The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline by Lois Lowry

even
know
another journalist."
    "And I'll never divulge my sources, Caroline. If they put me in jail, I won't divulge my sources. That's part of journalistic ethics."
    "Stacy," said Caroline, becoming less patient, "you seem to be more interested in your truly big story than you are in your best friend. Don't you realize that I'm the
victim
here?"
    "That's
it!
" exclaimed Stacy. "That's my lead! I'm going to write it New Journalism style, and maybe I can sell it to
New York
magazine. Here's the lead, Caroline; listen to this: 'I met Caroline MacKenzie Tate for the first time when she was eight years old. She beat me in the election for third-grade class secretary, and I called her several names. Smartass. Teacher's pet. I didn't know then what I know now, on this gray, anguished April morning: that Caroline MacKenzie Tate was, when all was said and done, a
victim.'
"
    "Stacy Baurichter," said Caroline angrily, "don't you dare use my middle name, not
ever.
And this is not a gray, anguished April morning. This is a 65-degree sunny April afternoon, and it is almost over, and my mother will be home from work in a few minutes, and I am hanging up this phone if you—"
    Stacy interrupted her. "Do you think they'll let me say 'smartass'? Censorship is becoming such a problem for us journalists."
    Caroline slammed down the telephone receiver be
fore Stacy could do one of her usual headline goodbyes.
    Back in the living room, J.P. looked up and stopped muttering. "I've got it," he announced. "I'm going to hot-wire his telephone so that next time he makes a phone call, ZAP!"
    "J.P.!" said Caroline. "Would you pay attention, please? I showed you what that letter said. He doesn't even
have
a telephone. He's going to get one after he gets paid for killing us. Too late
then!
"
    J.P. frowned. "His toilet seat, then. A few craftily placed wires, and ZAP! Hot-cross buns!"
    "Shhh," said Caroline suddenly. They heard the jingling of keys. "Mom's home."
    The door opened and Joanna Tate appeared, pulling off her earrings with one hand. "Hi!" she said, cheerfully. "Boy, am I bushed. What are you guys up to? It's the first time in ages that I haven't heard you fighting as I came up the stairs."
    Caroline laughed nervously. "Maybe we're finally developing some interests in common," she said.

10
    "Peel the tinfoil back after half an hour so the chicken will get brown, okay?" said Caroline's mother. "And don't forget to lock the door after I leave."
    "We always lock the door, Mom," Caroline pointed out.
    "How do I look?" Joanna Tate twirled around. "I haven't worn this dress in ages. Does it still fit all right?"
    "You look fine," said Caroline glumly. "Doesn't she, J.P.?"
    J.P. looked up from his new issue of
Scientific American
and grunted.
    "Mom, if you want to stay home, you can have my TV dinner. I'm not very hungry," Caroline said.
    "Why would I want to stay home? Did I tell you he's taking me to an Italian restaurant? Spaghetti and
Chianti. Yum." She went to the mirror near the front door and combed her hair again.
    "I don't like that guy," muttered Caroline.
    "Fred Fiske? You don't even know him."
    "Neither do you," Caroline said meaningfully.
    "I don't know him
well.
But I've been walking to the corner with him lots of mornings. He goes down to get a newspaper at the drugstore by my bus stop."
    "You don't even know what he does for a living."
    "Well, I know that he's a history professor at Columbia. But he's on a year's leave of absence, because he's got some project."
    "Right," said Caroline. "And you don't know what that project
is.
"
    "True, he's kind of mysterious about that. But when someone says he's working on a project, you don't become overly inquisitive. I don't do that to you, James, do I? When you're working on a project in your room, I don't stand at the door, saying 'Tell me all about your project, James. I want to know all about your project.' I don't, do I, James?"
    J.P. turned a page of his magazine and looked up. "No,"