Digital Disaster! by Rachel Wise Page A

But I was worried that it might not be possible for me to be
“friendly” to Rock Star.

Chapter 7
    Workaholic Middle Schooler Turns to Nail Polish for Comfort

    At home after dinner I went straight to my room to write another version
of the letter. I tore the first draft up into little pieces, wrapped it in a tissue, and
threw it out in the bathroom garbage can. I couldn’t be too careful. I’ve
caught Allie before snooping around in my room. At times I’ve really thought she
was on to me, but then again, Allie just likes snooping, so it’s hard to tell.
    I opened up my password-protected file and started again.
    Dear Rock Star,
    I understand that you may think writing isn’t a useful skill because
of your interests, but didn’t you need to know something about writing to write
this letter? Do you think this is the last letter you’ll ever have to write? And
what if you don’t become a rock star? Then where will you be?
    I stopped typing and read it back. Ugh. I knew it sounded too
opinionated. Delete. Start over.
    Dear Rock Star,
    I took a deep breath and stretched my arms up in the air before
continuing.
    It’s one thing to cheat. It’s another thing to ask your friend
to cheat for you. I’m surprised she or he agreed.
    I read it back. Ahhhhh! This just wasn’t working. What I really
wanted to say was Dear Rock Star, what are you thinking???? Everything else felt like a lie. I needed a break or at least another
perspective. I heard the thumping of Allie’s music in her room, and usually the
louder the music was, the worse a mood she was in. I decided to take my chances and
knocked on her door. She didn’t answer. I knocked harder.
    â€œWhat?” she yelled back. Hmmm, maybe it wasn’t the best
time to bug her.
    â€œIt’s me,” I called over the music.
    â€œCome in!” she yelled.
    I opened the door. She was sitting on her bed painting her toenails a
sparkly blue color. She had one foot propped up on top of a newspaper. I sat down.
    â€œCareful. You’re shaking the bed,” she said, holding up
her nail polish brush.
    â€œSorry.” I gingerly lay down on my stomach, my chin on my
hands, and watched her paint her pinkie toe. She was really good at doing her own nails.
They always looked professionally done. Whenever I tried, I went through a bag of cotton
balls and lots of nail polish remover, correcting the mistakes. Then the smell made me
sick and I wondered why I even bothered. Luckily, nothing made Allie happier than doing
people’s nails.
    â€œCan you do mine?” I asked, cheerfully wiggling my fingers at
her.
    â€œIs that why you came in here? What’s up, really?” she
said, focused intently on her toes.
    â€œCan’t I just come and say hi to my sister?” I asked in
a dramatic tone.
    â€œHi. Now what’s going on?” She looked up. “You
seem kind of mopey and confused about something. Boy trouble?”
    Allie knew me so well. I usually came into her room for three things:
friend advice, boy advice, or fashion advice. This reason, though, didn’t quite
fit into any of those categories, but I couldn’t actually tell her why I was
asking. “Not boy trouble. Actually I was just working on my article about the test
scandal. Wanted your opinion.” It was kind of true.
    â€œYeah, did they catch the guy?”
    An image of Will Hutchins popped into my head. “How do you know
it’s a guy?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t, but I just can’t imagine a girl doing
that,” she said.
    â€œYou never know,” I said. “What if you knew the person
who did it? Or if you knew that they had asked a friend to help them actually, and they asked you if they should do it all over again. What
would you tell them?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t give anything away.
    â€œWhoa,” Allie said, and sat straight up and lowered her voice.
“Holy cow! You