Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (9 page)

The whole newspaper staff was at the usual table at lunch on Tuesday. “I want to make sure everyone is in the newspaper office straightaway after school,” Jack said. “I want to go over the ideas for improving the paper so we can implement them immediately.”

He was excited and as hopeful as I’d seen him. The others must have thought so too, because everyone looked more positive than they’d been lately. Hazelle even made a little small talk with me about maths.

After school I got to the staff office as fast as I could, and nearly everyone was already there. Jack called us all into his cubicle. He’d texted me, like he’d promised he would, to tell me what he was going to do. I felt honored to be trusted with the confidential information—even though I wished he would make a different announcement. But he was the editor, after all.

“So then, we’ve had quite a few suggestions from staff and others,” he said. “I’ve narrowed it down to a handful of things we’re going to try. First, we’re going to solicit a few adverts. Which was suggested by Melissa.” The room groaned but looked kindly toward Melissa, who was well loved and respected.

“Next, we’re going to try to change a bit of the content. Maybe make it a little younger. One new column we’re adding is a sport column with student interviews. Rodney’s in several teams and has been writing with us for two years, so he’s earned the column.”

Rodney and another reporter grinned at one another at that. Hazelle looked very serious, taking notes with her WA
Times
pen.

“And finally, an idea that I’m very chuffed about,” Jack said. “We’re going to launch an advice column. Savannah came up with that idea.”

“Oh, fantastic!” Melissa enthused in a low voice. She was the only one who looked at me. The others all looked at Jack or chattered among themselves. Why had everyone looked at Melissa and Rodney when their ideas had been put forth . . . but ignored me?

Because I’m the American delivery girl.

“We’re going to ask the students at Wexburg Academy to drop off their questions in a box I’ll place outside the newspaper office so they can remain confidential,” Jack said. “The column will be kind of like Dear Auntie Agatha, but it will deal with problems teens have, not adults.”

“Splendid!” our faculty adviser, Mr. Abrams, said.

Hazelle’s hand shot up.

“Hazelle?” Jack asked.

“Who’s going to write the responses?” she asked. I knew her well enough by now to see that she was angling for the job.

“Glad you asked,” Jack said. He pulled out a stack of orange papers and handed one to each of us. “As is always our practice, we’re going to accept written samples as an application. The rules and prompts are on this piece of paper. I’m going to post them in a few appointed places around the school, and we’ll run a full page in the next edition of the paper inviting anyone who wants to write to give it a shot.”

I saw Hazelle scanning the orange paper, her eyes turning glassy like someone with a really high fever.

I took my paper and casually slid it into my book bag, but I needn’t have bothered. No one expected me to enter, much less win—I could tell by the way they pretty much stared at Hazelle. After all, she was Julia’s little sister. And Julia was brilliant and clever and had been the most successful journalist in the history of the Wexburg Academy
Times
.

That counted for something, I knew. But exactly how much?

“When the contest is over, Mr. Abrams will gather all of the responses and take the names off of them,” Jack continued. “Because, uh, I want this to be completely impartial, I’ve asked Julia, our former editor, who is studying at Oxford, if I could post a packet of the sample advice letters to her. She has agreed to read them and then choose the new columnist. May the best journalist win.”

The next day was an early-release day, so I’d planned to spend the entire afternoon at home reading over the orange instruction paper and then writing careful answers. I wondered if Julia was like Hazelle. Should I slant the answers to be slightly snobby?

Nah. I knew the only way I had a chance, the only way I knew how to write, was in my own voice.

I put my hand on the knob to my front door and then stopped. I could hear my parents inside—not exactly shouting, but not exactly using calm, reasonable voices either.

I knew I shouldn’t eavesdrop. I wasn’t
really
eavesdropping. I was just allowing them to finish before going inside.

“I thought it would be fine,” my dad said. “I thought we’d have an adventure, travel in Europe, see some things together as a family. Give the kids a chance to do something not many kids get to do. I certainly didn’t travel when I was a kid!”

“Yes, dear, I know that was your intention,” Mom said. “But we’ve been here two and a half months. I have no friends. Savannah has no friends. Louanne makes the best of it, but no one has invited her over. We have no church. It’s fine for you. You’re at work all day with colleagues.”

“Fine for me?” Dad said. “I’m busy trying to figure out how to do a new job.”

I changed my mind about letting them finish. I’d better go in and blow the whistle and call a time-out. I opened the front door, making as much noise as possible. “Hi.”

“Savannah.” Dad checked his watch. “What are you doing home?”

“It’s early release for me today, remember?” I looked at my mom before turning back to my dad. “What are you doing home today? Early release?”

“No, no, I came to, uh, have lunch with Mom.”

“Well, don’t let me interrupt your romantic interlude,” I teased, trying to keep a light voice. Then I walked upstairs. I wasn’t sure whether they kept fighting or made up, but in either case, their voices were lower. Half an hour later I heard the car start, and my dad drove away.

I took a deep breath and spread out my stuff over my bedroom floor. I pulled the laptop toward me, and as I did, I spied my Bible tucked under my bed.

My heart fell. In spite of my good intentions and promises, I had spent nearly no time with God in the past few months. In Seattle, we’d gone to church all the time, and that kept me in touch with the Lord. Now here I was, at my loneliest time ever, when I needed Him most. I’d kind of shoved all that under my bed.

I pulled out the Bible and put it next to my computer. Then I squeezed my eyes shut tight. Not that I thought you only had to pray with your eyes closed. But I didn’t want to be distracted. And I knew how easily I could be distracted.

Jesus, I’m sorry about . . . You know, kind of pushing You to the back of my life. I’ve been kind of occupied trying to fit in and make some friends, and now my parents are fighting? Everything has just taken a lot of my time. I do miss You, though.

I sat there for a minute to let Him answer if He wanted, but I didn’t really hear anything. I felt kind of warm inside though.

I opened my eyes and looked at the orange paper and at my computer.
Can You help me do a good job on these letters, Lord? It’s really, really important to me to get to write this article. I want this column so bad—I want to be helpful again, like I was in Seattle. I want to have friends. I want to be wise. And this time, I’m being honest. No experience required.

I opened my Bible at the back and looked up the word
wise
. My eyes came to James 1:5, and I looked it up: “If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you. He will not rebuke you for asking.”

Help me be wise.
Then I closed the Bible and opened my computer.

I grinned at the screen saver—good old supercute Ryan. I wondered if he was going out with anyone at home. I wondered if he even knew his picture didn’t make it into the yearbook but made it onto my laptop.

I read the instructions on the orange paper out loud:

Jack and Julia

I unbuttoned the starched white cuffs of my school uniform and rolled them up. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and anchored it with a nice, sharp pencil. Journalist style. And then I got to work typing the answer to question one:

How impersonal. Nothing warm and inviting like “Dear Cousin Savvy.”

I closed my eyes and asked for wisdom. I remembered that last year I’d read a psalm that seemed to fit, and I flipped through my Bible looking for the page I’d made notes on. Oh yeah, there it was. Psalm 139. I read the whole psalm over again and then started to type.

Now, how to finish this off? I chewed my gum to within an inch of its life and started typing again.

Since I’d lived through something similar the year before with a crush of my own, I felt satisfied with my answer and went downstairs to get a Coke from the fridge before attempting the second answer. I even put in a few precious ice cubes—the British don’t drink ice with their pop. I guzzled it down in several satisfying gulps before returning upstairs to continue with question two. If I could pull this off, I’d be known as Brilliant Advice Columnist! If the rest of the questions were about things I’d already conquered—how easy could that be?

As I walked up the stairs, I had a bad sense that something was wrong. I went through a mental checklist. I’d saved my answer to the computer. I’d closed the case. Wait a minute—where was Giggle/Growl?

I raced to my room and found him, all right. The orange paper with the last two questions—the questions I needed to answer
right now
—was completely shredded next to my bed. He grinned at me—if dogs can do such a thing—and then shot out of the room like a circus clown out of a cannon.

I was absolutely not going to ask anyone else on the staff for the questions and blow my cover.