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was on lime-green stationery, handwritten, and very girly. It said:
    Dear Know-It-All,
    My dog misses me so much when I go to school. She chases the school bus when I leave, and my mom says she whines by the door all day until I come home. Why can’t we have a Bring Your Pets to School day? I think it would help my dog if she could see where I go when I’m not with her.
    From,
    Madison Jones
    Okay, first of all, Madison, this is supposed to be anonymous, my friend. Second of all, how do we know Rover won’t bite some kid, if she’s as attached to you as you say?
    I sighed and dropped that one into the big envelope. That one was definitely not going to make me shine as an advice columnist, and in this issue I needed to shine!
    The next one was in scratchy boy handwriting on loose-leaf paper. It said:
    Dear Know-It-All,
    My clothes stink. I hate everything my mom buys. It’s superpreppy and I want to dress gangsta, but she says that’s inappropriate for school. The dress code says we’re allowed to wear sweats and stuff, so why shouldn’t she let me? Maybe if you print this I can show her your response (if you’re on my side).
    Thanks,
    A dude
    Hmm. That was very tempting. But I don’t want to pigeonhole myself as a fashion writer. I jammed it in the file.
    The final one was dumb. It was on a postcard from Las Vegas and it said:
    Dear Know-It-All,
    Why can’t we have more vacation?
    From,
    Vegas Girl
    Whatever, Vegas Girl. If the year-round-school people get their way, you’re really going to be sorry.
    I sighed and stuffed the letters all into the big secret envelope, wishing I could give the Vegas postcard to Michael for his article research, but that would blow my cover. Anyway, why would I want to help him and Miss Big(ley)?
    After classes ended, I popped into the news office to see if I could check for more Know-It-All submissions, but I was out of luck—or maybe in luck: Michael Lawrence was there sitting at a computer, so I was unable to check my mailbox.
    My heart leaped when I saw him, but he looked weary and not that happy. He was rubbing his eyes and slumping in his chair.
    I decided to keep it fresh and new.
    â€œHey, Michael,” I said. (I usually call him Mikey, or just Lawrence.)
    He looked up. “Yo, Pasty.”
    So much for fresh and new. Pasty is the nickname he gave me when I was caught eating paste in kindergarten. I grimaced but pressed on.
    â€œWhat are you up to?”
    He sighed. “Just trying to make sense of Kate’s notes for the article. We interviewed Mr. Pfeiffer this morning to see what his thoughts are, as principal, on year-round school.”
    â€œAre you transcribing her notes?” I asked, peering over his shoulder. I couldn’t keep my eyebrows from shooting up. Michael doesn’t take notes because his memory is incredible. I usually do take notes, and he used to mock me for always writing everything down. But then one time it actually came out to be a good thing that I did, since we ended up needing the notes for reference. Still, this was very out of character for him.
    Michael nodded wearily. “But I can’t make heads or tails of them. It’s all scribble scrabble.”
    â€œWhy isn’t she doing it? Wouldn’t that be easier?” I felt a little annoyed seeing Kate’s notes in front of him.
    He nodded again. “Yes. It would. But she’s ‘frightfully busy’ right now getting acclimated, so I guess I volunteered, though I don’t remember volunteering.”
    I had to laugh, he looked so sad. “It’s not the end of the world, Mikey,” I said. “Just bounce them back to her. Tell her you can’t read her British handwriting.”
    He sighed again. “You think?”
    â€œYes, I do. Do it!”
    â€œWhy are women always so bossy?” he said, shaking his head. But he stood up and shoved the notes in his backpack.
    â€œI object to that