Winter (Four Seasons #1)

by Frankie Rose

  MORGAN’S MOM lets me pick her up the next day, after she signed a contract that Mr. and Mrs. Kepler actually had notarized by a lawyer stating she would attend counseling and rehabilitation sessions at Seabrook House without fail. If she misses one appointment, she’ll no longer be allowed to stay in school and she’ll have to go back to fulltime rehab.

  We arrive back at Columbia in time for me to drop her at her apartment before I leave for class, promising to come by as soon as I’m done. In truth I’m seconds away from skipping; it would mean spending more time with Morgan and making sure she’s okay, and it would also mean avoiding Noah. And I want to avoid Noah like I want to avoid the plague.

  There’s no chance I’m getting out of Media Law and Ethics, though—not after Professor Lang’s disappointed speech last time. I arrive exactly on time for class and sit down in my seat, too wary to glance over and look at Noah. Professor Lang has been speaking for twenty minutes by the time I find the courage, and it’s a major anti-climax when I realize he isn’t even there. Noah skipped. He’s skipped class because of yesterday. It’s completely ridiculous that he’d do that, but then his whole reaction was ridiculous. I push him out of my head, sick and tired of worrying about the whole thing. Professor Lang does a damn good job of distracting me, anyway.

  “The news is no longer folded sheets of paper that we buy should we happen to remember on our way to work. It’s alerts on our phones, pop-ups on our computer screens, interruptions to our favourite television shows. Global events are instantly reported mere seconds after occurring. With everything so immediate, so push of a button, so in our faces, we need to ask ourselves, how have the roles of journalists evolved in the wider world? What are their duties? Their responsibilities?”

  I can’t help but feel like Professor Lang’s gaze lingers on me a little too long. My suspicions are confirmed when he removes his glasses and polishes the lenses on his untucked shirt. “Perhaps you have some thoughts on this matter, Miss Patterson?”

  Curse him. He’s never called on me before. All eyes are on me—a sensation instantly unpleasant and confronting. “I, uh…” Sweat beads on my forehead. “I personally feel that there’s an onus on journalists to be truthful in their reporting. The truth has to be the most important thing, right?”

  “You’re asking me, or you’re telling me?”

  Fuck. If this is some sort of test, I have no idea how to pass it. I imbue my tone with a level of confidence I don’t feel when I say, “I’m telling you.”

  Lang frowns, returning his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “Okay. So if we work to that principle—that the truth is the most important factor here—how does a journalist know fact from fiction when they’re required to report on something so quickly? Before someone else can jump in with both feet and beat them to the punch?”

  “I…I don’t know. I guess that’s where fact checkers come in.”

  “Fact checkers?”

  “Yes.”

  “This isn’t the seventies, Miss Patterson. Anyone with a smart phone and enough common sense to ask questions can do so freely. You request a fact checker at the New York Times and you’d be fired on the spot. Your job as a journalist is to be able to quickly and efficiently check the veracity of your information in person. I suggest if you need a week to comfortably confirm your sources before going to print or, indeed, to air, then you should perhaps go to the The New Yorker and become a fact checker yourself.”

  The class titters at Lang’s remark. I slump down into my seat, wondering why I’m being torn a new one. So far I’ve been invisible in this class, and I’ve liked it that way. But worse than being the center of attention right now, Lang is challenging me to defend my decisions…decisions I’m sure he knows are very personal to me. “Then I’ll revise my statement. The most important responsibility a journalist has is to report as judiciously as possible, including only information they believe to be true after verifying first the legitimacy of their information to the best of their ability. Journalists who choose to sensationalize the news for their own ratings, people who scavenge over the truth like it’s a goddamned buffet and they can take and leave whatever they decide without a thought or care for how their words effect people, that’s the kind of journalism that should be avoided at all costs.”

  The room is silent. Lang considers this for a moment, his lips pursed. “I agree. But it’s not always that easy, is it? Emotions often get in the way regardless of how hard a person may try to remain impartial.” He breaks his focus, a reprieve from the intensity of his stare, and takes a look at the rest of the student body. “I have an assignment for you, class, and you can thank Miss Patterson for the extra workload. I want each and every one of you to tell me the truth. Tell me a greater truth about an event that has shaped and formed you into who you are today. And I don’t want to hear anyone telling me such an event in their past does not exist, because that would be…wait for it… a lie. There’s always something. We all have one. But—” he breaks off when the class starts groaning. “But! I want you to tell that greater truth from someone else’s perspective, someone else who knows that terrible incident inside and out. This is where the problems begin, class. We hit brick walls when we start to borrow other people’s truths. Our experiences, our prejudices, our own personal beliefs all color the way we choose to pick over the buffet of truth as Miss Patterson so eloquently worded it. So, in short, be creative. Be bold. Be subjective. Be whatever you need to be, but most importantly, be honest. I’ll expect all of your Pulitzer worthy, vainglorious pieces to be turned in by the end of the week.”

  The lecture theatre erupts into conversation and complaints as Lang begins packing his laptop and papers away, and I sit there trying to become invisible again. But I can’t. He’s asking me to do something, to put myself out there—but not only that. He’s asking me to involve someone else in the process, look at my situation through their eyes and report it back in stark black and white without allowing my tormented past to effect the work. It’s just not possible. It’s cruel is what it is.

  I pack up my laptop, my desire to escape becoming more and more pressing as the seconds tick by. I have three text messages waiting for me when I get outside. Just what I need on top of my new, terrifying assignment: more boy drama. And that’s exactly what it is. My stomach pitches when I see one message is from Luke, the other two from Noah. Noah’s first message reads,

  Noah: Sorry, Avery Patterson. I know what you’re thinking right now, and yes, I feel stupid.

  I skip over Luke’s message in the middle to read Noah’s second text—not because I’m so much more desperate to read Noah’s, but because I’m more apprehensive about what Luke might have to say.

  Noah: It’s funny how sometimes one apology just doesn’t feel quite enough. I need to say it again: I’m really sorry. I can’t bear to see you again until you say you’ve forgiven me, and that you’ll give me a second shot. Please?

  Me: There’s nothing to apologize for. And of course I want to see you. Come by the apartment after five if you aren’t busy.

  It takes me until I reach Margo’s diner to talk myself into opening Luke’s text. His is a little more concise and less pleading, but it’s an apology all the same.

  Luke: Didn’t have time to look through our homework yesterday, sorry. Something came up, so no news. Will call later if I have anything.