The Last Reporter

by Michael Winerip

  Mr. Willy held up a stopwatch. “All set? . . . OK. . . . Go!”

  Shadow was fastest. He’d grab a handful of earphones, drop one on each numbered square, scoop them up when he filled twelve squares, stuff them in the orange box, then start on the next orange box.

  On the other hand, Ronald, his table mate, looked like he was on vacation. He would take one of the earphones wrapped in plastic, place it on the number-one square, then take the next earphone and put it on the number-two square. Pause. Then he’d go back to the first square and make sure the earphone packet was straight, then make sure the second was straight. Pick out a third . . .

  Adam sat transfixed. In the time Shadow would finish a carton, Ronald would be lucky to do two orange boxes.

  It was as if Ronald had forgotten the purpose of the game. They were supposed to go as fast as possible, but Ronald was being as neat as possible.

  At one point, Adam looked up for a moment and noticed that Mr. Willy was watching him watch Shadow and Ronald.

  Mr. Willy called time after Shadow finished a carton. “Good job, everyone,” he said. He walked around the room. “Looks like Shadow’s our champion,” said the teacher. “Let’s give him a round of applause.”

  Shadow nodded to acknowledge the applause.

  “Speech, speech,” called out Ronald.

  Shadow just shrugged.

  “How does it feel to win?” said Mr. Willy.

  “I did sixty orange boxes,” said Shadow. “Ten white boxes and one carton. Sixty orange times twelve is seven hundred and twenty. Ten white times seventy-two is seven hundred and twenty. One carton times seven hundred and twenty is seven hundred and twenty.”

  Ronald clapped again. “That was a good speech,” he said. “I love speeches.”

  The bell rang. The period was over. The kids in 107A stayed in the room, but Adam had to get to his next class. As he put his reporter’s notebook in his back pocket and headed toward the door, Derek grunted to him.

  Shadow started to translate, but Adam interrupted.

  “I will come back, Derek,” said Adam. “Thanks. It was nice meeting you, too. And I’m sorry I almost knocked you over.”

  Shadow looked at Derek, looked at Adam, and said, “It was nice meeting me, too.”

  Adam nodded. “Always. See you at the Slash meeting.”

  As Adam walked out, Mr. Willy caught up to him. “You know,” he said, “if you really want to write a complete story about Shadow, you need to meet Mr. Johnny Stack.”

  “I know,” said Adam. “Shadow talks about him all the time. His boss at the Rec.”

  “Oh, he’s a lot more than that,” said Mr. Willy.

  Adam did not see the bike again. He did see the chubby kid, several days later, in the hallway. This time, Adam had the serial number with him — he carried it everywhere now — but the kid said the bike was gone. “I told you I just borrowed it,” he said.

  Adam had been checking the bike rack daily; the kid might be telling the truth.

  “Who’d you borrow it from?” Adam asked.

  “Don’t know his whole name,” said the boy.

  Adam said he’d take half a name.

  “Well, it’s James,” said the boy. “But it wasn’t his bike. He told me he borrowed it from another kid.”

  Adam felt like a jerk; he should have grabbed the bike when he had the chance.

  The newspaper staff looked forward to Slash meetings. To be at school in a room full of kids with no teacher always felt great — even when Jennifer was bugging them about getting in their overdue stories. To be able to flop on those dirty, iced-tea–stained couches again and sit on top of desks and tables and throw their backpacks anyplace and make loud burping noises and other gassy sounds that weren’t burps without having to say “excuse me”— that was about as grown-up as any middle-school kid could get.

  Since Mrs. Quigley had secretly allowed them to use 306 again, everything was ratcheted up another level. They felt positively tingly, as if they were on this underground mission to change the world against all odds.

  For all they knew, Tremble school security might come crashing through the door at any second and raid the place.

  Everything seemed way braver and riskier than usual.

  Unfortunately for Adam and Jennifer, this made meetings harder to control. They were all so psyched, especially Ask Phoebe.

  Adam was ready to kill her. She was raising her hand every second, and while he kept shading his eyes as though the light coming through the windows was blinding him from seeing her wiggly hand, Jennifer was a far better human being and called on her.

  Big mistake. “I may need three pages for my first Ask Phoebe column,” said Ask Phoebe. “So many people need advice. It’s unbelievable how confused everyone is. I’ve had to come up with ten tips on how to stay out of dramas. For the September issue, I’m going to have to do a special column for the new sixth graders on five ways to decide where to sit in the middle-school cafeteria —”

  “Phoebe,” said Jennifer, “slow down. We’re just trying to get the June issue out. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves —”

  “Christmas will have to be an extra-long column on gift advice. I already have seventy-three websites that can turn your holiday season around. And I never had a clue what a big issue hair is. Everyone’s being let down by their volumizing shampoos and fortifying conditioners. And Valentine’s Day, oh my gosh, you have to listen to these love letters. Until Ask Phoebe, I never knew that there were so many broken hearts —”

  “Ask Phoebe!” yelled Jennifer. “Stop . . . just stop.” Jennifer called a time-out. “Calm down, Phoebe. Please, just take a breath and count to ten to yourself . . .”

  “That reminds me,” said Ask Phoebe. “I’m going to be doing top ten zero trans fat —”

  And then Phoebe stopped. She actually stopped. In mid-sentence. Jennifer had given her such a forceful glare that even Phoebe had noticed. The entire staff had noticed. The room went silent. Adam was wowed; it was as if Jennifer had put every last ounce of her face into that glare. Adam wished he had those kind of crowd control skills; all he could ever think of was throwing Phoebe out a window.

  In the calmest of voices, Jennifer explained to Ask Phoebe that while it sounded like things were going great, the coeditors would still have to see a sample column before they made up their minds. Jennifer said they had to get on to the news stories; there was lots to do.

  Phoebe nodded. “If there’s time at the end, can I read a letter out loud to you guys?” she asked.

  “If there’s time,” said Jennifer. “One.”

  “Just one?” asked Ask Phoebe.

  Adam told them the exciting news about the Bolands being under investigation. “We did it,” said Adam. “It’s our story that got the state to investigate them. The Slash! Little us!” They looked around at one another. Little them? Versus the mighty Bolands?

  Adam explained that state investigators were looking into whether the Bolands’ plan — to buy up all the old houses in the Willows, tear them down, and put up Boland Estates full of new million-dollar mini-mansions — was unfair to poor families who couldn’t afford any other place to live in Tremble County.

  “The Bolands are going to jail?” asked a photographer.

  Adam shook his head. “I wish,” he said. “Long way to go.” He explained that just because someone is investigated doesn’t mean they’re guilty, even though in this case he was sure the Bolands were guilty to the stinking core.

  Jennifer told them that she had talked it over with her dad, who was a lawyer. “He said investigations of high and mighty people like the Bolands can take a long time because even the investigators and the investigators’ bosses can be scared of them.”

  Another kid asked if this meant the Slash would soon become the official newspaper of Harris Elementary/Middle School again.

  “I think it could happen,” said Jennifer. “But not that soon. It’s definitely a little hopeful.” She said
it showed that even if the school board had shut them down, other grown-ups — the state investigators — had taken their story on the Bolands seriously. And so did the New York Times, by publishing a front-page article about it. “It shows that we’re not just troublemakers,” said Jennifer.

  “Well, we are troublemakers,” said Adam. “We’re just good troublemakers.”

  All this meant that they still had to raise money to put out the Slash. Jennifer explained that she had good news and bad news on that front. “The good news is that Adam and I had a big meeting with the Ameche brothers, and we straightened out a few problems they were having.”

  “Problems raising money?” asked Sammy.

  “Um, no,” said Jennifer.

  “They were actually too good at raising money,” said Adam.

  “That’s a problem?” asked Sammy.

  “Let’s just say they needed some ethics training,” said Jennifer. “They didn’t realize you can’t let people tell you what to put in the newspaper just because they buy an ad from you.”

  “So we met with their boss,” said Adam. “And got it squared away.”

  “This is the Ameche brothers from the Talk Till You Drop, All-Live Except the Recorded Parts webcast?” asked Phoebe. “They’re, like, really famous. They don’t seem like the kind of people who’d have a boss.”

  “Actually, their mother,” said Jennifer.

  “Anyway,” said Adam, “the good news is now they really know how to sell ads the totally ethical way, so pretty soon we should have money to get the Slash printed.”

  Jennifer lifted a manila envelope and wiggled it in the air. “We’ve actually created a sales packet,” she said, explaining how the Ameche brothers would be showing it to potential advertisers. The packet included the last few issues of the Slash, plus the New York Times article about the Slash’s story on the Bolands, plus a little about Harris Elementary/Middle School. “We think showing how great the paper is should really help sell ads,” she said.

  The staff members still wanted to know the bad news.

  “Well, most of the money the Ameches raised so far they had to give back,” said Adam. He was dying to change the subject, but they would not let him. This was the problem with trying to manage news people — they wanted every single question answered right down to the bone.

  “In terms of how much,” said Jennifer. “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Yipes,” said Phoebe, “How much do we —”

  “A little over sixty-eight dollars,” said Jennifer. “But I think it’s going to go a lot better now.”

  They were quiet. It had better go a lot better. They needed to get from sixty-eight dollars to one thousand dollars in four weeks if there was going to be a June issue of the Slash.

  They discussed the progress of several articles. Adam told them about the test-scores story. He said it sounded from his meeting with Mrs. Quigley as though something fishy was up, but he couldn’t tell what yet and he had set up a meeting with one of the deputy super-dooper-pooperintendents of the Tremble schools.

  Sammy summarized what he’d found so far on chocolate milk. “I’m about half done,” he told them. “And without going into it too much, it’s worse than I thought.”

  They’d heard about Adam’s bike being stolen, which started them all talking about stolen bikes. They knew three other kids who’d had theirs stolen, too, so they added a bike-theft article to the story list.

  With the end of the year coming, some of the old teachers were retiring, so Jennifer assigned a story on that.

  Jennifer and Adam had decided not to tell everyone about Stub Keenan giving out free iPod downloads in exchange for votes — if it was true. They didn’t want anything leaking out until they had a plan. They’d gone through Jennifer’s top-secret list and there was no one from the Slash getting free downloads, but they didn’t want to take a chance. Stub was a popular kid. There was a good chance some of the Slash staff members were friendly with him.

  Jennifer asked in a casual way if anyone had heard anything interesting on the student-council race, and they’d heard the same thing she had — that Stub would win, easy.

  “Anyone know his campaign manager, Billy Cutty?” asked Adam.

  “Good kid,” said a girl. “Funny.”

  Then why’s he working for Stub? Adam thought, but didn’t say anything.

  It was time to go. This was the last week for most of the kids on spring sports teams. As they reached for their backpacks, Ask Phoebe called out, “Attention, everyone. Attention. This will just take a minute. I want to read one letter.” The staff ignored her; most of them were middle-school kids, and even if Phoebe was the world’s greatest third-grade reporter, at the end of the day, she was still a measly third grader.

  “It’s very lovey-dovey!” shouted Ask Phoebe.

  “Nasty?” said a boy.

  “Is it sexy, sexy?” asked a girl.

  Adam was thinking this might be funny. He wanted to know who wrote it.

  “No name,” said Ask Phoebe. “It’s signed ‘Confused Middle Schooler.’”

  “Ooooh,” a bunch of them hooted.

  “OK, Phoebe,” said Adam. “Don’t say I never did anything for you. Read it quick.”

  “No!” Jennifer blurted out, and they all looked at her. “I mean, we really don’t have time for this. I’ve got tennis.”

  “Jennifer, relax,” said Adam. “We’ve got a few minutes. It’ll only take a second.” Usually he was the one being driven insane by Phoebe; usually Jennifer was angry at him for not being more understanding about Phoebe. It was fun watching Jennifer not being more understanding about Phoebe.

  “We don’t even know if we’re going to have an Ask Phoebe column,” said Jennifer. “You’re the one who wanted to kill the whole thing.”

  Adam shrugged. “You’re the one who loves Dear Abby.”

  “Until we know,” said Jennifer, “we shouldn’t —”

  “‘Dear Ask Phoebe,’” began Phoebe, who was standing on a chair now. “‘There’s this boy in my grade; I think I might like him. He’s cute and smart, he’s good in sports, and we spend a lot of time together —’”

  “Oooooh.”

  “Sexy, sexy,” repeated the girl.

  “‘We mostly have fun,’” read Phoebe. “‘We laugh a lot, and I think he might like me. Sometimes he even says I look good —’”

  “Oooooh.”

  “Please stop,” said Jennifer.

  “Hang on, folks!” shouted Phoebe, who was relishing her moment of fame. “Here comes the heartbreak: ‘But we just spend time together for school stuff, and the rest of the time, he treats me like I’m no one. He never gives me nice little gifts. He never asks me if I want to take a walk or go to a movie or get an ice cream. And if I get upset, he’s so spacey that unless I come out and tell him, he doesn’t even notice that I’m upset. I think he’s the spaciest middle-school boy on the planet. Is there some way I can get him to be more mature? Or should I just give up? Signed, Confused Middle Schooler.’”

  The room was in mayhem. Everyone grabbed their backpacks and as they filed out, they chanted, “Give up, give up, give up.”

  The door slammed shut.

  Just Adam and Jennifer were left.

  Adam shook his head. “We’re going to have to give her a column now,” he said. “I hate to admit it, but that was funny.”

  Jennifer didn’t say anything.

  “Can you imagine writing a letter like that to someone like Phoebe?” Adam said. “What kind of middle-school girl would be that hard up? And why would she want to spend time with a jerk like that? He sounds like a total loser.”

  “I think he is,” Jennifer whispered, and, grabbing her backpack, hurried out.

  Adam spotted Jennifer in the cafeteria at the end of lunch period and waved, but he just got a blank stare back. He chased her down the hall and grabbed her by the sleeve, but she said she was sorry, she was late, and pulled her arm away. “I’ll have to get
back to you,” she said.

  She’d have to get back to him? Jennifer? Since when did Jennifer talk like that?

  That night, at home, he checked his buddy list and Jennifer’s screen name was lit up, so he instant-messaged her, very polite, no “wuz up” kind of trashy jive mooch. “Can we get together and talk?” he wrote. But all three times, her screen name suddenly disappeared and he got an auto-reply: “Jennifer is away from her computer.”

  Right.

  Every time Adam had tried to get Jennifer’s attention these last few days, it seemed like she looked the other way or hurried off in the opposite direction or started talking to someone else.

  Adam was no idiot. She must be upset about something, but what in the world could it possibly be? Certainly nothing to do with him. He had racked his brain. He’d squeezed his mind until his brain juices were practically leaking out, and he had to give himself credit; he could not think of one single thing he’d done wrong lately.

  As he reviewed the past few days, he realized that Jennifer’s annoying attitude seemed to have started after the last Slash meeting. In fact, after the Ask Phoebe stuff. It made sense. Sad to say, but Jennifer must be jealous of him. She was so into controlling everything. She had to run the Slash meetings so perfectly, right down to her magic, silencing glare — which Adam had to admit was pretty nifty. But then she’d completely lost it when he gave Phoebe the green light to read the Ask Phoebe question. Come on, he was coeditor. Didn’t he have rights, too? Jennifer was the one who loved that Dear Blabby stuff so much. Hadn’t the Slash staff gone wild? Everyone loved it. Jennifer needed to learn how to handle cub reporters like Phoebe. Sure, you have to put them in their place and drive them into the dirt most of the time. But once in a great while you have to give them a chance to shine, so they’ll keep coming back for more abuse. It was a fine-tuning thing that Jennifer hadn’t mastered yet.

  The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He was sick of people blaming him for their mistakes. Jennifer really needed to grow up.

  Their last Geography Challenge meet of the school year was coming up, the final round of the yearlong Countdown to Total Dominance. The team sponsor, Mr. Landmass, had called a practice session after school to review.