Free So Not Happening by Jenny B Jones Page B

through this day. I'm like Job in the Bible—losing everything. Okay, so, like, everyone he knew died. And I haven't lost any cattle or anything. But still — I got it had.
    I crank up my iPod, bypass my locker, and head straight for English class.
    I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
    With room 104 in sight, I pick up my pace.
    Mrs. Kelso jumps out of nowhere, stands in the middle of the hall, and blocks my way. “Miss Kirkwood, come with me, please.”
    “But I need to get to—”
    “Now.”
    The blonde woman leads me to her office and motions to a less-than-plush seat, and I sit. She props a hip on a corner of the desk and looks into my eyes.
    “I'd like to pick up where we left off Friday afternoon.”
    Oh yes please. I'd love to relive every moment of Friday!
    “I don't really care that Mrs. Lee thinks you bring bad vibes to her art classroom. But we did schedule too many students in there that hour, so somebody has to go.” She raises her brows. “And it's you.”
    Like I care. Right now dropping out and joining the circus sounds more my thing anyway.
    “The question is where to put you.” She moves to take her seat behind the massive oak desk. “I got online and read your blog postings—oh yes, they're still out there. Captured for all eternity in numerous places.” She taps her acrylic nails together. “It occurred to me that since you like to write, you might do well on the newspaper staff.”
    “Or I might not.” I p i c a string from my Betsey Johnson skirt. “I'm not interested, but thanks.”
    “I really wasn't giving you an option.” She returns to her seat and clicks away on her computer. And before I can say, “Home-schooling sounds fun,” I'm clutching my newly revised schedule.
    “I'll meet you after English class to escort you to your new destiny as a journalist.”
    “I know nothing about writing for a newspaper.”
    Her passive face breaks into its first smile. “Oh, but you're a smart girl. Let's just hope they don't ask to see any of your previous work.”
    I suffer through English class, showered with only a handful of slurs. When I wasn't writing my hand to the bone on an essay, I was praying for an Old Testament curse upon Budge's frizzy head.
    When the bell rings, I find Mrs. Kelso waiting for me in the hall. “Right this way, please.” She stops a few doors down, and we're in an officelike space, with old framed newspapers hanging from the walls, as well as row upon row of awards and certificates. “This is Mr. Holman. He is the paper advisor.”
    I smile at the white-haired man who shakes my hand. “New student, eh? Can she write?”
    “Oh, she's got all sorts of experience. She has a revealing . . . honest approach to her work.” Mrs. Kelso sends me a wink. “Now Mr. Holman just oversees the paper. You'll learn the ropes from his editor.”
    And that would be me.”
    I turn around, my eyes widening at the vision in front of me. A vision with hostility flaming in his blue eyes. Mr. Holman might not be familiar with my attack on Truman, but this guy sure is.
    “Isabella Kirkwood, I'd like you to meet my editor, Luke Sullivan.”
    I hold out my hand for Luke to shake, but he ignores it, staring at me like I'm contagious.
    “This is our new staff member?” He runs a hand through his black hair. “We have a waiting list two pages deep to get on the paper, and this is who we get?” Luke shakes his head and huffs. “Unreal. I can't work with this.”
    “You can, Mr. Sullivan,” the counselor says evenly. And you will. Like all staff members, you will teach Bella the ropes of writing for a newspaper. Are we clear?”
    Luke Sullivan walks away as the ten other people in the class openly stare in my direction.
    “He cares a lot about this paper.” Mr. Holman looks toward his protégé. “It's very important to him. We are an award-winning publication, Miss Kirkwood. I hope you're ready to do everything you can to maintain our standard of excellence.”
    I