I guess it is kind of weird that the best thing that ever happened to me was because of a visit to the principal’s office.

Not like I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t ever get in trouble (okay, so I haven’t exactly been yelled at by a teacher since I dumped glitter glue on my best friend Tyler’s paper turkey in November of second grade), but still. Being summoned to the front hall usually spells disaster for anyone.

The day had started off like any other Wednesday at Thomas Jefferson High School—swarms of people flowing through the halls between homeroom and first period, the hardened wad of gum perpetually stuck on the end of my locker’s combination dial (ick), Madison Myers and Jake Stetson making out against the locker next to mine (double ick). It’d taken me an eternity to get my books out of my locker and avoid looking at Madison smushing her oh-so-perfect face against the really-good-looking face of the guy I’ve had a crush on since forever, so it must’ve been a genuine God-granted miracle that I’d managed to get to first period Journalism class on time.

Ms. Lincoln, my Journalism teacher, was wearing the scariest look I have ever seen when I came into the room. Not in that it looked like she was about to kill me, or anything, just one of those teacherly looks of “deep concern.” Ms. Lincoln is actually one of my favorite teachers—she’s the faculty advisor for our yearbook, the Jeffersonian, which is my favorite (and only) extracurricular. Plus, she’s just the right amount younger than the rest of our teachers to make her almost cool.

“Amanda Price?” I nodded, dropping my backpack onto a desk in the front row. Ms. Lincoln handed me a slip of pink paper. “Dr. Wentz has asked to see you.” A bolt of panic shot through me. Dr. Wentz was the principal, and not exactly the nicest guy on the planet. I’d heard rumors that he’d suspended kids for smiling in his office.

I took the piece of paper, the stunned feeling in my chest still sharp. Calm down, Amanda, I thought. What major screw-ups had I had lately? I’d tripped on my shoelace on Monday and slammed into a water fountain, but that was hardly any reason to send me to the principal’s office. I’d gotten enough punishment from my ever-so-friendly peers’ laughter as I stumbled down the hallway. And I’d had to reorder the entire folder of mocked-up yearbook pages I’d dropped.

“Amanda?” Ms. Lincoln’s voice jolted my mind back into focus. “You’re excused from class.”

“Oh! Right,” I said, re-shouldering my backpack and starting for the door. The classroom had filled up since I’d gotten there, and I was suddenly aware of a roomful of eyes burning through my back. I darted into the hallway. The green and white tile seemed to stretch on forever as I walked down towards the main office. I wondered if this was what death-row inmates felt like. At least jails probably had better decorators, I thought idly, eyeing a tacky neon-orange flyer for the school dance as I rounded the corner towards the door to the office. The dance. Like I needed another reminder that the yearbook staff had had the brilliant idea of throwing a winter semiformal to raise money for the publication. And it was couple-themed. Ick. Ick.

Facing the door, I took a deep breath and turned the handle. The door swung open, and I took a decisive step forward right into—someone. I looked up, catching sight of a messy crop of brown-black hair and a very cute, very shiny smile.

Jake Stetson. Oh. My. God.

Jake turned around to face me fully, smiling still, but now puzzled-looking, and I could feel my face burning with embarrassment. He really was gorgeous, like a GQ-model-in-training—tall, slightly tan, and eyes that matched the dark blue of his long-sleeved t-shirt. Gulp.

“Going to see Dr. Wentz?” It took me a full four seconds before I realized that he was talking to me. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out except for a few gurgly noises. Oh crap. I cleared my throat.

“Er. Yep.” Real intelligent. I sure was a charmer.

He looked at me for a couple more seconds, during which I was praying fervently either for an earthquake to swallow me or that Jake really liked the flustered, stammering look in girls. But he was walking past me now, out into the hallway. He turned as he passed me, grinning again.

“Stay out of trouble, Amanda” he said, pointing at me mock-scoldingly. And then he was gone down the hallway.

My knees felt like they’d been liquefied. Jake Stetson had called me by name. It was practically surreal, and I felt a tiny smile break out on my face.

I shook my head. He has a girlfriend, I reminded myself sternly. A girlfriend who just happens to be your mortal enemy. Besides, I had to stay sharp if I was about to see Dr. Wentz.

I walked slowly into the office, a combination of Jake’s dizzying effect and my own goody-two-shoes-type nerves making me feel as if I were either going to throw up or explode. Either way, it would not be pretty.

Dr. Wentz was sitting behind a desk in front of the window that saw over the front of the school. Behind him, I could see a cluster of dark clouds at the edge of the gray Ohio sky. Great. Weather to match my day.

He lifted his head, his expression severe. “Amanda Price?”

I nodded. What was with all the full names all the time today? Must be something they do when you’re in major trouble.

“Have a seat. There’s a serious matter I need to discuss with you.”

I practically had a heart attack hearing that. Somehow, I managed to turn around and sit on the hot seat facing his desk. I folded my hands in my lap, trying to resist the urge to fiddle with my ponytail. It’s an annoying reflex I’ve been in the habit of doing when I’m nervous. Tyler teases me endlessly about it.

“Now, Amanda. You’re Assistant Executive Editor of the Jeffersonian, right?”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes.” It killed me to hear him say that. Assistant. Ever since I was a little girl and making my own “fashun” mags out of construction paper and crayon, I’ve dreamed of being editor of my own magazine. When all the normal kids were enjoying reading Corduroy and Clifford, I was measuring the margins of the text and critiquing the layout of the spot art. In middle school, my teachers were amazed by my knowledge of professional editing marks, and ever since I got to high school I had one goal and one goal only: Executive Editor of the Jeffersonian. When senior year rolled around, I’d figured it was a given, but my hopes were crushed. Assistant Executive.

“And the Executive Editor…?”

“Madison?” I know, right? Most unfair story of my life. I work my butt off all through high school to get the editorship, and Madison Myers’ dad agrees to replace the school’s ancient photography equipment if she gets the big position. Guess who got picked?

“Right,” Dr. Wentz says. “And I’m sure you’re familiar with the school’s policy on cheating and plagiarism, right, Amanda?”

Dr. Wentz leaned over his desk, looking me straight in the face. I wished I could lean back and avoid his staring, but the folding chair I was sitting in gave me no wiggle room. So I tried to look back at him with as much courage as I can muster.

“Um, I think so. I mean, academic probation and removal from all student leadership positions, right?” We’d only had it drilled into us every semester since freshman year.

“Exactly,” he said, leaning back a little. I wondered where he was going with all this. I reached for my ponytail, but drew my hand back. Stay cool, Amanda.

“Well, I’m afraid to say that Ms. Myers and several other students were discovered to have collaborated on their Calculus midterms. That is to say, she violated our policy of academic honesty.” I mentally dropped my jaw to the floor. It wasn’t really a surprise that Madison Myers, golden girl of the twelfth grade, had been cheating—she was hardly a genius in math—but it was a surprise that she’d gotten caught. I’d seen her at work before in class. Madison was usually pretty stealthy with her cell phone hidden under her calculator, getting the answers texted to her from two rows up.

“Anyway, because of this, Ms. Myers has been relieved of her academic leadership roles, including the editorship of the Jeffersonian.” My heart started hammering. Does he mean what I think he means?

“Since you are next-in-command at the yearbook, you will take over her duties as Executive Editor effective immediately.”

I felt like I was going to faint. How could a visit to the principal’s office have turned out so well?

The rest of the day was a total blur. I could barely focus on any of my classes. All I could think about was the yearbook. By the time last period study hall rolled around, I felt like I was going to die of stress from waiting. My first meeting as Executive Editor was in ten short minutes, and I my mind was all over the place. Finally, my dream was mine instead of Madison’s. Finally I could start on the track that would surely catapult me to the utmost heights of editorial perfec—

“Hello? Anyone there?” I snapped back suddenly in my chair. I was in the library, sitting at a table with Tyler, who was frantically waving a hand in front of my face. I pushed it away, rolling my eyes.

“Knock it off, Tyler,” I said, and he sat back down. I sighed. Tyler had been my best friend since kindergarten, and even though he was no longer the little kid with glasses and blond curly hair that had tied my shoelaces together, he was still pretty annoying at times.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper as the librarian threw a pointed look our way. He pulled out a pencil and doodled a dragon in the margin of his math book. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t checking out on me.”

“I wasn’t!” I said in the loudest whisper I could manage, but I calmed down. “I was just thinking about this afternoon.” I hated to admit it, but the thought of leading an entire staff through an editorial meeting was making me majorly nervous.

“Oooh, right. Yearbook meeting.” He leaned on one arm, adding flames to his drawing. “Do you think Madison’s going to yell at us about the dance again?”

I leaned forward and flicked him hard on the shoulder. Tyler can be a little imperceptive sometimes.

“What?” he said. “You don’t want to go to the dance?”

Okay, a lot imperceptive.

“Tyler,” I said slowly. “Madison’s not the editor anymore. I am. I told you in Journalism, remember?”

He cocked his head to the side, remembering. “Right. Sorry. But congratulations,” he said hastily, catching sight of my frown. He leaned his head in towards mine. “You’ll do fine. You should’ve been editor all this time anyway.”

I gave a small smile. “Thanks.”

Tyler punched my arm lightly. “It’s true. You’ve got much better taste in color that Madison does, anyway.” Tyler was head of the Jeffersonian art staff, and he hadn’t exactly warmed to Madison’s proposal of a prep-pink and grass-green color scheme.

I closed my binder and jammed it into my backpack. The clock over the check-out desk gave me five more minutes until the meeting started. “We should get going.” I stood up and started out. Tyler scooped up his books and followed me towards the library door.

“Right,” he said. “Can’t be late for your first meeting as editor. Or is it editrix?” He grinned, and I rolled my eyes again.

Our yearbook meetings were held once a week in Ms. Lincoln’s classroom. Her room had the most number of computers (a whopping 3) and she was our advisor besides. By the time we got to the first floor, the hallways had almost cleared out except for the occasional sweeping custodian.

I pushed open the thick metal door that lead out of the stairwell. Usually the yearbook staff made a crowd waiting to get into Ms. Lincoln’s room, but the hallway was empty. I turned around, about to say something to Tyler, when I heard the click of the classroom door being opened and an all-too-familiar voice.

“If it isn’t the new Executive Editor.” I spun around, and found myself face to face with Madison Myers (more like face to shoulder, really, thanks to Madison’s high-heeled boots). The look on her face was pure malice. Or jealousy. Probably a little of both.

I straightened up, not entirely ready for a smackdown with one of the blondest and most powerful girls at Thomas Jefferson High. Better just to stay neutral.

“Hi, Madison. Has anyone else gotten here yet?”

She gave me the kind of look you’d give to a whiny toddler. “Meeting’s been cancelled. I just came back to get my stuff.” Her eyes darted over me, giving my sweater (probably too red) and my shoes (what, are ballet flats passé already?) a disapproving look.

“Oh,” was all I said. Keep it cool.

“Ms. Lincoln said to give you this,” she said, brandishing an expanding file crammed with papers. “It’s the mock-up of the book so far.” She gave it to me with a look of disdain. “You know that’s got to be at the printer in two weeks to make the deadline, right?”

I nodded. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d reminded her of this very same fact when she decided to blow off an emergency photo critique last Thursday.

“Well, whatever, then,” Madison said, flinging her pink Coach tote over her shoulder. “Way to go. Congratulations.” I knew she was only being bitter, but her tone was still pretty harsh. “And good luck with the fundraising.” She turned to leave, but I spoke up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said. “The fundraising, I mean?” No one had ever mentioned anything to me about money. I mean, I knew it was going to cost money, but I’d figured the school would take care of most of it.

She raised her eyebrows, an evil smile curling over her just-so-perfectly glossed lips. “The dance. It’s two weeks from Friday? I was organizing it.” She crossed her arms. “You know you have to go, right?”

That was not going to happen. Tyler and I had planned a boycott of this dance ever since Madison had thought up the idea a month ago. “Couples Throughout History” was just about the dumbest idea I had ever heard of.

“Well, I, uh…” I couldn’t manage to say anything coherent.

“The Executive Editor can’t just skip the most important fundraiser for her publication,” Madison said with fake aghast. “And imagine if she showed up dateless!”

My cheeks burned, and I gripped the folder tighter. Madison knew that would get me. I’d always been a little busy for boyfriends…and also a little shy.

“What, you’re going to let down your entire staff?” she said. “The art editors worked so hard for that gorgeous color layout!” Behind me, I could feel Tyler tense.

“Look, Madison,” I started, but she waved her hand.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “Jake’s waiting in the car.” She turned and walked down the empty stretch of hallway, her heels echoing loudly with every step.

My shoulders slumped. What was I supposed to do? I was going to mess this up for sure. I definitely could not handle getting a dance together. And getting a date? Practically impossible.

I stood there, stunned, with Tyler behind me. Who would’ve thought that the worst thing that ever happened to me was because of a stupid visit to the principal’s office?