Ann Martin - Kristy Power!

"You probably don't even remember," Mr. Counts told me, smiling a little. "But in some of the pictures, the little boy is naked." "Oh, please," I said. I continued to leaf through the book.

"I can't lend you this copy," said Mr. Counts. "But if you'd like to borrow last year's edition I'd be glad to check it out for you." I didn't have to ask where Mr. Counts stood on the Ted Morley question. It was clear that he thought the suspension was wrong.

I didn't know anybody who thought it was right. When we talked about it at the BSC meeting that afternoon we all agreed (even Stacey and Claudia agreed, for once) that the suspension was way out of line. And at dinner that night my mom and Watson made it clear that they supported Mr. Morley all the way.

"I'm going to write a letter to the newspaper," my mom declared. "Somebody has to take a stand against this garbage." She showed me a letter in that day's paper - a letter from Bertha Dow. In it, Mrs. Dow claimed that Mr. Morley was a "corrupting influence on the youth of Stoneybrook," and that the "trash" he was promoting as appropriate reading was going to drive us to "immorality." Watson was angry too. "I'm going to call the school tomorrow," he said.

Ordinarily, I might have been embarrassed if my parents had made a public fuss. But in this case, I was all for it. As my mom said, "Sometimes you have to be loud to defend what you believe in." I only hoped I could do something to help.

Chapter 8.

"What a day!" Cary leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

We were on our way to my house after school on Thursday. Cary was sitting next to me on the school bus, in the spot usually taken by my friend Abby. She calls our bus the Wheeze Wagon, because it sounds as if it's taking its last breath. I was waiting for Cary to make some snide remark about that, but he didn't.

Maybe he was just too tired to be clever or sarcastic. I couldn't blame him. I felt wrung out myself. It had been a long, long day at school. The news about Ted's suspension was all anyone could talk about, and the rumor mill was working overtime.

"Did you hear about that group of parents who went to see Mr. Taylor?" I asked. Apparently Mrs.

Dow and a few other "concerned parents" had paid Mr. Taylor a visit.

"Hear about them?" Cary raised an eyebrow. "I heard them. It was hard not to. They were yelling at the tops of their lungs when I walked by the office." I wondered if Watson had called the school yet. I made a mental note to ask him to inform Mr. Taylor that Mrs. Dow did not represent the majority of SMS parents.

I shook my head. "I wonder how this is all going to end," I said. "What a mess." Cary agreed. "It's a big waste of time. And it could foul up Ted's record forever. It might even cost him a job sometime." I glanced at Cary. I wondered if he related to Ted somehow. For example, did Cary have a "fouled-up" record because of what happened at his old school? Had it followed him here to SMS? That seemed doubtful. I'd never seen the teachers or Mr. Taylor treating him differently than they did any other kid. Maybe Cary's parents - or possibly a lawyer? - had been able to keep it off his permanent record.

It was on my Cary Retlin record, though. I couldn't forget about it. I'd blocked my computer with a stack of books that morning, knowing he'd be coming to my house after school.

I was also a little nervous about Cary's interviews with my family. Not that I had anything to hide. I was just hoping against hope that nobody he talked to would volunteer any especially embarrassing stories about me. I didn't need Cary - let alone everyone in school - knowing about some dumb thing I'd done when I was seven.

I had mentioned the interviews to Watson and my siblings, who would be home that afternoon. (Watson works at home a lot.) In the spirit of fairness, I had tried not to coach them too much. But I had made sure to remind them about some of my better moments, in hopes they'd mention those events to Cary.

I'd spent some time reminiscing with David Michael about all the great times we'd had together while I was coaching him in softball.

I'd reminded Watson about some of my community-building projects, like the BSC's work with the residents at Stoneybrook Manor, the local retirement home.

Sam and Charlie would talk (I hoped) about my accomplishments as BSC president, including some of my best fund-raising ideas.

And I was fust trusting that Karen and Andrew would be their usual talkative selves, and that they'd want to boast about me generally, since they're proud of their older stepsister.

I had done what I could do. The rest was up to my family. When Cary wrote my biography, would I come out looking like a champ - or a chump? I'd have to wait and see.

This was the first time Cary had visited my house, and as we walked to the front door I could see that he was impressed. "Nice place, Your Highness," he said. "Are the palace guards on a break?" I rolled my eyes. "It's not that big," I said.

"No, it's just a little hut. I can see you live the simple life." I ignored him. "Come on in," I said, opening the door. "But don't expect much. I've given the servants the day off." Cary grinned at me. "In honor of my visit? You shouldn't have." I brought Cary into the kitchen and offered him a snack. As we were eating our nuked burritos, various members of my family began wandering into the room. First was Sam. Then Karen showed up. Charlie popped his head in, and soon after that Watson stopped by, along with David Michael.

I introduced Cary to everyone and told them - in front of him - to answer any questions he asked.

"Even if they're about your disgusting personal habits?" asked Sam.

"Especially if they're about my disgusting personal habits," I said.

"This sounds interesting," Cary remarked. "Maybe I'll start with you, Sam." "Excellent," Sam answered. "What can I tell you about my beloved little sister?" "Let's see," said Cary, pulling a notebook out of his backpack. "I have a few questions about her early life." He turned to me. "Would you excuse us?" he asked.

"I haven't finished my snack yet," I pointed out. "I'll just sit here quietly, okay? Not a word. Pretend I'm not here." Cary shrugged. "Whatever." He turned to Sam. "Now, tell me a little about Kristy as a baby. Was she cute? Did she have any hair when she was born? How much did she drool?" "Hey!" I said. "What does drool have to do with anything?" Cary glared at me. "I thought you were going to sit quietly." "Oh, right," I said. I pretended to zip my lip. "Go on." Cary looked back at Sam.

"Well," said Sam, "as I remember, she was a little bruiser. She'd grab my finger and hold on so tight I could have swung her around. But the other thing about her was that she was constantly - and I mean constantly - wetting herself." "I was a babyl" I cried. "That's what babies do!" Cary swung around. "That's it," he said. "I don't care if you've finished your burrito or not. You're out of here. This is supposed to be a biography, not an au tobiography." What could I say? Cary'd left me alone when I'd interviewed his brothers. I had no choice but to return the favor. As I left, I shot Sam a Look that was supposed to mean, "If you say one more embarrassing thing I'll kill you." Sam just grinned back at me. I had the feeling he knew exactly what I meant, and that he planned to ignore me completely.

Oh, well. It was out of my hands. I headed upstairs to my room, figuring I might as well start on my homework.

An hour or so later, just as I was making headway on a paper for social studies class, there was a knock on my door. "Anybody home?" It was Cary's voice. Did I want to let him into my room? I glanced around. Fair was fair. I'd seen his room. More of it than he knew. "Come in," I called, after checking to make sure nothing embarrassing was in sight.