Don't Kiss Him Good-Bye (5 page)

Tommy came back in a couple of minutes. He looked around quickly out of the corner of his eye. I wasn’t sure if he was looking for a place to sit on the overcrowded couches or if he was looking for someone else to talk with. “Here you are,” he said, holding out my coffee. He didn’t let go of the cup till I took it firmly in my hand. Which meant our hands touched for a brief second.

Savvy, you sap,
I thought.
Your hands touched on a coffee cup? Oh, boy. Get a life.
The fans in my heart’s inner stadium were doing the wave, though, and I didn’t make them sit down.

“Thank you,” I said, hoping to reflect a calm I didn’t feel. As good of a friend as Supriya was becoming, I wished she’d find something else to do right then—just for a minute—away from this particular couch. She was dead to the vibe, though, and deep in conversation with someone else.

“Still waiting to read something from you in the newspaper.” Tommy slowly walked toward a group of his friends and waved good-bye to me.

I took a moment to savor that.
He’s been reading the paper looking for my name!
I almost blurted out my secret, that I
was
in the paper every other week, writing the popular Asking for Trouble column. I’d never wanted to tell anyone as much as I did right then.

We stood when the music started—thankfully a worship song I already knew—and soon enough I was deep in the music. I closed my eyes so I could connect better with the Lord. It was a little strange to be worshiping with people in London—people who’d originally come from all over Great Britain, from India, China, Australia, and Africa. And me, from America. I guess before I came to London, I’d always just kind of pictured Christians as Americans.

Goofy, I had to admit now. But my world had been that small. And now it was not.

After a couple more songs, we sat on the couches again while the youth pastor spoke.

“As you know, it’s April 1 in a couple of weeks.” A big groan went through the crowd. I wondered why. After all, early April brought half-term school breaks, Easter, and lots of holiday time.

“Not this year, please; please, no,” someone called out, and a laugh ran through the room.

“Ah, yes, this year will be no exception,” Joe said. “Last year we had a lot of smashing entries. And a couple of dodgy ones too. But that makes it fun, right?”

“Rubbish,” a guy on the other side of Supriya muttered.

“What’s going on?” I whispered to Supriya. She nodded toward the stage.

“In case you’re new here in the last year, and I know several of you are, let me explain what the groans are about. Every year the youth group sponsors an ‘April Fools for Christ’ day the first week of April. Brave souls venture forward to offer a talent—singing, reciting, reading, a skit, whatever—to do in front of the group. In the back of the room we have lidded boxes with a performer’s name on each one. Afterward, we add up the money donated in each box. Whoever has the most donations gets to decide which charity all the money will be donated to.”

Joe gave a few more details on the event before launching into a short lesson, and then we dissolved into small groups. Supriya’s discipleship leader, Jenny, who was at university, invited me to join their group. I wondered if Supriya had mentioned it to her. Either way, I was glad, and I thanked God for Supriya.

“Anyone going to volunteer for April Fools?” Jenny asked after we wrapped up the Bible discussion.

To my surprise—and delight—Supriya volunteered. “I’m going to read a poem in Hindi this year.” She mentioned a local children’s charity she wanted to sponsor. Jenny gave her a big grin and wrote her name down.

“I am totally going to support you with my donation,” I said. She smiled and we inputted each other’s numbers into our phones before getting ready to leave.

I’d nearly made it to the door when Joe grabbed my arm. “Hey, Savvy, I have a great idea. Why don’t you do a song on your guitar for April Fools for Christ? The practice sessions would be an amazing way to get to know people. And it’ll give the worship team a chance to hear your guitar playing.”

He looked so pleased with himself and happy to be helping me out. I felt like saying no, but as I was about to politely decline, I sensed that I should say yes instead. Was it faith? or idiocy? “Okay.”

“Brilliant!” Joe whipped out a notebook—which reminded me that I was supposed to be carrying mine around to take notes in—and asked, “What charity would you like to support, then?”

Charity? I had no idea. I didn’t even know any charities. Then the ad I’d seen in the paper flashed through my mind. “How about Be@titude?” I offered. “I think they do charities for homeless mothers and stuff.”

“Fantastic. The woman who runs it is a Christian, and our church already supports them a little. Good choice. We’ll talk more next week about the guidelines for the song selection. See you then!” And with that, he and his notebook were off.

Dad was waiting for me as I exited the church. I laughed aloud as I remembered what I’d told him on the way there.
I can just hang out in the back and do nothing for a couple of months until I get to know more people. Lie low. You know.

Ha! For better or worse, there would be no lying low now. I was going to be in the wretched spotlight, playing guitar, in three weeks.

Chapter 9

The next morning I got to school early, as I’d promised Jack I would. Starting this week, we had a couple of new spots around campus to put the newspaper. I was especially glad to have a great delivery bag today because I knew I’d be meeting . . . Natalie.

I walked into the newsroom, and she and Melissa were already there. Natalie was sitting at the one computer station that had been open since I’d joined the staff. I had been hoping that station would eventually be mine. I’d already planned it out—I would take all the junk off the desk and tidy everything up. I’d cover the tired wallpaper behind the station with some amazing fashion clips, a few motivational quotes from the Society of Professional Journalists, my beach-themed Son Worshiper button, and perhaps my melded American-British flag poster from home. In no time at all, it’d be the place everyone gathered to plot out and plan the next issue of the paper.

“Savvy!” Melissa’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. “Are you okay?”

I shook myself out of my daydream and answered in as focused a voice as I could muster. “Oh yeah, I’m fine.”

“I was just telling Natalie that you’ll be working with her on the May Day Ball story.”

“She’ll be gathering information for
my
story, right?” Natalie said.

“Savvy has a lot of good ideas,” Melissa said. “I think she’d have a lot to offer.” But she didn’t force anything on her, and I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I was going to have to earn my spot. Besides, I had the Asking for Trouble column. Even if I wrote it secretly at home. Alone.

“Hey.” I offered my hand for Natalie to shake it, but she ignored it.

“I’ve written up some guidelines—the focus of the article, some of the background information I’ll need . . . oh, and we’ll need the angle. So you’re not going to the ball?” she asked, business straight off.

“No . . . not yet,” I said.

She snorted, reflecting the general opinion that if you didn’t have a date months in advance, it was not likely to happen. “Fine, then. You can gather some of the background information. And take photos at the event. Melissa led me to believe that you have some useful experience in photojournalism?”

I nodded.
Sigh.
Snapping pics again. But at least I was a stringer doing some interviewing and fact-gathering this time.

“I’ll e-mail your assignment to you along with my direction.” Natalie glanced at Melissa, who was watching her closely. “And you can send me any ideas you have,” she said. With that, she turned to her desk—my fantasy desk—and got back to work. I, on the other hand, loaded the papers into my bag with a little help from Rob, the paper’s printer, and Rodney, a year-eleven sports reporter.

I delivered the papers pretty quickly. The day was dry for the middle of March, and the sun warmed the top of my head and spread clear through me. I loved the Thursdays when my column was in the paper. If I had time, I sat down and read it on a bench after delivering them and before first period, savoring the sight of my words in print. It felt good to help others, to let the Lord use me to do the good works He’d prepared in advance for me to do. Even with the additional papers, I had time to plop down on a bench outside the front office and open the last paper in my bag.

Dear Asking for Trouble,

I never thought I’d be writing to an advice column like this. Well, a guy I know has asked me to go out with him next weekend to a huge party in the country. He’s cute and nice, and a lot of other girls are jealous. Great, right? Not so much. I know he likes me, but I only consider him a friend. If I accept, I’m afraid he’ll think I like him, even though I’ve told him we’re just friends. If I don’t go to the party, I’m home alone—again—for the weekend. I’ve told everyone I don’t care about being by myself, that I study a lot. But I do care. What should I do?

Sincerely,

Wishing for More

Dear More,

I know it’s dull to be home when your friends all seem to be out. But I’m betting there are other girls who are home during the weekends too. Can you ask around and plan a movie night for that weekend? Even though you’ve tried to tell him you’re just friends, he seems to believe otherwise. Guys can be thick! If you go to the party, you might be giving this guy the wrong idea, and you’ve said he’s a friend, right? You don’t want to do that if you can help it. Hang in there. The right one will come along. In the meantime—Blu-ray, anyone?

Patiently yours,

Asking for Trouble

I left the paper open and let the sun come down on my face while I thought about that. I sounded so smart and on top of things when I wrote in the column. I wished I were going with someone special too. But I envied her. She had someone to go to the May Day Ball with, if she wanted to, even if he was only a friend. If I had an unattached guy friend, I’d be going too, instead of snapping pics for Natalie.