The Biggest Scoop

by Gillian St. Kevern

  I groaned. Candice was right, but man did I not want to cover the elections. Non-elections. “What story? The entire school already knows that the juniors have had two chances already to elect a new class president, and we didn’t have a single candidate.”

  Candice tapped her binder. “And why is that?”

  I sat up to frown at her. “You know why. Carson’s left the school, but his friends will make life a living hell for anyone who dares replace him.”

  Candice smirked at me. “You’re telling me that won’t capture attention? Former class president bequeaths classmates legacy of fear— that’s a story!”

  “That’s an epitaph! Remember how much pressure we got to retract the Carson story? We got accused of being biased and reporting gossip. Coach Burns said if we ran another story painting his team in a negative light, he’d shut us down!”

  “Yes,” Candice said slowly. “He did. And that’s exactly why we have to run this story.”

  I stared at her. “But the paper—”

  “Bernhardt needs the paper,” Candice continued. “It’s the one place in this school where anyone can speak without fear. Freshman, senior, cheerleader, geek, athlete, loner, scholarship kid— everyone’s words get equal weight here. We can’t lose that. We have to protect everyone’s right to speak.”

  “But if we tell the truth, they’ll axe the paper.”

  “A good newspaper doesn’t just report facts. It challenges them. No one else in this school is going to speak up against the situation, so it’s got to be us.”

  “Does it have to be specifically about the elections? Look.” I took some pages from my binder and gave them to Candice. “I went to the shelter that the winter formal funds went to last year. A follow-up piece on how the money we raised was used and how much it meant to them. If the formal is canceled, it’s these people who lose the most.”

  Candice hummed thoughtfully, flicking through the pages. “You went to the shelter?”

  “I spent all Saturday there, volunteering. There are kids there from other high schools who help out.” I turned the page over so that Candice could see my photos. “Got some quotes and photos. The volunteers are our age, so the story’s relatable—”

  “That’s a lot of work just to avoid covering the election.”

  “People’s actual welfare depends on the ability of our peers to let go of a grudge! That is a story—”

  “A human interest story— and it’s a good human interest story.” Candice handed the pages back to me. “But you know human interest stories don’t cut it for the front page. Not with our peers.”

  “Candice—”

  “You have to think in terms of the paper, Milo. And there’s only one thing that the students of Bernhardt want to read about. Themselves. E-mail me the shelter story; it’s going to be our page two opener. But the front page—”

  The classroom door swung open.

  Declan looked right at me. “This classroom’s empty. Let’s go.”

  Students filed in after Declan. Desks and chairs were pushed aside and a CD player set up. I just managed to grab my binder before my desk was moved. As I stood, my chair was whisked away.

  “Excuse me.” Candice slid off the desk, arms folded across her chest. “We are having a meeting in here.”

  Declan raised an eyebrow. “Two people aren’t a meeting. Eight people, on the other hand, are a rehearsal.”

  “Rehearse in the auditorium. This is the newspaper’s room—”

  Taylor Swift blasted out of the CD player loud enough that I jumped.

  “We got a note.” Declan smirked as he held it up. “Signed by Mr. Perry.”

  Candice snatched it out of Declan’s hand, scanning it. “Milo?”

  I leaned over to read the note. “That’s definitely his handwriting.” Bernhardt credited its reputation for fostering leadership qualities and responsibility to the ‘hands off’ attitude staff took to our extracurricular activities, observing, rather than participating in our meetings. Mr. Perry took that a step further, supervising Candice and I from the staff break room. Still, I couldn’t imagine even laid-back Mr. Perry would betray us by note. “Let’s see… Something, something, drama… I hope you’ll use this opportunity to find common ground—” I narrowed my eyes at Declan. Just as suspected. He’d done something. “This is easily sorted out—”

  Candice crumpled the note. “This is bull.” Everyone watching her took a step back. “All the classrooms in this school and you need to practice in ours?”

  “We need a room. You can meet anywhere.” Declan shrugged carelessly. “But you’re welcome to stay while we practice.” He turned back to the group, clearly thinking that Candice was not crazy enough to fight eight people at once. “Okay. Let’s take this from the top—”

  He did not know Candice like I did. I caught her elbow.

  “Let me go.” Candice didn’t budge. “I have a point to make.”

  “Please, Candice.” I tugged her toward the door. “I’m not ready to become editor.”

  For some reason, she waited until we were in the hall to shake me off. “Why did you stop me? I could have taken the whole lot of them—”

  “That’s why I stopped you! Freshman punches quarterback? That is the kind of headline people love. Senior turns on juniors in violent rage? People will question your editing ability!”

  “We wouldn’t be allowed to run the story anyway,” Candice said grudgingly. “Because we’d be too involved.”

  Was she frowning because our room had been stolen from us? Or was it anger that such an amazing story would go uncovered? “Right.”

  “Still. Mr. Perry is hearing about this.” Candice swung her bag over her shoulder, starting toward the teachers’ break room. “Coming?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll read your report.”

  “Deadline’s Wednesday.”

  “I know.”

  I took my stuff out of my locker, lost in thought. Had whoever coined the word “deadline” meant it to sound that ominous, or did that happen only when Candice said it? “Dead. Line. Deadline. Line-dead— oof!”

  “Sorry, weirdo. Your back was in the way of my elbow.” Logan smirked. The guys at his side snickered on cue.

  I shook my head, shutting my locker. “How nostalgic. I haven’t heard that one since third grade.”

  Logan stopped grinning. “What did you call me?”

  “Nostalgic?” I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

  His friends snickered.

  Logan clenched his fists. “Tell me what you said, freak.”

  “Look it up. You’ll find it on the vocab quiz we took in English last week.”

  “Didn’t you ace that quiz, too? Seriously, Log.” Matt nudged him. “How can you forget a word that quickly?”

  Logan blustered. “I’ve got a selective memory, okay? I’d know the answer for sure in English class!”

  “That’s some selective memory, all right.” Jordan started in on him.

  I had no idea why I wasn’t currently being stuffed into my locker, but I did not question my luck. I grabbed my bag and made my way down the hall as quickly as possible, ducking past a downcast figure to make my escape.

  A full three seconds later, my brain caught up to me. I paused, looking back down the hall. Logan still stood in the middle of the hall, protesting as his friends joked. None of them noticed the student who walked past them. Nobody gave him a second glance at all.

  My heart sank. Taylor had gone from center of attention to not worth a second look faster than Zayne Malik’s solo career. He shuffled down the hall, attracting no one’s attention, another high school misfit, destined for misery until graduation, two long years away.

  And it was all my fault.

  ****

  Taylor’s abrupt reversal in fortune troubled me the entire walk across Tarrytown. It was with relief that I unlocked our apartment door and shrugged my coat off. Finally, the day was over!

  It was like Mom knew. A rich, s
avory aroma filled the apartment like a warm hug. I dumped my bag on the floor with my coat and followed it to the Crock-Pot. Just as I thought. Stew.

  There was a note on the fridge whiteboard. “Dinner ready 7:00. No Dairy. Snack in fridge. Don’t stay up late, Spaghetti-O.” She’d signed it with a heart and a couple of kisses.

  “Mom.”

  Mom’s incredibly smart and organized. As night manager of the Irvington General Hospital, she has to be. She knows the names and personal details of her staff, patients and EMTs and never forgets what we’re not supposed to eat on what day (we’re Greek Orthodox. There are a lot of fast days). And yet, despite repeated conversations on the subject, she can’t remember that high school students don’t answer to Spaghetti-O.

  I opened the fridge. The snack was an apple, so I wouldn’t have bothered except that I’d skipped lunch. I lingered over the Crock-Pot for a few minutes before deciding to get my chores over with. I peeled off my school uniform directly into the washing machine. Cold wash: better for the environment, and you don’t need to sort!

  I took special delight in finding my rattiest pair of sweatpants and pulled the sweater I’d worn yesterday over my head with a sense of triumph. Take that, Taylor! The shallowest person ever wouldn’t wear the same clothes two days running!

  Or would he if he was trying to impress someone with how not shallow he was?

  Mom hadn’t opened the curtains, so the living room was shrouded in shadow. I flopped over the back of the sofa to brood. Of course, I wasn’t shallow! What was I doing on the newspaper if I was shallow? Shallow people cared only about looks and popularity. They joined sports teams and did cheerleading. Nonshallow people did the unpopular extracurriculars and sat alone at lunch. You could not get any less popular than the newspaper currently, and I hadn’t even eaten lunch. Conclusion: Taylor was wrong, and I should start working on my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize in Deep Thought.

  I muffled my groan in the sofa cushions. There was one great gaping hole in my logic. If I wasn’t shallow, why did I care so much what Taylor thought? I slid face-first over the sofa, coming to rest on the floor in utter defeat. I’d have to join a clique, maybe even two. From now on, I was shopping only at Abercrombie. I disgusted even myself.

  The doorbell rang.

  I dragged myself over to the door on my elbows, more limp noodle than human. “What is it?”

  “I just moved into the next building,” a voice said. “We got your mail by mistake. I accidentally opened it—”

  We got your mail. Those four words changed the scene from gritty documentary to horror. I scrambled to my feet, hoping the familiar voice on the other side of the door was just my imagination.

  It was not. “You opened it?”

  Taylor took a step back. “Accidentally. Why would I want to read your mail?” He held out the heavy manila envelope. “You can see what happened. The last digit of your building number got covered by the postage label, and they brought it to me. I’m in building II.”

  I grabbed the envelope. The pages of my manuscript looked like they’d been crushed— had he read them? Then I caught sight of the cover sheet, and my heart lurched.

  Dear Mr. Markopoulos,

  We thank you for your interest in our agency. Unfortunately—

  I moaned, hitting myself in the face with the envelope. Rejected again!

  “It’s not that bad,” Taylor said. “They said it was good for a first effort.”

  I laughed at that, reaching for the door handle. “Which would be good— if it was a first effort.”

  Not until I had slammed the door did I realize just how badly I’d screwed up. I slumped back against the door. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” How could I have been so dumb? Taylor hadn’t just seen the writing I’d shown no one, not even Candice. He knew it had been rejected multiple times! That information in the hands of someone who despised me? “What is wrong with me?” I punctuated each word by slapping myself in the head.

  “Uh, Milo? I can still hear you—”

  “Just go away!” I slumped against the door. “Haven’t you made me miserable enough for one day?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Go. A. Way.”

  I listened to his footsteps echo all the way down the stairs, before sliding down the door onto the floor. This was the worst Monday in the entire history of Mondays.

  ****

  Half an hour later, I climbed the steps of the Building II. Our apartment was one of a row of Dutch Colonial townhouses that had been bought up, restored, refurbished according to modern needs and split into upstairs and downstairs apartments in keeping with modern family sizes. I rang the doorbell, hoping I’d guessed correctly that Taylor’s was the upstairs apartment. Coming over to grovel was bad enough, but groveling to the entirely wrong apartment?

  The thought was almost enough to make me turn around. Only the fact that there was no way I could avoid school until the entire student body forgot my film script had been rejected multiple times by numerous agents kept me where I was. I hadn’t missed a single day of school my entire time at Bernhardt and not for lack of trying! Other students’ moms believed them when they had a headache the day of the big history test. Mine gave me the same reception she gave the patients at her hospital.

  No, if I wanted to avoid open and abject mockery, Taylor was my only chance. If only I had the slightest clue what to say. I pressed the doorbell and smoothed my hair down with my fingers. I’d changed into my newest pair of jeans and preppiest sweater. Not that I needed dignity for what I was attempting, but I still had pride. That, and while Taylor claimed he didn’t have time for popularity contests, he was better dressed to come over and ruin my evening than most of the student body was on a date.

  Taylor raised an eyebrow as he opened the door. “What is the point in me going away if you come here?”

  “Shut up and let me apologize.” I paused. That wasn’t how I’d planned this.

  Taylor looked at me. “Apologize?”

  I don’t know why I felt so nettled. “For yelling at you about the mail. I wanted to say sorry.”

  “And now you’ve said sorry.”

  I rubbed my elbow, fighting the urge to look at my feet. “And make it up to you. I thought, maybe I could help you with your homework. You know, the stuff we covered in class before you moved here.” I tapped my backpack. “I brought my notes with me.”

  Taylor snorted. “You take notes?”

  “I take great notes. You think I would offer to tutor you and not bring my notes?”

  “I sat behind you in Biology. You spent the entire class scribbling on a piece of paper and not paying any attention to the teacher.”

  “Maybe I already knew what the teacher was going to say.”

  Taylor laughed. “I find it really unlikely you know anything that doesn’t appear in some trashy teen magazine.”

  I ducked under Taylor’s arm and into the apartment. “Who has time to read? Reality TV. That’s where it’s at.” The apartment was the same size as ours but felt wider. There was less furniture, but it made up for that by being big and black, with feature vases placed exactly where they would best catch the eye. The paintings were vivid and modern. The sofa was leather and the flat screen TV took up an entire wall. It was sleek, streamlined and strange. “You live here?”

  “I didn’t break in here and steal an apartment if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You just moved, right? Where’s all the cardboard?”

  “What?”

  “When Mom and I moved in, we had cardboard boxes for months. You know… Packing?”

  Taylor stiffened. “I moved. The apartment was already here.”

  “How does that work?”

  He shut the door, motioning vaguely to the table. “My father does a lot of business in New York. He figured an apartment was cheaper than a hotel.”

  I took that as invitation to start unpacking my notes onto the table. “Why doesn’t he rent in New York?�
��

  “He hates the city. Tarrytown suits him better, and he doesn’t get rec— recommended. Things to do, places to go. He hates people recommending him things.”

  I frowned. “Really?”

  Taylor continued. “It’s quiet enough for him to work, and the commute isn’t terrible.” Taylor stood behind me, watching as I opened my binder. “You’re serious about studying?”

  “Did you think I wasn’t?” I sat down, patting the chair beside me.

  Taylor retrieved his own binder and sat. “They don’t study on Jersey Shore.”

  I elbowed him. “Most of what happens on Jersey Shore counts as biology. So, what did you cover already?”

  ****

  “No, it’s fine. I know how to order in— of course I am.” Taylor had turned his back on me to answer his phone. “I’ve got a classmate here— yes, from school. Where else would I get a classmate?”

  I smirked. Parents were the same the world over.

  “Helping me with my homework. Uh— I don’t know. I can ask. Sure. See you later.” Taylor ended the call.

  “Ask me what?”

  “That was a private conversation.”

  “That you just had in front of me.”

  Taylor tossed the phone from one hand to the other. “Shouldn’t you try to pretend that you’re not listening?”

  “It wouldn’t work. I am physically incapable of faking it.” My brain caught up to my mouth a moment too late. “Keeping secrets, I mean. I just kind of blurt things out.”

  Taylor’s fingers tightened around his phone. “You’re telling me.”

  “It sucks. In elementary school, it was Milo the tattletale, until fifth grade when we had Harriet the Spy for summer reading. I was Harriet until we graduated. Middle school was better. I was just Milo the sneak. Then high school. I joined the newspaper.”

  “And found your true calling as a gossip columnist?”

  “Hey!” I sat up. “I’m not the guy who is getting schooled in science by someone who keeps up with the Kardashians.”

  “I’m not sure who that reflects more badly on, me or you. You just admitted to enjoying the Kardashians.”

  I shrugged. “No shame in owning who you are.”

  “You could just not tell stories.”

  “You try it! It’s harder than you think.”

  “Not really.” Taylor hesitated and then sat down, still toying with his phone.