Rules for Secret Keeping (20 page)

She rings the bell that's sitting on the desk of the front office, even though Mrs. James is sitting right there.

“Yes, hello,” she says.
Ding, ding, ding.
“I'm dreadfully sorry that I'm so tardy, but I'm here to see Miss Samantha Carmichael.” She narrows her eyes and peers at Mrs. James over these really small wire spectacles that she's wearing. “We're doing a story for
You Girl
, and I've already cleared it with your principal.”

“Yes, I know,” Mrs. James says. She doesn't sound too
happy. “Samantha is sitting right over there, where she's been waiting for you and
missing class
since you said you'd be here forty-five minutes ago.”

“Samantha!” Barb says, ignoring Mrs. James's snarky remark and rushing over to me. “It is so nice to finally make your acquaintance.”

“Nice to make yours as well.” I extend my hand, and she shakes it. For a second, I feel like maybe I'm supposed to curtsy or something. But I don't, I just stand there. It's a little awkward, honestly.

Finally, I put my hand out to the photographer. “Hi,” I say. “I'm Samantha Carmichael.”

He takes my hand, but doesn't say anything.

“Tony is just here to snap a few photographs for the profile, and for our slide show at the banquet.” Barb looks at him with distaste. I think it might be because he's wearing jeans and a pair of dirty sneakers. Honestly, he's not much of a camera crew. Not that I mind. The fewer cameras the better.

Barb leans in and whispers to me, “He doesn't work for
You Girl
, he's just
freelance.”
She says “freelance” like it's some kind of really dirty word.

“Oh, okay.” I'm not sure what to say about that. Tony just grunts again.

“Anyway!” Barb says. “Moving on! So! It's best to just
relax and seem natural as we shadow you this morning. Don't get too focused on the camera. Tony will take your picture throughout the next hour or so, but just try to ignore him.”

“Okay,” I say. As if on cue, Tony snaps a pic. I blink in surprise at the flash. “Oh, um, sorry.” I smooth my skirt and try to recover. “I, uh, didn't know you were going to take a picture.”

“They're candids,” Barb explains. “You won't know when he's going to take them.” She turns to Tony. “Samantha's a blinker,” she says. “So we have to be careful that we make the pictures look candid when they're not
really
candid.”

“I'm not a blinker,” I lie, mostly because it's embarrassing to be called a blinker. Also, what does she mean, make the pictures look candid when they're not? God, it's hot in here.

“Yes, you have the characteristics of a blinker,” Barb says. And then she pulls a magazine proof sheet out of her bag. “Here you are, see? Page sixty-eight, Samantha Carmichael, secret-passer.”

She hands it to me. I gasp. There I am, at the photo shoot they did that day, and I don't look so great. I
am
slightly blinking, and one of my eyebrows is a little bit higher than the other, so that it looks like I'm trying to give the camera
a knowing look.

“Why did they pick
that
picture?” I ask before I can stop myself. “There must have been better ones!”

“I don't know,” Barb says. “But don't get your tights all bunched up; no one cares about what you look like.” She gives me a disapproving look, like I shouldn't be worried about what I look like in a national magazine that is going to be seen by millions of people. She holds the sheet out to me. “Here you go!” she says. “You can keep the proof. The magazine won't be out on newsstands until next month.”

“Great,” I say, sliding it into my bag. Maybe they'll put a really good picture of me into the profile they're doing, something that will make up for the fact that this picture sucks. Maybe everyone else's pictures look really bad too, like they wanted us all to look a little bit dorky so that the readers would relate to us. Not that
You Girl
's readers are dorky. I mean,
I
read
You Girl
.

“Now!” Barb claps her hands, and I jump. “Please show us to your locker, Samantha.” Tony snaps another picture.

“Okay,” I say. I wave goodbye to Mrs. James, who gives me a sympathetic smile (she totally knows that Barb is crazy), and start leading them down the hall toward my locker. The problem is that my locker isn't that close to the main office, so we have kind of a long walk.

“Well, this is my school,” I say, because I can't just say
nothing. Tony snaps a picture and then grins. I concentrate on making sure my eyes are open. I'm not sure if I'm succeeding.

“It's a very nice school,” Barb says. “You wouldn't believe some of the institutions we've had to visit.” She shudders.

“Oh, yeah, that must have been hard.” How snobby. “That's the cafeteria,” I say as we pass. “Before and after school, they call it The Common Ground, but we call it The Common for short. Anyway, uh, they sell hot chocolate and muffins and stuff, and we get together and study.” Tony snaps a pic of it, but Barb wrinkles up her nose.

“Do they offer healthy, organic meals?”

“Well, not really. They do have some soy muffins, though. My friend Daphne loves them.”

“Hmm.” Barb makes a mark in the notebook she's carrying. “That would be a great idea for some entrepreneurial young mind. Start a cart in their school that carries organic, free-trade food and drinks for those students who are concerned about their health.”

She gives me a pointed look. And it could totally be because I'm overthinking things, but I have a feeling she might mean that once I get over all this silly secret-passing ridiculousness, I should maybe do something important, like sell organic foods.

“Well, here we are!” I say. “This is where all the magic happens!” That's a very dorky thing to say, but for some reason, it just pops out.

“This is where you receive your secrets, correct?” Barb steps close to the locker and inspects the vent. “You're lucky that the locker has a vent. Otherwise what would your business do?”

“Yes, well, I organized my business around the fact that lockers have vents. I, uh, researched a few different methods of secret-dropping-off, and I figured lockers were the most logical structure.”

Barb nods, impressed, even though obviously I just made that whole thing up.

“Get a picture of her in front of her locker,” Barb instructs.

Tony snaps another one. I try to remember to keep my eyes open.

“Now,” Barb says. “You could . . .” She trails off, and her eyes focus on something above my head. “What's that?”

“What's what?” I ask, smoothing my hair down.

“That?”

I turn to see what she's pointing at. Uh-oh. One of Olivia's flyers. Right over
my
locker! Ugh. I mean,
really.

“Oh, that,” I say, waving my hand like it's no big deal. “That's nothing, that's just . . . some girl at school thought it
would be fun to start her own secret-passing business when she heard about mine. And so, ah, that's one of her flyers.”

“Hmm,” Barb says. “Interesting.” She adjusts her spectacles and leans in for a closer look.

“Not really,” I say. “I mean, she
obviously
doesn't realize what goes into a business, how totally c
ommitted
you really have to be to make it successful.” I smooth my skirt again and keep going. “The problem with a lot of kids these days is that they don't realize that being an entrepreneur is a lot of work. Yes, you can make it happen, but you have to be willing to put in the time.” This is a line I totally memorized just for this occasion. But Barb doesn't have to know that. I want her to think I sound smart, like, off the cuff.

Barb's scribbling something down on her clipboard. “You can quote me on that if you want,” I offer.

“Samantha, this is interesting, the idea of competing businesses going on in a middle school. Would you say that our need for the free market and antitrust laws dribbles down into even middle school businesses?”

“Well, I wouldn't say that exactly.” Honestly, I have no idea what she's talking about.

“What do you mean?” Barb asks.

“What do I mean about what?”

“About the antitrust laws? You said ‘not exactly,' what does that mean?”

“Well, all I really mean is that so far, this other business hasn't really affected me. I'm much more established than Olivia; I have a very
loyal
clientele.”

I decide this whole interview is starting to get away from me, and needs to end pretty much as soon as possible. Plus I don't want her asking me any more hard questions about economic or foreign rights or whatever it is she's talking about. So I turn around and open my locker.

“You see?” I say. All the notes come tumbling out, some onto the floor. I did that on purpose, shoved them all in there so that they'd come falling out when I opened the door. It looks very impressive. “My business isn't suffering in the slightest!”

“Yes, I see that,” Barb says. She beams. “Now, how many secrets do you have here?”

“Well, let's see,” I say. I start picking them all up from the floor, even though I know that the exact number is twenty-three, since I'm the one who made them all.

“Looks like we have about . . .” I'm counting them up and gathering them into my arms when the bell rings, signaling the end of first period. All of a sudden, the hallway becomes filled with kids, all on their way to their next class.

“Who's this guy?” Ronald Hughes says as he rushes by. He puts his face right in front of Tony. “You gonna take my picture, man?” He laughs and then keeps walking.

“Ha-ha,” I say. “That was just Ronald, he's very funny.” Tony doesn't look too pleased.

“Oh my God, Samantha!” a voice yells. Great. Emma. Although maybe having a girl who looks and acts like Emma (always knows the right thing to say, looks very smart and put-together, definitely a little bit of a suck-up), will help me with Barb. Barb seems like the kind of person who would just love Emma. “I was looking all over for you! You, like, totally weren't in homeroom.”

“Yes, I was,” I say. “I just had to leave early.”

“Oh, right, for your magazine thing.” She turns to Barb and holds out her hand. “I'm Emma Clydell,” she says. “I'm Samantha's best friend.” Um, not really, but now's definitely not the time to bring
that
up.

“Nice to meet you,” Barb says. “This is Tony.” Tony grunts, and Emma gives him a nod, then flips her curly red hair over one shoulder.

“Anyway, Samantha, I need your money for our cowgirl outfits,” Emma says. She looks at me expectantly.

“Your cowgirl outfits?” Barb asks.

“Samantha didn't tell you?” Emma asks.

“No,” I say. “I didn't. That's not really Barb's specialty, if you know that I mean.” I'm trying to let her know that it's probably not the best time to bring up the fact that I'm going to be dressing as a cowgirl on the night of the Fall
Festival. What is wrong with her, anyway? I thought she was supposed to be good around adults. And then I remember. I still haven't told Emma I can't go to the Fall Festival. Well, no time like the present! Emma won't be able to freak out in front of Barb, and it will make me look super responsible. “Actually, Emma,” I say, “it turns out that I can't go to the very fun Fall Festival. I'm so disappointed to miss it, but I have to honor my obligation and attend the
You Girl
banquet that night.”

“But we were going to be cowgirls!” Emma whines. Her delicate features arrange themselves in a pout. “Charlie's even going to not wear a T-shirt under hers.” She turns to Barb. “I think it's ridiculous how certain costumes have been condemned by society just because a woman might be showing off a little bit of her body. If my friend Charlie wants to have a tiny little bit of her stomach showing, then she should be able to, right?
Boys
would be able to.”

“Well, I'm not sure that would be appropriate for a school function,” Barb says. She seems a little . . . miffed. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Please do not let Barb write something down about this.

I give Emma another look. “Yes, well, we'll have to talk about it later,” I say. “Barb and Tony are shadowing me and they have a limited amount of time.”

“Well, okay,” Emma says. But she doesn't look convinced.
She turns to Tony. “Do you want to get a picture of me and Samantha? We could pose right under her locker, and you could put in the magazine that we're besties.” She puts her arm around me and gives them a big smile.

“No,” Barb says. “I don't think that will be necessary, but thank you.”

“All right,” Emma says. She lets go of me reluctantly. “Well, I guess I'll see you at lunch, Samantha.”

“I guess so,” I say. I let out the breath I've been holding. Now that Emma's going away, I can get this rodeo back on track. Or at least try to.

Emma takes one step down the hall, but her black patent leather shoe slips on something. “Oooh,” she says, looking down. “What's this?” She crouches down and picks up the piece of paper that's under her shoe. One of the fake notes that was in my locker. One of the fake notes that was in my locker and has her name on it.

“Oh, that,” I say. I reach out and grab it from her. “That was just a note that was in my locker.”

“But it has my name on it.”

“Right,” I say. “So, you know, I'll give it to you later, when I'm doing my rounds.” Which is a really dumb thing to say, since I don't do rounds, and Emma knows it.

“But I want to read it now,” Emma says. She stamps her foot. “It could be from Jake.”