by Joan Bauer
Nan scooped scrambled egg whites onto Felix’s plate, no corn bread. She’d put him officially on the Last Chance Diet.
“They’re not a natural color,” Felix complained.
“It’s not about color, it’s about what it’s got inside.” Nan was his mother and could get away with this.
Felix bowed his head. “Lord, for some of what we are about to receive, let us be truly grateful.”
Chapter 5
Monday Morning Core staff meeting. Room 67B.
On the table—Tanisha’s recent pictures of life in Banesville. She was doing a town retrospective. She really could capture moments.
Puppies playing in the window of Pet People while kids watched and laughed.
A girl with a candied apple stuck in her hair.
A guy with vampire teeth in front of the old Ludlow place.
Darrell stood before us. “We have a big opportunity to get people to finally pay attention to the paper. Hildy, I need your copy ASAP on the Ludlow house stuff, including all the details about the dead body.”
“I don’t have any details on that, Darrell.”
“Well, The Bee does. Quote them.”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe what Piedmont is writing. I’m not writing anything I can’t check.”
“Call the sheriff, Hildy. Call somebody.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Hildy could interview the ghost,” Lev suggested. “That would be great for circulation. We could do a series—Hamlet’s ghost, the Ghost of Christmas Past, Casper.” He put his arm around me. “But I’m not sure Hildy believes in ghosts.”
Maybe the ghosts of old boyfriends.
I shook Lev’s arm off. “I’m not writing there’s a ghost until I have the facts that prove it. Mr. Loring said, ‘If it’s not an editorial, don’t draw conclusions.’”
Darrell sighed. We’d been writing together since third grade, when we began The Grammar School Gazette. Our first headline was questionable:
WIGGLESWORTH, CLASS RABBIT,
DIES MYSTERIOUSLY
It wasn’t all that mysterious—Wigglesworth was old and slept a lot—but Darrell said we weren’t sure of the cause of death.
“A mystery,” he said, “would make more people want to read it.” I never felt comfortable with that.
Darrell turned to Tanisha, T.R., and Elizabeth. “What do the rest of you think?”
“I agree with Hildy. We only write what we can double check,” said Tanisha.
“I don’t think we should be writing about it at all!” Elizabeth protested.
“We can’t drag our feet on this story,” Darrell insisted. “We have to get out there and be part of the dialogue.”
“Let’s show The Bee they’re not the only game in town!” That was T.R., sportswriter supreme.
“This isn’t Room Sixty-seven, right?” A guy I’d never seen before was standing in the doorway, looking lost.
“This is Sixty-seven B,” I told him. “Sixty-seven is upstairs, all the way at the end of the hall.”
“That’s illogical,” he said.
I laughed. “Welcome to Banesville High.”
The overhead light flickered.
The guy looked at it for a minute, then he dragged a chair over, stepped up, and hit the side. Nothing happened. He hit it again and the flickering stopped.
He stepped back down, put the chair away, and left.
“Who was that masked man?” Lev asked.
He had very nice eyes, actually.
The guy stuck his head back in the doorway. “Zack Coleman,” he said. “I started at this school last week.”
And with that he was gone.
“Attention, students…”
The principal’s deep voice crackled through the intercom. “Due to our collapsed roof problem, Monday’s drama classes will not meet in the auditorium, but in the cafeteria. If you are not part of the Monday drama group, do not go to the cafeteria unless you are having lunch.” There was a pause, a click, then Mrs. Kutash, the principal, was back. “The physics lab has been temporarily moved to the art room. That is all.”
“I’m not sure I got that.” The new guy, Zack, opened a locker three down from mine.
“I’m not sure anyone did,” I said.
He was wearing a black T-shirt with faded jeans. He was a little taller than me and had light brown eyes with very expressive eyebrows.
Mrs. Kutash’s voice came on again. “If you are part of the Drama Club, please meet in the cafeteria for practice. One moment…” The intercom crackled. “Look, if you are in any drama group whatsoever, just go to the cafeteria.” She sighed. “I promise to get this right eventually.”
Zack looked at the ceiling. “Can she see us, too?”
“Probably. Big Mother is watching you.”
He laughed as the sounds of pounding feet came toward us. Two girls wearing caps that read Are You Desperate? headed toward the cafeteria. Desperate People was the name of the fall play. It spoke for us all.
On my locker someone had taped a creepy picture of the Ludlow house and written across it, The End Is Near.
“So you’re new in Banesville, right?” I asked him.
Eyes on The End Is Near. “Yeah.”
“We have this issue in town.”
He shouldered his book bag. “I heard about the ghost.” He took out a pen, walked to The End Is Near sign, crossed out Near, and wrote Under Investigation.
I laughed. “That’s better. I take it you don’t believe in ghosts.”
He smiled. “I believe in science. What about you?”
I told him I was writing an article for the paper about it; I was trying to assess the situation.
“In any assessment you have to collect the data and separate what you can quantify from what you can’t.”
I said I was doing that.
The bell rang. “The temporary physics lab in the art room is which way?” Zack asked.
“Down the hall to the left, past the elevator that doesn’t work. Take a right at the stairs that have been roped off. It’s next to the cafeteria.”
“What?”
“Just follow the desperate people.”
“Just because you cheated on me, Jason, doesn’t mean I’m desperate. You think the world needs to revolve around you? You think that your unfaithfulness is going to stop my life somehow and make me forget who I am?” Joleene Jowrey, the lead in Desperate People, was working herself into a dramatic froth on the makeshift stage in the cafeteria.
Lev played Jason. It was perfect casting. “You can think what you want, Monique,” Lev declared. “You can weave it like you always do to be the victim, or you can finally begin to look at yourself.”
He said something similar to me when I accused him of cheating.
Art imitates life: okay as a concept—unfun when it’s all too true.
Lev tipped his hat and botched his line: “Monique, someday I hope you’ll…um…” He looked at Mrs. Terser, the drama coach.
“‘Find the courage to be who you really are,’” she shouted.
Lev said that.
It was a lesson for us all.
I headed down the hall past homecoming posters reminding one and all about the big election coming up for Homecoming Queen. Normally I don’t care much about that, but this year Lacey Horton was running, and Bonnie Sue Bomgartner, who had never gotten over giving up the Apple Blossom crown to Lacey, was desperate to win. The other candidates were Chelsea Meeks and Joleene Jowrey’s twin sister, Jackie.
I saw Lacey racing down the hall.
“I’m voting for you,” I told her.
Her eyes seemed red, like she’d been crying.
“Lacey, are you okay?”
She nodded, bit her lip, and rushed down the hall past a homecoming banner.
Even if I’d started planning last summer, I wouldn’t be going this year.
That was one thing in town I didn’t have to wonder about.
“I was thinking abou
t our subpar love lives.” Tanisha leaned back in the comfy brown chair at Minska’s Cafe.
I sipped my iced white chocolate. “I try not to think about it.”
“But facing the truth, Hildy, is empowering.” Empowerment was her theme this year. Tanisha speared a piece of poppyseed cake with lemon icing. “So, the truth is, we can rest easy because there are no interesting guys at our school.”
Being a fact-based person, I checked the list of guys, stopping briefly at Aaron Dean, but no—Aaron had that tendency to unwrap candy slowly and loudly at the movies.
Tanisha raised her hands in the air. “There is no one left for us to go out with. We can focus on something else.”
“Don’t you think that’s depressing?”
“Only if I focus on it.”
I burrowed into the green love seat. Minska wanted her cafe to feel like home. She had couches and bookcases among the booths and the counter—the whole place was happily eclectic. A customer went to the bookcase and pulled out a dictionary.
Nathan Forrester, my first former boyfriend, was at a table in the back. Tanisha had warned me about going out with him and Lev. I’d warned her about going out with Clive Ramsey, ace basketball star, who did a slam dunk with her ego when he dropped her three days before the prom to go out with a much less interesting girl from Chesterton.
“You know where we got stuck?” Tanisha asked. “We were looking for faithful, loving, perfect relationships—males who were always glad to see us.”
“So?”
“We already have that.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
She smirked. “We’ve got dogs.”
I slurped the last of my drink and took out the creative writing paper I’d gotten back—unfairly graded (a B minus) by Mrs. Terser, drama coach and English teacher. I showed Tanisha the paper, pointing to the margin note Mrs. Terser had written:
How did it feel to stand on the pier and look at the water?
“How did it feel?” Tanisha asked me.
“It felt peaceful. I said that in the first line.”
Tanisha shook her head. “You need to say something like…‘The peaceful morning wrapped around me like a warm blanket.’”
“Please!”
“She’d love that.”
“You’re asking me to sell out.”
“I’m asking you to be realistic. The woman wants metaphors, Hildy. She’s going to retire in a few years. You’re not going to change her.” Tanisha could snag an A from any teacher.
Minska was at the register, laughing deep and full. Everything about Minska was like that. When she’s sad—it goes deep; when she’s happy—everyone in the room gets a piece of it. I interviewed her for The Core last year, and not just because she’s one of our best advertisers. She’s had the most amazing life. Minska was a teenager in Poland when the Communists took control of the TV and radio stations.
“All we could get,” she said, “was their agenda day and night. They thought they were stronger because they had the media and the tanks. They didn’t understand what some people will do to fight for the truth.”
What some people did was turn their televisions toward the street in protest. Other people walked their dogs every night when their favorite radio show used to be on.
Minska headed toward us. She was wearing an orange blouse and her signature black pants that billowed when she walked. Her hair was short, her earrings were long.
“How’s the news business?” she asked.
“Complicated,” I said.
“Important things usually are.” She held out a plate of tiny meatballs. We speared two. “Ground veal, bread crumbs, nutmeg, salt. It’s all how you put it together.” She carried the meatballs to each table. “We have special guests today.” She pointed to me and Tanisha. “Young women reporters. Treat them well.”
Everyone smiled at us until the front door opened and Pen Piedmont walked in with two other men. People jumped up and asked him if there was anything new about the murder.
His eyes sparkled. “We’re following every lead, folks. We’re trying to get all your questions answered. Our number-one priority is to get to the truth and make sure the streets in Banesville are safe.”
It sounded like he was running for mayor.
Tanisha whispered, “It’s code blue, Hildy.”
We’d developed a color-coded warning system.
Red meant “Danger.”
Purple stood for “Proceed with caution.”
Blue was “Don’t trust this person.”
Black meant “What’s going on?”
Sometimes we’d just point to a color to get the idea across.
“So what have you got that’s good today?” Piedmont asked Minska.
Minska looked at the red SOLIDARITY poster on the wall—the sign of the freedom movement in Poland.
She smiled. “Would you like food, Mr. Piedmont? Or an uprising?”
Chapter 6
“Core staff, we have made excellent progress in getting you an adviser.”
Mrs. Kutash, our principal, turned smiling to Mr. Grasso, the athletic director. The light from her office window illuminated his neck whistle. I looked at Darrell, whose face had gone pale. Just last night his father had confiscated his police radio, and he wasn’t up for any more bad news.
“Core staff, I’m delighted to inform you that Mr. Mike Grasso has offered to assist you with the paper.”
Tanisha, Elizabeth, Lev, and T.R. froze.
She gestured grandly and Mr. Grasso leaped forward. He clapped his hands like he expected us to run out there and win the big one.
“I know that Mr. Loring was a great help to you all, and I’m sure that his inspiration will carry us through this season.”
It was going to be a long season.
“I’m…well…not exactly a writer. But I do have a cousin who’s worked at a lot of newspapers. I’ll see if he can help.” He paused like that might not be a good idea. “He takes some getting used to…” Another clap. “Okay, team. I’ve seen you all out there. I know what you’ve got inside.” He pointed to T.R., our sportswriter, and said, “Keep up that good game coverage. You’re the man!”
T.R. smiled bleakly. He was working on a think piece called “Why Homecoming Matters When You Have a Losing Team.”
Darrell stumbled forward. Editors don’t leap. “Mr. Grasso, thanks for…jumping in.” Darrell turned to us. “We’re going to make a difference this year, everybody.” He passed out a sheet. “But we need to watch the mistakes in our copy. I’ve found some real bloopers in our back-to-school edition.”
He passed a sheet around. All newspapers publish corrections, but ours were, well…
Oops!
A story in our back-to-school issue concerning teenage drinking mistakenly referred to beer as “bear.” We want to emphasize that popping a couple of bears (or beers) isn’t recommended by this paper.
Mrs. Perth’s slide presentation, “My Vacation in Slovenia,” was not on Thursday last week, as reported, but Wednesday. We apologize to Mrs. Perth, who had donned full native garb for the event. Those wishing to see this multiscreen event and Mrs. Perth’s outfit should contact the school office.
Our apologies to the Sadie family, whose ad last week commemorating the death of their dog, Rosco, referred to Rosco as a “Great Dame.” Rosco was all man. The Core mourns his passing.
Mr. Grasso looked down, smiling.
Darrell continued, “And listen, everybody, Career Day is in two days and we want The Core to have maximum presence. We want to get the inside story. Think about your interview questions, please.”
Mr. Grasso scooped up a book, So, You Want to Be a Journalist? He flipped through the pages and read, “Getting a great interview isn’t as difficult as one might think. All that’s required is a complete knowledge of your subject and a prepared list of both insightful and hard-hitting questions. Always avoid any questions that can be answered by yes and no answers.” He turned
to us. “Any questions?”
No.
The staff took a collective gulp and stumbled out of the office.
Darrell whispered, “You realize we could fold with the wrong adviser. That happened to a friend of mine in Cincinnati. They got the school nurse for their paper. I’m not kidding! Their paper shrank into a newsletter and then it became extinct!” His whole body sagged.
“You’re turning into Chicken Little,” I mentioned.
The stage crew of Desperate People struggled past us, carrying a heavy backdrop of a starry sky, but they couldn’t hold on.
It crashed to the ground.
Darrell turned to me. “You know what, Hildy? Sometimes the sky is falling!”
I was in the second-floor bathroom of my house—a room so big, we had a chair in it. The light blue paint was peeling off the walls; it had been for years. This whole house needed an overhaul, but we didn’t have the money for that. I looked at myself in the scratched bathroom mirror. I had shoulder-length strawberry blond hair, a small nose, a few freckles, sincere brown eyes; I was five-seven and a half, just like my mom.
Just like my dad, I had a fierce desire to find the truth and help others find it, too. A fierce desire can get you a long way in this world, but sometimes I wondered if I had the right stuff to be a good journalist. My notes were always a mess. I had a hard time leaving my opinions out of what I was writing. Dad said you can’t approach a story thinking you know how it’s going to turn out; you’ve got to let it show you.
MacIntosh circled me; border collies are always trying to herd something. I was working out my theory that the sheriff couldn’t have liked the article in The Bee since it was sensational and exaggerated, and that if he was looking for a local reporter who would be sensitive and careful and promise to quote him accurately, he need look no further.
The problem is, I’d called his office and left six messages. He hadn’t called me back.
I’d been calling the number for D&B Security in Boston where Houston Bule had worked, too, but I kept getting their voice mail: “This is D&B. We’re out. Leave a message.”
I didn’t leave one.
I jutted out my chin and said to the mirror, “Sheriff Metcalf, I’m writing an article about the Ludlow house and I’m wondering if we could talk about the dead guy—”
