Set the Record Straight! Read Online Free

wrote the column, which happened after almost every meeting.
    Next it was time to brainstorm article topics for the next issue. I let Michael raise his hand to present our idea.
    â€œWe’re thinking ‘School Lunch and Why It’s So Gross,’” said Michael.
    A couple of kids clapped, and Jeff let out a long whistle of approval. Michael and I grinned.
    Mr. Trigg folded his arms tightly and tapped his chin with his index finger. That’s what he does when he’s thinking. “Yesss . . .” he said slowly,drawing out the word. “But let’s not say that’s definitely the thesis and certainly not the headline. Start out with some reporting, and when I get back from my trip, we’ll review what you’ve discovered, all righty? Next?” Mr. Trigg turned away.
    Michael and I looked at each other, a little surprised Trigger hadn’t embraced our idea as fully as we’d expected.
    â€œWeird,” I said.
    Michael shrugged. “Do you think he likes the food?”
    I giggled. “Probably. What with his history of war rations . . .” Mr. Trigg hadn’t lived through World War II, so I was only joking.
    Michael didn’t laugh, though. He was distracted, thinking.
    I sighed.
    Men. Boys. They’re so unpredictable.

Chapter 3
    ADVICE COLUMNIST A SHAM, READERS REVOLT!
    The next day was busy from start to finish. I raced from class to class,
     wolfed down a plate of rice with butter and salt (thanks for the recipe, Hailey), and at
     the very end of the day, commandoed past the Cherry Valley
     Voice office and swiped a letter from the Dear Know-It-All mailbox when no
     one was around.
    That night, after I had finished my homework and read the days’ blogs
     and news websites, which is always my reward for finishing my homework, I pulled out the
     manila envelope from Trigger and took out the letters inside. I had had piles of
     homework the night before and hadn’t had a chance to look through the packageTrigger had given me. (Well, okay, I kind of did have time, but I
     procrastinated. I was still queasy about the feedback from my printed answer from this
     week’s column, and I couldn’t face a new set of letters.)
    There weren’t too many in his package—four, in fact—and I
     read through them quickly, having by now realized that most Dear Know-It-All letters
     fall into strict categories. They are: the medical (“What can I do about my
     acne?” or “How can I grow taller?”), the standard domestic drama
     (“I hate my little brother, he’s always fooling around with my
     stuff”), the nerdy (“What are colleges really looking for in a
     candidate?”), and the lovelorn (“No boys like me”).
    The fifth letter was the one I had picked up from the mailbox today. It was
     handwritten and in an envelope, with a return address, and it turned out that it
     didn’t fall into any of those categories.
    It was from Tired of Waiting.
    I turned the envelope over in my hands, and paused. I was dying for feedback,
     but what if it wasn’t good? Or maybe it was great! Maybe she’dasked him out, and he’d said yes! I almost ripped it open,
     but my stomach clenched. Oh gosh. I couldn’t do it!
    I sat with the letter in my hand, staring off into space. What
     if . . . ? What if . . . ?
    Finally, I shook my head. Your Courage, Your Cheerfulness, Your Resolution Will Bring
     Us Victory , I thought. I ripped open the letter, like I was tearing off an
     old BAND-AID, and my eyes skimmed it quickly. It said:
    Dear Know NOTHING AT ALL,
    Thanks a lot. I asked out my crush, and he not only said no, he told all
     his friends. And now they all laugh at me whenever I walk by. And he doesn’t even
     talk to me.
    Thanks for nothing.
    Tired of Bad Advice
    Oh no! I collapsed into a heap and threw down the letter,
     as if it had burned me. My hand flew to cover