Flirting with Disaster (10 page)

Tuesday morning I got to school really early because Melissa had said she’d help me a little bit with my writing and show me how to develop a sidebar. Since I didn’t have my own desk, she let me sit at hers while she stood behind me and gave me tips. Suddenly Hazelle blustered over.

“It would make a lot more sense to move this—” she pointed over my shoulder at one of the paragraphs on the screen—“to the end. And we could delete this one—” she pointed at another one—“altogether.”

Right. She could tell that by scanning it for like one minute?

She waited to see what I was going to do. I wasn’t going to do anything immediately, that was for sure. “Thanks,” I said.

That must not have made her happy because she followed up with “Still trying to write about that dress shop, eh? We don’t have a fashion column.” Then she harrumphed to her desk.

I stared at the article. It bugged me to admit it, but Hazelle was right about moving the paragraph and deleting that other one too.

A few minutes later I got up to grab my bag and head toward first period. Melissa’s desk was toward the back of the room, which gave me a good view of everything in sight. I stopped dead still and surveyed the boxing ring.

In one corner was the little cubby Natalie had taken over. A few bees buzzed around her sweet-smelling talk. I counted them. Six.

Then I looked over to the corner where Hazelle chewed on her pencil. A few people leaned over her desk, and a few others stood back listening and/or rolling their eyes. Six. Jack wouldn’t vote. That left thirteen voting staff members, including me.

I wasn’t in either circle right now. But I realized at that moment that I might well be the deciding vote. My stomach felt tender and vulnerable again, and I wondered if I could make it to the loo before maths.

Oooh. That Mrs. Simmons and her cookies.

Chapter 19

Wednesday night Dad dropped me off at church for coffeehouse and worship.

“Hey!” I tapped Supriya on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you back last night. I fell asleep over my French book.”

“No problem,” she said. “I’ve already got my coffee. Do you want to get some, and I’ll save you a seat?” She patted the crushed plush couch where we usually hung out and chatted before worship and the lesson.

I agreed and made my way to the barista cart. I was actually kind of glad because it gave me a chance to scan the room for Tommy without Supriya’s teasing me. I carefully looked around, trying to appear like I was just casually taking in the scene, you know. As far as I could tell, he was nowhere to be found.

I had to admit I was a little disappointed. As I waited patiently and the people ahead of me got their drinks, I heard that still, small voice I hadn’t heard as much lately as I used to.

Didn’t you come here seeking Me?

Even though I knew it wasn’t spoken aloud, I looked around to see if anyone else had heard it—the message was that strong. My head hung a little, and I apologized silently. As I did, a verse from VBS many summers ago came to me. As I thought about it, I promised to worship Him in spirit and truth. And I knew just how I could do that.

After I got my coffee I went over to talk with Supriya, and just before worship was about to begin, I found the youth pastor, Joe, and tapped him on the shoulder. I was going to tell him that I would be delighted to play guitar on the worship team.

“Oh, hey, Savvy,” he said. “Have you prayed about the worship team yet?”

I stared at him. I’d promised myself,
no more little white lies
. And I certainly wasn’t going to lie in church, about worship. Especially after I’d just told the Lord that I was going to worship in spirit and in truth.

“Uh, no.” I could see the look of disappointment on his face. I felt disappointed too.

“Okay, then,” he said. “We’d better get the show on the road.” He headed to the stage, where he was joined by the keyboardist, the drummer, and one electric guitarist.

Halfway through worship, I realized that Joe hadn’t said he was going to ask me again.

Chapter 20

Thursday afternoon I walked to Be@titude. It was warm, and I was wearing a new pair of white capris with a sporty tank layered over a tee. I had my big bag but not my notebook, as I was going for ministry purposes that night, not to take notes. The traffic was getting busy, so I looked twice to the right and the left before crossing the street. I really didn’t want to have my obituary read, “Teen Girl Hit by Big Red Bus.” That would be an embarrassing way to die.

I rounded the corner toward the shop and reached over to pluck a long-stemmed rose from a wild bush tumbling over an ancient stone wall. I thought about how old the village was. No one knows for sure, but some people think Anne Boleyn, one of the wives of Henry VIII, was born in Kent. It was possible—not probable, but possible—that she’d been right in this area. Or at least could have seen it from the top of one of the castles.

I loved England.

I pushed the door to the shop open, pleased to see that there were two customers inside, one of them toting out a big, plastic-wrapped hanger bag.
Ka-ching!
More money for Becky.

“Hey, Savvy, I’m fairly busy,” she said. “Do you want to thumb through some of those catalogs in the back for a few minutes till I can get you set up on the fund-raiser page?”

I nodded. Cool. I hadn’t been able to look at them for myself last week, and I wasn’t really in the mood to start up her expensive computer on my own. I went to the little office next to the try-on rooms and plopped down.

If I wasn’t going to be a world-famous journalist, maybe I’d own a shop like this someday. I could picture it now. It’d be big, really big, and probably somewhere on Sloane Street, where all the fashionistas shopped. It’d have a big Dale Chihuly glass sculpture in the middle to acknowledge my American background. Everything would be sleek and modern. Including me. A lot of important people would shop there, probably Kate Middleton when she became princess. I’d have started my own ministry with the profits, and Princess Kate would find the idea fascinating and would want to put her royal stamp of approval on it. And then . . .

“Savvy!” Becky’s voice popped through my daydream.

I blinked and looked at her. “Oh yeah.”

“Are you okay?” She looked concerned. “I called you twice.”

I nodded. “Just daydreaming.”

She glanced at the stack of catalogs next to me. “Didn’t get to look at any yet?”

I shook my head.

“Well, then, slip them into your bag, and you can look at them at home. I’ve got a lot of inputting for you to do, and then we’ll be ready to send out the final auction announcement!”

She leaned over me to start up the computer, and I could breathe her perfume, something light and modern. Green but not floral. “Here’s the list of people we need to add to the list.” She tapped a yellow notepad. “And here are the other items we need to include on the auction page, which I’ll just load now.” She made a few clicks. “You’re set! I’m going back to the shop to attend the clients and get a few other odds and ends done.”

As she returned to the main room, I glanced up at the corkboard next to her computer station. There were snapshots on it of women, some with their kids. The women’s names were under the pictures. There was a little date scribbled next to each picture—the date they’d first contacted Becky—for help, maybe?

I saw Isobel Alderman, with gap-toothed Emma standing right beside her. She had “21 April” scribbled beside her name. Not too long ago! Emma smiled down on me. I smiled at her picture and began to type.

Thirty minutes later I was finished! I snuck out into the store and stood behind Becky till I caught her eye. “All done,” I said. “Everything is uploaded. You should be hearing from bidders tonight!”

“Nicely done, Savvy,” she whispered. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then she turned again to help a shopper.

I moseyed back to the computer and sat down to wait. I looked at the Internet icon. Might as well check my e-mail. I logged on to the server and scrolled through a few.

A lot of Asking for Trouble forwards from Jack. I’d have to pick a question to answer soon. My heart buckled a little as I thought about my answer last week to the artist—the one Penny knew.