by Gwen Hayes
I shrugged. “Most of the time.” Just not your average girl. Hearts and flowery talk gave me hives.
By the time our date ended, I’d helped Chuck write out a script for making up with his girlfriend. We even had Plan B and Plan C, depending on how well she responded—or how well she didn’t. He told me over and over how this was the best date he’d ever been on. I told him he probably shouldn’t share that little nugget with his ex.
We stood in front of the restaurant, and I broke the rules and hugged him goodbye.
My ride home was less than amused.
“That was irresponsible and unethical, Logan.”
“What is your problem?” I’d barely buckled myself in before Foster peeled out into the street.
“A good reporter knows the boundaries of an interview.”
“I thought it was a date.”
His white knuckles looked stark against the black of the steering wheel. “There were signed contracts. I can’t believe you just…”
“Just what? Acted like a girl?”
Foster didn’t say another word to me until he pulled into my driveway. “How was the tiramisu?”
I slid out of my seat. “It was better than I expected.”
Chapter Three
Mr. February
Monday morning found me where every weekday morning found me—in the newsroom before school trying to figure out what I’d done to deserve the mess I’d been handed.
Someone had dumped several cases of old textbooks in the middle of our newsroom before I’d gotten there that morning. I guessed we were now the new school storage closet. As I lugged them to the corner and stacked them against a wall, I tried to sort out some of my to-do list.
We still needed to recruit a decent photographer, especially for the calendar. We also still needed to come up with some regular columns and find some investigative stories to report on. Plus we needed to learn web design because not one of those new girls knew any code at all, and I sure as heck didn’t.
Only a few weeks ago, I’d been blissfully unaware of the jam I’d be in. I looked forward to my senior year. Until Mr. Blake called Foster and me to the school a week before class started.
“As you know, the school district—our entire community—is facing some tough economic choices,” Mr. Blake had begun. “There’s no easy way to say this, kids—they’ve cut journalism from the schedule. The local newspaper is shutting down too, which means there will be no Follower this year.”
It was the day the music died for me. And not the Madonna version either, thanks.
The local paper used to do our print runs for free. With them out of business, we couldn’t go to print, which is why we opted for a web version. Why we opted for any version at all had more to do with pride and stubbornness. The two things Foster and I had in common.
Trying to resurrect the institution that once was the paper consumed me. So much so that I didn’t realize I was no longer alone in the newsroom until someone cleared her throat.
“How was your date?” Maryanne asked. Right away, my Spidey sense tingled. Typically, Maryanne was not one of the before-school visitors. Sometimes she came in at lunch, but usually just after school. She was also the only girl who wasn’t always hanging all over Foster.
“It wasn’t bad,” I answered. “He was pretty nice.” I watched her body language closely.
Maryanne didn’t look at me, instead traced her finger back and forth across the scarred tabletop. “Did you think he was…interesting?”
“I suppose so. He was kind of…” I was about to say vanilla when I realized she was working extra hard at acting nonchalant. “Obsessed.”
She nodded and sighed. “With sports, right?” She twisted her ring, “I mean, you know, like all boys.”
“No. In fact, he barely talked about basketball at all.”
Her head shot up, and her eyes blazed with curiosity. “What was he obsessed with, then?”
I shrugged and powered up a computer. “His ex-girlfriend.”
One. Two. Three.
“Really?”
“Yeah. He had zero interest in dating me at all. Or anyone else. I think he just went along with the idea to find out what girls are looking for. I think he’d do anything to get her back.” Even date me.
“Really? Huh.” She bit her lip. “So what did he say about his girlfriend?”
“You mean his ex-girlfriend.”
“Yeah.”
“Maryanne…why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Her cheeks pinkened. “What do you mean?”
“Never try to hide your motives from a reporter. We can smell deception like garlic. Chuck is still crazy about you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her smile said differently.
“He even tried tiramisu last night.”
“What is tiramisu?” she asked.
“Exactly.”
I love it when people have little light bulb moments. I only had to wait a second before she realized that I was telling her that her boyfriend was at least trying to overcome his inclination toward all things boring.
“Maryanne, the paper still needs a sportswriter. I think you should sign up for that position.”
“But I don’t know much about sports, except maybe basketball.”
“It’s a shame. None of us on staff do, really. Elden and Foster aren’t exactly fanatics either.”
“His name is Alden.”
“Huh?”
“The guy you keep calling Elden is really Alden.”
“Oh. Wow. He must hate me.”
“No more than he hates Jimmy,” she agreed.
“Meh. Everybody should hate Foster. Anyway, it’s too bad that nobody here knows very much about sports. Even if someone wanted to learn more about them, that would be helpful. Like, if they knew somebody who could spend time teaching them about sports or something.”
She crossed her arms. “You think I should have Chuck help me write the sports stories, don’t you?”
“I might be thinking that he knows too much about sports and not enough about you—and you know all about you but nothing about sports.”
“I’ll, um, think about it.”
“You do that.”
After Maryanne left, I had one blissful moment of solitude before Lucifer joined me.
I hopped on the table. “Hey, Satan, how’s it going?” I asked.
“Fantastic. I recommend beginning every day bathing in the blood of sacrificed virgins. It’s quite invigorating. How was your weekend? Did you clip coupons and knit socks for the war effort?” He stood in front of me and dropped his books on the table to my right.
“No, sadly, my sciatica was acting up again. Hey, did you know Elden’s name is Alden?”
“Who is Elden?”
“Never mind. What do you think of Maryanne taking the sports section with help from her jock boyfriend?”
“Can he write?”
“I have no idea. But he can translate the stats into English.”
“That might have to be enough. It’s more than we have right now, anyway. Maybe they can do a ‘He Said/She Said’ column.”
“Nice.” I scribbled down a note on his spiral notebook with the pen he’d left on top of it “Don’t let me forget to pitch that idea to her this afternoon. What’s on our agenda this week?”
“I need to start booking photo shoots with the super models until we get a new photographer. Sounds like you may have wrapped up our sports section. We still need to figure out the website design or we’ll end up using a free blog.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Unless we can recruit someone from the computer tech classes, that would be cooler. When is my next calendar interview?”
“Your next date is Wednesday. Maybe you should get a haircut or something.”
“What is wrong with my hair?” I held up my hand. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t care.”
“That’s sort of what’s wrong with your hair.”
/> Even though it meant showing weakness, I couldn’t help patting my ponytail. I was low-maintenance, but not no-maintenance. That stupid smirk lit up his face again. So, naturally, I had to make things worse.
Dragging the band out of my hair, I shook my head and loosened the full effect of my blonde mane on him. I crossed my legs and leaned back coyly. “Is that better?” Then I gave him a little wink and a pout.
I waited for the witty comeback. Or even a witless one. But he just looked at me for the longest time. It got to be too much. “I have to go to class,” I said
“Yeah, me too.”
Again I waited. Because he was still standing in front of me. I sat up, shifting my weight to make it obvious he was in the way.
And still nothing.
I picked up his pen and tossed it to the other side of the room. “You dropped your pen.”
Finally spurred to action, he retrieved his ballpoint, and I took the opportunity to slink off the table and to the door. Whatever game he was playing, I needed to…well, insert some appropriate sports metaphor here because I don’t know any.
* * *
Wednesday afternoon, I opened my heart.
Please, you can’t seriously think I’m getting all mushy on you.
I opened my interview assignment, written in calligraphy on a big pink heart. Somebody on my staff had way too much time on their hands.
The Salad Bowl.
Lane four. 6:30
The Salad Bowl was the only bowling alley in town. The newest owners were Mormon and took out the liquor bar and turned it into a salad bar. It’s a good looking spread, but the smell of feet and rented shoes was still too overpowering for me to want to eat salad in there. Anyway, it looked like I had an hour of bowling to get through regardless of how it smelled.
That Foster must really hate me. You know it had to be his idea. All I really wanted to do was go home and curl up with an old Philip Marlowe movie and pretend I was a hard-boiled private detective instead of a teenage girl going on a date. Why couldn’t I have been born Humphrey Bogart?
My car felt up to the drive, so I got to the Salad Bowl on my own. Which was good because I really didn’t want to have Foster dropping me off on any more dates.
I mean interviews.
Wednesday nights were not a league night, so the place was pretty quiet. They had installed a new sound system, or maybe I could just hear the music better since it was dead. At any rate, catchy pop tunes poured out of the speakers and the walls were refreshed in new paint. It almost made me want to bowl. I still just didn’t want to eat any salad.
One lanky boy sat in the booth on lane four, both arms stretched out to his sides, like he was making a point that he wasn’t watching the door. His hair, jet black, looked a little long in the back, but not unmanageable. It was black enough that I thought maybe he dyed it. Judging from the stripes on the long-sleeve tee under his black tee, I guess him to be just this side of emo.
He stood as I approached the lane, turning slowly, and whoa…hello…Abercrombie & Fitch Boy. His blue eyes pierced the all the parts of my brain that controlled my girly hormones.
Smitten, meet the girl formerly known as Layney.
“Hi, I’m Lay—”
He held my hand in both of his. “I know exactly who you are Layney Logan, which is why I agreed to this to begin with. I’m Micah.”
“You know who I am?”
“I’ve seen you around.” His coal lashes swept down and he blushed sweetly as he smiled. “I’ve always liked your column in the Follower. I’m glad you guys haven’t given up on the newspaper.”
Huh.
I’d never been so close to a guy who was so…beautiful…before. My endorphins were singing. Like…opera songs. It felt similar to the time that I jumped off a cliff to get the story with the Olympic diver who was an alumnus of our school. I even liked Micah’s eyebrow piercing, and I’m not usually into body jewelry.
I declined his offer to get us drinks or snacks, so we sat on the hard plastic bench and didn’t even pretend to be interested in bowling.
“Why haven’t I seen you at school?” I asked. Because I would have remembered. Trust me. I’m not sure teeth are supposed to be that white, but it worked for him.
“I’m probably not there as much as I should be.” He smiled, wickedly even.
“So what do you do that’s so important you have to cut class?”
“I skate.”
Sk8er boy? Seriously? “Oh.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re one of those people. Skateboarding isn’t a crime.”
I pursed my lips and gave him what I like to call my “mom” look while I waggled my finger in front of him. “Maybe not, but I believe cutting class is.”
He laughed, picking up my hand like he had every right to it. Of course, I didn’t stop him. “My absences are excused. I skate competitively. I travel a lot.”
“Oh.” Jeez Layney. Stick your foot in it, why dontcha? “Sorry about the whole judgmental thing. Not one of my best character traits.” And coupled with my lack of patience, probably why I don’t have many friends outside of the paper.
Micah, still playing my fingers despite the signed contract, waited for me to make eye contact before he said, “I hope you remember that when I tell you the next thing.”
Please don’t let it be drugs. Please?
“I’m a sophomore.”
My face fell.
I might have preferred drugs.
A sophomore?
“I was afraid of that. You don’t like younger guys, do you?” He continued playing with my fingers.
“To be honest, I don’t care for high school guys in general, not just the younger ones. I don’t date.”
“At all?”
“I’ve dated a few college guys, but for the most part I’m sort of married to the paper. It feels like cheating if I think about boys when I should be investigating something.”
“Sounds a little lonely.” He rubbed his knuckles gently up and down my arm.
“I find journalism fulfilling.”
“Layney, I love skating. It’s a passion—I get that. But it doesn’t replace other passions. You should make room for human beings too.”
I pulled my arm away from him. He didn’t even know me. “Now who’s being judgmental?”
“Sorry.” Slumping into his seat, he blew his bangs out of his eyes. “Did I screw it up already?”
I mimicked his posture and stared at the lane in front of us, all the pins at one end, set up in perfect alignment just waiting for someone to come along and knock them all down.
And I thought I didn’t know any sports metaphors.
I flipped my wrist. “According to my calculations, I have to suffer through forty-eight more minutes of your attention anyway.” I shrugged. “That’s probably plenty of time to change your luck, right?”
Micah dazzled me with his smile. God, why did he have to be a sophomore? I wanted to reach over and push his hair out of his eyes, but that would be wrong, right?
Right?
“I don’t know if forty-eight minutes is long enough. I might have to plead special circumstances and get another date.”
“Sorry, buddy. Rules are rules. You get sixty minutes and a no-contact order until after the story and calendar are published.”
“I’m pretty good at rule bending.”
I made a promise to myself to watch that boy skate sometime. I bet he was fabulous. “I get that impression about you.”
“It’s pretty big of you to sacrifice yourself like this for the paper. Having to date twelve guys. I bet no girls in school want to trade places with you or anything.”
I detected a note of sarcasm. “You have no idea. I think it just shows my commitment to the paper.”
He leaned in so close that I could see the specks of navy in his blue, blue eyes. “I’ve got something that your newspaper doesn’t have.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
He leaned back into th
e same position I found him in. “A pierced tongue.”
Chapter Four
Mr. March
My staff, minus the two we’d just lost due to their lack of faith in producing a newspaper from thin air (or more likely their realization that Foster wasn’t interested in hooking up), assembled around the table, once again in an argument. Foster wasn’t grinning for once. In fact, he’d been pretty quiet the last two days. You’d think I’d be thrilled, but it made me nervous.
And just a hint concerned. I’m human, all right? Just because I hated him didn’t mean I wanted bad things to happen to him. Or at least not heinously bad things.
I stood up and brought my fingers up like I was going to whistle. Okay, so I didn’t really know how to do that, but nobody else knew that. And it worked; they shut up and let me speak. “How about we try this one at a time? Elden, what happened at the student council meeting?”
“Mr. Haney told us that that effective November 1st, any cell phone seen in students’ hands during school hours would be confiscated. The device could then be picked up only by a parent and after a fifteen dollar fine was paid.” Then he added, “It isn’t fair.”
“Fair?” I asked.
“It seems unconstitutional to me,” a girl named Evie added.
My eyes wanted to roll so badly—but I simply closed them until the feeling passed. “It’s been two years since I’ve had U.S. history, but I’m pretty sure the constitution didn’t promise the right to bear cell phones.” I blew my bangs out of my eyes. “Let’s try this again, only this time, let’s pretend we’re reporters. Elden?”
“It isn’t fair!” Elden chimed in. Again. “And my name is Alden. Still.”
Whoops.
“Fair means nothing,” I said. “Lots of things aren’t fair. Try again. Where’s the story?”
Blank faces. And a very bored co-chief at the other end of the table, spinning his pen through his fingers and staring out the window.
Fine. I stood. “Is the seizure legal?”
“How would we know?” asked Elden, or Alden, whatever.
