Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (15 page)

Saturday we went to an outdoor dog show for Louanne. Every breed in the world was there, it seemed, along with lots of British ladies who didn’t seem to mind tottering through the mud in low heels while absorbing dog slobber through their clothes. A brown-haired boy waved to me from the other side of the arena. I recognized him—from one of my classes maybe?—and I waved back. He was kind of cute, in a friendly, open way.

“Do you know him?” Mom asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, it’s nice to be recognized, isn’t it?” she asked. “Vivienne stopped me at the foot of the driveway yesterday to tell me that the post was going to be delayed this week. I thought that was neighborly.”

Neighborly, yes. Friendly, no.
But I wanted to lift her up. “It
was
neighborly,” I said, perhaps just a little too enthusiastically.

The cold air against my skin was refreshing. Dogs were barking all over the place and then quieting to show and compete. Louanne’s eyes shone and she scribbled notes on a little scorecard. There were huge dogs entered in the outdoor pulling contest and smart little misses in the showy toy category inside the arena. I had to admit a certain fondness for the sporting dogs. They looked at you as if to say,
Do you love me? Will you love me?
And then they swished their tails. If I were a dog person—and I’m not—I’d have a Lab or a golden retriever.

In the car on the way home, Louanne said, “Did you notice that they had junior showmanship?” She wiggled a brochure in front of me.

“You have to have a dog to compete,” I said drily.

“I have Giggle.”

“Exactly my point,” I said, and she elbowed me hard. These little British cars didn’t allow for enough room to avoid pesty sisters.

“Listen: ‘Junior showmen will develop their handling skills, will learn good sportsmanship, will present their dogs for competition.’”

I leaned over her shoulder. “You have to be ten years old.”

“I’ll be ten in two months.”

“We’ll see,” Mom said.

Then, in spite of myself, I felt sorry for Louanne. I knew what “we’ll see” meant. It meant, “We’ll see . . . when they locate life on Mars and they come to Earth and give an interview with
Good Morning America
. Then we’ll talk about it.”

Couldn’t see how it was going to happen.

When we got home, Vivienne was putting her dustbins out for Monday morning, even though it was only Saturday night. Mom met her at the foot of the driveway while the rest of us went inside. Mom looked so eager. I knew she was hoping that Vivienne would say something about the cookie exchange. By the look on my mom’s face as she walked up to the front door, Vivienne hadn’t mentioned it. Sooner or later—probably sooner—Mom was going to have to ask her about the invitation and if she was coming.

When I walked in I noticed, shocked, that Growl was sitting in the corner. That was unlike him after spending hours in his crate.

“What’s up with him?” I asked Louanne.

“He’s pouting.”

“Why?”

“He must have smelled the other dogs on my clothes,” she said. Then she went into the kitchen, and I heard her rustling around the fridge.

Growl just looked at me. “Get some pride, kid,” I said. “It was only a dog show.”

He sighed and turned his head to the wall. Far be it from me to spend some of my few free hours trying to perk up a dog I didn’t like and that didn’t like me.

Mom came in the door, looking a little tired and maybe even discouraged. But just then Dad raced into the room.

My dad never raced anywhere, even in a lively church. He was the original tortoise in the tortoise and the hare fable.

“Guess what?” he said to my mom. “My boss is giving us a weekend away. In Bath. At a health spa—for both of us. Free!”

“Really?” Mom perked right up. “How? When?”

Louanne must have heard the commotion, because she joined us in the living room.

“He and his wife were supposed to go next weekend. They had a bed-and-breakfast all paid for, and then his wife’s mother had to be hospitalized. They’ll be going to Scotland to take care of her. He thought it might be a nice way for me to get a feel for another part of Britain.

“But,” he said, slowing down to his normal self, “it’s next weekend. Who would stay with the kids?”

“Oh, we don’t need anyone to stay with us,” I spoke up. “I’m a sophomore. I can take care of everything. Right, Louanne?”

“Right!” she agreed.

Both Mom and Dad shook their heads. “No,” Mom said.

Dad looked up and snapped his fingers. “Hey. I know exactly who we can ask.” He looked at Mom and she grinned. Apparently she knew who he had in mind.

“Who?” Louanne asked.

“I’ll tell you after I talk with her,” Mom said.

I glanced at Louanne, and she looked at me and sighed. We both felt the gloom descend upon us like a dreary London fog. I hoped we were wrong. But there was only one person we knew in England who would fit the bill.

After grabbing a jam sandwich, I headed up to my room. I glanced again at the writing prompt for this week’s advice column.

Left Out

Suddenly I understood.
God, You’re going to have me experience nearly everything You have me write about in this column, aren’t You? If I get it, that is. To make me walk the talk—and understand the people I’m writing for.

I didn’t exactly hear anything, but I felt warm inside—what could only be the presence of the Lord—and it felt like He was confirming it to me. If I was offered this column, if I took this job, I was going to have to learn every lesson myself before I could share His wisdom on it.

I wasn’t so sure I wanted to write this column anymore, even if it were offered to me for keeps.

Thursday morning I was the first one up. I padded downstairs and poured myself a bowl of Weetabix—“Fortified with iron!” the box proclaimed.
I’ll need extra strength today,
I thought. I even let Growl out. Maybe God would see me being nice to the dog and be nice to me in return.

Savvy, God doesn’t work that way,
I reminded myself.
I know, I know.
But I just wanted everything to go right.

After all, today’s Wexburg Academy
Times
would have the first Asking for Trouble column.

I walked back upstairs and got dressed in my WA uniform. Pleated skirt—navy blue with contrasting green and maroon plaid. Crisp white shirt. Loose tie with the gold Wexburg Academy symbol embroidered on it. Very . . . serviceable. But not so stylish. Fridays were the only days when we could wear nonuniform clothes. I put my hair in long, loose curls and kept tweaking one strand that didn’t want to obey. A brush of mineral makeup. A swipe of lip gloss—a light color, not that Las Vegas red that Hazelle wore. It made her look like she was auditioning for a slasher movie.

I winked at myself in the mirror—after all, no one else was winking at me—and then I was ready to go.

When I got to the newspaper office, it was already humming. “Savvy! Ready to deliver the papers?” Melissa asked.

“I am.” I held out my Au Revoir bag, which was wearing a little thin. I’d have to invest in another one soon. No way was I dragging that old smelly one back out from the dungeon I’d stuffed it in.

“First paper with the new advice column in it,” she said to me. I looked at her perfectly straight face. Clearly she didn’t know I was writing it. Jack didn’t so much as glance my way. The secret was safe.

“And,” she said as she flipped through her notebook, “great news! The Village Association is going to sponsor an even larger advert in the paper—a full page!—to run alongside my Father Christmas article. Thanks for your good fact gathering.” She turned toward me.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

Hazelle threw me a stink eye. I wondered if Growl had been giving her lessons.

I gathered up the papers and loaded them into my bag. For once, all eyes were on me as I left the newsroom. After I walked out the door, I could hear Jack telling them to wrap it up and get ready for first period.

I’d been too afraid to even look at the column myself this morning. I didn’t want to be in the room with everyone else when I did.

I started my walk through campus. First I slid the papers into the paper holder outside the gym. When no one was looking, I opened one of the papers and folded back the page so the Asking for Trouble column was faceup. Then I laid that paper on top of the stack and stood back. A popular jock-type guy came out of the gym, still flushed from an early-morning workout, and picked up the paper. He stood there and read it a little, and as he did, some other people came by. I scurried away but was encouraged that three papers had been taken before I even headed for the second drop-off.

After delivering most of the papers, I put the final stack in the holder outside the office, where the pack of Aristocats normally hung out. I folded back one of the papers to the Asking for Trouble column, and just as I slipped it on top, Penny came up.

I hope she didn’t see me setting the stage!

“Hi, Penny,” I said. Even though she hadn’t made any more steps toward friendship since art club, I still thought she was really nice.

“Hullo, Savannah,” she answered. Her group stood nearby but didn’t look at all inviting.

“We went to London a couple of weeks back,” I said. “I loved some of the places you suggested. Thanks!”

“I’m glad.” She smiled warmly and genuinely but didn’t start a fresh conversation.

I took a chance. If the Aristocats liked the column, that would be the start to a major buzz. And a major buzz was what I needed. “Would you like a paper?” I asked, holding one out.

She shook her head. “I don’t read that, really.”

Melissa had done her sales job with Father Christmas and the “shoppes” in the town center. I had to do my part too. Only my sales job wasn’t to get ads sold—it was to get people to read the paper. “There’s a new advice column in there today,” I said. “I think it’s going to come out twice a month.”

“Really? How interesting.” She took the paper from me this time and tucked it under her arm. Then she smiled again before returning to her friends. “See you ’round, Savvy.” She and her friends walked together, like a large, plaid-skirted caravan, down the academics hall.

I needed to get to maths myself. I booked it down my own hall and slid into my seat with two minutes to spare.

Hazelle looked like she’d been forced to eat ashes. I took this to be a good sign: if the column was well received, the current columnist would have a good chance of keeping it. Which meant it wouldn’t go to the second-place person. Her.

I opened up a pack of gum and held it toward her. “Stick of gum?”

“No thank you, Savannah.”

On a whim, I held the pack toward the kid who’d been teasing me with the gum-chewing cow poem. “Stick of gum?”

“Rather,” he said and grinned at me as he took one. The ice was broken. I’d find a way to get through to Glacial Hazelle someday too. She gave me an even meaner look.

I got out my notebook and waited for Mr. Thompson to come into the classroom. While I waited, I imagined. Maybe the paper would sell so many copies due to the new columns that they’d decide to invest in a new bag for the delivery person. For only sixty pounds (roughly a hundred dollars) they could buy a LeSportsac bag for me to use while delivering the papers.

“Miss Smith. Miss Smith!” Mr. Thompson stood right next to my desk.

“Oh, yes?” I snapped out of my imagination and back to the present.

“Are you chewing gum?” he asked.

I thought, only for a second, about telling the tiniest little lie, that it was soft wax to protect me from a runaway canker sore. “Yes. Yes, I am,” I admitted.

“Detention after school,” he said. And then he walked away.

I refused to look over my shoulder and see Hazelle’s sneer. I hoped my new gum-chewing friend had swallowed his in time.