by M. F. Lorson
Mackey tilted his head up. The typical man wave, not unfriendly but certainly not warm. I remembered what he said about Anderson planning a guys night because not everyone had a date. I guess he was one of the didn’t-have-a-dates because instead of waiting in line for a fancy bracelet made of flowers, he sat down at a computer and began cutting and pasting pictures from the fall theatre production into a two-page drama spread. I wondered if he wished he had a date or was as cool and nonchalant as he acted. A person could put on a face. After all, I was smiling and nodding at everything Elliot said, happy to help out, but that didn’t mean a little part of me didn’t fantasize about being held close while great ballads of the eighties and nineties swelled in the background.
“Decision time,” said Elliot, snapping me out of my fantasy. “Do we stick with the design Bianca used last year and offer the people consistency or do we go rogue and develop our own brand?”
It was a tough question. On the one hand no one had complained about last year’s paper, but on the other hand, no one had raved about it either.
“I think we do our own.” I answered, “New year, new editor, new paper.”
Elliot’s eyes lit up at my use of the word editor. It had been months since Mr. Barkley handed him the keys, yet he still looked pleasantly surprised every time he heard it. I suppose he had wanted editor as badly as I wanted to win High School Journalist of the Year or to press my lips up against his.
“Alright then,” said Elliot. “Would you mind reading through these and letting me know what you think?” Elliot passed a small stack of papers in my direction. “These are some of the more questionable articles.”
I cocked one eyebrow, “Questionable content or…”
“Questionable as to whether or not we should publish them at all.”
“Gotcha,” I said, grabbing the stack and taking a seat to evaluate. It was flattering that he thought so much of my opinion, but it also felt a little dirty reading other people’s work like that, especially when they weren’t there to defend themselves.
This kind of job required a system. When I was younger, Mom took me on a tour of her publishing house. The editors there received hundreds of manuscripts a day. To decide what to keep and what to toss, they lined the back wall with three piles. Yes, Maybe, and Slush. These piles were each marked by a sheet of copy paper. The yes pile had a smiley face above it. The maybe pile had a straight lined mouth for its expression, and the no/slush pile looked a lot like those Mr. Yuck stickers on the side of poison bottles. I decided to use the same system with the pile in front of me. I grabbed a stack of sticky notes, drew my faces and stuck each to the front of my desk.
The first article was Veronica’s. Girls basketball wasn’t doing much so Elliot had given her permission to write something for Arts and Entertainment. Predictably it was a puff piece, that read a lot like a feature. Should the cafeteria offer currently trending diet options? In this case, Keto friendly foods. Of course, her stance was yes. Of course, she didn’t do any research on the opposing side. My first impulse was to say scratch the whole thing. Articles about cafeteria food were cliche at best. However, not publishing an article by Veronica in the first paper Elliot presided over would be a mistake. It would look petty, even if there were a good reason behind it. I set it in the keep pile and moved on.
The next article was far easier to decide on. Not only was it still riddled with grammatical errors, but you’d also be hard-pressed to determine what the piece was actually about, even though the headline read, Tennis to Join Spring Sports Lineup. I looked at the top corner of the paper for the writer’s name. It was a freshman boy, new to our staff. He shouldn’t be too heartbroken to hear we weren’t running his first story. Freshman rarely got in on their first try.
The third article, however, turned my stomach. It was my headline but Andie’s article and though I felt terrible thinking it, it was awful. I put it in the maybe pile and called Elliot over to discuss. We agreed to kill the tennis story immediately, convincing him to include Veronica’s was slightly more difficult but when it came to Andie’s we both felt awkward.
“It would need a substantial re-write.” I cautioned.
“The paper goes out next week,” replied Elliot. “I don’t know if one week is enough time to make that print-ready.” We both knew he was right.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Let her down gently?”
“I think it might be better coming from a friend,” he said, unable to meet my eyes. Mackey’s chair squeaked from across the room. I was pretty sure he was leaning back to listen in on our conversation. Not that I could blame him. There was no one else in the room to pay attention to.
“I don’t know—that should really come from her editor don’t you think?” I asked. Telling people when their work wasn’t good enough was the toughest part of being the editor, but it was part of it.
“Some might even say that’s your job,” interjected Mackey, keeping his eyes on the screen in front of him.
“And your opinion matters because why?” snapped Elliot.
“Forget I said anything.” said Mackey, “I’ll just continue listening to you pass the buck in silence.” Elliot gave me an exaggerated eye roll. I could tell he wanted it to come off as if he couldn’t care less what the big dumb jock in the back of the room said, but it obviously bothered him. Why else was that vein throbbing on his forehead?
Elliot reached up and brushed a strand of hair out of my eye. Cupping my cheek just for a second in the process. My face felt hot from his touch, or I was blushing, or both, I couldn’t tell anymore. “I think since you two have been working together on this one. It might be less intimidating if you explain why you chose not to run it? That makes sense. Doesn’t it Lane?” I could feel my pulse quickening.
“I...I guess I could try.” I said, my voice hardly more than a squeak.
“I knew you would understand,” said Elliot, instantly returning to his own space bubble. It was probably for the best. Anymore contact than that and I was likely to burst. “I really appreciate it Lane and not just your talking to Andie—everything. Helping her with the article in the first place, spending your day off here in the newsroom when you could be, should be really, getting ready for the dance.”
It was my turn to break eye contact. I looked everywhere but at him, as I said, “I would be if I had a date, but since I don’t—” I knew it was silly, but a little part of me hoped all he needed was a little nudge, that as Andie had said, he was just blind to all of the awesome standing in front of him.
No such luck. The conversation came to a screeching halt. I could feel the room filling with awkwardness the way a smoke bomb fills the air with dark clouds of white. I wished someone had indeed thrown a smoke bomb, then at least I could escape. This moment would have been uncomfortable no matter what, but it was made far worse by Mackey chilling in the back of the room, not so secretly listening to every word we said.
Finally, Elliot spoke, breaking the spectacularly awkward silence. “Hey, I’m gonna run down to Perky’s and grab us some coffee. Do you want anything?”
“I’ll take an Americano,” I cried, eagerly grabbing onto his question like the rescue raft that it was. Elliot hightailed it out of the room, probably trying to escape the smell of desperation. Why oh why was I so bad at boys? This boy in particular. I plodded back to my desk to stare off into space in peace.
No such luck. Mackey’s chair screeched across the linoleum as he rose and headed in my direction. Just what I needed, feedback from the peanut gallery.
“Fun day in the old newsroom,” said Mackey, pretending to browse back issues of the Rosemark Review.
I ignored the comment. The previous five minutes had been awkward enough without Mackey coming over for a recap.
“That’s cool. That’s cool.” he continued. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,”
I grabbed a pencil from inside my desk and began jotting down important notes for later. Reminders like, Homecom
ing is for losers and you didn’t even have a dress.
“So,” said Mackey, apparently feeling very persistent today. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, grabbing a seat on top the desk directly in front of me.
“Talk about what?” I asked, as if I were utterly oblivious to what had transpired just a few minutes ago.
“Riiiight,” said Mackey. “Everything about that conversation was totally normal.”
I glared up at him, every intention of maintaining a stone cold attitude. But one look at his face and I crumbled.
“I’m not sure it could have gone worse,” I said, reburying my head in my arms.
Mackey sighed, “I am not the person to give you romantic advice but…”
“Go on,” I warbled.
“But it looks to me like Elliot is using you.” I don’t know what I thought he was going to say, but that was not it. “He’s having you do his dirty work with Andie, and if you hadn’t said otherwise, I’m pretty sure he would have had you ‘let her down softly’ with Veronica as well.”
I knew there was a grain of truth to what he was saying, but feeling needed by Elliot made me feel too good to say no. And this is what I wanted right? When I voted for him to be the editor? For us to be a team? To work closely together so he could see my strengths, see me for once? Helping him out with Andie didn’t seem so bad if we were really friends. I could convince myself of anything when it came to Elliot, but I knew how it looked to other people. There was no sense denying it.
“I know,” I mumbled.
“You what?”
“I know,” I repeated my words swallowed whole by the cocoon my arms had created for them.
Mackey gently tugged my arms to the side, tilting my head up with his thumb and forefinger. “I can’t hear you when you’re talking to the desk,” he said, looking deep into my eyes. I straightened up in my chair.
I said, “I know. I know he should be delivering the bad news. I just, I don’t mind doing him a favor on occasion. Friends do that, you know.”
Mackey cocked one eyebrow, “Friends?”
“Yes, friends.”
“Cub, if you think anyone, including Elliot, thinks your feelings for him are platonic you are losing it.”
“It’s super obvious, isn’t it?”
“Painfully. But why? What’s the draw? I know nerds are in and all, but I don’t understand the appeal. What happened to all the cool girls liking rockstars and athletes?”
“Athletes, huh?”
Mackey turned a light shade of pink from his neck to the tips of his ears. “You know what I mean!” His obvious flustering was kind of adorable. Why couldn’t I have that effect on Elliot? Flirting with Mackey was so much easier.
“Honestly, I’ve basically been in love with Elliot since the sixth grade.” Mackey’s eyes widened at the word love.
“This I’ve got to hear,” he said, reaching into his backpack where he pulled out a bag of potato chips and a Gatorade. He tore open the bag, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Go on.”
“Go on what?” I asked.
“You’re a writer, tell me a story. I want to know what mistakes I made in the sixth grade that have left me woefully single today.”
I smiled, the memory still fresh from the roughly one thousand times I had played it over and over again in my head. “Picture this” I began, “Mrs. Farmer’s leadership class. Sixth grade. We are all making signs for student council elections. I was running for Vice President so was Elliot. I didn’t know him then. We weren’t in the same class. My sign said, ‘Changes Over Promises: Vote Lane Crawford,’ but I had used an apostrophe between the E and S.” So while I meant to say Changes I was really saying Change is over promises. I’d used the possessive when I meant the plural.”
“This is riveting.”
“You asked,” I reminded.
“No, I’m serious. This is riveting. Continue,” said Mackey, munching down on a chip.
“Elliot was an office assistant that period, and when he delivered a message to Mrs. Farmer from the school receptionist; he saw me making my signs.”
“Oh my! Now it’s getting juicy.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you want to hear this or not?”
Mackey pulled an invisible zipper over his lips.
He said, “I love your slogan. It really crafts a great message.”
“He said that in the sixth grade?” said Mackey, apparently forgetting about his invisibly sealed lips.
“Yes! He has always been mature for his age.”
“If by mature you mean dresses like a Grandpa…”
I ignored the not-so-subtle jab. Elliot and Mackey were like two different species. You couldn’t expect them to just exist alongside one another in peace.
“As I was saying,” I growled, “He said, I really crafted a great message but that I should fix the apostrophe if I wanted people to take me seriously. So I did, and I won Vice President and he lost, which never would have happened if I’d hung signs all over the school with typos in them.”
Mackey nodded, “How self-sacrificing of him!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I replied. I knew he was being sarcastic, but I refused to let him taint my perfect memory. “Elliot could have kept his mouth shut, and he would have got what he wanted. But instead, he chose to help me.” I finished
“And?” asked Mackey.
“And what?”
Mackey looked at me incredulously, “And for that reason, six years later, with no progress whatsoever, you still carry a torch?”
I shrugged. “When you put it that way-”
Mackey shook his head, “Girls are far more complicated than I thought.” I opened my mouth to defend my sex but quickly snapped it back shut as Elliot re-entered the newsroom, a coffee in each hand.
“Am I interrupting something?” He asked, casting a not-so-friendly look in Mackey’s direction.
Mackey jumped down from his desk and slung his backpack over his shoulder to leave.
“Cub here was just explaining to me the tremendous impact an apostrophe can have on a man’s life,” he said with a wink.
“Cub?” asked Elliot, as Mackey exited.
Chapter Nine
Dear Jillie,
I don’t want to say that I have a thing for Mackey. Because that would totally undermine my undying love for Elliot. But, things are getting confusing. Maybe he has a point about Elliot using me to do his dirty work for the Gazette. When I said I wanted to work closely with him and that his being editor would mean we would spend more time together, I imagined us sculpting the paper into the best version possible.
I didn’t see myself managing people. Now, we are one week from the first edition, I haven’t written a single word, and our working together has consisted of him asking me for favors and me being grateful that he’s talking to me at all. Am I being used? Or am I needed? Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. What I really want is to be wanted, but so far that isn’t happening.
I wish I were more like Andie. Half the boys in this school are desperate to meet her. Even Mackey, (who is just about the easiest guy on the planet to talk to by the way), couldn’t keep his eyes off of her at Perky’s. The truth is, I know the differences between Andie and me are bigger than good genes. People like all the parts of her not just some. How do I make Elliot see more than my brain without molding myself into someone I don’t recognize?
I wanted this year to be a checklist on my path to success, so far the only things I’ve been checking off are my hopes and aspirations. Sure, I received my acceptance letter from Northwestern, but there is still no word on my scholarship application. I am supposedly working toward changing the face of high school sports journalism with my profile series on the starting five, but I haven’t actually written a word yet, and my mistletoe plans get more complicated every day.
Come home and fix things? K thanks.
See you when I see you.
Love,
&nb
sp; Lane
I didn’t get dressed up because I was having dinner with Mackey and one-third of the basketball team. That would be silly. I was dressing up because...because heck, I was meeting up with one-third of the basketball team! It didn’t even matter that these weren’t the type of guys I typically went for. Secretly, I think every girl wants to have a geek-to-sleek makeover moment where the jock makes moon eyes at the normal girl from geometry class.
After leaving the newsroom that afternoon, I’d stopped off at Marlowe Junction’s top boutique, Lilly’s Closet. The store owner was a bit of a kook, but she had great taste in clothes. She ordered in stuff you couldn’t find in Boulder or the big department stores. I’d gone in looking for heels that were subtle but had good height, (turns out Mom wasn’t too keen on lending out her best pair of boots) and Lilly had talked me into a pair of brown suede boots that lace up to the knee and a pair of thick cream lace boot toppers to wear under them. I was eighty bucks poorer, but I looked every bit as good as the cheerleaders the starting five usually hung around with.
I stopped by Mom’s office on the way out. She always gave me the final outfit assessment.
“Thumbs up or thumbs down?” I asked. Only Mom wasn’t in her office as I had assumed.
“In here, honey,” she called.
I stepped around the corner following the sound of her voice. The bathroom door was open, and my mom stood over the sink, the countertop strewn with items I hadn’t seen in a very long time.
“Mom!” I cried. “Are you doing your makeup?” I could think of exactly three times in the last year that I had seen Mom apply makeup. All of which related to a meeting with her publisher. There was no way she was meeting anyone from Inkling Media after 5:00 p.m. and certainly not wearing that.
“No,” replied Mom, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m changing the oil.” I tossed my bag to the floor and folded my arms over my chest.
