Cast Your Ballot! (13 page)

I smiled and typed back.

Of course. You?

There was a pause and then:

Yup. Ran into John Scott, and he's all excited
about starting a rock band. Said it's what he's always wanted to do. Can u believe?

Huh. That was interesting. I sat back and thought for a minute before I typed my reply.

Why?

Then I waited.

Something about Dear Know-It-All and his parents' dreams. Who knows with that guy?

No way! I grinned. Then I typed.

That Dear Know-It-All sure knows his stuff.

There was a really long pause, and then Michael wrote back.

She sure does.

Want the scoop on what Samantha is up to next?

Here's a sneak peek of the tenth book in the Dear Know-It-All series:

Breaking News

If you're a fact-loving person like I am, you probably think superstitions are a little silly. So tell me, why does it seem like
everyone
believes in them? Take my mom, for instance. You would think that a freelance accountant, a person who works with numbers all day, would know that there's nothing particularly special or spooky about the number thirteen. Except that every time the calendar shows a big black thirteen on a Friday, Mom gets an uneasy look in her eye. It's like she's waiting for something really bad to happen. Of course nothing does, just like nearly every other day of the year!

As a journalist, my instincts are to get to the truth of the matter. So I started Googling,
and I found some interesting information about “friggatriskaidekaphobia.” (That's the actual term for the condition of the fear of Friday the thirteenth. And I dare you to say that three times fast!) Did you know that in Spanish-speaking countries, it's Tuesday the thirteenth that's considered unlucky? And in Italy, Friday the seventeenth is the day of doom. I figure that kind of info will come in handy when I'm traveling the world on assignment as an investigative reporter.

But the next step on my career path is to continue to build my reputation as star reporter of the
Cherry Valley Voice
, our school newspaper. Of course, I don't usually fly solo. Mr. Trigg likes to give the best articles to his dream team, his “Woodward and Bernstein,” as he calls Michael Lawrence and me, after the
Washington Post
's legendary reporting duo. I'm not sure we'll ever get behind the scenes at the White House, but we did write the story that revealed the truth about our class president contenders.

Not that I'm complaining about sharing the glory. Not one teensy bit. I won't even mind if someday Michael and I get picked to be coeditors
in chief. Then I'll get to work side by side with him all the time. I've known Michael since kindergarten, and even though he sometimes annoyingly calls me Pasty (you eat paste one time when you're five and you're branded forever!), he's still the only boy I've ever dreamed of calling my boyfriend.

How can I describe Michael Lawrence's insane cuteness to you? Let's just say that if you took the hottest member of every boy band, mixed up all of their best qualities in a pot, and then increased them to the tenth power, well, then you'd have Michael Lawrence. It's actually shocking that he hasn't been discovered yet.

So back to superstitions: I don't have many, being a believer in cold, hard facts, but I do have a lucky green T-shirt. (Its luck is based on the fact that it is the exact same shade of green as my eyes.) Maybe it's not really lucky, but it does make me really happy. I put it on with a long, hippy skirt and green UGGS. I wrapped a sparkly beaded scarf around my neck. Then I threw on an armful of bangle bracelets and some beaded hanging
earrings for a little extra pizzazz. I looked in the mirror. “Not bad, Martone,” I thought to myself.

But the real proof waited across the hallway. I knocked on my sister Allie's door. Allie can be a real pain because she's always creeping around my stuff, but she does have much better fashion sense than I do.

“What do you think?” I asked as I warily entered her room.

Allie glanced up from her texting for exactly one one-hundredth of a second and rolled her eyes. “No,” she huffed, obviously revolted by my choice of apparel. “Just no.”

“But it's my lucky shirt,” I explained.

“Lucky because you're going to fold it up and put it back in your drawer,” Allie said bluntly. “And that scarf? That jewelry? You do realize you're going to a football game, right?”

Allie took my hand and led me back into my room the way she used to drag me across the street when I was too little to cross by myself. She opened my closet door and started picking out items and throwing them onto my bed.

“Allie, I don't have a lot of time to try on clothes,” I complained. “Hailey will be here any minute!”

“This won't take long,” Allie said. “Just listen. You're the starting QB's girlfriend. You have to look great, but not like you're trying too hard. Think casual chic.”

“I'm not Michael Lawrence's girlfriend!” I said, automatically. Well, I didn't think I was. But I'd like to be.

“Whatever,” Allie snorted. “Just take my advice.”

I looked at the clock, and my stomach started to hurt. How could getting dressed for a football game be so incredibly painful?

“Try this,” Allie said as she tossed some clothes my way.

I quickly pulled on some black leggings and then a miniskirt. Next came a gray tank, followed by a silver sweater and a black blazer. A pair of old-school black high-top sneakers finished the outfit. I looked in the mirror and smiled. I looked very casual and comfy but very stylish, too. Allie was amazing—the outfit worked like a lucky charm. Just in time, too.

“SAAAAMMMM!” I heard Hailey call from the front door.

“COMMMINNNGGGG!” I yelled back. “Thanks, Allie!” I called behind me, but she had already started texting again.

I raced down the stairs (without tripping!) and stopped to say good-bye to my mom. She was in her home office, intently focused on some confusing jumble of budget numbers.

“You look great,” she said.

“Thanks,” I answered. “Go, Cherry Valley!”

“Go, Cherry Valley?” Hailey said from behind my back. “More like Go, Sam! Supercute outfit!”

“Yeah, it was Allie's creation,” I said.

“She got her fashion sense from me,” Mom said, not even kidding.

We raced out of the house and jumped into the backseat of Hailey's car. Hailey's dad turned around and pretended to tip his hat.

“Good evening, mademoiselles,” he said in a fake accent. “Where shall I be driving you this fine afternoon?”

Hailey and I just looked at each other and
started to giggle uncontrollably. Parents. Did they even have a clue how embarrassing they could be?

“Football field, Dad,” Hailey answered as soon as she had regained her composure. “Pronto.”

It took only seven minutes to get from my house to the football field, but in that short period of time, Hailey bombarded me with at least ten thousand questions. Did Michael say anything about hanging out with you after the game? Do you think the guys from the team will go to Scoops? Should we go, too? What if they have a bad game? Do you know if that cute guy from West Hills plays football? Do you think he has a girlfriend?

“Hailey, stop!” I said. “We're just going to a football game. The rest we'll improvise. Okay?”

“Okay.” Hailey laughed. “I have just one last question for you, Samantha Martone.” She held up her hand to my face like she was holding a microphone. “Will . . . you . . . touch . . . ,” she asked, sounding like the most dramatic sports reporter ever, “ . . . the cougar?”

We both started giggling uncontrollably.

“Yes, I guess I will,” I confessed. “I'll bow to peer pressure and silly superstition.”

“It's not silly,” Hailey said. “It's tradition. And really, really bad luck if you don't.”

Let me explain. There's a statue of a cougar standing on its hind legs in front of Cherry Valley Middle School. All of our sports teams are named the Cougars, and like a million years ago, some class raised enough money to have the statue built and installed in front of the school. Hailey's soccer team, Michael's baseball and football teams, bowling, tennis, they're all Cougars.

Cherry Valley legend says that if you rub the cougar's paw, you'll have good luck. Everyone at Cherry Valley Middle School seems to believe this myth—students, parents, teachers, even Principal Pfeiffer. Kids rub Mr. Cougar's paw before a big test, when they're going to ask someone to a school dance, and of course, before every sporting event. The paw has been rubbed so many times over the years that it is as smooth and shiny as glass.

When we turned the last corner, I felt a little flutter in my stomach. Even though Michael Lawrence
is definitely not my boyfriend—yet—it was going to be fun to cheer for him. I looked out the window and started to daydream. The clear blue skies, the red and yellow leaves that swirled in the wind, the crisp chill in the air—it was the perfect setting for a girl reporter to walk home hand in hand with the triumphant quarterback after the game.
Ace Reporter Spotted with All-Star QB!

“Sam!” Hailey said, a little too loudly considering we were sitting right next to each other. “What do you think is going on?”

It took me a second to realize what Hailey was talking about. She pointed out her window at the front of our school. A large crowd was gathered.

Then we spotted the police car. This was definitely not a pregame pep rally. I glanced at Hailey, and she looked as nervous as I felt. Why would the police be at a middle school football game?

“You two stay here while I make sure everything's okay,” Hailey's dad said.

Hailey and I held hands until her dad waved us over. And then we finally saw what all the commotion was about.

It was Mr. Cougar. His paw was on the ground, smashed into tiny pieces. His body was covered with a spray-painted message:
CV—Your Luck Has Run Out.
Police were wrapping yellow caution tape around the statue. Lots of people were taking pictures of the vandalized property. It seemed like a scene from a movie, not like something that would happen in our town.

Hailey gasped. “Cherry Valley Middle School is doomed.”