Dejected, I traipse to the newsroom. In a former life, it was two neighboring janitors’ closets, now combined and converted into a tiny office, home to both the school newspaper and the headquarters for the Spirit Club. Luckily, the Spirit Club has been less than enthusiastic this year, which means we have the place to ourselves.

Cludd—whose name astoundingly rhymes with teeth—is already there. He’s slowly being swallowed by a beanbag in the far corner, his laptop perched on his knees. Cludd of House Akvo is the editor of the Myrsky Messenger and the one person standing between me and a front-page headline. He’s also one of the least gifted magic wielders in the school, which would make him a lot more likable if he’d only publish one of my stories.

I settle into one of the four other chairs and flip open my notebook. The clock on the wall ticks through the minutes and, once again, Joakim Blomqvist is late for his own club.

The three other members saunter in late too—two seventh graders both in House Tero, and Sini. I pretend not to notice her even though she’s sitting directly opposite me. She takes out her tablet and starts tip-tapping at the screen with an irritating finger while I gnaw on my pencil.

“Should we get started then?” Cludd asks as Joakim blusters into the newsroom, leaking papers from the pile in his hands.

Tenth-grade tests in various states of grading billow to the ground. I gather up some of the strewn papers and hand them back to the permanently frazzled teacher who clearly subsists on caffeine alone. He shoves the papers into a heap on the desk, not seeming to care how he’s crinkling the corners.

I clench my teeth and count to ten while the Blomqvist-hurricane settles into a mild storm: creased shirt, crooked tie, and mussed hair. The man is a walking disaster and doesn’t deserve to be called a tietäjä, a fact that should be a front-page feature, but that—for obvious reasons—I know better than to ever suggest.

“Right, let’s get on with it,” Joakim says. “What’s everyone working on?”

My hand shoots up as if it’s possessed. It’s not like my idea is a great one, but it’s all I’ve got, having not listened to the Knock-Knock Jokes yet.

“Which student had a magical mishap this time?” Cludd yawns, making me bristle.

It’s not my fault the paper rejects all my best pitches in favor of gossip.

“Actually, no,” I say. “I think this could be big.”

“Bigger than last month’s lunch meat controversy?” Cludd peers at me from between the fronds of his blue bangs while still tapping away at his keyboard.

“After an event in Thaumaturgy this morning, I thought maybe an article about the school’s disciplinary system might be a good idea.”