China rattled in the cabinets, and pictures nearly flew off the walls as I stormed back into my house.
“Argggh! Un-freaking-believable!”
Major glanced up from where he was reading the paper, not looking nearly concerned enough. “What happened?”
I pointed out the front door with a shaking finger. “The French … are invading!”
“What?” Major regarded me with wonderment. “What’s all over the front of your sweater?”
“Puke!” I jerked my sweater off and threw it on the floor. “I threw up on a French girl.”
“Why?” Again, Major seemed bewildered but not particularly alarmed about my random regurgitation.
“She … just … ruined my life,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Ah. Well …” Major reached for the slip of paper in his pocket again, and I snatched it from him.
“Would you stop looking at the cheat sheet and start caring a little more?!”
That outburst was enough to get a stronger reaction out of Major … but not the one I wanted. He folded his newspaper with a hard crease and slapped it on the coffee table, then turned to shrivel me with a stern gaze. “I beg your pardon.”
“Sorry,” I said quickly, putting the cheat sheet back into one of his hands. “But this is a big deal to me, especially with the huge embarrassment factor involved.”
Major stared at me for a moment, then steered me toward my bedroom, pointing at the bed. “Sit.”
He settled himself into my desk chair and studied me solemnly for a moment before speaking. “Your mother left me several parenting manuals, but none of them explain how to deal with a vomit-covered girl shouting about a French invasion.”
I blushed and stared at my lap.
“Why don’t we start from the moment you left for Ben’s?” said Major. “I have a feeling he’s somehow involved in this too.”
Pulling my legs as close to my chest as possible, I told Major what had happened, leaving out the details of Ben’s sudden hotness lest his picture earn a red outline in Major’s book.
“So, out of the blue, she becomes his favorite reporter and just swoops in to take the spot that I worked so hard for.” I pounded my fist into the mattress. “It’s not fair.”
Major scratched his chin. “Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t have selected this girl if she weren’t qualified. Has she received any accolades?”
“I don’t know!” I couldn’t help my irritation that he hadn’t taken my side … again. Clearly, I’d have to make a few corrections to the parenting manual.
“Is she as interested in journalism as you are?” he asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Is it possible she was lead reporter for her own school paper?”
“I … don’t … know!” I flopped back on my bed and covered my face with a pillow.
Major got to his feet and paced the carpet in front of me. “Do you know one of the first things they teach you in military intelligence?”
“A hundred ways to kill a man with your pinky.” My voice was muffled through the down pillow.
“Know … your … adversary.” He tapped my leg to emphasize each word. “If you think this girl is a threat, you need to learn everything you can about her. Neutralize the threat. I’m sure you’ve done it before.”
I propped myself on my elbows. He was right. When I’d written the article about the Little Debbies, I’d studied them for months. And now they were coming to me with offers to join them. I squeezed past him to my computer and pulled up a search engine, punching in Ava’s name.
Major patted me on the back. “I’ll leave you to work and bring your dinner in later.” I barely heard him leave.
The moment Ava’s name hit the Web, a flurry of results came back, most in French, some in English—to my chagrin, all referring to a twelve-year-old journalist.
The very first listing was Ava’s own website, with her unsmiling mug surrounded by links written in French that turned to English with the skim of a mouse. Her bio read like an eighty-year-old’s, describing her love of crosswords and knitting, but she must have updated it regularly, because it mentioned her involvement in the foreign exchange program. Overall I wasn’t impressed with Mademoiselle Piquet … until I clicked the link labeled “Awards.”
In the center of that page was another picture of Ava, smiling this time, with a gold medal the size of a hubcap around her neck. Beneath the picture a caption read “Induction into Junior Global Journalists.”
I jerked away from the computer, as if it had given me an electric shock. My dad had been inducted into the Junior Global Journalists when he was fourteen, and I hoped to be chosen when I was thirteen. Judging by the date on the photo, however, Ava had been inducted this year—at twelve.
While it relieved me to know Ben had chosen her for a good reason, I now realized just how massive a threat Ava posed to the rest of my year. She would need to be neutralized, as Major had said, but just knowing this enemy wouldn’t be enough.
The next morning at school, I tried to come up with story ideas that would amaze and astound. My biggest advantage was knowing everything about Brighton and its students. They didn’t care about crosswords and knitting; they cared about stuff that affected their daily lives. School, dating, normal hobbies … all these things could help me elbow out the competition if I chose the right topic.
While my teachers droned on with lesson plans, I scribbled on my spiral notepad, snatching fresh ideas from nearby conversations.
By the time journalism rolled around, I was armed with enough material to get me through the meeting and hopefully put Ava to shame.
But when I reached the journalism room, my confidence wavered. Ava and Ben were already there, standing in the doorway. Or rather, he stood and she clung to him like some parasitic fashionista. She was wearing a shapeless purple dress that hung limply off her shoulders and a hefty silver bracelet that could knock someone unconscious if used as a weapon.
Yet I could only focus on one thing when I saw them—the new, hot Ben.
The new, hot Ben who had seen me throw up.
He’d acted as if it were okay, but I had a feeling he and Ava had probably discussed embarrassing nicknames to call me afterward.
I took a steadying breath and held my head high as I prepared to walk past them. My best bet was to act like throwing up in public was the norm and they were the strange ones for not doing it too. “Good morning.” I smiled indulgently at them and then stared ahead, not daring to look back until I heard my name.
“Hey, Delilah.” Ben disentangled himself from Ava and followed me inside. “Are you feeling okay today?” He placed a hand on my back, and the skin there went numb from his touch. I needed to say something before my tongue did the same.
“I’m fine,” I said. “In fact, I’m really, really sorry …”
Ben moved his hand around to squeeze my arm. “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have sprung the whole thing on you like that. Not after you’d just eaten, anyway.” He grinned, and I ducked my head but returned his smile.
“Listen, I better join Mrs. Bradford before class starts.” Ben nodded to our faculty advisor and left to sit with her at the front of the room.
When I turned to watch Ava’s reaction, my eyebrows jumped an inch up my forehead.
During newspaper meetings the editor sat at the end of the table, while the faculty advisor sat to the left and the lead reporter sat to the right. By chance or by choice, Ava had chosen the chair to Ben’s right.
The seat being warmed by her bony posterior was supposed to be mine.
She watched me with a defiant look in her eyes, but I merely settled into the chair beside Mrs. Bradford’s. “Hello, Ava,” I said. “Thrilled to see you again.”
Ava smirked and tossed a plastic shopping bag at me. “I brought this for you. I don’t want you to get ‘thrilled’ all over the desk.”
She seemed so amused at my discomfort, so pleased to be interfering in my life, that I couldn’t help myself.
I smiled and shook the plastic bag open. “I thought this was your purse. Isn’t that the theme of your outfit? Recycling?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She gave her hair a dramatic, slow-motion toss, and I pointed to her dress.
“The tablecloth you’re wearing. Did everyone finish eating before you grabbed it?”
Ava’s upper lip curled with malice. “It is a sack dress. And if you knew anything about fashion, you would know they are the hottest thing this season.”
I nodded. “I’ve heard it’s what all the tables are wearing.”
“Hey, Delilah!” Jenner dropped into the seat on my other side and gave me a squeeze. “Are you feeling better? I tried to call your house, but Major said you weren’t available.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. I was busy working on ideas for the paper.” I fanned the stack of notepad pages at Jenner, making sure Ava could see them too.
“You might have a hundred ideas,” said Ava with a wave of her hand, “but if none of them are good, you might as well have nothing.”
“Oh, Delilah’s ideas are always great.” Jenner fished in her pocket and pulled out a candy necklace. “She’s won a bunch of awards, and she’ll be a Junior Global Journalist soon.” She smiled at me encouragingly, but I blushed and concentrated on my notes.
“She’ll be one soon?” Ava purred. “Interesting. You know—”
“It really doesn’t matter what awards we’ve won,” I blurted. “What matters is what the readers think. It’s all about giving them the news they want and need to hear.”
“Very inspirational.” Ava rolled her eyes. “I can see why they let you play reporter.”
I wondered how much of her ego-swollen head would fit into the plastic bag. “I don’t play reporter. It’s not a game.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind a little friendly competition.” Ava raised an eyebrow. “Would you?”