Emma was relieved to be home, away from Ms. Bates’s watchful glare. She opened the front door and found her brother and a bunch of his high school baseball-team buddies seated on the couch, playing video games.

“Oh no! The kid’s home!” Luc announced as she walked by them.

“You’re kids too,” Emma reminded him. “You’re only two years older than me.”

“In dog years, that’s fourteen,” he teased her. “Feed Jagger, will ya? He looks hungry.” Their family labradoodle ran anxiously in circles around Emma’s feet.

“Come on, boy,” she said to Jagger. “Let’s see if Luc was eating your dog treats again.”

“Not funny, Emma,” Luc called after her. “You know I hate liver.”

“Then I’ll make sure to tell Mom to make it for dinner tonight,” Emma tossed back at him. “Yummy liver and onions!”

“Uck!” Luc made a face. “Disgusting!” He threw a couch pillow at her and she ducked.

At least when she argued with her big brother, it was about silly stuff like liver. Luc had no interest in deeper discussions. When their dad had asked them over dinner what they thought about global warming, Luc had shrugged and said, “I didn’t know the globe was cold. Maybe it could use a few blankets?” He was only half joking; he really didn’t know what the issue was about.

“Luc, you’re in high school,” Mr. Woods said. “Isn’t it about time you cared about something more than just sports? Maybe read a newspaper? Formulate some opinions?”

Emma couldn’t have agreed more, but at the moment, she was incredibly jealous of her big brother: He was surrounded by a posse of pals, and she was with the dog. None of her friends wanted to be around her.

Luc read her mind. “So, where’s Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber?” he said, referring to Izzy and Harriet. “No playdate after school today?”

Emma bristled. Luc loved to make her out to be a baby—especially in front of his baseball buddies.

“They’re busy. I’m busy,” she said.

“Doing what? Painting your toenails?” Luc taunted her.

His friend Rich cackled. “Oh man. You’re a riot, Luc!”

“For your information, I have a blog to write,” she informed them.

“Hey, guys, who has a good question for Ask Emma?” Luc said. “Something really tough—so she’ll go upstairs and work on answering it and get out of our faces.”

Rich raised his hand like he was in class.

“Yes?” Emma said, slightly suspicious that they were playing her. But Rich did actually seem serious.

“So I want to take this job after school at Holbart’s Sporting Goods, but my parents say I can’t because I have to study. It’s a really cool place to work and I’d make money to put toward the new iPhone I want.”

“You left out the part where you’re failing science,” Luc reminded him.

“Oh yeah. But I’d be failing science whether I worked at Holbart’s or not. My teacher hates my guts.”

“Hmm,” Emma contemplated. “That’s a big problem.”

“I know! So, what’s your advice? I should take the job, right? Tell my parents they’re being unfair? Call my grandma and grandpa and get them on my side?” Rich asked.

Emma considered—then remembered her promise to stay neutral. “I can’t say,” she replied. “I mean, you have a point and so do your parents—all of you have good arguments.”

“So, who’s right?” Rich pressed her.

“I can’t say,” Emma repeated.

Luc leaned forward. “You can’t say? Since when? You always have something to say—too much if you ask me. You never stop talking, even when no one asks you for your opinion.”

“Well, I’m not saying—at least not today or tomorrow,” she insisted, leading Jagger into the kitchen.

“Weird,” Luc said, taking a handful of popcorn. “You’re acting really weird!”

Emma felt weird. Normally, she would have told Rich to work out a deal with his parents: He would study hard when he wasn’t working and raise his grade in science to prove to them he could handle both school and a job. She would have told him to sit his parents down and let them know how important this was to him—and how it was good for him to gain experience and a sense of responsibility. She could have come up with a million reasons why his parents should reconsider—arguing a case was her specialty. But arguing wouldn’t get her in Ms. Bates’s good graces—or on a train to DC.

“Liver or chicken flavor?” she asked Jagger, fishing into his treat jar. The dog barked his response. “I see! You want both! That’s being very impartial.” She patted him on the head. “Good boy.”

Just then her mom came in carrying a large bag of groceries. “Emma, honey, can you help me unpack these and get dinner going? Your dad will be home any minute and he’ll be starved. He had two surgeries this afternoon.”

Emma’s father was a cardiologist—a fixer of broken hearts. Maybe he could do something about the gnawing feeling she had in her heart every time she thought of Jackson. Surely, he hated her for telling him off today at lunch. Why had she lost her temper with him? He hadn’t asked to be chosen for Student Congress; he hadn’t purposely taken her spot. Yet in the heat of the moment, when Elton was rubbing it in her face, she couldn’t stop the anger from flooding over her and the words from pouring out of her mouth. Now, looking back on it, maybe she could have handled things differently and supported Jackson. It wasn’t his fault, and she had acted like it was. Maybe Ms. Bates was right—if she couldn’t control her emotions, she didn’t belong on the National Student Congress. Maybe she shouldn’t even be writing an advice blog!

“Honey, you seem a little distracted,” her mother said, noticing that Emma had just placed a bag of Doritos in the freezer.

“I am. I had a bad day,” she answered.

“Well, we all have bad days. You have to let it go,” she said, planting a kiss on Emma’s forehead. “Things will look better tomorrow.”

“I doubt it,” Emma said. Tomorrow promised to be more of the same. Jackson would still hate her, Harriet and Izzy would still be icing her out, and she would still have to wait for Monday before she could even attempt to fix any of it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” her mom asked. “I can be impartial.”

Emma groaned. “Don’t use that word! I hate impartial. I hate not being able to get excited about something that makes me excited. Calm is seriously overrated!”

Mrs. Woods put down the quart of milk she was holding. “Impartial doesn’t mean you have to keep your mouth shut,” she explained. “It means you have to consider all sides and be fair, think before you speak.”

“So you’re saying I’m not fair?”

“I’m saying that when you make your mind up, it’s hard to convince you otherwise,” her mom said. “But that’s not a bad thing. You’re a girl who stands her ground.”

“I am,” Emma said. “And I shouldn’t have to miss out on DC because of it.”

“DC? Do you want to tell me what this is about?” her mom asked.

“It’s about me. Ms. Bates doesn’t believe I have what it takes to be on the National Student Congress in DC. She said I would get too fired up and I wouldn’t let anyone get a word in.”

“Aha.” Her mom nodded. “So that’s why you need to practice being impartial.”

“Yes! I’m supposed to prove I can be Switzerland for forty-eight hours—and it’s ruining my life! Everyone hates me because I can’t say anything! You can ask Emma, but I can’t answer!”

“Well, it’s only temporary,” her mom said. She handed her a package of cheese from the grocery bag. “You might as well have some Swiss if you’re going to be Switzerland.”

For the first time that entire day, Emma smiled. Her mom was really good at putting things into perspective—and brightening an otherwise dismal day with a really bad joke.

“Switzerland goes really great with ham and mustard,” Mrs. Woods teased.

“I think I would prefer it on a tuna melt,” Emma bantered back.

Her mom grilled her a sandwich, and they split the snack.

“You can find a happy medium—a way to state your opinions in a fair, nonjudgmental way without getting swept up in a tizzy,” her mom said. “Sometimes people hear you better if you whisper instead of shout.”

“It’s so hard!” Emma said. “Sometimes I just open my mouth and things come flying out.”

“I know. It’s because you care so much about so much,” her mom said. “You’ve got a big heart, Emma. You just have to learn how and when to unleash your amazing Emma-ness on the world.” She ruffled her hair. “Get it?”

Emma chewed on a piece of crust. “Got it. And I think I’m going to try writing a post on my blog tonight.”

“Good for you.” Her mom patted her on the back. “I’m sure it will be a great one.”

Emma wasn’t so sure—but she knew she had to give it a try.

Emma scanned her inbox for a question from one of her peers that didn’t work her up in “a tizzy.” There was one from a boy who thought recess should be an hour longer every day (“my brain needs the rest”); another was from a girl who insisted the girls’ bathroom sink on the third floor was always clogged (“I got splashed yesterday!”). While neither of these topics got her particularly fired up (a good thing), neither inspired a post (a bad thing). Then she saw what she was looking for:

Emma, I need your help! I heard my supposed BFF talking about me to other kids behind my back. She said some really mean things and I don’t know whether I should say something or pretend everything is still okay between us.

Wow, Emma thought. This is a serious situation! That friend is no friend! She’s a frenemy! She felt her heart race a little and her fingertips start to twitch—a sure sign that this would be a great new post the minute she began typing it. Then she remembered her promise not to get too worked up . . .

Instead, she typed:

Dear Potty Problems,

Clogged drains can be very frustrating! I mean, you go to wash your hands and the whole sink floods over and the cute outfit you picked to wear that morning suddenly has a big wet stain on the front. I hear ya. I’d recommend going to talk to Mr. Hansen, the head custodian, and letting him know there’s an issue. I’m sure he can unclog it in no time. If the issue continues, clearly it’s a plumbing problem that might need a professional’s attention, in which case Mr. Hansen will have to make the call. It happens. One time, my brother flushed a water balloon down our toilet at home, and our whole second floor was practically underwater. My dad tried plunging and nada; the clog wouldn’t come loose and the water kept flowing. We had to get a professional plumber in to snake the pipes, and he found this big, blue popped balloon stuffing everything up. It was a huge mess, but we got through it and Luc got grounded for a week.

Emma sighed. Her post seemed ridiculous. Why would anyone care that Luc flushed a balloon? Why would anyone be worried about a flood at Austen Middle? The sinks and toilets were always clogging, and Mr. Hansen was a whiz at fixing them. She reread what she wrote: It felt calm, cool, and impartial. She set it to post. It would simply have to do.