“Someone must know something. Who else have you talked to?” he asked.
I picked up the purple notebook where I kept all my important notes. “I texted Sydney’s boyfriend, Connor Crane, but he said all he knows is that Sydney is grounded for the rest of her life. And I saw the vice principal yesterday after school, and she said both Sydney and Quinn are suspended for the rest of the week.”
“And?”
“And the administration is considering a dress code that applies to fake nails.”
“And?”
“And I’m interviewing Mr. Tipkins tomorrow at lunch.”
“And what do you plan to ask him?” Chase asked, arms still crossed as he towered over me.
I pursed my lips together. This was part of the test. I could feel it. “He caught Sydney. I thought his perspective might be interesting.”
“Ahnt. Wrong.”
I opened my mouth to defend my answer, but Chase was faster.
“His perspective isn’t news. The facts are. Ask him how the answers to his test got out. Ask him where he keeps them, did Sydney or Quinn have access, how often does he reuse the same tests? Ask him how-”
“Okay, I get the point! Geez.”
The right corner of Chase’s lip curled up. “Good. I have faith you may make it as an actual reporter some day,” he said. “Now go, young grasshopper. Make me proud.”
And then he patted me on the head and walked away.
Actually patted me. Like one might pat his cocker spaniel.
Clearly this story was one test I seriously needed to pass if I was going to command any respect at the
As soon as Chase left me to go proof Chris Fret’s account of last Friday’s football game, I made a list of questions to ask Mr. Tipkins. Then I packed up my stuff and headed out to the west field to catch a ride home with my best friend, Samantha Kramer, after her lacrosse practice.
Sam was on the field holding a long wooden stick with a basket-looking thing at one end to catch the ball. Which, unfortunately, was nowhere near Sam. She jogged down the field, looking winded, a good three yards behind the pack of other girls in black and orange HHH jerseys.
I felt for her. Sam was smart, sweet, and pretty much the friendliest person I knew. When I’d moved here from Southern California in fifth grade, I’d been terrified of going to a new school. That first day, Sam had accosted me at recess, insisted I join her and her friends on the monkey bars, and generally stuck to me like glue the entire week. I had never been more grateful for anyone in my entire life, and we’d been chained at the hip ever since. Sam was like the sister I never had.
But as much as I loved my pseudo-sister, I was the first to admit that Sam wasn’t what you’d call naturally athletic. Or coordinated. In seventh grade she and I had joined the track team together, thinking the extra exercise might help shed a couple after-Christmas pounds. Sam had ended up taking out three wooden barriers in the hurdles race, two other racers in the 50-meter sprint, and the other team’s coach in the discus throw. I’d ended up consoling her over her thwarted track career with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
Which is why I had to think that lacrosse was a bit of a disaster in the making. It was only a matter of time before Sam either (A) broke a bone or (B) broke someone else’s bone.
The coach blew a whistle, signaling a break, and I waved at Sam. She jogged over, looking immensely grateful for the rest.
“Whoever invented this game is insane,” she panted. “Seriously, it’s like hockey and basketball’s painful love child.” She reached down, rubbing at a bruise on her shin.
“At least you’re looking better out there,” I said. A stretch, but I was trying to be encouraging.
“You’re such a liar,” she said, leaning heavily on her stick. “But thanks.”
“At least it’s good exercise?” I said, trying again at the encouraging thing.
“Pft,” she said, blowing air up at her forehead. “I’d rather run a billion miles on a treadmill.”
“Why don’t you just quit?”
“Because my dad says I need a sport on my resume or Stanford won’t let me in.”
Sam’s dad had been a Stanford man, as had his dad, and
“Can I bum a ride home with you?”
“Sure,” she said. “My dad’s picking me up after practice. Were you working late on the paper?”
I nodded. “I’m writing an article about Sydney Sanders. She got suspended yesterday.”
“I heard. She and Quinn were both on the team. We’re totally short without them.”
“Do you know Sydney well?”
Sam shrugged. “Not really. Did you hear she got kicked off the homecoming court when she got caught?”
“Yeah. You don’t have her number, do you?” I asked, thinking an interview with Sydney would be just the angle I needed to rock Chase’s journalist world.
“Sure, but it won’t do you any good. Her parents freaked when she got suspended and grounded her for pretty much her natural life. They took her phone, too.”
Damn. There went that idea.
“But,” Sam said.
“Yeah?”
“She still has her laptop, and she’s been on Twitter. Jessica Hanson said that Sydney tweeted during third period that she was bored out of her mind.”
Perfect. I made a mental note to look her up as soon as I got home.
“Kramer!” a dark-haired girl across the field called to Sam. “Let’s go!”
Sam sighed deeply. “I gotta go get beat up again.”
“Knock ’em dead, killer,” I said, taking a seat on the bleachers to wait while Sam jogged away, waving her lacrosse stick in a way that made me totally glad I was not on the opposing team. Or our team, for that matter.
An hour later, Sam’s dad dropped me off in front of my house, and I walked up the front pathway to find the door unlocked, a sure sign Mom had beat me there.
I was ten when my mom and dad had finally decided to call it quits and get divorced. Dad had stayed behind in Los Angeles, and Mom had decided to move north to Silicon Valley, where she could put her programming degree to use, meaning she could work part-time from the house. Most of the time, I had to admit it was actually kinda nice to come home to someone.
Most of the time.
“Hartley,” Mom called from the kitchen. “That you?”
“Yep,” I responded, shutting the door behind me
“Come here for a sec.”
I wandered toward the sound of her voice and found Mom on her laptop at the kitchen table. She was wearing her usual uniform of yoga pants, T-shirt, and Nikes, her hair twisted up into a messy sort of bun at the base of her neck, and peering at the screen through a pair of hot pink computer glasses. On the table next to her was a glass of green juice. Mom was a gluten-free, sugar-free vegan who didn’t believe in preservatives of any kind. Which left two options for what she was drinking-celery or lawn trimmings.
“What’s up?” I asked, standing next to her. I sniffed at her glass. If I had to guess? Lawn trimmings.
“I’m trying to upload a picture, but it’s not working. I keep getting some kind of error. Help?”
Mom was a whiz with computer programming code. How she could come up with a string of letters and numbers that told a computer what to do, I had no idea. But she was hopeless when it came to user interface. She almost drove me insane when I was trying to get her set up on FarmVille.
I peeked over her shoulder at the screen. “What’s the photo?”
She clicked a file icon and a younger version of her in a bright, poofy pink dress appeared on the screen.
“Dude.” I think I actually physically shuddered.
