Stop the Presses! (2 page)

“Sam, please,” Mom said, still blushing a little. “He wasn't really my boyfriend then. He just had a crush on me . . . and I had a little crush on him, too. You know, kind of like you and that Michael Lawrence boy.”

I decided to ignore her. I didn't want to talk about Michael Lawrence just then. And besides, I don't think Michael and I are just a thing. I mean, he's the love of my life.

I started flipping through the letters. The first
few weren't very interesting, just regular stuff like “Meet me at the library today,” or “Do you have time to study for the English test?” But then I thought about the pictures of Mom I had seen from that time and I thought about myself and sighed. We weren't that different, me and that girl Mom used to be. If Michael handed me a note saying, “Meet me at the library today,” my heart would be doing little leaps of joy. And I would probably try to save the letter.

I started digging deeper into the pile, and the letters got juicier. I gasped when I read this one:

Dear Nina,

I feel like the whole world disappears when I'm with you. I don't have anything to worry about. It's just you and your beautiful smile, and nothing else matters. You make me really happy, and I had an awesome time just talking to you last night. I feel like I could sit and talk with you for hours and hours.

—John

Now, that kind of writing could cause some heart palpitations! I sighed and leaned back on Mom's pillow. I couldn't even imagine how I would feel if Michael wrote me a note like that. Blown away, I guess.

“Mom, was John your first love?” I asked.

“I guess you could say that,” Mom answered.

“So why haven't I ever heard anything about him before?” I asked. “And what happened to him anyway?”

“Oh, we just, um, we just kind of grew apart,” Mom said.

Mom isn't usually the stammering type, so I knew I would have to use my reporter's instinct and dig deeper.

“Why did you grow apart?” I asked. “Did he move? Did you go to different high schools? Did your parents forbid you to see each other?”

“No, Sam. We went to the same high school,” replied Mom. “That was part of the problem. . . . There was someone else there. . . .”

“Oh, I'm really sorry, Mom. Did he drop you for another girl?” I asked, wanting to kick myself for
prying and bringing up painful memories. “What a jerk!”

Or maybe not so painful—Mom was laughing.

“Hardly,” she said. “There was another boy that I liked, and well, it kind of got complicated.”

I was shocked. Who knew Mom had such a complicated love life when she was young? I'd always figured she was just some mathlete who was too busy doing equations to even notice boys.

“It was a fun time, Sam,” Mom said. “I hope you enjoy your teen years as much as I did.”

“Yeah, me too, I guess.” I giggled.

“Speaking of fun,” Mom continued. “I had an idea that I wanted to run by you.”

“Okay, I'm all ears,” I said. “You know, I feel like I could sit and talk with you for hours.” Mom and I both burst out laughing at that one.

“Okay, we'll return to the topic of young love at another time,” Mom said. “Right now I want to talk to you about the new bedroom project you and Allie have been working on.”

“
That's
‘speaking of fun'?” I snarked. “Mom,
this could be serious. You might need to go to the doctor to get your fun meter adjusted.”

“Clever, Sam,” Mom replied. “I am well aware that cleaning out your rooms hasn't been fun for you two. So here's my proposal. I'm not going to be able to dig out from the pile of papers I've been buried under for a while. But once this project is finished, I'll have a lot more free time on my hands. And that's where these come in. . . .”

Mom opened up her night table, pulled out a stack of magazines, and spread them out on the bed. They were all glossy and printed on really beautiful paper (sorry, I just can't let it go)—magazines like
Elle Decor
,
House Beautiful
, and
Home and Design
.

“Are you giving me an assignment?” I asked. “Write an article about the horrors of cleaning your room to pitch to one of these magazines?”

“No, but that's not a bad idea, if you're up for it,” Mom said. “I am giving you a different kind of assignment. It's a redesign partnership. These magazines are just a start. You
and Allie should use them as a springboard to build a plan for redesigning your rooms. You know, cut out pictures of furniture you like, collect swatches of colors and patterns that we could use, stuff like that. When you've got a good idea of what you want, we'll work together after school and on the weekends to make it come to life.”

“A new bedroom?” I cried. “Thanks, Mom. That would be awesome.” I love my room, but it's probably time to get rid of the curtains that have little bows on them. I started thinking about bedrooms I've seen on TV or in the movies that were really cool and looked like you'd want your friends to hang out there with you. “So,” I said, “do you think maybe in the next few months we could do this?”

Mom gave me a hug and kissed the top of my head.

“Oh, Sam, I'm sorry you've been at the mercy of my schedule,” she said. “I really am. I promise it will be within the next month. First things first: Clean them out so we have a fresh
space to work with. Maybe you and Allie can spend some time together this weekend working on this project. You know, some big-sister-little-sister bonding?”

Now
that
was funny!

So I could fill you in on all the details of every minute that passed between the end of my conversation with Mom and my first Michael Lawrence sighting, but I don't want to drag you any deeper into the Martone pit of boredom. I will say that Allie was slightly more interested in talking to me face-to-face than usual, especially when she came in to critique the abysmal state of my room. That conversation lasted at least an hour. It may have been a record!

I could see Allie's point, though. As I've mentioned too many times, I have an attachment to paper. But when I started to take a look at all the paper that was scattered around my room, I could see how it
might have started to get in the way. By the window there was a huge mound of old tests and homework that I wanted to sort so I could use them to study for finals, but I hadn't gotten around to that yet. There were printouts of article drafts I had proofread and revised, which could probably go in the trash but were still scattered on top of and underneath my desk. There were a few books piled up in stacks in every corner, maybe even more than a few, but definitely not a “plethora” like Allie said. She was just showing off a new SAT word she learned.

I could see the need for a change, and I made a note to handle it ASAP. (I actually wrote a note in my notebook, because I do not have a photographic memory like that supercute boy that I know.) But I'm going to fast-forward a few thousand minutes and focus on a much more pleasant image—the image of Michael Lawrence's eyes.

They appeared to have some magical hypnotizing powers, because I didn't realize that I was standing in front of my locker literally staring into Michael's azure eyes even while he was walking straight toward me.

“Hey, Sam. Everything okay?” Michael asked.

I sincerely hoped that my mouth was not wide open with drool hanging from it at that moment, but I knew it was a definite possibility. Total embarrassment.

“Oh, yeah, hi,” I said, trying to send cool vibes to my burning cheeks. “Sorry. I was just spacing out, trying to remember what books I needed to bring to my first few periods.”

“I hear you,” Michael said. “It's definitely hard to get back into the swing of things after the weekend. Did you have a good one?”

“Me? It was great,” I lied. “I caught up on some sleep, spent some time with my friends. How about you?”

“Mine definitely wasn't as fun as yours,” Michael said. “My batting average has been a little low lately, so I was in the batting cage a lot, working on my swing. My muscles were so sore at the end of the first day, I wasn't sure if I could make it onto the field the next day.”

Michael continued talking about baseball, but I couldn't tell you a word that he said because
I was still stuck on the word “muscles.” When he said that word, I immediately glanced at his arms, and then I noticed how nice they looked all wrapped up in his tight sleeves. I wondered how it would feel to slip my hand into his hand. I wondered . . .

“Sam?” Michael asked. “Are you with me? I just said that I ran into a friend of yours at my baseball practice.”

“What?” I said, trying to snap back to reality. “I don't have any friends who play baseball. Except for you, I mean.”

“It was that Danny Stratham kid from West Hills,” Michael said. “He said to tell you hello.”

“He did?” I was surprised. “I hardly know him. I'm surprised he mentioned me.”

“Well, he talks like you know each other pretty well,” Michael said, his tone sounding a little less supercute than it had a few minutes ago. “He asked if you'd be coming to the Cougar baseball games.”

“Oh yeah. I'm definitely planning to come to the games,” I said.

“Well, if I see him again, I'll let him know.” Michael huffed.

“No, don't tell him. . . ,” I started to explain.

Just then, the bell for first period rang, and Michael turned and walked away. Our classes were in different directions, so I couldn't even catch up to him and finish my sentence.

Four periods went by and I still hadn't seen Hailey anywhere. I really needed to talk to her. I wanted to ask her what she thought about the whole Michael Lawrence situation. I knew she was the only person in the world who could feel my pain at fumbling that conversation so badly.

Finally, the lunch bell rang. I threw my stuff into my locker and ran over to Hailey's. “Hey, Hails. I really need to talk to you.”

Hailey looked up at me for the first time since I had arrived at her locker. Which was strange. I wanted to shout, “Hello, BFF here; remember me? You need to direct your attention
my
way.”

Instead, Hailey grabbed her lunch and put her hand on my arm, like you would do to a stranger if you wanted to show them some sympathy. Just
then I realized that Anthony, the student council president, was standing next to her. Hailey is the vice president.

“I'm sorry, Sam. I really want to catch up, but Anthony and I have a big student government event this week,” Hailey explained. “We need to do some hard-core planning at lunch and after school this week. I'll call you later, okay?”

Then Hailey and Anthony hurried down the hall. Away from me, even though I was heading to the cafeteria too.

It's okay, guys. I can take a hint.

I slogged toward the lunchroom, feeling confused and rejected. Hailey and Anthony were huddled in a corner, busy “hard-core planning.” Michael waved at me when I walked in, but he was sitting with some guys on the baseball team, and I didn't want them to catch me accidentally gazing into Michael's deep blue eyes.

I realized that I wasn't even hungry anymore. In fact, I felt a little queasy. So I took my lunch back to my locker and headed to the newsroom to check in with Mr. Trigg. He's the advisor of the
Cherry Valley Voice
, the school newspaper. He takes the advisor role pretty seriously and always has a lot of good advice for reporters like Michael and me. I wouldn't tell the rest of the staff this, but I'm pretty sure we're his favorites. He almost always gives us the best assignments to work on together. And he gave me the top-secret job of writing the Dear Know-It-All column. I give advice to my schoolmates, and no one even knows it's me. I admit, it's pretty satisfying when I hear everyone talking about what good advice Dear Know-It-All gives.