Webb started following me around like a lovesick puppy. My article “Webster Wallace for President” made it even worse. I guess he figured if I wrote such nice things about him that it must be love, or at least an extreme case of like. It wasn’t.

On the way to the lunchroom, Sam snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Allie. I repeat … Earth to Allie.”

“What?”

“I promised Phoebe we’d have lunch with her.”

“Again? She sits at Webb’s table.”

Sam grinned. “It doesn’t really matter where we sit. It’s like a nursery rhyme. Everywhere that Allie goes, Webb is sure to follow.”

It had been that way for the past three weeks. I thought about hiding out in the library, but it was pizza day, and I was hungry. If I had a magic wand, I’d break my date with Webb without hurting his feelings.

Sam took a seat beside Phoebe, and in less than five seconds, Webb moved to sit beside me. He reached into his lunch bag and pulled out a jelly doughnut. “Sweets for the sweet,” he said.

I used to think the old-fashioned things he said were funny, but not anymore. He’d even ruined my taste for jelly doughnuts.

“Hey, Webb, how’s your garden?” Sam asked.

They talked about getting a garden ready for the winter and playing Diplomacy. I ate my pizza in silence.

“I wanna braid Penny’s mane for the Pioneer Days horse show,” Sam said. “I’m gonna ride her in three events: Barrel Racing, Western Pleasure, and Egg and Spoon.”

“What’s Egg and Spoon?” I asked.

“Riders hold the reins in one hand and balance an egg in a spoon with the other,” Sam said. “The announcer gives instructions like walk, trot, or stop. The rider who holds on to his egg the longest wins.”

“Sam came in second last year,” Webb said.

She pointed her index finger at him. “I’m gonna win this year. I’ve been practicing.”

“I’ll help you get Penny ready,” Phoebe said. “I’m good at making braids.”

Of course she was. Red was becoming my least favorite hair color. I was in such a bad mood that I didn’t even like myself.

Sam made a face at me. “Why are you scowling?”

“Too much homework,” I muttered.

Sam shrugged. “Gonna eat that doughnut?”

When I shook my head no, she split it with Phoebe.

I wanted to snatch the doughnut out of Phoebe’s hand. That’s what a terrible person I was turning into.

“Allie, who are you planning to interview next?” Webb asked.

I had a mouthful of pizza, and before I could spit out Dwayne Williams, Sam reached over and patted Phoebe on the back. “Interview Phoebe. She’s great at crocheting.”

Crocheting? Who wanted to read about crocheting?

“That’s an excellent idea,” Webb agreed.

I was outnumbered and couldn’t think of a way to say no without looking like a jerk. So much for freedom of the press.

Since Phoebe lived on Oak Street, same as me, we stopped to get my camera. I ran inside, and then we shuffled through fall leaves on the way to Phoebe’s.

“I live with my grandmother,” Phoebe said.

“Oh.” I wondered why, but didn’t ask. I understood about families who are different.

“My parents dumped me here,” Phoebe said matter-of-factly, “but I’m happier with Grammy.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s predictable.”

Most kids would have thought predictable meant boring, but not me. I missed knowing what days Eric had baseball practice and what time Dad was coming home for dinner.

As soon as Phoebe opened the door to her grammy’s house, I smelled cinnamon and raisins.

“Fresh-baked cookies!” Phoebe said. “Grammy bakes for Scott’s Drug Store, but there’s always plenty left for my friends.”

“Pheebs, I’m in the kitchen,” a woman called.

With snowy white hair and silver-framed glasses, Phoebe’s grammy looked like a storybook grandmother. “Sit, sit, girls. I have oatmeal-raisin cookies warm from the oven.”

Phoebe’s grandmother bustled around the kitchen pouring us glasses of milk and serving cookies on flowered plates. “Just call me Grammy, same as Phoebe. All her friends do.”

I dipped a cookie into my milk while Phoebe answered questions about her day at school.

“I know your mother from the library,” Grammy told me. “I read Harlequin Romance novels, and she orders them especially for me.”

My mom was a master at matching the right books to the right readers. Maybe she could even find some Sam would like. I’d have to ask her.

After cookies, we went to Phoebe’s room. Whoa! Every square inch was covered in crocheted teddy bears, hats, shawls, scarves, baby blankets, and other things too. “You could open up a store and sell this stuff. I’d call it Crazy for Crochet.”

Phoebe laughed. “I give the shawls to Reverend Walker. She takes them to people who are sick.”

“What about the little hats and baby blankets?”

“They’re for preemies in the hospital.”

No wonder Sam liked Phoebe. She was nice, and her grandmother made the best cookies on the planet. “How’d you get started crocheting?”

“Grammy taught me when I was in second grade. I was still living with my parents then, and when things got really bad, I’d lock myself in my room and crochet.”

My parents yelled at each other a lot after Eric died, but I didn’t tell her that. “Do you use pointy needles when you crochet?”

“No, those are for knitting.” Phoebe reached into a basket filled with yarn and pulled out a thin metal rod with a hook on the end. “I use a crochet hook. Want to try?”

“I probably couldn’t do it.”

“Bet you could. We could start with something easy, like a friendship bracelet.”

Phoebe fished an extra crochet hook out of her basket. We rocked in matching chairs, like two little old women.

“Watch me,” Phoebe said. “You start by making a slipknot.”

With her coaching, I made a friendship bracelet in about fifteen minutes. It was actually fun and relaxing. “I did it!”

“Told you,” Phoebe said. “I’ll give you some yarn and a hook to take home with you.”

I snapped pictures of her wearing a crocheted hat and holding a blanket. I’d call this article “Crazy for Crochet.” “Phoebe, why don’t you start a crochet club? I’d help make baby hats and blankets, and I bet other kids would too.”

“That’s a good idea,” Phoebe said. “I thought you were a sourpuss, but I like you, Allie Drake.”

I liked her too. “I’m not really a sourpuss; I’ve just been in a bad mood lately.”

“Why?”

The truth was I didn’t like Phoebe sitting beside Sam at lunch, but I couldn’t tell her that. She’d want to know why it mattered, and I didn’t have a good answer. “Webb. He likes me more than I like him.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. When you crocheted the bracelet so large, I assumed it was for Webb.”

I slid the bracelet up higher on my arm. I’d made it too big for me, but it’d be just right for Sam.