17

Finn was waiting for me in the hall after class. “Did you finish the article?”

“I never said I would.” I yawned. “Besides, did you think I’d write it in class?”

“Of course.” He stayed by my side all the way down the hall. “What do you have now?”

“Gym.”

“Perfect! You’ll have it done in fifteen minutes.”

I shifted my books to my right arm so I could accidentally poke him with their sharp corners. “I’m not writing it.”

“But yesterday . . .” He paused as we merged into the traffic that flowed down the stairs. “How’s your dad, by the way?”

“Fine.” I dodged a group of onlookers who had encircled a brewing fight, then doubled my pace in the hopes of losing Finn. I would have, except for a roadblock by the cafeteria caused by the food line, which had snaked into the hall.

I sniffed. Taco Day.

Finn caught up with me in a flash. “I’m glad he’s feeling better. I only need two hundred words.”

“I. Said. No!” I said.

Well, actually, I sort of screamed it.

The lunch crowd quieted and a few wide-eyed freshman boys with feather-soft baby mustaches scooted toward the walls, opening a path for me. I put my head down and jogged through.

Finn stayed at my heels. “It’s just that I really need the help,” he said. “Cleveland says the newspaper is back on the chopping block. Getting an article from an actual student-reporter might help him convince the board to leave the paper alone.”

I stopped at the girl’s locker room door. “Why don’t you write it?”

He drew back, wounded. “I’m the editor. I don’t write, I edit, with the exception of the sports section, which I write out of love, not duty. Besides—”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Did you say Cleveland?”

“Yep.”

“Mr. Cleveland? Calc teacher?”

“Precalc, actually. Also algebra and trig.”

“Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, Mr. Cleveland won’t let me write for the paper. He hates me. Loathes me. If I were you, I wouldn’t mention my name to him, ever. Raises his blood pressure.”

Two girls walked between us and into the locker room.

“I have to go,” I said, hand on the door. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“You’re wrong about Cleveland.” He uncapped a Sharpie, grabbed my arm, and started writing on it before I could react. “That’s my email. Two hundred words. Library resources.”