Read Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) for Free Online Page B

to move on. “One thing would help.” One of the girls turned back toward me. “Something we care about. You know, like guys or fashion or anything like that. Something we actually fancy reading about.”
    “Thank you,” I said with as much sincerity as I could project. “I really appreciate that.”
    “No problem,” she said before moving on with her group.
    The last person I approached was actually taking one of the papers from the stand.
    “May I ask, what do you like about the paper?” I asked him.
    He turned toward me, and I immediately noticed his deep brown eyes. Kind of a Johnny Depp look. “You mean besides wrapping up the fish-and-chips?” he teased. But his tone wasn’t cutting, like the Aristocat who’d suggested the puppy piddle.
    “I do,” I said.
    “Are you on the newspaper staff?” he asked.
    “Yes,” I answered, praying that he wouldn’t ask what my position was. He didn’t!
    “I think there’s some thoughtful reporting at times, but it can be a bit dull. Don’t often read it. Rather seems like it was written for adults instead of people our age. A bit stuffy and all that. But well written!” he said, suddenly remembering, it seemed, that I was on the staff. “Do you have an article in this edition?” He opened it and thumbed through.
    “Oh no, not this one.” Technically true. And then it was time to move on before I had to admit to what my real role was. “You should start reading the paper more often though. It’s very good.”
    “Maybe I will,” he said, holding my gaze just a bit longer than necessary. Then he slung his brown leather backpack over his shoulder and walked off.
    I watched him for a minute before turning to leave the school. I’d gathered a couple of ideas, not the least of which involved an after-school stop. It was time for fish-and-chips.
    Ten minutes later I was at Fishcoteque. I’d texted my mother to tell her where I’d be and that I’d be home soon. I set my stuff at a small table—I was way beyond hoping that anyone would sit with me at this point—and went to order.
    “What’ll it be then, luv? The usual?”
    “I dunno,” I said. “I think I’ll try something different.” I went for the deep-fried shrimp—or shrimps, as they said—instead.
    “Here you go, luv. Fancy another Fanta?” Jeannie, the counter lady, delivered my basket of shrimps.
    “No, thanks,” I said. The shrimp weren’t wrapped like the fish were, but the basket was still lined with newspaper. I dumped the shrimp onto a little pile of napkins to soak up the grease and decided to read the paper lining while I ate.
    Lots of good ads. I jotted down the name of a secondhand fashion shop I hadn’t heard about yet. Then I flipped over the paper. A boring editorial. I was going to have to buy a paper if I wanted to read my favorite column. I walked over to the paper machine and pumped a coin in, then brought it back to my booth and snapped the paper open to the inside cover.
    There it was—just what I was looking for. My favorite column. I know I was supposed to aspire to serious journalism, but I thought this column did a lot of good. More good, for example, than bland reports on road construction or parliamentary spending.

    I sighed and closed the paper. I could not believe what Agatha wrote back. Oh, no, no, no. That was not right. Auntie Agatha must be extremely old. Spiderish, even. If you truly are best friends, you have to talk with your friend first. If nothing changes, you keep trying for a while, and if they turn on you, then you find some new friends. You can’t just push your way into a group. And even if you could, next thing you know, you’ll be doing everything else they want you to do, just to fit in. You’ll never know if they truly like you anyway.
    Crazy.
    Hey. Wait a minute. I snapped the paper open again.
    What if Auntie Agatha were written by a teenager? And talked about problems that teenagers have? And answered interesting questions that