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and brought my fingers up like I was going to whistle. Okay, so I didn’t really know how to do that, but nobody else knew that. And it worked; they shut up and let me speak. “How about we try this one at a time? Elden, what happened at the student council meeting?”
    “Mr. Haney told us that that effective November 1st, any cell phone seen in students’ hands during school hours would be confiscated. The device could then be picked up only by a parent and after a fifteen dollar fine was paid.” Then he added, “It isn’t fair.”
    “Fair?” I asked.
    “It seems unconstitutional to me,” a girl named Evie added.
    My eyes wanted to roll so badly—but I simply closed them until the feeling passed. “It’s been two years since I’ve had U.S. history, but I’m pretty sure the constitution didn’t promise the right to bear cell phones.” I blew my bangs out of my eyes. “Let’s try this again, only this time, let’s pretend we’re reporters. Elden?”
    “It isn’t fair!” Elden chimed in. Again. “And my name is Alden. Still.”
    Whoops.
    “Fair means nothing,” I said. “Lots of things aren’t fair. Try again. Where’s the story?”
    Blank faces. And a very bored co-chief at the other end of the table, spinning his pen through his fingers and staring out the window.
    Fine. I stood. “Is the seizure legal?”
    “How would we know?” asked Elden, or Alden, whatever.
    “We find out. That’s what we do. That whole reporting thing and all.” Energized, I continued. “Eld—Alden, interview Haney. And I’m changing your name to Frank. Find out where the mandate came from. School board? Teachers’ lounge? Then research city and state statutes for limits of power. Do they have the jurisdiction to impose fines? Is it lawful to confiscate student property if it isn’t illegal or dangerous? What recourse do parents and students have?”
    Frank scribbled furiously, and I began pacing. “Evie, interview a few teachers. Get some opinions from their trenches, but try to find a sampling of for and against. It’s important that we show both sides, or the story becomes opinion not reporting.” I stopped at Foster’s seat and kicked his chair.
    He sighed but relented. “Chelsea, get student reactions. Look especially for alternative ideas from the study body that might satisfy the issues that led to the ruling. Is there a compromise?”
    While he was speaking, he held up his right hand holding a pink slip of paper. I snatched it from his fingers and strode to the other side of the room to open it in peace.
     
    The Paint Pot.

    Table three. 7:00.

    Seriously? Foster didn’t look at me, but he must have felt my glare, because the grin that crossed his face was the one he reserved for tormenting me.
    The Paint Pot was one of those places where you paint your own…well, pot or mug or plate or whatever. They bake it for you in their kiln and then you have an immortalized piece of pottery to commemorate…your blind date with Mr. March.
    I’m not one of those people who saves little pieces of memorabilia. The past belongs right where it is as far as I’m concerned. My favorite holiday is New Year’s Day—I never have a problem saying goodbye to the old year and hello to the new.
    The crew filed out, leaving Foster and me alone. Again. I didn’t understand why that made me feel so weird lately. I mean, the only feelings I harbored for my lost relationship with Foster were not the kind that make your stomach feel full of butterflies. Maybe a rock tumbler full of stones…but not butterflies.
    “Was the Paint Pot your idea?” I asked.
    “Actually, no. The girls are being surprisingly independent on this venture. And they are taking it very seriously.”
    I checked out his grandpa shirt. “But the Salad Bowl—that was all you, wasn’t it?”
    He gifted me with the smile signifying another point for Team Hell. “Yeah. I remembered how much you used to love bowling.”
    “I hate bowling.”
    “I