by Emily Lowry
He opened the binder and read. His expression faltered. “I see.”
A lump formed in my throat. I thought he’d be excited that I’d got an early start. Why wasn’t he smiling? I’d spent all summer on that piece.
Nicholas glanced at Mr. Adebayo, who nodded, then back to me. “Can we talk?”
Three words no one ever wants to hear.
Nicholas led me into the editor’s office and shut the door. Framed articles hung from the wall, the paper yellowed with age. There was a shelf of neatly stacked books in the back corner. Through the closed door, I heard the other members of the school paper chatting, their voices muffled.
I couldn’t stand the tension.
“So, what do you think?” I blurted, my hands clammy.
He drummed his fingers over the paper. “I met with Mr. Adebayo about a week before school started. We talked about you.”
What? Why? Was that good? Bad?
The suspense was killing me.
“You’re a talented writer with great potential.” Nicholas sighed, taking off his glasses and polishing them on his shirt.
There was a but coming.
“But your range is narrow. You want to go to NYU, right?”
He remembered! I nodded, my smile tight and forced. “Like my mom.”
“They’ll want a portfolio, Abby.”
“I have one,” I insisted, looking at him strangely. What was coming?
“And what’s in it?”
I rattled off a list of investigate reports I’d finished. I had published almost all of them in the Panther Pinnacle over the last couple of years. Why was Nicholas asking? He was the person who reviewed ninety percent of my work. That’s why his opinion mattered so much.
“All investigative pieces,” he said.
“That’s what I want to do.” The chair I was sitting in suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “If you want to be an investigative journalist, you investigate. Practice makes perfect.”
“We have some concerns.” Nicholas said flatly.
I felt like I was being deflated.
“Is my writing not good enough?” That couldn’t be it. I was known around school — by those who knew me, at least — as the girl who writes. It was practically my entire identity.
To my surprise, Nicholas laughed. “You’re the best writer at the Pinnacle, Abby. Myself included. It’s your range that’s concerning. You’ve got the talent to get into NYU, but when they ask for a portfolio, Mr. Adebayo says they’ll want to see a range of different types of journalism. Which is why we’ve pulled you off investigative journalism for the semester.”
My brain short-circuited. I was — in their words — the best writer they had. I loved investigative journalism. And they were pulling me off of it? All of my hopes and dreams for my junior year felt like they were running through my hands, and I could not catch them.
I almost didn’t dare ask the next question that came to my mind. “What are you moving me to?”
“The social feature.”
“THE SOCIAL FEATURE?” I screeched.
Imagine a wrecking ball crashing through a china shop and you’ll know how I felt. My mouth was suddenly dry. The social feature was — in my opinion — the lamest, fluffiest part of the school paper. It was basically a glorified gossip column, for goodness sake! Nothing I cared about. And nothing like the hard-hitting investigative journalism that would get me into NYU.
Nicholas clasped his hands together, excited. “I pitched it to Mr. Adebayo this morning. I want a full feature on the social life of a student at Evermore. What’s it like to go to parties? Where do people go on dates? How does one navigate interpersonal relationships? What about dealing with all the rumors and lies that come with being part of the social fabric of our high school? It will be an amazing feature, and we hope we will significantly increase our readership with it!”
I sighed. He was right about nobody reading the paper at school. But if people wanted gossip, they wouldn’t come to the paper, they’d open Click and check who was on blast. Plus, I was hardly the best person to write a gossip column.
“Shouldn’t Payton do that?” Payton was one of the other juniors working at the paper. Pretty, relatively popular, and the daughter of the head football coach, Payton Clarence was much more intertwined with the Evermore ‘social fabric’ than I’d ever be.
“She wanted to do sports again this year,” Nicholas said. Of course she did, I thought flatly. If there was ever a way to get close to the football players, it was as our sports reporter. It’s the sort of perk that makes people like Payton work at the paper. I couldn’t deny how bitter my thoughts were.
Nicholas looked at me, his eyes bright with excitement. “And also, I think you’ll write a marvelous story. I believe in you. Do well here, and you’ll be the senior editor next year.” He grinned. “So, what do you say? Is my all-star reporter ready to dive in?”
Panic and butterflies battled in my chest as my thoughts also fought for space in my mind: He came up with the idea and assigned it to me because he thought it would be better for my future. But I had never even been to a high school party. He believed in me. Did anyone else? He thought I was “his” all-star.
“How could I say no?” I said weakly.
“Great!” Nicholas looked at me approvingly, his hazel eyes warm.
I tried to look enthusiastic, but inside, my brain was screaming at me.
There was one teeny tiny little problem: how was I supposed to write the social feature when I didn’t have a social life?
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Also by Emily Lowry
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