by Sara Hubbard
He runs a single finger across his slender lips before smiling. “Four student reporters I've sent after this man. Three women and one man. Would you like to know how each of them managed?”
I shrug. I can’t see how this will further our conversation, but I respect my elders and I want a job on his paper so there is very little I would object to right now.
“The man identified himself as a reporter, and Mr. Ozmore refused—and none too politely—to cooperate. When the reporter tried to get a picture, Ozmore snatched the camera and tossed it into the pond by Secum Center."
“He did?”
“The first two women also identified themselves as reporters, and he wouldn’t acknowledge them. He pretended like he couldn’t hear or see them. When they called him on his cell phone—which they were able to get from some scorned ex-girlfriends—he hung up on them. Now the final one had more success. She never told him who she was at the beginning and she was fortunate enough to be blessed with good genes.”
“You mean she was beautiful?”
“I am not in the habit of calling my students or my staff beautiful, but you said it, not me.” He clears his throat. “She had more success. She got some information from him, but not enough for an article. She decided shortly after meeting him that she wasn’t interested in finishing it, which I am assuming was because she developed feelings for him. Of my four reporters, which do you identify with?”
I have no response for this immediately. After letting go of a deep breath, I find myself fidgeting in my seat. A sure sign that he’s got my number. Click, click goes the end of my pen. Click, click, click. There was another girl in my exact same spot, and she gave in to her feelings. Am I doing the right thing? I’ve known him a day. A frigging day. What am I thinking? But the thought of seeing him again and milking him for his private details only to expose them leaves a nasty taste in my mouth that no amount of swallowing can eliminate. This isn’t just about him. It’s about hurting someone who doesn’t deserve it.
“Mr. Douglas, I think there are a million other stories I could do that would be worthy of the front cover of your paper. He’s not what you think.”
“What do I think he is?”
I suck in my lip and without meaning to. Click, click, click. “I’m not sure. Someone who’s questionable. Someone who has a checkered past. But I have to tell you, I just don’t see that.”
He frowns at me. “He’s playing you.”
“No. That’s not the case. If anything, I played him.”
Jack tuts before grinning at me.
I stand my ground, firm in this opinion. “I want to be a reporter more than anything in this world. I think he’s a good person, and I worry...that whatever I find will hurt him.”
“And that”—he points in my direction—“is why his story needs to be told!”
“No, not like that. I think he'll be emotionally hurt.”
He heaves a deep breath. “I want this story. It’s the only story every single person on the paper hasn’t been able to give me. This guy can smell us a mile away. For whatever reason, he’s talking to you. Don’t let your relationship with him become something it’s not. You think you guys are going to have some amazing relationship that will last forever? No, I don’t think so. He’ll get bored and he’ll move on and you’ll have missed your chance. I don't give second chances. My suggestion to you? Forget about this guy. You told me you have what it takes to be on my paper, and right now all you’re proving is that you can’t be impartial or follow through on what is asked of you. Walk away from this story, and being a freshman won’t be your only obstacle to working with me. I'll roadblock you every step of your career. Work in this province is competitive. Without work experience, you can forget about finding summer internships or employment after graduation.”
I take a breath and bow my head. All he needs is to hear about another great story, and I heard about one from a girl on my floor over lunch the other day. “There is a female Olympic hockey player at this school, and she isn’t allowed on the hockey team because she’s a woman. I think this would be an amazing story, one the student body would love to hear about.”
He smiles, but it’s kind of a sad smile, and I know no amount of talking is going to change his mind so I snap my mouth shut.
“Which would you rather read about? The secret reason that the star hockey player wasn’t allowed to play in the national playoffs and ultimately led to his team’s defeat? Or the poor girl who can’t play with the boys?” He picks up his pen and starts repeatedly clicking the end. I almost wondering if he’s mocking me. Click, click, click. Over and over. The noise makes my eyelids twitch, and I want to scream at him to stop but I can’t do that. I set my pen down on top of my day-timer.
I want to tell him that I would rather read about the girl, but it would be a lie, and he'd see right through me. Ozzie has charisma, and he’s a mystery, even to me, a girl he seems to genuinely care for.
“What if we make a deal?”
He drops his pen and folds his hands on his desk. With raised eyebrows and a scowl, he waits for me to continue.
“I’ll find out all I can, but I want to write the story about him that I want to write. It will be compelling, I promise. But I won’t destroy his life if he has skeletons in his closet.”
“No. Write the story I want, or I’ll find someone else to do it.” He laughs. “You really aren’t in a bargaining position here, Charlotte.”
“On the contrary, I am. No one on your team can get this story. I’m offering you the next best thing. A glimpse into his world and his life. But it may not be what you expect.”
He all but growls at me before shaking his head. “Out of curiosity, I'll give it a read. But it better knock my socks off, young lady. Don't waste my time. But here’s a little something for you to chew on while you defend your boyfriend’s honor.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
He waves me off. “While you’re digging around, why don’t you try to find out why he did community service for the Mount Hope Regional Library at age sixteen?”
“Community service?”
He lifts a shoulder before picking up his glasses and setting them on his face to rest low on his slender nose. “Know your subject, Charlotte. Clearly, you aren’t there yet.”
“Community service?” Emily repeats.
I pull my chair in closer to the table in the main library. Emily's whispering is akin to a dull roar. I glance around us, but there are few people in the library this afternoon. No one for us to disturb. It’s warm today, enough to wear a T-shirt without a jacket and the sun is shining down from a cloudless, pale blue sky. People are outside around the campus, some playing football while others sit and read, and as I look out the wall of glass windows to my right, there is a guy on a grassy knoll, seated with his back against a tree, playing a guitar. A half-dozen people surround him, clapping and singing along to music that I can’t hear.
“So, he’s a criminal?”
I shrug. “Was. Is. I don't know. Do you think Jack just tossed that out at me to make me more committed to the story he wants me to write?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“Ugh.” I run my hands down my face and shake my head. “What if he isn’t the guy I think he is? I’m going to make it so much harder for myself to get a job as a reporter. I’ve been on this path since I was a kid. Now I risk my future for a guy I barely know.”
“Calm down. Let’s say you don’t get a spot on the paper. So what? I know you. You’d still get a job. Maybe you start in the mailroom or as an assistant. You’ll get to where you want to be. Nothing can stop you from getting what you want. Nothing and no one. But I have to wonder…” She looks down at a textbook on the table and opens the cover before flipping one page at a time.
“What were you going to say?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“It’s me, Emily. Be honest with me.”
“It's just…I remember finding s
tacks of old stories in your room when we first started hanging out. They were really good, and when we talked about the characters and the stuff that happened in them, you would light up. I always thought you’d end up being an author or something when you got older. I’ve never once seen you excited about being a journalist.”
“That’s not true. I’m really excited about it.”
She tips her head down and looks at me from under her brows. “Motivated and determined, maybe, but not excited.”
“You sound like my mother.”
She slaps her book closed and shakes her head. “Forget I said anything.”
“I will,” I say, my voice clipped.
I turn the page in my book. How many times have I read the same sentence? A girl and a guy walking by, hand in hand, distracts me. Emily trains her eyes to the window.
“You know...you want the same life as your father, but did you ever think that maybe it won’t be everything you imagine it’ll be? I mean, can you ever imagine your father married again? Or having more kids?”
“Emily...” I say in warning.
“Seriously. Think about it. You said you had an amazing time with Ozzie. But why bother dating if it’s never going to go anywhere?”
I eye her, tapping the end of my pen on the page of my scribbler. She has a point and she knows it, which is why her words bother me so much. When she lays it out for me, it’s hard to ignore. But I’m going to anyway. I’ve invested too much time and energy into my future, and I’m not one to quit. Even if it suits me.
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
I sigh while drumming my fingers on the desk and staring at the page in front of me. When I look up, Emily is frowning at me. Her phone buzzes and vibrates on the table. She picks it up and reads a text. Her frown fades and is replaced with a smile as she taps out a reply. Then all is forgiven. “That was Brad. He wants to know where I am.”
“Is he coming here?”
“Yeah, he’s on his way. We’re going over to his sister’s. To study, of course.” She winks at me.
“Don’t pretend you’re studying. You probably won’t study at all, and you’ll still pass.”
She sets her phone down and leans in. “You say that like I’m going to skip studying and ace my tests. I barely get Cs. That’s nothing to brag about.”
“There is no way I could do as little work as you and still pass. It just wouldn’t happen. I have to work my butt off for the marks I get.”
“But you work. I can’t make myself. Never could. And like my older brother says, ‘It’s the piece of paper that counts.’ No one is going to ask you for a copy of your grades.”
“The military does. And some government jobs. And…”
She holds up her hands. “Okay, Rain Man. The kind of jobs I'll apply for won’t want them.”
“I’m not going to apply for jobs with the government or the military.”
She lets out a low growl before chuckling. She opens her mouth to speak as Brad approaches our table. He walks tall, grinning, a backpack slung over his right shoulder. When he reaches us, he drops his bag on the table and sits in the seat next to Emily. She beams as he leans in and peppers her cheeks with kisses.
He nods to me when he’s done. “What’s going on, ladies?”
I shrug. “Studying.”
“Fuck that.” He turns to Emily, “Let’s go to my sister’s house.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
Emily packs up her books. I study Brad. He plays varsity baseball. He’s said before that he knows Ozzie, and I wonder just how well. He might have information that will help me get to know the real Ozzie, or help me figure out a different angle to take with my story. Can I trust him? I don’t know. But Emily does. So, I tread carefully.
“Brad, you know Clay Ozmore, right?”
He leans an elbow on the table and Emily hefts her bag into her lap. “Yeah, sure.”
“How well do you know him?”
He eyes me. “Well enough.”
“Enough to say he’s a good person?”
He laughs at me. “Ask me what you want, Charlie. I’m not sure subtlety is your thing.”
“I’m not sure if I should be offended by that or not.”
He scratches his cheek. “What do you want to know?”
“Charlie is doing an article on him for the paper,” Emily says.
I glare at her. How could she tell him that? She could ruin everything.
“He’s not going to say anything.” She lays a hand on his shoulder and grips it tightly. “Right?”
“Ow.” He removes her fingers, one by one. “Babe, I’m pretty sure you left fingernail marks.”
She kisses his shoulder, but he still looks unimpressed. “What kind of article are you writing?” he asks.
“Why does it matter?” Emily adjusts in her seat so one of her legs is tucked under her butt.
“Because he’s a friend. And Em told me you guys are hanging out, but there’s no way he knows you’re writing a story about him or he would avoid you like syphilis.”
“He wouldn’t talk to me if he knew I’m writing a story,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to publish something that’s going to hurt him or make him look bad. I’m hoping he’ll be happy with what I come up with.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Forget I said anything,” I say. “I'll get the information on my own. Just don't say anything, please.” I flip a page in my text book. Not because I’m reading, but because I need to do something. To be busy with my hands. If I start fidgeting with my fingers right now, I’m going to break them.
“Look, all I’m saying is he’s a good guy. The kind of guy who has your back. If I got stranded in the middle of nowhere, he’s one of three guys I could count on to come and help me. He has his secrets, but who doesn’t? He’s trustworthy and he’s loyal. I’m just trying to look out for him.”
“I didn’t know you knew him that well. You never mention him,” Emily says.
“I don’t tell you everything.”
When Emily glowers at him, he doesn't flinch, though I would if she aimed her fury at me.
“We went to high school together.”
“What? How did I not know this? You went to Blandford Prep?”
He nods. Just once.
“We looked for pictures of him, and he was absent in all of them. Do you know why?” I ask.
“Here’s a novel idea—ask him.”
Emily elbows him. “Don’t be a dick.”
After clearing his throat and ruffling his hair, he pushes himself out of his seat and stands. He tosses his bag over his shoulder. He’s itching to leave, and I guess I can’t blame him. He’s trying to be a good friend, and I’d do the same in his situation. I don’t know him as well as I’d like, and all this tells me is that he’s loyal, too. That’s not a bad quality to have.
“Can I ask you one question?” I say quietly as I scribble random lines on my page. When I look up, his face is blank.
He nods, just once, and it’s almost imperceptible.
“Why can’t I find anything about him online before he went to Blandford?”
He stills for a moment before standing. “I can’t do it, Charlie. Sorry. You want his story? Ask him. And if he doesn't tell you, then it ain’t your business.” He takes a step back and turns before sauntering away. Emily bites her lip, her gaze flashing back and forth between us, caught between her best friend and her boyfriend.
“It’s okay,” I say, gesturing in his direction. And it is. I wouldn’t want her with him if he gave me what I wanted. He wouldn’t have my respect.
“I’m sorry,” she says, before jumping up from her seat and running after him.
Chapter Nine
Who is Clayton Ozmore? This burning question stirs so many emotions inside me, and it’s the reason I’m on my way to Blandford Prep right now. Story or not, I need to know who he really is. I’m not willing to let myself fall for a
guy I think I know, only to find out he’s someone completely different. As I zip along the highway, it’s not lost on me that he ditched Sam for doing the exact same thing I’m doing now. This is yet another reason why he and I will probably never work out. No matter how hopeful I am.
I roll my window down. The sun shines in and warms my arms as I clutch the steering wheel. While I hum to “Bitch Better Have My Money” by Rihanna—it’s my jam—my phone dings. I pick it up and see two messages, one from now and one from an hour ago. I try to read and drive but find myself unable to do both so I pull over for a moment.
Brad says he’s sorry for going off on you.
E
No. He’s not sorry. At least, I doubt he is. He’s making nice with Emily, and that’s okay. I like Brad and I like how he makes her feel. She’s had her share of jerks over the years, but Brad is attentive and sweet. On Valentine’s Day, he stood on the grass below our window with an old stereo held high in his arms, reenacting a scene from an old movie Emily absolutely loves. I could tell from the look on her face that this guy might be it for her. I was more envious of her in that moment than I ever have been. I was jealous and I hated myself for it because, ultimately, I want nothing but the best for her.
Tell him I'm sorry. I promise I will try not to hurt him. Charlie
I scroll down to the next message. A crow lands in front of the car and starts picking at stray rocks and some small carcass rotting away to nothing. The car shakes as a car whooshes by, and then another.
What r u doing tonight? O
He wants to see me again. When I crushed on Dennis Henry in eleventh grade, I asked my sister for advice. She said, “If a guy wants to hang out with you, he’ll hang out with you.” This simple statement made my situation glaringly obvious at the time. Dennis had no interest in me. Now, her advice is still relevant and makes me realize that Ozzie is into me. He wants to see me, and he’s trying to make sure it happens.
I sigh and tilt my head back against the headrest. Then my mood dampens. Please be the guy I think you are.
