where r you?!

just at my locker. why?

calm down girl, I'm coming!!

...well actually I'm not even there yet so :/

but I'm sure that everyone is waiting for u

sure...some ppl don't even know me

not for long! you're the best editor there is

...I'm not even an editor I'm a journalist

whatevs

*facepalm*

I roll my eyes playfully at the phone screen before shoving it back into my bag. Emma, my ever-present best friend, doesn't even participate in the school newspaper. We meet after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and apparently Em doesn't have anything else to do. I usually save her a seat in the back of the room and she gets bored and leaves 10 minutes into the meeting. Typical Emma.

Grabbing my pale purple backpack I jog down two flights of stairs to get to room 304. A couple of ninth and 10th graders are waiting outside of the door where the school newspaper committee usually meets. They let me through their small group to the door, but when I start to open it, a fellow freshman— I think her name is Sylvia?— taps my arm hesitantly.

"Don't go in there," she whispers urgently. "They're having a debate." I don't really understand what she means, but she won't say anything else, so I just shake off her advice and turn back to the door. Sylvia shakes her head as I turn the doorknob. I pull my hand away from the door. This girl is kind of starting to freak me out.

"What?" I turn back towards the small group of high schoolers. "Who is debating in there, and why is it such a big deal?" My voice raises, but I never get to say anything more because at that moment the door is shoved open in front of my face. I jump out of the way, and all of us students waiting outside quickly move out of the door's reach.

Mr. Hanson, the high school's principal and science teacher, storms out the room. His face is red, and he keeps running his hands through his almost - invisible hair. A scrawny boy with shaggy brown hair follows the principal, his thin arms gesturing wildly in the air.

"Studies have shown that there is only one logical way that the world could have been created, and that one way is through an everlasting, all knowing being," the boy says calmly. It's kind of strange that he is still so calm, especially when our principal is almost literally screaming at the poor kid, who I realize now is probably a freshman like me. He doesn't follow Mr. Hanson out into the hallway completely, and instead runs back into Room 304. Just a few seconds later, the boy comes out again with a thin notebook. He starts flipping through the black notebook, and finally pulls out a piece of paper with a lot of ink on it.

"That is not proof!" The principal is getting really worked up now. I can almost see the little beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. This is just like a reality TV show, I laugh in my head. Whatever is going on here must be either really dramatic or really stupid. "Not proof, I tell you! You've got to look at the facts, boy. Look at the real facts and you will see that there is no god!"

This is deep. Already my mind is thinking of ways to turn this into a page-turning article for my gossip / news column in the weekly paper. That is, if we ever get to have our meeting to put the paper together.

"Saige!" My best friend grabs my shoulders and pulls me a few feet away from the door. The students that are intently listening to the dramatic debate can still hear us, but I doubt Emma cares. "I didn't warn you," she says dramatically. "Beckett and Mr. Hanson have been arguing about how the earth was created for almost a half an hour now. I was going to go home and take a nap instead of listening to the meeting, but I think I'll stay and watch this instead." My best friend excitedly combs through her short red hair with her fingers. "There's way too much drama to miss."

I smile in agreement. It's not every day that a student and a teacher— especially the principal —face off in a heated debate. "Wait- did you say the boy's name is Beckett?" I ask. The name sounds familiar, but I can't remember where I have heard it before.

Emma nods seriously. "Beckett Youderain. Apparently he's a freshman this year, but he came to the school two weeks into the year because of some family issue." I mimic Em's slow nod. That explains why I didn't see him at the high school's "new student orientation" about a month ago. He wasn't even enrolled in the school yet!

Suddenly, a loud noise interrupts our talking. Mr. Hanson had tripped over a chair in his frustration and set it— and himself— crashing to the tiled floor. It's almost a funny scene, but no one would even think about laughing at the principal, especially when he is laying on the ground in front of you. "You all are dismissed," he grumbles, slowly regaining his composure as he delicately gets up from the ground. "Beckett, see me in my office tomorrow after school. I want to have another talk with you." The scrawny boy gives the principal a quick nod in agreement, then begins to walk away.

"Wait!" I jog after him on a spur- of- the- moment- impulse. Feeling ridiculous now for getting Beckett's attention for no good reason, I pull out my phone and attempt to think up a good explanation on the spot. Finally one comes to mind. "Can I interview you for the newspaper?" I say, holding out my purple phone, as if to clarify what I was asking.

Beckett looks at me strangely for a second before simply saying, "Sure." I smile and open my phone's recording app. I don't really know where I am taking this whole "interview" thing, but I'm definitely not letting this gutsy kid leave without asking him a few questions, and hopefully getting some answers. He leans against the hallway wall and closes his eyes for a few seconds, then opens them again. He's staring at my phone, like he's waiting for it to turn into some mutant ninja.

As if right on cue, my phone beeps to let me know that it is recording. I clear my throat to start talking. "Can you explain what was just going on between you and Mr. Richard Hanson?" I ask. He'll probably give me some long, fact- filled speech about the creation of the world and whatever else he was ranting to the high school principal about. I don't mind, as long as it answers my question.

Beckett, though, closes his eyes again and this time leaves me waiting for even longer before opening them. I almost want to ask him if he was actually paying attention to what I just said, but that would spoil the recording. So I keep quiet.

"No, thank you." And with that, he turns and walks back down the hallway in the opposite direction from where he was originally going. I am left standing in the middle of the now empty hallway, kind of dumbfounded. Maybe I didn't get answers today, but I will find out what is up with the dark- haired new kid sooner or later. Hopefully sooner.