Diplomatic Immunity by Brodi Ashton Read Free Book Online Page B

fold.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Above the fold. Above the fold. It’s what every reporter wants to hear. The lead story. The one that will kick off a newscast. The one that will sell the papers. My heart went all fluttery.
    Who knew where this story would take me? Maybe it would stop right here. Or maybe, with a little luck, one clue would lead to another, one discovery would lead to another, one corrupt official would lead to another, and I’d be looking back on this story as the one that changed it all.
    The following day, I woke up eager to check out the school’s news website, and when I logged on, there it was. In black and white.My headline and my story. My name in print beside it.
    I ran to the kitchen to show my parents.
    â€œNice work, honey,” my mom said, looking over her shoulder as she washed dishes. I was pretty sure she hadn’t read it, but it was okay. She rarely had any time to sit down and read anything, what with taking care of us and her part-time job at a bakery.
    â€œGood job,” my dad said as he grabbed his sack lunch out of the fridge and blew us all kisses good-bye.
    I sat down to a bowl of oatmeal and watched as my phone downloaded forty-two new messages. Even accounting for spam and promotional stuff, forty-two was a lot for me. My story was making waves. My heart got all jittery.
    I scanned the subject lines. Some people wanted to know more about the stalking. Other messages were from students in the journalism program congratulating me on the scoop. One was from Raf, who said I should change my name from Pip Baird to Woodward-and-Bernstein Baird. I wanted to shoot him a reply to remind him my name wasn’t Pip, but then I saw an email from Principal Wallace. The subject line read: “Meeting before school.”
    Miss Baird,
    Please meet me in my office before the beginning of homeroom.
    Principal Wallace
    Uh-oh, that did not sound good. I tried to calm my sudden nerves by reminding myself that the price of a free press would always be censure, scrutiny, and disapproval. Back at my old high school, Mr. Peters had said that any good story was bound to ruffle feathers.
    Still, when I got to the front office, my heart sped up with trepidation.
    Maybe it wouldn’t be bad. Maybe he was going to congratulate me on outfoxing him.
    Okay, that was a long shot.
    â€œMiss Baird,” Principal Wallace said, opening his office door, a stern look on his face. He held the door for me. I sat down in silence.
    â€œI assume you know why you’re here.”
    â€œYou aren’t pleased with my story.”
    â€œTo say the least.” He pulled up the story on his computer screen. “You’ve placed me, and the school, in a very difficult position.”
    â€œIs the story accurate?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s beside the point.”
    â€œFor a journalist, that’s the only point.”
    He pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut briefly. “Miss Baird, you are not at the Washington Post . You are at Chiswick Academy, under my jurisdiction.”
    â€œA free press doesn’t fall under anyone’s jurisdiction.” Okay, sometimes my mouth could run away with me.
    â€œYou printed that story without my permission.”
    â€œDoes the school paper need your permission for their stories?”
    â€œNo, but it’s a courtesy.”
    â€œCourteous behavior is not required with a free press.” Mr. Peters had taught me that.
    â€œBut it is if you want to get information, yes?”
    I sighed. He had a point. I wouldn’t have any stories without grooming contacts.
    I hadn’t planned on coming in here and being so contrary, but this wasn’t the pro–First Amendment atmosphere I was used to at my old school. I tried to tone it down. “I’m sorry if the truth was inconvenient for you.”
    â€œInconvenient? I’ve had dozens of phone calls from parents asking if their daughter or son