Stop the Presses!

Have you ever gotten up close and personal with a piece of paper? Like when you're writing a report for school, or working on some problems in your math book, do you stop for a moment and hold the page up to the light, examining it in all its glorious papery beauty? Sometimes you can see tiny bits of pulp or fibers and it's really pretty. Or sometimes the paper shines so much that the words look like they're vibrating on the page. Sometimes it's so thin that you can almost see right through it and it's almost like a magic trick that there are words on the page. I love the way it smells, too—sometimes
new, like when you crack open a notebook for the first time in the fall; and sometimes it smells musty, like it's been sitting in a supply closet all summer.

Okay, okay, I'm sorry for rambling. I know what you're probably thinking. And I promise that I have not lost my mind because of the insomnia I've been having. I've been following my new sleep hygiene plan pretty closely, and it's working. Well, maybe not so closely on the nights when my best friend, Hailey Jones, sleeps over, but definitely during the school week. It's been lights out and eyes closed until my alarm clock (turned away from me so the light doesn't shine in my face) goes off.

But let's get back to paper. I've always loved to write—and read—but it wasn't until my date—er, field trip—to see our newspaper's print run with Michael Lawrence that I began to fully appreciate the unique beauty of the printed page. We took a tour of FlyPrint, the company that prints the
Cherry Valley Voice
, and Mr. Dunleavy, our sales rep, showed us the enormous rolls of paper, the
printing plates, and the presses in action. It was, like, the coolest thing ever. I mean, I love the rush of writing a story for the paper on a deadline, but actually seeing the story being printed? Totally cool. Even better, I witnessed it all side by side with my writing partner and future fantastic boyfriend. It was truly a magical moment.

Since the trip, though, I've been looking around and noticing that not a lot of my friends seem to feel the same way I do about the whole paper experience. It seems like everyone's always wrapped up in some electronic device. Take my sister, Allie, for instance. Sometimes I'll be sitting in my room when I hear my phone chime and see that there's a text message from her.
That's odd
, I think.
Allie was home five minutes ago. Did she leave the house in spy mode? I didn't even hear her go.
And you know what? It always turns out that she never even left the house. She is texting me from her bedroom, which is
right next to my bedroom
. Would it really be so difficult for her to walk across the hall and talk to me in person? Do you find me
that repulsive, Big Sister, that you can't even look at me?

Allie isn't alone, though. I was reading a study (and I admit, I was reading it on my computer), and it said that 63 percent of teenagers use text messages to communicate with their friends every day. Meanwhile, only 35 percent said that they talk face-to-face with their friends outside of school on a daily basis. That seems like a pretty sad statistic to me. I mean, I love, love talking to Hailey. I can't imagine just texting or e-mailing her. Mrs. Osborne, our school librarian, says that as long as we're reading, it doesn't matter if it's on a screen or a printed page, but I still feel a little sad when I see a big pile of yesterday's unsold daily newspapers sitting outside the door of the local store, waiting to be picked up. There's even a Website devoted to chronicling the death of metropolitan dailies, which is what they call the daily newspapers. It's called “Newspaper Death Watch.” How tragic is that?

You want to know what's even more tragic? I haven't heard from Michael Lawrence in five whole days. Not a face-to-face conversation, not a phone
call, not even a “Hey, what's up, Pasty?” text. I'm starting to have Crush Withdrawal Syndrome. I mean, I'm not sure I remember the exact shade of blue that his incredibly blue eyes truly are because I have not been able to stare deeply into them. It's reaching crisis level, for sure.

I was kind of in a grouchy mood, since on top of my not seeing Michael, my mom suggested that Allie and I clean out our bedrooms. Allie and I don't have much in common except we both are kind of pack rats. I like to keep books, newspapers, and magazines. Allie likes to keep every bit of clothing she's ever worn. And she remembers them, too. If I borrow something she hasn't worn in three years without asking her, the minute she sees it on me she'll say something like, “What are you doing wearing that sweater? I bought it to wear to Kim's birthday party (in 2010!). I love that sweater.” It's crazy. Anyway, Mom said a thorough cleaning out of both our rooms was long overdue. I'm not a happy camper. I like my room the way it is and I hate change. So you can see the problem.

I heard my mom rustling around in her room,
so I decided to go and see what she was doing and maybe torture her a little by whining about how bored I was. But instead of finding her buried in a pile of receipts and bank statements, I caught her looking in a big, flowery hatbox.

“What are you doing, Mom?” I asked. “Looking for an old tax form?”

Mom jumped when she heard my voice, obviously not expecting either Allie or me to barge in on her.

“Oh no.” She chuckled nervously. “It's just some old stuff. I thought that since I've been making you girls clean out your rooms, I should take a break from the numbers crunching and clean out some things too.”

“Can I see what's in it?” I asked.

“Sure,” Mom said. “I'll probably throw most of it out anyway. I don't know why I've been keeping it up there. It's just taking up space.”

Mom and I plopped on the bed and started taking things out of the box. There were some reasonably interesting items in there, like a hospital bracelet from the time Mom had her
appendix removed and a dried corsage from her high school prom. But to me, the most fascinating thing was a stack of papers—of course!—tied up in a red ribbon. The paper itself wasn't so special; it looked mostly like loose-leaf that had been crumpled up and had turned slightly yellow with age. There may have even been some splashes of sauce on a few of the pages. I could tell from the ribbon that even though they looked pretty ordinary, this pile was not a collection of Mom's middle school reports.

“What are these?” I asked as I held up the pile.

“Oh, you can put those in the recycling bin,” Mom said. “They're just some letters from a boy I used to be friends with in eighth grade.”

Friends. That's a good one, Mom. That's what I always say about Michael Lawrence. We've been friends since kindergarten.

“So you don't mind if I read them, then?” I asked.

I had Mom cornered. If she said no, she was admitting that they were special and private.

“Um, sure, if you want,” Mom answered. “You're just going to think they're boring and silly.”

I almost laughed out loud when I read the first one. It was sooooo middle school.

Dear Nina,

I'm glad that we're friends. I'd really like to be more than friends. Do you feel the same way? If you do, check yes. If not, check no. Don't worry. We'll still be friends either way.

Yes

No

—John

“MOM!” I screamed. “Why didn't you ever give this to him?”

Mom's cheeks actually started to turn red. She was blushing about a boy she'd known eons ago!

“I thought I would just tell him how I felt,” she replied.

“And how did that go?” I wondered, thinking I knew the answer: not well.

“Pretty well,” she said, and I looked up. “We were kind of a thing until the middle of high school.”

“Kind of a thing?” I laughed. “What kind of a thing is that?” It was weird talking to Mom about boys she dated, like, when she was my age.

“A boyfriend/girlfriend kind of thing,” Mom said.

“Are you kidding?” I yelled. “My mother had a boyfriend in eighth grade and I don't?
I am hopeless!
”