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I even start to follow him out the door, but when I get outside, I pause. Am I going to be like this all my life? Committing to something that seems important and then tossing it aside for a guy? Weak. Very weak, Bradley, I hear The Mouse scolding me in my head.
I go to the newspaper meeting.
Due to my indecision, I’m a little late. The staff is already seated around a large art table, with the exception of Ms. Smidgens, who is by the window, covertly smoking a cigarette. Since she’s not absorbed in the conversation, she’s the first to see me come in.
“Carrie Bradshaw,” she says. “You decided to grace us with your presence after all.”
Peter looks up and we lock eyes. Bastard, I think, remembering what Lali just told me about Peter and Donna LaDonna. If Peter gives me any trouble about joining the Nutmeg staff, I’ll remind him about what he said to Sebastian.
“Does everyone here know Carrie? Carrie Bradshaw?” he asks. “She’s a senior. And I guess she’s…uh…decided to join the newspaper.”
The rest of the kids look at me blankly.
Besides Peter, I recognize three seniors. The other four kids are juniors and sophomores, plus one girl who looks so young, she must be a freshman. All in all, a not terribly promising group.
“Let’s get back to our discussion,” Peter says as I take a seat at the end of the table. “Upcoming article suggestions?”
The young girl, who has black hair and bad skin, and is one of those I’m-going-to-be-successful-if-it-kills-me types, raises her hand. “I think we should do a story about the cafeteria food. Where it comes from, and why it’s so bad.”
“We already covered that,” Peter says wearily. “We do that story in nearly every issue. Doesn’t make any difference.”
&
nbsp; “Oh, but it does,” says a nerdly kid with the requisite safety glasses. “Two years ago the school agreed to allow healthy vending machines in the cafeteria. So at least we can get sunflower seeds.”
Aha. So that’s the reason we have a group of students who are constantly nibbling sunflower seeds like a colony of gerbils.
“How about gym?” says a girl whose hair is pulled back into a tight braid. “Why don’t we lobby for a workout video instead of basketball?”
“I don’t think many guys want to do aerobics in gym,” Peter says drily.
“Isn’t it stupid to write about things that people can do at home anyway?” points out the nerdly kid. “It would be like forcing everyone to take laundry.”
“And it is all about choice, right?” says the freshman. “Which reminds me. I think we should do the story about the cheerleader discrimination suit.”
“Oh, that.” Peter sighs. “Carrie, what do you think?”
“Didn’t someone try to pass the cheerleader antidiscrimination act last year and it failed?”
“We won’t give up,” insists the freshman girl. “The cheerleading team discriminates against ugly people. It’s unconstitutional.”
“Is it?” Peter asks.
“I think there should be a law against ugly girls in general,” the nerdly kid says, and begins panting loudly in what appears to pass for a laugh.
Peter gives him a dirty look and turns to the freshman. “Gayle, I thought we discussed this. You can’t use the school newspaper to further the causes of your family. We all know your sister wants to be a cheerleader and that Donna LaDonna has rejected her twice. If she wasn’t your sister, you might have something. But she is. So it makes it look like the newspaper is trying to force the cheerleading squad to take her. It goes against every journalistic convention—”
“How?” I ask, suddenly interested. Especially as it sounds like Peter is trying to protect Donna LaDonna. “Isn’t the whole point of journalism to make people aware of the wrongdoings in the world? And wrongdoings do begin at home. They begin right here at Castlebury High.”
“She’s right!” exclaims the nerdly guy, thumping his fist on the table.
“Okay, Carrie,” Peter says, annoyed. “You take the story.”
“Oh no. Can’t do that,” Ms. Smidgens says, stepping in. “I know Carrie’s a senior, but as a new member of the paper, she has to do layout.”
I shrug pleasantly, as if I don’t mind at all.
A few minutes later, Gayle and I are relegated to a corner of the room to move around sections of type on a large piece of lined paper. The job is unbearably tedious, and I look over at Gayle, who is frowning, either in concentration or anger. She’s at the apex of the worst stage of being a teenage girl, meaning she has blemishes, greasy hair, and a face that hasn’t yet caught up to her nose.
