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an editorial with the title, “Let’s Chat about Fat.” The story got some laughs, but it was too mean, almost cruel. It did not win Cara any new friends, and it sent all her old friends ducking for cover.
    When she noticed that the cafeteria staff would sometimes carry home leftovers at the end of the day, Cara blew the whistle in a banner headline: F OOD W ORKERS P ERFORM D ISAPPEARING A CT . But she hadn’t done enough research. What they were doing was all legal and approved. The practice actually saved the school money by decreasing the garbage-disposal expenses. The principal made Cara go and apologize to the cafeteria workers. After that she thought it best to bring bag lunches to school.
    Every week, somewhere in the school, Cara would put up the newest edition of The Landry News, and then wait for the consequences. After the story about the cafeteria workers, her research got more careful, and she was always sure of her facts. But the way she told her news stories was always designed to create a stir and get a reaction, and she was never disappointed. There were conferences with her mother and the principal, conferences with the principal and the school psychologist, and conferences with her mother and every one of herteachers. And every conference would then become the subject of a sarcastic editorial, published in the very next edition of The Landry News.
    The only person who never showed up at a conference was the only person Cara really wanted to see: her dad.
    Now as Cara sat at the kitchen table looking through the sheaf of fourth-grade editions, she had trouble imagining herself writing all this. So much anger. But this newest paper wasn’t like the ones she had made last year. She was still sad, but she wasn’t angry anymore. Things were better now.
    Over the summer, she had started getting letters from her dad. He worked in Indianapolis now, and he had promised Cara that she could come and visit him there—maybe at Thanksgiving or Christmas. And he would be coming to Chicago pretty often, too. He had called to tell her he was sorry about the way things had worked out. He explained why he and her mom had split up. And it didn’t have anything to do with her. Cara could see that now, and she could believe it was true, even if all the rest of it still didn’t make any sense to her.
    Cara tiptoed to her mother’s door and listened. It was quiet. She knocked softly and her mom said, “Come on in, honey.”
    Her mom was on the bed, sitting with her back against the headboard. Her old leather-bound Bible layopen on her lap. There were some wadded tissues on the bedspread, and Joanna Landry swept them aside and patted the bed. Cara sat on the edge and took her mother’s hand.
    â€œMom, I’m not writing the news because I’m angry. Honest. I’m really not mad anymore. I was. I was real mad last year, and I know I hurt a lot of people’s feelings, and I’m sorry about that now. And I guess I should have stopped to think before I wrote this new editorial . . . and I’ll tell Mr. Larson I’m sorry—I will. But I still think it’s okay to tell the truth, and to publish it, too. I like being a reporter. It’s something I’m good at, Mom.”
    Her mother reached for a fresh tissue with her free hand and dabbed at her eyes. “Cara honey, you know I just want the best for you, that’s all. I just don’t want you to make things hard for yourself. I feel so bad already—about me and your dad, I mean. I know that’s been tough on you, and you took it so hard. But it wasn’t anything to do with you. Can you see that?”
    Cara nodded. “I know. It just felt that way, that’s all. And I’m sorry I gave you so much more to worry about, Mom. But . . . but don’t you think it’ll be all right to keep on making my newspaper—if I’m careful, and if I only report the