Monday after school, I waited for Webb while Miss Holt graded papers. She had perfectly shaped oval nails. I’d been biting mine since Eric died, and I needed to stop.

Miss Holt looked up from her work and caught me staring at her. “How are you settling in here at Daniel Boone?” she asked.

“Good, mostly because of Sam.”

“I enjoyed the article you wrote about her. It seems Sam’s never met a stranger. She has a real knack for making friends.”

“I wish I was like that.”

Miss Holt shrugged. “Be who you are, Allie. You have different talents. Sam would struggle to write for the school paper the way you do.” She tapped her red pen on the desk. “What would you like to write next?”

“That’s easy. I’d like to interview as many seventh-grade students as I possibly can this year. It would be a good way for me to make friends.”

Miss Holt let the idea slide in like Eric used to at home plate. “Most kids enjoy talking about themselves,” she said, “and it would be interesting for teachers and administrators too. A way for us to learn even more about our students.”

Webb interrupted us, hurrying in with his briefcase. “Sorry I’m late. I was talking to Mr. Dezern about the reign of Czar Nicholas II. He may teach U.S. History, but the man is a treasure trove of knowledge about Europe too.”

I liked Webb a lot. He was the only kid I knew who carried a briefcase and used words like treasure trove. “Where’s Dwayne?” I asked. It was funny how on my first day Webb said he normally required a writing sample. He’d made it sound like kids were lining up to write for the school paper. Instead, Dwayne and I made up his entire staff.

“Big D’s at basketball practice. He’s a man of many talents.” Webb sat down and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What have you got for me there, Allie?”

I passed him the article about Kelly Hutton and her sister. “Cheering for a Cause” had more depth than the article I’d written about Sam. I’d researched St. Jude and challenged kids to get involved.

“Incredible,” Webb pronounced. He pushed his glasses up. “I’ll donate part of my allowance, and I bet other kids will too. This article matters! I may have to change your byline to Allie Drake—Star Reporter.”

I loved being called a star! Eric had been a star baseball player, and Sam had won trophies, but I’d never been a star before.

Miss Holt spoke up. “Allie would like to make this a regular column.”

“Agreed,” Webb said. “Allie, who would you like to feature next?”

“You.”

“B-b-b-b … b-b-but why?” Webb sputtered. “I’m the editor in chief.”

“You’re also a unique character.”

Webb agreed to the interview, and that’s when my problems started.

Webb’s mom was in England visiting relatives, so he had his dad call my mom and invite me for dinner. I wanted to see where Webb lived and figure out the answer to the burning question most of my readers were probably wondering about: why did he carry a briefcase?

On our walk to his house, Webb kept switching said briefcase from his right hand to his left. “What have you got in there?”

“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Webb joked. “Books. I mostly carry around books.”

“Why?”

“When my grandfather died, he left me his library and his briefcase. Gramps was my favorite relative.” Webb gestured toward a house surrounded by a white picket fence. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

I followed him through an arbor with climbing red roses to a hidden garden.

“You should see it in the spring when the phlox and hydrangeas are blooming,” Webb said.

I couldn’t picture him grubbing in the dirt. “You work in the garden?” I asked.

“I’m a gentleman farmer. We raise herbs and vegetables, and grow both perennial and annual flowers.” He pointed toward a bed of purple blossoms. “Our fall pansies should last for a couple more weeks yet.”

I ran over to a stone bench and sat down. The shrubs were planted around it like an outdoor room. It had a magical feeling. “Reminds me of The Secret Garden.”

“I’ve read that book too,” Webb said.

After I had thoroughly explored outside, Webb showed me his library, a dark-paneled room with bookshelves on all four walls. A biography of Winston Churchill lay on a table painted like a chessboard.

“Do you play chess?” Webb asked.

“No.”

“What about Diplomacy?”

“What’s that?”

“Only the best board game in the history of the world, but don’t take my word for it. John F. Kennedy thought so too.”

“John F. Kennedy, huh?” Webb had to be the smartest kid I’d ever met.

The Wallaces lived a lot more formally than Mom and me. Webb’s dad had set the table with fine china and cloth napkins.

“I hope you like shepherd’s pie,” Webb said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had it before.”

“The crust is made of mashed potatoes,” Webb said. “Underneath is a stew of ground meat, onions, carrots, and peas.”

It was delicious.

Webb’s dad sipped red wine and asked so many questions I felt like a game show contestant.

Yes, my mom was a librarian.

No, I didn’t think my dad would be moving to North Carolina.

Yes, I liked DB Middle School so far.

No, Webster hadn’t told me he could play the tuba, but I would LOVE to hear him.

Webb groaned. “Do not, I repeat, do not mention the tuba in your article.”

I offered to help with the dishes, but Mr. Wallace suggested we get started on our homework instead.

Back in the library, Webb and I sat across from each other at the chessboard table. I doodled in my notebook and jotted down random thoughts for my article. I wished Webb would play the tuba for me.

“Allie … would you …”

I looked up from my doodling and Webb was the color of a bright red geranium.

“What is it, Webb? Just spit it out.”

“Would you go … would you go … to the Pioneer Days Celebration with me?”

“Uh … maybe. What is Pioneer Days?”

“A weekend that celebrates our town’s history. It’s sort of like a fair.”

I liked Webb too much to hurt his feelings, and besides, I was curious. I’d never been on a date before. But mostly the reason I said yes was to earn the byline Allie Drake—Star Reporter. “If you’ll play the tuba and let me write about it, then I’ll go with you.”

“Deal!” Webb shouted.