Vampire Crush(25)

"What's a steward?" Neal asks.

Mr. Amado's mustache twitches. I also noticed during the assignment roundup that Neal turned in a handful of comics and not an article about the missing blood. That makes me happy, but it means that Mr. Amado's Neal Frustration Level is high.

"A guide, Neal," he says. "A guide."

"I want to keep covering girls' sports," Mark Echolls says before anyone else can stake claim to his territory.

"I anticipated that, Mark," Mr. Amado says. "I don't see any reason why-" He stops when he notices that I've raised my hand. "Sophie?"

I was really hoping to suggest this in a one-on-one meeting, but it looks like I'm going to have to do it now since Mr. Amado turned into a Super Sophie Evader over the weekend. "I've been thinking that maybe we should shake things up this year," I say. "I mean, Mark, you're excellent at girls' sports, but you've been doing it forever. And I've been doing the investigative stuff forever, and Emma has been doing the horoscopes forever. The paper might be fresher if we all brought a new perspective to the articles."

I stop, realizing that most of my classmates are glaring at me. Well, except for Lindsay, who is doing her best to look encouraging, and James, who's watching this with more interest than anything else that's happened today.

"Also, it will make our clip files more diverse for when we're applying for colleges and university newspapers," I finish in a rush. "We'll have so much more experience."

"That seems like a fair point," Mr. Amado says. He's trying to act casual and facilitatorish, but I can tell that he likes the idea. "What do the rest of you think?"

"But I spent all summer reading Linda Goodman's Love Signs," Emma says, flipping her black, curly hair over her shoulder. "That's not going to help me if I'm stuck watching the school play three thousand times."

"And I've always covered girls' sports," Mark says. "They know me."

There are some murmurings from the rest of the class. Mr. Amado is looking at me with a newfound admiration, and that gives me the needed boost to press forward. "But don't you guys want to try something new?"

"No," Mark says emphatically, pushing his glasses up his nose.

I should have waited until I caught Mr. Amado alone. He's not against getting dictatorial with individuals, but he won't support something that the class is clearly against. And if I don't have the girls' sports cover, then I have no idea how to even start looking-

"I think it's a great idea," Lindsay offers. "I mean, I cover almost all of the volunteer drives, and it's wonderful and everything, but maybe I'm missing something because I've gotten so used to it. I don't see why it would hurt us to try it for at least one or two issues."

She smiles at me, and I'm overcome by a wave of gratitude, but also guilt, considering that she was robbed of the right to be angry. It feels like I've gotten away with something that I shouldn't have.

"That's one vote for yes," Mr. Amado says, "and two votes for no." He folds his plaid arms across his chest and leans backward. "Anyone else for yes?" he asks hopefully.

The bulk of the new sophomore staff members raise their hands along with me and Lindsay, clearly wanting to get on Mr. Amado's good side right from the get-go, not to mention either one of the editor in chief hopefuls.

"That's twelve yeses," Mr. Amado says, and then blinks a little because the no's have already raised their hands. "Okay. And that's eleven no's. Did anyone not vote?" he asks and then frowns. "Neal?"

Neal looks up from his binder and rubs his cheek, leaving a smudge of dark blue ink on his chin. "What are we talking about?"

"Whether we want to switch up assignments for the next issue."

"I want to keep doing the comics. So . . . no?"

Mr. Amado sighs. "Of course. Twelve and twelve. Who's our tie-breaker?" He scans the room until he finds James, who's been doing nothing but idly rolling his pen back and forth throughout the whole thing. "What do you say, James?"

James is obviously frustrated to have been singled out. Please say yes, I think, even though I'm fairly sure that he's too far away to hear me. I wonder if he realizes my ulterior motives for this switch. Even if he doesn't, he might vote no just because we're on the outs. I'm still holding my breath when he looks at the ceiling.

"Yes," he says finally.

"Wonderful!" Mr. Amado says. "Why don't you guys think over what you want to handle and come talk to me when you're ready to pitch article ideas."

I'm at his desk before he's even halfway in his seat. When I tell him that I want to cover girls' sports he does a double take. "Are you sure?" he asks.

"It will be a challenge," I say, doing my best to put a Future-Journalist-of-America spin on it, "and I really want to try my hand at something new. Cross-country, soccer, and tennis all have their first official matches next week."

"We usually do a full spread for the sports pages. Can you write enough to fill that or do you need a buddy?"

"I got it," I say.

"Then it sounds good to me. Great idea, Sophie. Really," he says, and for that moment, it feels like it might just be easy to fix everything after all.

One week later, when I'm about to be hit in the nose by a flying soccer ball, I realize that feeling was premature. "Watch out!" someone yells, and even though I duck soon enough to avoid being beaned, I drop my pen beneath the bleachers in the process. Seeing that the game is paused due to some infraction (note: find out what sort of penalties there are in soccer), I jump off the side and crawl beneath the risers, kicking aside stray cups and candy bar wrappers until I finally find it plopped in the center of a cheesy leftover nacho tray. By the time I've successfully de-cheesed it and made it back to my spot, the entire Thomas Jefferson girls' soccer team is hugging one another and jumping up and down. I have a sneaking suspicion I've missed something important.
Sure enough, one of Caroline's friends breaks away from the pack and jogs over, her blond ponytail swinging.

"Did you see it?" she asks, half out of breath.

"See what?"

"Um, my penalty kick. My game-winning penalty kick."

"Oh, right. You kicked the ball and it went in that net," I say, pointing to the goal at the far right end of the field.

"No," she says, pointing in the other direction, "it went in that goal. Where's Mark? He always covers our games."

Mark is probably in an underground lair sticking pins in a Sophie voodoo doll, but I lie and say that he really wanted to cover the fall play this year. "Apparently he's a big High School Musical fan," I add, feeling the jab of another imaginary pin.

"Fine, whatever," she says. "Just make sure that you list my name as ‘Marta' and not ‘Martha.' He always gets that wrong."

"Noted," I say, expecting her to run back to her teammates, but she continues to stand there. Thinking I'm supposed to offer some encouragement, I add, "Really great game by the way. You kicked the ball really far. Like, I didn't think it could go that far, but then it did."

"Thanks," she says dryly. "Aren't you going to interview me?"

"Oh, right. I was going to interview you all in the locker room."

"Like when we're getting dressed?"

"Yeah. I thought it would make for a better article that way," I say. "You know, smell the sweat; feel the camaraderie. That sort of thing."

She looks at me like I just said I wanted us all to hold hands and then play spin the bottle.

"Come on," I say, trying for peppy obliviousness as I stand up and nudge her toward the locker room. "We can get started on the way."

I ask Marta questions for as long as it takes to confirm that she's not bearing any star birthmark, and then move on to the rest of the team as they trickle in to wrestle out of sports bras and wiggle into skinny jeans. After I exhaust my soccer questions, I recycle the icebreakers from the new-student profile. Finally, one of the sophomores slams her locker shut with a clang.

"I mean, my favorite color's burnt orange, but seriously-what does any of this have to do with the game?"

The rest of the girls murmur in agreement and start to brush past me, some of them picking up their remaining clothes and walking out in their soccer uniforms. When the room is empty, I close my eyes and fall back against the wall. On the upside, I have another seven girls to cross off my list, which makes about thirty when you add in all the other locker rooms I've been lurking in. On the downside, at this rate I will get a name for myself as the creepy reporter who insists on interviewing subjects while they are half-naked.

I wait a few moments before pushing through the swinging door. Unfortunately, my delay tactics were for naught; a gaggle of them are huddled in the center of the gym around a bright blond head that I know all too well.

"Vlad, I thought you said you were going to come to our game," pouts one of the team members that I've just crossed off my list.

He smiles. I've been doing my best to avoid him these past two weeks, but even I know that's occurred less and less regularly since his kissy lips have failed to locate the girl among the cheerleaders. He's been losing patience with teachers, and yesterday I even overheard him snap at Ms. Walpole for asking how his paper on Frankenstein is going ("It's not, you harpy"). But now that he has an audience, he's all sweetness and light. I watch as he clasps a hand to his heart.