A tween reporter discovers an important and beloved club at school is being shut down—and uses the power of the pen to try and activate some much-needed social change in this period-positive and empowering middle grade novel about the importance of standing up for what you believe in. Riley Dunne loves being a member of the Red Club. It’s more than a group of girls supporting each other through Aunt Flo’s ups and downs; it’s a Hawking Middle School tradition. The club’s secret locker has an emergency stash of supplies, and the girls are always willing to lend an ear, a shoulder, or an old pair of sweatpants. But when the school administration shuts the Red Club down because of complaints, the girls are stunned. Who would do that to them? The girls’ shock quickly turns into anger, and then they decide to get even. But wallpapering the gym with maxi pads and making tampon crafts in art class won’t bring their club back. Only Riley can do that. Using the skills she has cultivated as her school paper’s top investigative reporter (okay, only investigative reporter), she digs for the truth about who shut the club down and why. All the while dealing with friendship drama, a new and ridiculous dress code, and a support group that is now more focused on fighting with each other than fighting back. Can she save the Red Club before this rebellion turns into a full-scale war? Kim Harrington is the author of Clarity (a 2012 ALA Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers), Perception , The Dead and Buried , Forget Me and Revenge of the Red Club . She is also the author of the Sleuth or Dare and Gamer Squad series. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and son. When not writing, she’s most likely reading, watching one of her favorite TV shows, or fantasizing about her next vacation. Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 WE WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO LOOK at our phones during school hours, but I slid mine out of my pocket anyway. I had to see if the new edition of the Hawking Observer had posted. My middle school’s newspaper was hosted on the school website. We had a sportswriter, an advice columnist, a reviewer, and one intrepid investigative reporter (that was me). I loved seeing my byline, Riley Dunne, beneath a story. Though one of these days I had to get a new photo. The one they used was from two years ago, when I’d entered Hawking Middle in sixth grade. Sure, I still had the same mousy-brown hair and wore the same hoodie-and-jeans ensemble most days. But now I was two years older and had recently gotten my braces off. This new article was a biggie. I’d completed an in-depth investigation into the supposedly gluten-free chicken nuggets at lunch, which had given my friend Cee a no good, very bad day. She had celiac disease, so eating anything with gluten was harmful. After some before-school cabinet snooping, I’d found that our cafeteria’s food supplier had switched brands, and the new breading was certainly not gluten-free. I refreshed the page again. Still no update. I hoped my editor hadn’t killed the story. But Ms. Bhatt was usually pretty cool about my investigative reports, and she hadn’t mentioned having a problem with the article. Math class was going to start any minute, so I put my phone away. Then I looked up and saw the new girl, Julia Alpert, coming down the aisle in white jeans and a cute purple top that stopped right at the waistband. She seemed sweet, but kind of shy. Stella Duval looked her up and down from one row over. “You’re not supposed to wear white pants after Labor Day. You know that, right?” Stella had more rules for fashion than the entire US government had laws. She dressed each day like school was a beauty pageant, which wouldn’t be bad if she didn’t judge other people who didn’t go all out. Personally, I thought if you wanted to wear sweats, go for it. You wanted to wear a dress and heels when it was snowing out? Get it, girl. But Stella had somehow appointed herself the unelected fashion judge of our school. Julia didn’t respond. She just stared down at her desk. I opened my mouth to make a snarky comment back to Stella, but before I could, Mr. Barlow blew into the room like a human tornado. Papers flew off the top of the pile he was carrying, and he nearly knocked over a cup of coffee on his desk when he laid them down. “I have your tests graded,” he announced, and a rumble of nervous chatter went through the room. Chairs squeaked as kids shifted in their seats. With that news at the forefront of my brain, I stopped thinking about my article and started worrying about algebra. It was a tough class in general, but that test had been even harder than most. Mr. Barlow walked the aisle, passing the exams back facedown on students’ desks. This was supposed to somehow keep students’ grades private. But you knew exactly how someone did as soon as they flipped their test over. Eighth graders weren’t exactly known for their poker faces. I watched as Ava, my best friend, got her test