got it, they’d all be really happy. If I didn’t, they’d feel bad all over again. And maybe even disappointed in me—I don’t know. I just thought I’d keep it quiet for now.

When I walked in, Jack was already there. He spied me at the door and raised his hand to me and smiled that smile. It was still the cutest smile I’d ever seen on a guy, except maybe Ryan from the baseball team.

“Hullo, Savvy,” he said. “Sit down.”

I hoped I looked calmer on the outside than I was on the inside, which felt more like one of those jelly baby candies the Brits like to eat, which I found disgusting. That reminded me. I needed to find some British candy I liked. My stash of Hershey Kisses had run out.

“How’s your weekend been?” Jack asked.

“Fine, very nice.” It had dragged by, but of course I wasn’t going to say
that
. “And your rugby match?”

“We won,” he said. “Thanks for asking. Listen, Savvy, I’ll get right to the point. Julia and I loved your answers to the sample column. The writing, actually, is fantastic. Especially with you having no experience and all.”

My head felt like it was going to pop with the rush of excitement. I managed to squeak out, “Thank you!” in what I hoped was a normal, calm voice.

“We feel that there’s real potential for your column to be a fabulous, well-liked addition to the paper. But we have one concern.”

My head—and my excitement—came back to earth. “What is that?”

“Well, there are quite a few obvious Americanisms in there. I can buff out the language, but sometimes, you know, there might be deeper differences. An American approach to life versus a British approach to life. That’s nothing I can rewrite, nor should I. The writer has to carry that on her own.”

My friend Jeannie, the counter lady, brought me a Fanta, unasked, and winked at me as she looked at Jack and then back at me. I grinned at her before turning back to Jack.

“I can do it,” I said. “I’m sure I can.”

“Brilliant. I think you can too, Savvy. But here’s what we’ve decided. We’ll run two test columns—with the new sport column running the weeks in between. If the word on the street, er, um, around school, is that the columns are a smashing success, the job is yours. If not, we’ll have to give it to the second-place candidate. And Julia can help her get up to speed privately.”

Aha! The second-place candidate
was
Hazelle—or at least a “her” that Julia could get up to speed quickly. I wondered if Hazelle knew I’d won.

And then, as if he were reading my mind, Jack answered. “However, there is one small caveat. The columnist must remain secret till we decide who it’s going to be, okay? So it doesn’t look like we’re floundering around or like we’ve made a mistake if we end up changing the writer. No one knows the column is yours as of now.”

Jack paused. “Shall I give you a few days to think about it?” He sprinkled vinegar over the top of his fish fingers and took a bite. The music from the darts and pool area in the back was pounding bass in time with my heart.

“No. I can do it,” I said with more confidence than I felt. After all, I had the same reservations that he had about my grip of British English.

“Good,” he said. “You can still sit at the lunch table, of course, because you’re still our paper delivery girl. And if the column doesn’t work out, you can still deliver papers!”

Big whoop-de-do,
as we said in Seattle.

“Will I get a Wexburg Academy
Times
pen, like the rest of the writers?” I asked, finishing off my Fanta.

“If you keep the column permanently, absolutely. Everyone who has a byline on the paper gets one.”

I could already envision the stack flying off, via FedEx, to Grandma and Auntie Tricia.