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actually wasn’t her fault. It
     wasn’t like she’d gone ahead and signed me up for Buddybook without my
     knowing. I only had myself to blame.
    I felt something scratch my arm and I looked to my left again. Fred
     Ogden was passing me a note, and he jerked his head to indicate it was from Michael
     Lawrence, who wasn’t even looking at me. Oh great. What now? Quickly I grabbed the
     note and held it flat on my desk under my hand. I waited to make sure the teacher
     hadn’t seen. Then I casually smoothed it open and read: Fourth
     period lunch tomorrow. Mr. Pfeiffer interview. His
     office.
    I flipped the note over. There was nothing else. Great. My huge crush
     finally passes me a note and it’s all business. Martone
     Throws in the Towel, I thought dejectedly. This day could only get
     better.
    Fine , I wrote, then I quickly passed it to
     Fred when the teacher wasn’t looking. Two could play at this game.
    During study hall, I went to the newspaper office. One of the many cool
     things about working on the paper is that you get to spend your free periods and study
     halls in the office if you want to. It’s a privilege. Obviously if your grades
     drop, you lose the privilege, but it’s pretty cool to have a place to go and kind
     of lounge or get work done or chat with friends.
    As I entered the office, Mr. Trigg called out, “Samantha! Hello!
     I’ve left the curriculum materials for you in your mailbox!”
    All of the staff reporters and editors and art/layout people have their
     own mailboxes in the Voice office. I turned to mine and spied
     a manila envelope, which I grabbed and stuffed into my messenger bag. It had to be the
     Dear Know-It-All letters in there.
    â€œThanks, Mr. Trigg,” I called.
    He nodded vigorously and tried to look very, very
     busy, so I knew for sure it was letters. I was excited! I couldn’t wait to
     demonstrate my new and improved snappy writing skills in this hot column! It was really
     happening, now!
    If only I could rip the envelope open right here and read the entire
     contents right now, I thought. But obviously that would be a bad idea.
    â€œYo,” said Jeff Perry, walking in the door behind me.
     “Saw you joined Buddybook last night.”
    â€œUgh!” I said. “I hate that thing! I already
     quit!”
    Jeff laughed. “That’s what they all say the first time.
     You’ll be back!” Jeff was still pretty small for his age, but he was wiry
     and a good athlete. Fast. His head was tiny, but he had enormous eyes and lots of wild,
     curly black hair. It was like his features were waiting for his body to grow into them.
     He’s pretty hyper too, like he has the energy to run a much bigger body so
     there’s a lot to spare. Maybe he’ll slow down one day when he grows.
     “Did you like my football photos?” he asked. “Some of them were pretty
     hilarious!” He laughed.
    I made a face. “I don’t know, Jeff. Don’t youthink some of those guys will be mad at you for putting their
     photos up there like that? Some of them aren’t so great.”
    â€œNah.” Jeff waved a hand dismissively. “Guys
     don’t care about stuff like that.”
    Just then the door banged open. It was Michael! “Hey,
     Pasty,” he said to me. “Yo, Perry, get those photos of me off Buddybook.
     Now.”
    â€œDude! Come on! They’re great! What do you care?”
     asked Jeff.
    â€œI care because you do not have my permission to put photos of me
     on Buddybook, that’s why.” Michael went over to his mailbox to see if he had
     anything in there.
    â€œNo one else cares,” Jeff called after him.
    â€œI don’t care about other people,” said Michael,
     doubling back. “And anyway, you’re wrong. I bet all those guys tell you to
     get their photos down today. Especially Andy.”
    Huh. Maybe boys do care how they look