The Last Reporter

by Michael Winerip

“We got evidence that you gave kids free iPod downloads to vote for you!” yelled Adam.

  Stub stopped, then turned to face Adam. “Oh, you got evidence, huh? I can’t give friends downloads? Big Adam got a problem with that?”

  “We got a list — 143 kids. They all friends?” asked Adam. “That your answer?”

  “Really?” said Stub. “Can I see that list, or am I supposed to trust you?”

  Adam nodded. That was fair. Stub was entitled. Adam pulled a copy of the list from his back pocket and handed it to Stub. He had his notebook and pen ready to get a comment.

  Stub ripped the paper into several pieces. “Sorry,” said Stub. “My fingers slipped.”

  “Right,” said Adam, making a note. “So that’s your answer? Anything else?”

  “This,” said Stub, and he knocked the notebook and pen out of Adam’s hand and, raising his arms, lunged toward Adam. Stub was trying to get him in a headlock, and his right arm brushed Adam’s head, but Adam twisted, ducked, and just squirmed loose.

  Stub pivoted back toward him.

  “Stop it!” someone screamed. Was that Jennifer? She sounded so far away.

  Adam’s hand was in his pocket. He’d had enough. He was sick and tired of being pushed around. He’d stood there like an idiot when those high-school kids had mugged him last winter and taken his shoveling money. He’d let some jerk steal his bike right from in front of the house. Not again. No way. He pulled out the plastic bag. He gave it one quick, hard, tight twirl high over his head. And then, just as Stub straightened up and raised his arms to lunge again, Adam leaned toward him and whipped that plastic bag with the hard white sphere inside as if it were a lead ball and chain wielded by a gladiator in ancient times — smacking it straight into Stub’s stomach.

  There was a gasp.

  The next thing Adam knew, Stub was on the ground, on his back, sucking air.

  “Was that a slingshot?” asked a boy.

  “Jawbreaker,” said Adam. He looked around. There was a crowd gathering; kids had built-in radar for finding fights.

  Adam leaned over Stub and said, “Is he OK?”

  “Yeah,” said another kid. “Looks like he just got the wind knocked out of him. He’ll be on his feet in a minute.”

  “I didn’t start it,” Adam said.

  Someone had his arm and was pulling him away. It was Jennifer. “Come on,” she said. “We have to go. Before any grown-ups show up.” She turned to Billy and said, “You’ll make sure Stub’s OK?”

  Billy nodded. “I really am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think this . . .”

  “I know,” said Jennifer.

  She had Adam by the arm and was leading him toward the street on the far side of the school.

  “I didn’t start it,” said Adam.

  “Shhhh,” said Jennifer. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  “Is he OK?” asked Adam.

  “So tell me again,” said Mrs. Quigley. “You’re saying Stub Keenan has rigged the election? And how exactly do you know this?”

  “We know it one-hundred-percent exactly,” said Adam. “It’s definitely exactly.”

  “That’s not what she means. . . .” said Jennifer.

  “It’s completely exactly,” said Adam.

  “Adam,” said Jennifer, “would you . . .”

  “I would say one hundred percent, completely and totally exactly, no question about it, really totally, definitely exactly to the max, right up to the tippity top of everything. We know it. We do.”

  Jennifer had her head in her hands.

  “Are you OK?” Adam asked.

  “Jennifer, be patient. He’s a great reporter,” said Mrs. Quigley. “Just a bit literal — it’s part of the greatness; he expects people to mean what they say.”

  “What?” said Adam. “What did I do?”

  Jennifer tried again. “Mrs. Quigley doesn’t mean ‘How sure are you that the election is rigged.’ She means, ‘Tell me how you know it’s rigged.’”

  “Tell you?” said Adam. “Why would I tell you? You know as much as I do. Jennifer, get a grip.”

  “Tell her,” said Jennifer, pointing to Mrs. Quigley, who gave Adam a little wave for emphasis.

  “Oh,” said Adam. “Why didn’t —?”

  They told Mrs. Quigley about the secret list of downloads Jennifer had obtained, about the three kids who admitted to Adam with their names that they got free downloads for their votes, and about what Stub had said when Adam confronted him — although Adam left out the part about the interview being done under tense conditions in deep center field.

  Mrs. Quigley wanted every detail; she examined the list of 143 students and asked how they got it.

  “Can’t tell you,” Jennifer said. “I’m not being impolite, Mrs. Quigley, but it was given to me by a secret source.”

  “Not a bad source,” said Mrs. Quigley. “That’s quite a list. Sounds like Brutus did Stub in. Poor Stub.”

  Brutus? Adam was trying to think; he couldn’t remember any kid at Harris named Brutus. The name was familiar though. Brutus . . . Brutus . . . Something in World History with Mr. Brooks last fall?

  “And what did Stub say when you asked him?” said Mrs. Quigley.

  “I can give you the exact words,” said Adam. He pulled out his notebook and flipped the pages.

  “Oh, my gosh,” said Mrs. Quigley. “What is that all over your notebook?”

  “Just a little mud,” said Adam.

  “A little mud?” said Mrs. Quigley. “You could plant corn in that notebook.”

  Adam scraped off a chunk of hard mud and read Stub’s words from his notes: “‘I can’t give friends downloads? Big Adam got a problem with that?’”

  Mrs. Quigley nodded. “That is an admission of sorts,” she said. “I assume you’re Big Adam?” She was quiet. “And I assume he didn’t attempt to claim these were his 143 best friends?” Again she was quiet.

  Finally, she said, “OK, I’ll have to get Stub in here and listen to his side, but assuming your reporting holds up and he’s as guilty as he sounds, I’m going to put off this election until the new school year. There isn’t enough time left this year. It’s going to be the new principal’s problem.”

  She took down Jennifer’s e-mail address. “I’ll send you my official decision and a quote for the story after I talk to the Keenan boy,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. Twenty-five years I’m a principal and I think I’ve seen everything, but I haven’t. Anyway, I guess that’s it.”

  Adam couldn’t believe it. He’d done it. He was seconds away from being free and clear. Not one word from Mrs. Quigley about the fight. He’d been so worried. Every time the phone had rung at home Thursday night, he’d been sure it was the school, calling to tell his parents he’d been suspended. His parents would kill him. Especially his mom. And especially his dad, too.

  At school on Friday, every time his class was interrupted by a call from the office, he was sure they were summoning him to his holy grave.

  By the time Jennifer had led Adam away from the ball field, a lot of kids had seen it, and each would tell his hundred closest friends.

  He felt so lucky. It seemed impossible: Not one kid had said anything that leaked into the grown-up world.

  Adam wanted to dance out of Mrs. Quigley’s office. Correction: he wanted to fly out of that office. He felt like summer was on the other side of that door, and here he came.

  But if there was one thing his many years as a reporter had taught him, it was to hold it all in until you were free and clear. Never tip your hand. Patience.

  The coeditors thanked the acting principal and said they’d get her a copy of the Slash to read after the proof came back from the printer.

  They were standing. Adam was playing it cool now; he was in no rush. What did he have to hide? Slow-and-steady Eddie, that was him.

  He let Jennifer go in front of him. Mr. Manners. What was the rush? She was out the door and so was —

&nbs
p; “Adam.”

  Did she mean him?

  She couldn’t; it was too late. Time had run out.

  “Yes, you. Could I speak to you for a minute?”

  “Do you want me to . . .” Adam said, and motioned toward Jennifer out in the main office, by Mrs. Rose at the front counter, safe from all harm.

  “No,” said Mrs. Quigley. “Just you. Please close the door.”

  Adam sat back down. The room felt so big and empty without Jennifer. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how hard the seats were in the acting principal’s office. He couldn’t get his butt comfortable, which made him remember how great his butt felt on his new bike and the thick, soft tan leather seat, which made him remember how wonderful it was to be on that bike, free, riding along the river, which reminded him how unfree he was at this very moment and how his unfreedom was only likely to increase.

  “Young man, you know that fighting is a very serious offense,” said Mrs. Quigley.

  Adam nodded.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  Adam didn’t. He thought of saying this was unfair, the buzzer had gone off, the game was over, they were out the door, time had expired — but he was sure Mrs. Quigley would not buy it. He figured his best strategy was to say as little as possible and try to figure out what Mrs. Quigley knew. Maybe she was talking about another fight. Maybe she was talking about fighting in general, not any special case of fighting on the baseball field, just everyday normal fighting. Maybe she just wanted to give him a story for the Slash about the dangers of fighting for anyone, anywhere, at any time, not just the kind of fighting that happened Thursday afternoon with Stub Keenan.

  Adam would be delighted to write that story.

  “Did you start it?” she asked.

  This was really going badly.

  Adam shook his head no.

  “That’s what I heard,” she said. “However, it seems that you finished it.”

  Mrs. Quigley stared at him, but when he didn’t say anything, she stood and began pacing. “Adam, I want to tell you a story,” she said. She told him about her oldest son, and how when he was in third grade, there was a bigger kid on the school bus who always sat beside him, a supposed friend, and every day, when the bus went around this same curve on this same street in this same neighborhood, the kid would lean into the curve and slam her son against the inside wall of the bus. She figured this out because she noticed him in the bathtub one night with big black-and-blues on his right arm and right thigh. She wanted her son to tell the bus driver, but he wouldn’t, and she offered to call the school herself, but he begged her not to. “So I told him that sometimes the only way you can get a creep like that to stop is to whack him back.”

  Until that moment, the honest truth was that Adam had only been half listening. But suddenly he was all ears. Whack him back? Yes! What a great principal! What a great principle!

  Mrs. Quigley said, “I see I got your attention.”

  “Did he whack him back?” asked Adam.

  “He didn’t,” she said. “He liked that option. He was like you, no ’fraidy cat, but he worried that if he whacked him back, he’d get in trouble at school. And I told him he probably would, but I said that when the school called, I wouldn’t be mad, that I’d tell them the truth and that he’d take his punishment, and we’d move on.”

  “He didn’t whack him?” asked Adam. “So what happened?”

  “You know,” said Mrs. Quigley, “I don’t know how they worked it out, but eventually, when the two got older, they were pretty good friends, even though I couldn’t stand the sight of that boy, and I wanted to whack him myself, even after he grew up and became a doctor. A real jerk.”

  Adam couldn’t tell if this story was good news or bad news. Was the point to whack or not to whack?

  “So, you’re saying I should not have whacked Stub back when he hit me?” asked Adam.

  “No,” said Mrs. Quigley. “I’m saying even if it’s right to whack, you have to expect consequences. And for better or worse, you’re sitting with me, Harris Middle School’s consequences chairperson. I’ll be honest, Adam, what worries me most — I heard you used a slingshot. That’s a weapon. That’s assault.”

  “No slingshot,” said Adam.

  “Some kind of nunchucky thing,” Mrs. Quigley said.

  Adam shook his head. He pulled out his jawbreaker.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, “how does that work?”

  Adam untwisted the bag and popped the jawbreaker into his mouth. He took several slurps before popping it back out. It felt good to get a mid-day sugar upload. “It’s pretty simple,” he said. “You just pop it in and suck.”

  Mrs. Quigley was sitting again. She was doodling on a piece of paper. Adam took a peek — it looked like daisies with human faces in the middle. He hadn’t realized that principals doodled.

  “This one’s definitely not in the principal’s manual,” she said. “Let me feel that thing.” Adam handed over the plastic bag and Mrs. Quigley squeezed it. “It’s hard,” she said.

  Adam nodded. “That’s why I was careful,” he said. “I had to get the exact spot.”

  “The exact spot?”

  “Want me to show you?” said Adam, standing and heading toward Mrs. Quigley. “Everyone’s stomach —”

  “Adam,” said Mrs. Quigley. “Show me on you.”

  “But then you won’t be able to feel it,” said Adam.

  “It’s OK,” said Mrs. Quigley. “I’ll just follow along.”

  Adam took his right hand and pushed it into the middle of his stomach. When he found the right spot, his mouth popped open. “That’s it,” he said. “It’s the exact spot where you get the wind knocked out of you.”

  “Really?” she said.

  He watched Mrs. Quigley push in her own stomach in several places.

  “Higher up,” said Adam. “It’s kind of in the middle, halfway between your belly button and ribs.”

  Finally, Mrs. Quigley’s mouth popped open.

  “That’s it,” Adam said. “You got it. Good job.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Mrs. Quigley.

  “I just figured it out one day, feeling around my stomach,” said Adam.

  Mrs. Quigley was doodling again. “What am I going to do with you?” she asked without looking up.

  Adam shrugged. He didn’t care much anymore. He was getting too worn out. He just wanted to be finished. It was a lot of pressure, sitting so long, alone, in the principal’s office. His head was pounding, and his brain juices were dried up. What was the worst she could do to him? Throw him in prison? At least he’d get a rest.

  “Look, Mrs. Quigley, I got to tell you, whatever you have to do, it’s OK. I’m ready to be punished. All I can say is, I really was afraid Stub was going to beat the crap out of me. I tried to figure a way to stop him, so I could just get out alive. I wasn’t going to hit him in the head with a jawbreaker. I didn’t want to give him brain damage. I didn’t want to break his kneecaps, so I thought I’d take a chance and try to knock the wind out of him. . . .”

  “Do you knock the wind out of a lot of people?” Mrs. Quigley asked. “You seem pretty good at it.”

  “First time,” said Adam.

  Mrs. Quigley was smiling. He took a peek; her daisies had little smiley faces, too.

  “Plus the other thing —” said Adam, but he stopped.

  “Plus what?” asked Mrs. Quigley.

  “Plus nothing, Mrs. Quigley. That’s pretty much it.”

  “Plus what, Adam?”

  He hesitated; he didn’t know if he could trust those smiling daisies.

  “Plus, those kids mugged me for my shoveling money last winter,” he finally said, “and I got my bike stolen. If I got beat up again — that’s pretty much it. Every kid would think I was a wuss. They go after you. Like you said. In that story about your son.”

  The acting principal pulled a tissue out of the box on her desk and blew her nose. It seemed like she was goin
g to ask him something else.

  But then she just thanked him and said he could go.

  He got up. “Mrs. Quigley,” he said, “what are you going to do to me?”

  “Adam, I haven’t a clue. But don’t you worry about it. Nothing too bad. You just finish up that newspaper. Show everybody.” And she pressed in her stomach and smiled at him.

  The coeditors worked right up to the last minute finishing the paper. They’d get what they thought was a final comment from someone for a story, and then, because that supposedly final comment turned out to be not final enough, they had to get an even more final comment, or they needed to find someone to explain the supposedly final comment or the comment about the supposedly final comment.

  Good reporting was way too much work. Sometimes, Adam fantasized about giving it all up and doing a blog where he could spend his time shooting out opinions based on other people’s reporting. That would be the easy life, merrily blogging his days away right along with everyone else in America.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t do it.

  That wasn’t him.

  For better or stinking worse, he was a reporter, destined to roam the earth uncovering cold, hard facts.

  They decided to play the lead story huge, at the top, stretching across two-thirds of the front page, with the biggest headline since they’d been coeditors of the Slash:

  Adam and Jennifer had argued about how many exclamation points to put after We’re Still Here. Adam wanted at least a dozen. Jennifer said one was plenty. She went online, found the New York Times stylebook, and e-mailed the entry on exclamation points to Adam: “In news writing the exclamation point is rarely needed,” the stylebook said. “When overused the exclamation point loses impact.”

  See? she e-mailed him.

  Adam wrote back:

  That’s ridiculous!!!!!

  This is big news!!!!!!!!!!!!

  A bunch of kids put out our own newspaper all by ourselves!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  In the end, Jennifer negotiated him down to what Adam kept calling “three measly exclamation points.”