He explained about Mrs. Stanky making them go to the library to look up old newspapers and the story he’d found about the baby dumped in the diner trash. “Since that’s the day Shadow was born,” said Adam. “Do you think . . . I mean could it . . . Well, was it?”
“No.”
“Really?” asked Adam. “I was pretty sure.”
“No.”
“Do you know the story I’m talking about?” asked Adam.
“Of course,” said Mr. Stack. “It was a big story back then. On all the TV news. Front page. Even national news. Big city papers sent reporters here just to write it up.”
“So it was a different kid born on the same day as Shadow?”
“I guess,” said Mr. Stack.
Adam searched Mr. Stack’s face, but he couldn’t read anything into it.
“OK,” said Adam. “Just to go over this, I guess it was just a coincidence that the baby was born on the same day in Tremble and he had no parents to care for him and Shadow has no parents and the story said because that baby was left in the trash, and had towels stuffed in his mouth and was eighty-five degrees, he might be, well, damaged, and Shadow’s well, you know, not exactly normal. . . .”
“Not normal?” said Mr. Stack. “He’s a hard worker, he’s honest, he’s good and decent . . .”
“Can you at least tell me how you’re so sure?” said Adam.
“No,” said Mr. Stack. “It’s too damn sad. We’ve talked enough about this. I get angry when I think about it.” Adam searched Mr. Stack’s eyes; he didn’t believe him. He thought if he looked hard enough at Mr. Stack, he might wear him down and get him to tell the truth, but Mr. Stack just stared back.
Finally, Adam said, “OK, I guess that covers it. I guess I’m going.” Adam put his notepad and pen in his backpack. “It really wasn’t him?”
“No,” said Mr. Stack.
Adam was just about out the door when Mr. Stack said, “If it was him — if it really was — would you put that in your report? About a boy who thinks you’re his best friend? That he was born in a trash can? Jesus, Adam.”
Everything was going wrong. Everyone was against him. He was sick of it. People said they wanted the truth, but they didn’t. They were afraid of the truth; the truth was messy; the truth was painful; the truth was inconvenient; the truth was uncouth. The heck with them. Mr. Brooks, his World History teacher, had warned them at the start of the year. He’d told them that in ancient Greece, if a messenger brought bad news, they’d kill him. Ever since, people have been shooting the messenger. At this point, getting shot sounded like a pretty good solution to Adam.
Since he was failing left and right, since nothing was working out, he figured he might just as well keep going with his reporting and get all his failing over with at once.
His new philosophy was, “So what, right?”
He was going to report this iPod download story. A whole new group of people was about to hate him.
So what, right?
Summer vacation was coming. Just a few weeks. He could hang on. People forget everything over the summer.
He matched kids’ names on the secret download list with the homeroom list and pinpointed three homerooms where a large number of kids got free downloads. One he eliminated right away because it was Stub’s. How great would that be, bumping into Stub while investigating Stub?
Three mornings in a row he made secret sweeps by the two rooms to see if he could recognize kids from their yearbook photos. It was harder than he thought. The first time, he identified three kids and then wasn’t completely sure it was them. But after two more pass-bys, he had eight kids he felt certain about.
It was time.
He figured if he could get two or three admitting it with their names, that would be enough to print the story.
Piece of cake.
He wished.
So what, right?
At least he had a secret plan.
Adam got to school early. He told his parents he was going in for extra help. It was true in a way — he needed all the extra help he could get. He dropped off his book bag in his locker, made sure he had his notebook, a pen, and the secret list, headed for the 300 hallway by the two homerooms and began hunting for the kids he’d identified. He tried not to look like he was looking, more like he was randomly happening by.
He spotted two boys by their lockers. And not a lot of other kids around. Perfect. He felt like racing over to get this done, but he didn’t want to seem suspicious and made himself lollygag — one of their new Vocabulary Builders. One, two, three, lollygag, he said to himself. And four, five, six, lollygag . . . and ready . . .
“Finally, I got you,” said a loud squeaky voice, and a chill went through Adam. He’d been found out. Stub Keenan must have spies everywhere.
“I knew it,” the squeaky voice said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Adam had an awful thought. That voice — it sounded familiar. Was it? Oh, no. It couldn’t be. He did not want to look over his shoulder and find the world’s most annoying third grader.
I don’t deserve this, he thought. Please, don’t let it be who I think it is.
He turned slowly. It was. And she was waving a fist full of papers at him. PHOEBE! Not Phoebe. Anyone but Phoebe. A thousand terrorists would be better than Phoebe. The entire Taliban would be better than Phoebe. He glanced around. It was a miracle. Nobody seemed to have noticed. The usual mayhem in the halls had people distracted. The two boys were still by the locker, talking. There were a couple of minutes before the bell. He could still pull this off.
“Go away,” he hissed in a whisper.
“What?” said Phoebe. “Talk louder.”
“Just go away. I’ll talk to you later,” Adam hissed again. “Please, I’m begging . . .”
“You’re beginning?” asked Phoebe. “What are you beginning?”
Adam was inches from exploding. It would feel so good to scream at Phoebe with every ounce of his lung power. But that would ruin everything. The boys were still there. Hallway traffic was thinning — this was good. Fewer witnesses. All his planning. This was his moment.
“Beginning what?” repeated Phoebe. “You need to speak up; you’re blurring your words.”
Adam grabbed his notebook and scribbled, I’m BEGGING! Go. Now!, underlining the BEGGING four times.
“That’s not how you spell beginning,” said Phoebe. “I’m surprised, the junior coeditor of the Slash — I hate to say this, but you’re a terrible speller.” She handed him back the paper with the correct spelling. “I love spelling words with lots of letters,” she said.
The bell rang. The boys had disappeared inside their homeroom. He’d missed his chance. Phoebe!
“What are you doing here?” he asked weakly. “You’re not in middle school.”
“I’ve been looking for you for days,” Phoebe said. “You’re never in 306. I finished my first Ask Phoebe column. It’s pretty great. Jennifer said I should go over it with you. She said you were definitely the man for the job.” She wiggle-waggled the column in Adam’s face.
Ever since this thing with Jennifer, Adam had been avoiding 306, but at this point he didn’t care.
So what, right?
First Jennifer and that Ameche brother —“Oh, Don, I’d love to, Don. Don, that would be so nice, Don. Don, that’s so sweet, Don. Don, wow, Don.”
Then Mr. Stack, the kindest man ever, was mad because of Adam’s question about Shadow. Then he’d missed his chance to finish the iPod story by seconds, thanks to you-know-who. And now the perfect end to his life. Editing Ask Phoebe. He knew it — this impossible, ridiculous, absurd feature was going to be the most popular thing in the newspaper. They could investigate the daylights out of everybody. They could get the Bolands thrown into prison for a hundred years. No one would notice. This would be the talk of Harris. It didn’t matter that an advice column by a third grader was a human rights violation. Kids were going to love it.
Dear Ask Phoebe,
I’m outraged. My parents won’t give me a cell phone. I’m in sixth grade. Isn’t this against the Constitution?
Signed,
Voiceless
Dear Voiceless,
Everyone knows it’s a free country, so there’s no question that you’re right, but suing your parents is a drag. There’s a much easier way. Tell them about this little girl, Teresa. She was so beautiful, with very precious curls, and she got kidnapped on the first day of sixth grade and nearly died and it never would have happened if she had a cell phone. Good luck and don’t forget to ask for unlimited texting.
Yours,
Ask Phoebe
Adam read her answer twice. “Is this true?” he asked.
“What,” said Phoebe, “that it’s a free country? Definitely.”
“No,” said Adam. “About this girl Teresa. Is this someone you know?”
“Well, kind of,” said Phoebe. “I know someone named Teresa . . . but she wasn’t kidnapped. Not yet, anyway.”
“Well, did you hear about this Teresa person in the news?”
“Oh, come on,” said Phoebe. “Haven’t you ever looked at the statistics? Someone gets kidnapped in this country every three seconds. There’s probably a Teresa being kidnapped at this very moment.”
“Really,” said Adam. “Well, then I’d suggest you go online and find the statistic, and we’ll use that in the answer.”
Phoebe looked outraged, but Adam did not budge. “Excuse me,” she said. “This is supposed to be funny. This is supposed to help people with real problems in their real lives. People looking for a wise voice as a trusting guide through dark times. Everyone I talk to says, ‘Ask Phoebe is going to be huge.’ Everyone says, ‘There’s such a need.’ You know what my grandma says? ‘Phoebe, sweetheart, I can’t wait.’ She can’t wait!”
“Well, she’s going to have to,” said Adam. “When you did your stories on Eddie the janitor and the smile contest and the three-hundred-year-old tree — they were great, Phoebe, full of real people with real facts. This has to be the same. Just because it’s Ask Phoebe doesn’t mean there are no rules. If there’s no kidnapped Teresa with precious curls, you can’t say there’s a kidnapped Teresa with precious curls. Now, if you want to say something like: By having a cell phone a kid could have more protection if someone tried to kidnap or rob her, you could say that.”
“Oh, please,” said Phoebe. “That doesn’t have the same oomph. Where’s the juice? People react to people; they need fellow humans to identify with. Precious little Teresa — that brings tears to my eyes. Kidnapped and gone, just because she didn’t have a stinking cell phone. It makes me sick.”
“Fine,” said Adam. “Specific examples are great. I agree. And I’m all for tears. Tears and laughter, that’s the whole writing deal. But as coeditor, I need to see some proof that there really is a precious Teresa.”
“How about if we changed her name?” asked Phoebe. “Change it to Cindy, precious Cindy.”
“Is there a real kidnapped Cindy?” asked Adam.
“I bet anything there is,” said Phoebe. “Cindy’s just the kind of name that gets kidnapped.”
Adam was surprised. The other questions didn’t need as much work. Someone had written in about losing his pencils and pens all the time, and Ask Phoebe actually had quite a good plan. She said she used magnetic tape on the inside of her locker door to make sure she always had a few extras on hand.
Adam thought he might give that a try. He did have a tendency to lose pretty much everything.
A boy had written in complaining that when he was at camp last summer he’d lost a tooth and the Tooth Fairy only left him a nickel. “Come on, ease up,” wrote Ask Phoebe. “She’s just the Camp Tooth Fairy.” Phoebe advised bringing a small Tupperware container to camp, saving any lost teeth, then bringing them home at the end of the summer and resubmitting them to the regular Tooth Fairy, who paid Phoebe three dollars a tooth.
A girl wrote and said that she wanted to be an artist when she grew up, but she had two older brothers who made fun of her all the time and she was losing her confidence. Could Ask Phoebe offer any help? Ask Phoebe answered that she had three older brothers, and there was no limit to how mean and stupid they could be sometimes, but other times, they were very sweet, they looked out for her, and told her not to let some big moron like the coeditor of the Slash discourage her. Phoebe advised tuning out any negative comments and suggested that while the girl was waiting to become an artist, she should practice her signature. “A lot of artists find themselves famous, and they don’t have a good signature,” Phoebe wrote. “It should be something where you can tell it’s your name but looks pretty messy, like you’re too busy to worry about it. And of course, all signatures must be in cursive.”
All in all, Adam felt the column wasn’t bad. “Do you want to say which coeditor is the moron discouraging you?” he asked, quite sure he knew the answer.
“No, it’s OK,” said Phoebe. “I think people will figure it out.”
“No doubt,” said Adam, but he wasn’t angry. He’d never admit it to Phoebe, and he might not admit it to Jennifer even if they went back to, being, well, you know — but Ask Phoebe was pretty entertaining.
The thing that saved him from killing her was that under all Phoebe’s ridiculous third-graderness, she had a pretty decent heart.
“What about the letter you read out loud at the meeting?” asked Adam. “The one that had the whole Slash staff howling?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Phoebe. “It’s here. On the second sheet.”
“You’re going to use it,” he said.
“I guess,” said Phoebe.
Adam reread it.
Dear Ask Phoebe,
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. We mostly have fun. We laugh a lot, and I think he might like me. Sometimes he even says I look good. 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
By the time Adam got to the end, his stomach ached and his head was throbbing. How could he have not . . . ? No wonder Jennifer . . . He was such an idiot.
“An answer?” he asked softly.
Phoebe handed him a third page.
Dear Confused,
This will be a shock to my faithful readers, but there are questions even Ask Phoebe can’t answer. So Ask Phoebe went to her number-one expert — my mom. Mom said since the beginning of time, middle-school girls have been confused by middle-school boys and vice versa, so no one should take it too personally. She said while it’s true that men are from Mars and women from Venus, there’s a lot of good times when they meet up on Earth. She said be patient. Relax. Don’t push. Enjoy it for what it is. And never give up on anyone who makes you laugh. She said if you don’t expect too much, you might be surprised. She said more stuff, but my hand was getting sore. Hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Ask Phoebe
It was the first thing Adam thought of every morning: how many days left until summer vacation. As he lay in bed, under a single sheet, squinting against the morning light, his windows wide open, he could hear and feel and smell summer on the way, and it was glorious. The wind was from the south now almost every day, and it brought the moistness of the river into Adam’s room, along with the sounds of tug-boat horns and gulls squawking. Last Saturday morning he’d woken to an explosion — the starting gun at the River Path Sailing Club, holding its first sailboat races of the new season. Twice Adam had been out to the civic beach �
� really a bunch of rafts latched together along the riverbank. But when he ducked his arm in, the Tremble still felt chilly. A couple of years ago, after a warm winter, he’d gone swimming on Memorial Day weekend, his personal early-season best, but this would not be a record-breaking year.
He thought of the next month as a running club race. Not one of his recurring running club race nightmares. Please, he didn’t want any more of those. No, this was a race where he could see the finish line. He might have to punish himself to get there, he might have to dig deep to summon up every last one of his vital fluids, but once he crossed that line, he could collapse into a grassy meadow and spend his days staring up at a cloudless summer sky.
That was his goal, anyway.
“Adam, I’m really pleased,” said his dad as he pulled up in front of the middle school.
“Great, Dad,” said Adam. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Wait, just a second,” his dad said. “Do you know what I’m pleased about?”
“Yeah, sure, Dad, see you tonight.” Adam tried to hop out, but his dad had him by the arm.
What was his dad pleased about? Adam’s brain was used to figuring out what his parents were displeased about. “Umm . . . you’re really pleased . . . that . . . umm . . . I haven’t got an in-school suspension like last semester?”
“No, Adam,” said his dad, “I’m really pleased that you’re going for all this before-school extra help. On your own. This is like your sixth time in six days.”
“Oh, right, Dad, right. Can’t get enough extra help. Bye, Dad.”
“What subjects are you going for?”
What subjects? This wasn’t fair. Adam wasn’t in trouble; he was totally out of trouble. “Just all the big subjects,” Adam said. “The usual big subjects everyone needs help in.”
“Because we got a letter from school that listed all the extra-help sessions for final exams,” said his dad, “and it didn’t say anything about before school.”
“Of course not,” said Adam. “They never put it in. Everyone knows teachers are usually there early for help.”
The Last Reporter Page 13
