Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) by Sandra Byrd Page A

bag was empty, having restocked that week’s edition for the day. But my book bag carried Melissa’s folder.
    Except for Jack, the office was empty, since the paper was done for the week.
    “Knock, knock,” I said, alerting him before I walked in. “I have Melissa’s research for her. She said you’d lock it in the cabinet?”
    “Right, Savvy. Nice work. So you met with old FC then, eh?”
    “FC?”
    “Father Christmas,” he said. “Hidden hero of the holiday and all that.” He flashed that smile, and I was almost distracted from what I was going to say.
    “He’s hardly hidden. He’s in the middle of the town center!”
    “Ah yes, but where is he the rest of the year? Tell me that, and you’ll really earn your byline.”
    “I dunno,” I admitted. “Though I know he’s married. Does that count?”
    Jack rolled his eyes as if to say, No, absolutely not, that does not count, and he held out his hand for the folder. I put it in his open palm.
    “So what are you planning to call the advice column?” I asked. I was careful not to call it my advice column.
    “No idea,” he said. “Dear something . . . you know.”
    “How about Dear Lizzy?” I offered. “You know, after the Queen!” In my mind’s eye, I could see it now. It would be a huge hit. Word of it would filter back to London somehow . . . maybe a member of the Queen’s staff had a child at Wexburg Academy. Or a grandchild. Or lined a birdcage with our paper. Whatever. The word Lizzy would catch the Queen’s eye, and she’d be drawn to the column. She’d read it and decide it was wise. She’d have one of her ladies-in-waiting track me down and . . . we’d have tea!
    “Savvy!” Jack’s voice snapped me back to reality. “Savvy, are you paying attention?”
    “Oh yes, of course.” I looked him in the eye to show him my powers of concentration.
    He had a worried look on his face. That smile had disappeared. “Savvy, no one calls the Queen ‘Lizzy.’ It’s ‘Her Royal Highness’ or ‘Your Majesty.’ It concerns me that you’d even suggest that. It’s the kind of thing I was worried about with having an outsider write the column.”
    An outsider? I shifted into recovery mode fast. “I wasn’t totally serious,” I said, and I saw him relax a little. I had to come up with something—and quick. “How about . . . Asking for Trouble? It’s to the point, hip, knowledgeable. And everyone who writes in is in trouble of some kind.”
    That smile was back. “Brilliant!” he said. “Asking for Trouble it is. I’ll look for your first trial article on Tuesday. Be in early.”

Chapter 35

    Saturday we went to an outdoor dog show for Louanne. Every breed in the world was there, it seemed, along with lots of British ladies who didn’t seem to mind tottering through the mud in low heels while absorbing dog slobber through their clothes. A brown-haired boy waved to me from the other side of the arena. I recognized him—from one of my classes maybe?—and I waved back. He was kind of cute, in a friendly, open way.
    “Do you know him?” Mom asked.
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Well, it’s nice to be recognized, isn’t it?” she asked. “Vivienne stopped me at the foot of the driveway yesterday to tell me that the post was going to be delayed this week. I thought that was neighborly.”
    Neighborly, yes. Friendly, no. But I wanted to lift her up. “It was neighborly,” I said, perhaps just a little too enthusiastically.
    The cold air against my skin was refreshing. Dogs were barking all over the place and then quieting to show and compete. Louanne’s eyes shone and she scribbled notes on a little scorecard. There were huge dogs entered in the outdoor pulling contest and smart little misses in the showy toy category inside the arena. I had to admit a certain fondness for the sporting dogs. They looked at you as if to say, Do you love me? Will you love me? And then they swished their tails. If I were a dog person—and