Late Edition

by Rachel Wise

  “I tell her that all the time!” Hailey beamed.

  “Then you’re a genius too, Pinkie,” teased Michael, and we all laughed.

  After school, Michael and I went to see Dr. Shenberg to pitch him our idea, which he loved. He made us promise to share the work equally and not divide it up, as he wanted us both to have learned and worked on every aspect of the project to keep the grade fair. In my mind, I was jumping up and down and hugging Dr. Shenberg, but outside I played it cool as a cucumber.

  When we left, I said, “Next stop, the newspaper office to make a plan with Trigger.”

  “Oh bummer! I have to go to football,” said Michael, uncomfortably shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the other.

  “Oh. Well, that’s okay. I’ve got it. I’ll just let you know what Trigger says.” I shrugged.

  “But what about what Dr. Shenberg said about doing everything together? Want to just wait until tomorrow and I can go with you?”

  I bit my lip. “No. I’d rather just get it over with so I can plan out my time for the week. It’s not a big deal. Is there any day you can’t go to the printer?” I asked.

  Michael filled me in on his schedule and then he said, “This is huge, Pasty. I owe you a batch of cinnamon buns for this one.”

  I waved my hand, like, No problem. “I’ve got it. Not that I’d ever turn down the famous Lawrence buns!” Instantly, I slapped my hand over my big mouth. My face turned purple, and as Michael laughed at my gaffe, I ran away.

  By the time I reached the newspaper office, I had regained my composure a little, cringing only when I thought of the words “Lawrence,” or “buns,” which was about every thirty seconds.

  Mr. Trigg was at his desk, luckily, and I accepted a cup of his (noncaffeinated) tea, which is always on offer there, and settled in for a chat.

  “Mr. Trigg, first of all, do you think the DKIA column is slipping?”

  “Slipping? Oh no, my dear girl. It’s quite good.”

  “Well, another journalist on the paper told me they didn’t think the writing had been up to par lately. That it seemed rushed and not as thorough.” I winced, remembering Michael’s words.

  Mr. Trigg cupped his chin in his hand and tapped his upper lip, which he always does when he’s thinking. “Well, perhaps,” he admitted. “But I also think the questions haven’t been great. Maybe we’ll devote you a little more space this time and you can write something longer.”

  Inwardly, I groaned. More work. Less sleep. And on it goes.

  “Oh, and here’s the latest.” He handed me a file and I glanced inside, seeing just one letter. Just at that moment his phone rang and he gestured that I could go ahead and read it, so I shut his office door halfway and then stood there reading the letter. It said:

  Dear Know-It-All,

  I am so stressed out, yo. There’s too much work at this place. I can’t find the time to do anything else.

  Signed,

  Help

  I folded it up and put it back in the file right as Mr. Trigg hung up. “It’s a theme,” he said.

  I nodded. “I’ll do the first one. It’s better written. I need to think about my response though. I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

  “Good thinking, Ms. Martone. Let me know if I can be helpful.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Also, Ms. Martone, you must always be on your toes for professional envy. Oftentimes journalists will skewer each other’s work for reasons more complicated than you’d think.”

  I thought of Michael and that just didn’t fit.

  Mr. Trigg continued. “So how’s the article coming along on sleep?”

  “Oh, just . . . ducky!” I said, using one of his words and giggling at it.

  He smiled. “Excellent. And what else?”

  “Actually, I need to ask you a favor. I’ve got to do a project for extra credit, for earthonomics. Actually, so does Michael Lawrence. And we were thinking of doing it on modern printing techniques and the process of printing a newspaper.”

  “Wonderful idea!” said Mr. Trigg, sipping at his tea.

  “Thanks. And we were wondering if we could go with you on a print run one night?”

  “Splendid idea! Absolutely! I’m going this Thursday night, and I’d love you two to tag along. It’s quite interesting.”

  “Thanks!” I said. “It sounds great.”

  “Certainly. It’s a plan. Have your parents bring you two here at nine p.m., and I will return you home afterward. It’s quite a late-night event, I’m afraid, so do have your mother call me to discuss the details. You won’t be home until after midnight.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well . . . I’m not usually asleep until after that anyway.”

  “You’re not? That’s awful! Growing children need plenty of sleep. Is that why you wanted to do the article on it?”

  I nodded miserably.

  “Well, do get to work so you can put any new practices to use immediately. I am sorry for the planned later night. It’s just that is when we’re slotted to be there. I can give you some of my sleep tips, though, for when I have my late Thursdays every other week. Would you like to hear them?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Right. First of all, get everything done ahead of time. Homework, dinner, laying out your pajamas and socks. You don’t want to have to do anything when you get home except take a warm—not hot—shower and have a light snack, like some crackers. Keep your house as dark as possible; don’t use the bathroom light. Just keep the hall light on and shower in the dimness. It helps. If I think of anything else special I do, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks. But one question: why the socks?”

  Mr. Trigg laughed. “I don’t rightly know. It’s something my grandmother used to make us do when I was a boy, and I’ve always done it since!”

  “Well, anything’s worth a try!” I agreed.

  “That’s the spirit!” cheered Mr. Trigg.

  I stood and gave him back my mug. “Thanks, Mr. Trigg. See you Thursday.”

  “Looking forward to it, Ms. Martone.”

  Chapter 5

  STOP THE PRESSES! JOURNOS GO ON DATE TO PRINTER!

  Most people wouldn’t bother primping for a trip to a factory, but then most people wouldn’t be going to a factory with the crush of their life! Thursday couldn’t come fast enough, and I used all my nervous energy in the day in between to research printing techniques so I’d know what questions to ask on the tour.

  I Googled a lot and even called two factories with questions. I examined different newspapers and looked up where they were printed. I made a plan to meet with Michael on Friday after school (I am so bold!) to go over my findings, but in the meantime I’d sketched out a flow chart I thought we could use for a poster.

  Meanwhile, Hailey had a big English paper due, so I helped her with that on Wednesday. I then had to stay up pretty late to finish my homework, but now I was thinking of myself as “in training” for Thursday’s late night so I decided I’d just let it ride. I went back to my old friend caffeine and slugged down a couple of colas both Wednesday and Thursday to keep my eyes open. (It mostly made me feel sick.)

  By Thursday evening at six thirty, I’d finished my homework (not my best effort), showered, dressed in a cute outfit, laid out my pj’s and some socks for when I got home, and I was just beginning to noodle around on the sleep article. The only problem was whenever I researched sleep, it made me tired! I was basically nodding off in front of my laptop when my mom came into my room and busted me.

  “Samantha, you are exhausted! Why don’t you postpone this trip for another week and just go to bed?”

  My head snapped up and my eyes flew open. “Was I asleep?”

  “Practically! Oh, sweetie, this is too much! You have dark circles under your eyes! I’m thinking I might just forbid you from going tonight. . . .” She bit her lip.

  “No!” I wailed, being careful not to burst into tears because a) it would ruin the tiny amount of mascara I
had put on and b) whenever Allie and I cry for no good reason, my mom says we’re overtired. The last thing I needed right now was to confirm her plans to keep me home. So instead I took a deep breath and said in a very calm voice, “I’ve got to get this project done this weekend so I have time to write my article and my”—I lowered my voice to a whisper—“column. . . . Plus it’s all set up and Mr. Trigg is excited and Michael . . .”

  My mom folded her arms and narrowed her eyes, assessing me. “You need to think about yourself, Samantha Martone.”

  I sighed heavily. “Fine. I want to go.”

  Mother/Daughter Staring Contest Ends in Draw.

  Finally my mom sighed and said, “All right. But a new sleep plan is going into effect very soon.” And she turned on her heel and left.

  “Phew,” I muttered. Then I shook my head a little to stay awake. Getting back to my laptop, I searched “Teen Sleep Habits” and found over 1.8 million results! I looked at my watch. We had to leave in fifteen minutes, so I had a little time. I started reading through the articles and taking notes. What I found was surprising and kind of scary.

  For instance, teen drivers who are measurably tired are as compromised in their driving skills as drunk drivers! Sleep deprivation can also make you break out, get sick, become dependent on drugs, and do badly in school. Yuck. The more I read, the more stressed I got! I started jotting down notes and quickly filled a page. This was going to be a great article for us!

  The fifteen minutes flew, and my mom was soon back in the door to get me for my ride to school to meet Mr. Trigg and Michael. I couldn’t wait!

  On the way there, she gave me a stern lecture about putting myself first and how I shouldn’t feel obligated to help my friends when it was at my own expense and how I had to be careful not to bite off more than I could chew. I could see her point a little.

  “Sam, you need to prioritize yourself. I know you are a wonderful and generous person who also likes to have a good time. But it’s no fun being the one who’s up all night working because you’ve spent all day helping others or playing.”

  I sighed in annoyance, but I admitted that she kind of had a point in theory, though it was hard to say no in practice.

  “Okay, Sam, then let’s practice for a minute. Pretend I’m Hailey and turn me down. Ready? Hey, Sam, can I come over after school so you can help me with my paper?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No.”

  “Pretty pleeeease?” whined my mom, sounding scarily like Hailey.

  I giggled. “No.”

  “I’ll be your best friend.”

  “No!” I said firmly.

  “Fine, then we’re not friends anymore!”

  “Mom!”

  “Why are you calling me mom?” said my mom.

  “Stop! Okay, I get the point!” I shouted.

  My mom grinned and looked over at me. “Hailey has a tutor that is paid for by the state. I love that you’re a good friend to her, but you are not obligated to help her with her homework. As of today, you are taking two weeks off.”

  “Mom! I can’t do that! Hailey’s final draft is due Monday!”

  My mom looked over at me again, her mouth set in a firm line that meant business.

  I slumped in my seat. “Fine,” I said in a small voice. “But she’s not going to like it.”

  “And the same goes for Michael Lawrence,” said my mom, as she turned into the school parking lot. “Now we’ve run out of time, but I just want to say, you don’t have to do more than your share of the work just so he’ll like you. He already does like you.”

  “What-ever, Mom,” I said, gathering my messenger bag, which had my notebook and my printouts from searching “Newspaper printing process” on the Web.

  “Samantha, just remember. If you give away all of your feathers, you’ll have nothing left to line your own nest.”

  “Ohhh-kay! Bye, Mom.”

  “Bye, sweetheart. Have fun.”

  I shut the door firmly, restraining myself from slamming it. Why did my mom have to be so nosy all the time? Heading up the walk toward the front door, I saw headlights pull in behind me. It was Michael’s dad’s SUV. I paused to wait for him as he said good-bye to his dad and caught up. Michael looked like he might have made a little extra effort to get spiffed up for tonight too. His hair was freshly washed and still damp, neatly parted and combed, and he had on clean clothes—a button-down and fresh cords—plus Top-Siders instead of his usual sneakers. I felt butterflies in my stomach, hoping he’d dressed up for me.

  Stop the Presses! Journos Go On Date to Printer!

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” I answered with a dopey grin. He smiled back.

  Mr. Lawrence tooted the horn, and we turned to wave and then headed in to find Mr. Trigg in the newsroom.

  “How’s the workload?” asked Michael.

  I groaned. “Awful. I mean, I’ve finished everything that’s actually due tomorrow, but the long-term stuff and the news article . . . and the research for the science project . . .”

  “Wait! You’re not supposed to be doing science project research without me!” protested Michael, the anguish plain on his face. “We agreed! I thought we were supposed to do it tomorrow after school!”

  “I . . . uh . . . well . . . I just thought . . .”

  “Come on, Sam. I mean, I know you’re a perfectionist, but this could really get me in trouble. If you do all the work, how can I take the grade for it?”

  The last thing I’d expected was for Michael to get mad that I’d worked ahead on our project. It made me mad.

  “Hey, I’m doing you a favor, buddy! And I can’t pull things off last-minute like you can! I need to work a little day by day and then put it all together. I’m not some . . . Last-Minute Lucy!”

  Michael laughed, which was a relief. “Last-Minute Lucy?” he teased. Well . . . sometimes you are, actually,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t like it when I am,” I protested.

  “Tomorrow, when we meet, we are going to divide this work up evenly, even if it might mean we can’t use some of your research. Deal?”

  This was really annoying. “Maybe.”

  Michael stopped in his tracks and folded his arms. “If you don’t agree, I’m calling my dad to come back and get me and you can do this project alone.”

  I huffed in annoyance. “Fine, I guess.”

  “Good. And thank you, but don’t try to do me any more favors. Now, let’s hurry or we’re going to be late.”

  We scurried to the newsroom, where Mr. Trigg was just shutting off the lights.

  “Cheers!” he called as we piled in through the doorway.

  “Hi, Mr. Trigg!” I said.

  “Almost ready! Just one last thing . . .” He ducked into his office and came out with three big sets of earphones, the kind air-traffic controllers wear.

  I laughed. “What are those for?”

  Mr. Trigg looked at me in surprise. “Have you ever been to a factory before?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you shall see!”

  It took about half an hour to get to the factory in Mr. Trigg’s car. At times, I’d close my eyes and pretend that Michael and I were on a date and that Mr. Trigg was his dad, driving us to the movies or something. I even caught myself smiling at one point and had to quickly look out the window so that Michael wouldn’t see me.

  After a half hour’s drive, we ended up in an industrial park in Newark that said “FlyPrint” across the side of the building in huge letters. There were big trucks from all the major national newspapers lined up outside, waiting with their engines idling.

  “Whoa! They print the New York Times here?” I asked in awe. The New York Times is like the ultimate, as far as I’m concerned. It would be my dream to one day write for them.

  Mr. Trigg nodded. “Not in the same area as the Cherry Valley Voice, of course, but it’s the same company. First, we will be touring the big plant, where they print the big boys; the Voice is printed
in a small annex off to one end. Not nearly as glamorous!” He pulled the car into a parking spot and we all got out. Mr. Trigg pulled his earphones around his neck into a ready position and handed ours to us to do the same.

  “Follow me!” he said, clapping his hands in excitement. “Oh, how I love the smell of freshly printed newsprint!”

  Michael and I exchanged a look and laughed. We were excited too.

  The lobby of FlyPrint could have been any corporate lobby. The receptionist greeted Mr. Trigg by name and told us to go on in, that Jack Dunleavy was waiting for us.

  “Jolly good! Thank you!” said Mr. Trigg. He ushered us down a long hall, around a corner, and toward a huge door. I could hear a din from behind the door and knew that must be the factory area, but before we went in, Mr. Trigg took a quick right into an office. We followed him. Inside was a conference table surrounded by cushy leather chairs, a TV on the wall showing CNN, vending machines, and a huge plate-glass window that looked out on the massive factory beyond. Sitting on one of those cushy chairs was a middle-aged man with a big belly. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, a tie, and suit pants and was watching TV. He popped up when we came in, and Mr. Trigg introduced us all around.

  Mr. Dunleavy explained that he was the Cherry Valley Voice’s sales rep and would be touring us around, then returning us to the conference room to watch a short, twenty-minute film about the printing process while he and Mr. Trigg did a print check for our next issue. He said he’d be happy to answer our questions as we went along, but since it would be so noisy, we could also do a Q and A after the film was over. I told him I had lots of questions and would appreciate doing an interview with him, and he agreed.

  Next, Mr. Dunleavy gave us a quick overview of the plant and what we were going to see. FlyPrint’s main machine cost more than forty million dollars and was three stories high. It could print up to forty-eight thousand copies of a newspaper an hour. He described the process of receiving the digital files for the paper from a newspaper’s editorial and production departments, preparing the printing plates and ordering the right amount of plain newsprint and ink for that day’s edition of the paper, and he talked about how gentle the machines need to be because newsprint is very soft and thin and a damaged roll of paper loses thousands of dollars for the printer.