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way or a bad way. I looked away and
     busied myself with copying down notes in my notebook. Did Michael think I’d gone
     too far? Had I? Did I care?
    My stomach chose that moment to wail in protest of its hunger. I clamped
     my hand over it and felt my face turn beet red. I didn’t know what to do. Should I
     acknowledge it or just pretend it hadn’t happened?
    There was a long moment where I had the sinking
     feeling that I’d just completely turned Michael off with my aggressive questioning
     and now with my noisy body. As my adrenaline wore off and my hands steadied, doubt began
     to creep in. I had a sinking feeling that Michael was angry with me.
    But suddenly Michael was nudging me in the ribs. I looked over and he
     was holding a granola bar. Okay, now I was totally mortified that he had heard my
     stomach. But maybe this meant he didn’t think I was an awful person for grilling
     Mr. Pfeiffer.
    I looked up at his face and he was smiling. “Go on. Take
     it,” he said, wiggling it at me. I palmed it from him and casually opened the
     wrapper. I broke off half the bar and handed him back the other half, but he waved it at
     me. I was so ravenous I could barely contain myself, but I didn’t want to look
     like a pig, guinea or otherwise.
    â€œThanks,” I whispered, taking a bite. Unfortunately it was
     the hard kind, so I had to kind of suck on the bite for a while to soften it up. I
     didn’t want to make a racket sitting there eating Michael’s snack.
    Mr. Pfeiffer was now discussing how the curriculum
     changes would affect state testing. I copied down a few more choice quotes and started
     to get bored. Now that I had asked my questions and had a little snack, I was starting
     to feel tired, but I couldn’t leave until the meeting was over. What if I missed
     something?
    Michael nudged me again. “Hey. I’ll follow up on that state
     funding he was talking about.”
    â€œWhat?” It rang a bell but I wasn’t sure what he
     meant. I flipped through my notes but I couldn’t find any reference to it.
    Michael rolled his eyes at my notebook. “I’m going to head
     out,” he said.
    I was surprised that he would bail before the end of the meeting.
     “Really? Things aren’t even close to over,” I replied.
    â€œThe good stuff is,” he whispered with a shrug.
     “Later, Crunchy.” And he stood up and left.
    Crunchy?! Aargh! Just what I need. Another nickname!
    And the worst part was, Michael was right. The rest of the meeting was
     boring. At the very end itkind of fell apart with people arguing
     but not in an interesting way. Everyone pretty much stood up and left, and there was no
     change or resolution in the end. The new curriculum was here to stay and everyone was
     just going to have to get used to it.
    I had wasted an extra hour trying to get more scoop, but it was Michael
     who had the real nose for news, knowing when to pull the rip cord and just bail.
     Annoying.
    I was now late for dinner, behind on my homework, and I hadn’t
     started the Dear Know-It-All column. I comforted myself by thinking back to Mr. Bloom,
     one of my teachers at journalism camp. He used to say 99 percent of being a journalist
     is just waiting around for something to happen. For the second half of tonight’s
     meeting, he was right.

Chapter 9
    GIRL GENIUS
     STRIKES AGAIN
    I was up early the next day, sifting through my usual news haunts and
     checking my e-mail. There was one from Mr. Trigg, without anything in the subject
     line.
    I clicked on it and read it. It said, “Samantha, hello. How is the
     new column coming along? I’d like to see a draft by Tuesday. Mr. T.”
    I gulped. A draft? I hadn’t even decided for sure on the question
     yet and here it was, Friday! I slid out the packet of letters from behind my desk, where
     it was hiding. There were seven in total because I’d picked up four