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Michael looked a little more like his old self the next day at school.

“Hey, Pasty,” he greeted me. “Did you hear the big news?”

“Nope, what happened?” I asked.

“I told Coach Dixon about the cost of fixing Mr. Cougar,” Michael explained, “and that the school wouldn't be able to afford it. He had a great idea.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“The team's going to try to raise some of the money ourselves,” Michael answered. “We're going to have a fund-raiser.”

“That
is
a great idea,” I agreed. “How are you going to raise the money?”

“We thought a car wash would be fun,” Michael said. “We can do it in the school parking lot. Coach
said he'd even let us count it as a practice.”

“Do what in the school parking lot?” Hailey asked.

Michael and I hadn't even seen her coming. Anthony Wright was by Hailey's side. Great timing, BFF—just when Michael Lawrence was beginning to seem like his old self for a minute.

“Hi, Anthony!” I said cheerfully. “Don't you and Hailey have some important school business to conduct?”

“Hi, Samantha,” Anthony replied. “Actually, we do. Mr. Pfeiffer said that he wanted to talk to us about an important issue.”

“It's probably Mr. Cougar,” Michael told them. “The school can't afford to fix him. But the football team wants to have a car wash in the parking lot to raise money for the repairs. We won't get it all, but at least it will be a start.”

“I like it,” Anthony said. “I'll let Mr. Pfeiffer know that you have the support of the student government.”

“I like it too,” Hailey agreed. “I just wonder if there's a way to get more students involved. The
Cougar Curse doesn't just affect the football team, after all.”

“Hailey's right,” I said. “I know a lot of other kids who'd like the curse to end.”

“What about a bake sale?” Anthony suggested.

“Perfect, partner,” said Hailey. “Sam, we can make your Mom's Delish Dream Bars! I can smell them now!”

“Relax, Hailey,” I said. “We don't even know if Mr. Pfeiffer will approve any of this yet.”

Hailey gets a bit out of control when it comes to sugary snacks. Her mom's a bit of a health-food nut, and Hailey's dessert options usually consisted of a choice between fruit salad or trail mix.

“I don't think Mr. Pfeiffer will have an objection,” Anthony said. “Hailey and I will bring it up to him in our meeting later. I'll let you both know if he gives it a green light.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Michael said. “I'd do anything to stop the Cougar Curse.”

“I'd do anything to get a bite of a dream bar.” Hailey laughed.

“Well, I'd like to get a bite of a cinnamon bun,”
I added. “Any chance you'd make some for the bake sale, Michael?”

“Always thinking, Martone,” said Michael. “I love that about you.”

I couldn't look Hailey in the eye, because I knew she was thinking,
Ooooh, Michael Lawrence said
love
!
It did make my heart skip a little bit, but I didn't want
him
to see that.

The next day Mr. Pfeiffer didn't just approve the idea; he offered to wash some cars himself! The car wash/bake sale was going to be a big hit. Everyone wanted to see the principal get covered in soap bubbles, so they'd make sure their parents and every grown-up they knew would get to the event.

I had another big event to plan for too. Ms. Fields and I had exchanged a few e-mails, and I was going to the
Gazette
offices after school on Friday. I felt a little bad about not asking Michael, but he was kind of off on his own planet lately. Besides, Ms. Fields had invited me, not both of us. In any case, Michael probably didn't even want to go. But I was nervous,
of course, about what to wear. As much as I hated to admit it, this situation called for a little Allie Martone advice.

I knocked on Allie's bedroom door on Thursday night.

“I'm
doing
my homework, Mom,” Allie whined. “I swear I'm not texting!”

“It's not Mom; it's me.” I snickered. “Can I come in?”

“If you must,” Allie declared.

I opened the door to Allie's room and peeked inside. Allie had pulled her backpack onto her bed, just in case it had been Mom, but she had her phone in her hand and could barely make eye contact with me.

“Can you possibly be nice to me for five minutes?” I asked. “I know it's asking a lot, but it's been a tough couple of weeks.”

“Cougar Curse getting to you?” Allie suggested.

“Something like that,” I replied. “Tomorrow I have my big visit to the
Gazette
, and I don't know what to wear. Mom's picking me up right after
school, so I don't want to stand out too much, but I do want to look professional and not like a kid at the meeting.”

“Hmmm, sounds like a case for layering,” Allie remarked. “Let's go take a look in your closet.”

Allie pulled out a pair of navy blue leggings, a taupe long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of navy ballerina flats.

“This is what you're going to wear to school,” she announced.

Then she shuffled through the closet and pulled out a dark chocolate–colored blazer.

“This is what you're going to keep in your locker,” she continued.

She rushed across the hall to her room and returned with a patterned scarf. It had taupe, navy, and brown accents.

“This is what you're going to toss in your backpack,” she declared. “Neatly folded, of course.”

I tried the combination on and looked in the mirror. Allie was soooo good at this. I jumped up and gave her a big squeeze.

“You know, you're amazing sometimes,” I admitted.

“Take it easy.” Allie coughed. “It's just some leggings and a blazer. Get over it.”

“Yeah, well, thanks,” I mumbled. “Now you can get back to your . . .
homework.
”

At the end of school on Friday, I grabbed my things and headed into the bathroom for a three-minute makeover. Blazer . . . check. Scarf . . . check. A nose for news . . . double check.

Mom was waiting for me outside of school with a bottle of water and a granola bar. “I know you don't want your stomach growling during a big news meeting,” she said.

“Oh, that would be beyond embarrassing.” I laughed. “It might even qualify as mortifying.”

“I see you've been putting that vocabulary app to good use,” Mom noted.

It took about a half hour to reach the offices of the
Gazette
.

“Are you sure you don't want me to come in with you?” Mom asked. “Just until you get situated?”

“I'm okay, really,” I said. “Lauren Fields told me exactly what to do.”

“And that is . . . ,” Mom said, always looking for an opportunity to drill me on proper procedure.

“I go to the security desk. I show them my student ID. I tell them I have an appointment to meet with Lauren Fields. The security guard calls her. Then she comes down to meet me,” I reported.

“Good girl,” said Mom. “I'll be back in an hour. I know you said it will be longer than that, but if you need me earlier, just text me.”

“I will,” I said. “Do you think I look okay?”

“Better than okay, Sam,” Mom said. “Like a professional.”

I gave my mother a kiss and then followed the procedure I had described to her exactly. It took three minutes and twenty-seven seconds for Lauren Fields to come down after the security guard called her. I know because I counted every second. It helped to take my mind off of my nerves.

The newsroom was like a busy beehive. Phones rang in every corner of the room, reporters typed
frantically on their keyboards, and small groups of people—I'm guessing editors and writers—argued vigorously. I couldn't tell exactly what they were saying, but I could see their hands flying through the air as they illustrated their points.

“It's a little crazy here,” Lauren Fields commented. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Mind?” I said. “I love it!”

“Good, because it will get even crazier in the meeting,” she said. “Some people can get a little edgy when their work is criticized during a postmortem. Not me, of course, just some
other
people.”

“I'm just so grateful to have the chance to sit in,” I confessed. “I really can't thank you enough.”

“You're welcome, Sam,” Ms. Fields replied. “One day, you'll be the senior reporter taking a newbie for a tour. It's how we work in the news business, a lot of on-the-job training. There's only so much you can learn in school.

“Although don't get me wrong—school
is
important,” she said, catching herself.

“Don't worry. I know,” I assured her. “And if I
ever forgot, my mom would be sure to remind me.”

Ms. Fields took me into a conference room with the longest table I had ever seen in my life. There must have been at least thirty chairs around it. Chairs also lined the outside wall of the room. Ms. Fields pointed to a chair in the corner.

“You can sit over there,” she said. “Don't be nervous. I'm going to be sitting right in front of you at the table.

“If you need anything,” she added. “Just kick my chair.”

I sat down in the chair with my back as straight as a pin and my head held high, just like Mom had advised. I took out my notebook and pencil and watched quietly as the writers and editors entered the room.

Ms. Fields wasn't exaggerating. It took only about five minutes for the meeting to warm up. After ten, it was sizzling.

One reporter complained about the way his story had been cut to fill the news hole. I wasn't sure what that was, but Ms. Fields explained later that it was a term for the amount of space
available in the paper. First the editors learned how much advertising had been sold for the day's paper. Then they figured out how big the news hole was. If there was a lot of advertising that day, and it seemed like there was on the day in question, then there was less space for the news.

I scribbled notes frantically. It felt like I could have filled up three notebooks with everything I observed in the meeting. I even had a few thoughts on how they could do things differently, but of course they were going to stay in my notebook. I could have fallen out of my chair, though, when Samuel Swope, editor in chief of the
Gazette
, turned his gaze in my direction.

“Ms. Martone, forgive me for not introducing you earlier,” he said. “Ms. Fields has told me great things about you. Would you please tell the rest of the staff a little about yourself?”

I gulped, closed my notebook, and smiled nervously at the impressive and intimidating array of journalists seated around the table.

“Hello, everyone,” I said. “Thank you so much for having me here today. My name is
Samantha Martone, and I'm a student at Cherry Valley Middle School. I work as a reporter on our newspaper, the
Cherry Valley Voice
, and it's my dream to one day be a real journalist, just like you.”

One by one, the
Gazette
staff introduced themselves and gave me a sentence or two of advice. I could start a journalism textbook with their words!

Mr. Swope took control of the meeting again.

“Ms. Martone, as I'm sure you are aware, the newspaper business has been going through great changes in recent times,” he informed me. “Some say it's a dying industry. We like to believe it's evolving. We also produce a Web version of the
Gazette
, and perhaps one day we won't print hard copies. I hope I don't get to see that day, though. I still love the smell of newsprint on my hands.

“With the future in mind, I'd love to get your take on the paper. We're always looking for ways to grow our audience, and if we don't appeal to the younger age group, then the people who predict that we're dying will be correct. So . . . any thoughts?”