I’d logged quality time with my cousins the previous summer, tag-team babysitting and helping Fynn with billing and promotional copy for his web-design business.
I found Rain out on the porch swing. “Couldn’t sleep?” I asked her.
At her feet, the big dog yawned, and I crouched to scratch his chin.
Rain angled her screen so I could view a selection of her photos. Some in color, some in black and white. Powwow traders, shawl dancers, jingle dancers. The historic downtown, Blue Heaven Trailer Park, and Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence.
Family images. Her late mama’s tear dress, Aiyana finger-painting, and a selfie of Rain and I cuddling her darling niece at Fynn and Natalie’s wedding. At the reception in the church basement, we were the ones who finished off the marble marzipan sheet cake.
Rain and I share Muscogee-Cherokee heritage, and we both have Ojibwe ancestry on the other sides of our families. Her relations are Saginaw Chippewa. Mine are Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa and Chippewa. We’re also both descendants of Irish and Scottish immigrants. She’s German-American on her dad’s side, too.
Rain’s photography reflects her hometown, her cultures, the people she cares about most. She has a compelling way of capturing movement, light, emotion. With stills, she’s better than Joey. My cousin occasionally shoots for her small-town paper, the Hannesburg Weekly Examiner, partly because her new sister-in-law is the News editor.
When I’d mentioned to Rain that Karishma, the incoming editor in chief of my school paper, had asked me to sign up, my cousin was the one who’d encouraged me most.
Now that the semester was under way, she asked, “How’s your journalism class?”
“I need an editorial topic.” The Hive comes out every Friday, and I was expected to contribute an opinion piece by the end of the semester. “Something that matters. Something —”
“Something that’ll beat out Joey’s?” Rain teased.
“I refuse to dignify that with an answer.” I laughed. “Okay, yes, that would be nice.”
I joined her on the porch swing, and my cousin tossed me a crocheted throw.
“What if you did something on how people talk?” she began. “How girls can get called a slut for anything, for nothing, and people will repeat it, too. Post it all over online.”
Her tone hinted at personal experience.
My poetic, soft-spoken cousin, who scribbles in journals and reveals stories in shadows. In her whole life, she’s kissed only one boy, one time.
Her childhood nickname was Rainbow.
Dylan Shuster is the debate team captain and a notorious gossip.
He’s also a working student. I perched on the bar stool next to his behind the Phillips 66 checkout counter. Joey had already been by to shoot some on-the-job pics.
“Can I have photo approval?” Dylan asked, setting out boxes of candy bars and protein bars next to the cash register.
“You’ll have to take that up with Joey and the editors.” Using my phone, I opened an app and hit Record. Audio note-taking was a new Hive policy in cases where the interview wasn’t on video, partly so that the reporters could cross-check to verify our facts and partly so no source could holler about being misquoted. I’d take handwritten notes, too.
Meanwhile, a hefty, fair-skinned man wearing a camouflage windbreaker came in. His matching camo ball cap was pulled low. He’d parked his pickup truck on the far side of the lot, even though all the spots in front were available except the one I’d taken.
“I like to work,” Dylan informed me. “I don’t see why more students don’t work. I mean, you have to get a job, and that’s not always easy. This is perfect, though, because the owner doesn’t care if I do my homework while I’m here. I don’t beg my parents for money, and they can’t control what I do with what I earn, though I choose to give them half.”
There was a lot to unpack in that. Especially the last line, which had felt intentionally wedged into the conversation. “You give them half?” I asked, scribbling what he’d said.
“I’m perfectly capable of contributing to my family,” Dylan informed me. “If this was yore, I could’ve been married with two kids and a blacksmith shop by now.”
Was he trying to debate me? “Still, most kids our age don’t give money to their parents.”
Suddenly Dylan seemed distracted, nervous. “Help yourself if you want a Coke or something,” he said, checking the surveillance camera feed of the rear of the store.
The lone customer seemed momentarily torn between cashews and peanuts. Then he opened the mini fridge of fishing bait ($3.22 a cup) and closed it again.
I pushed off the stool and grabbed a zero-calorie orange drink from a fridge.
Dylan explained, “My dad used to manage a sporting-goods shop, but it went out of business. He picks up seasonal work at the home-repair store, but . . .”
I wasn’t sure how personal to get. “Is your dad your, um, primary custodial parent?”
“What?” he asked as a pickup truck towing an Airstream pulled up to a pump. “Oh, no, but my mom has to take care of my baby brother and little sisters and my great-grandma.”
As I unscrewed the cap on my drink, it struck me that I was writing down a lot of his family’s personal business. I didn’t think my own parents would want me talking publicly about our finances. “Did you mention to your folks that you were doing this interview for the Hive?”
Dylan surveyed the activity outside. A convertible Volkswagen Beetle had also swung in to fuel up. His gaze flicked back to the store camera video. “Did you see him, the guy dressed like a hunter, go into the restroom?”
I shook my head. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
The brass bell mounted above the door jangled, and I realized it hadn’t been there the last time I had come in. A silver-haired couple in nearly matching plaid shirts and blue jeans bustled inside, arguing about an interview with a senator they’d been listening to, probably on NPR.
She started loading up on granola bars and grabbed a bottle of aspirin.
Her husband high-tailed it to the back of the store and knocked loudly on the restroom door. “Anyone in there?”
Returning to my question, Dylan answered, “My folks said to speak my mind. Too many people think that nobody in East Hannesburg is hurting for money. Or they think we’re somehow lesser than them. You wouldn’t believe all the people at school who come in here, and it’s like they don’t even know me. They never even glance at my face.”
Had I said hello to him that rainy summer day with Peter Ney?
Not really. I hadn’t noticed Dylan much at first, and then I’d resented him for mentioning Cam, for asking if I was dating Peter. But Dylan didn’t have much of a filter. He pushed, maybe because he survived by pushing.
Dylan’s gaze was fixed on the video from the store camera. His hand was on his phone.
I took a sip of orange drink. “What’s wrong?”
Then the owner of the Beetle convertible strode in with a drooling pug peeking out of her tote bag, the restroom door opened, and Dylan breathed, “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
The guy in camo print left the store without buying anything or turning his face our way, and the widely smiling middle-aged woman with the dog said, “Hello there! My GPS is on the fritz. How do we get to Oma Dottie’s B&B?”
While Dylan rang up her bottled water, I gave the lady directions to the bed-and-breakfast. After they’d left, I asked Dylan, “What was all that about?”
“Can’t be too careful,” he said. “This place has been robbed twice in the past six months.”
Callbacks for the musical were scheduled for Tuesday after the final bell. Adjusting the front seat of Mama’s compact car, I said, “Remember, Mrs. Q isn’t going to be all about the strongest actor or singer. The key is showing her that you’re the best fit for the part.”
There was every reason to be optimistic. Hughie knew his monologue, his singing was solid, and his dancing was coming
along. The Tin Man was supposed to move stiffly anyway.
“I’m ready,” Hughie said, staring out his open passenger-side window at a neighbor woman power walking with two energetic brown terriers.
Unless he froze up, I figured Hughie was a shoo-in for the understudy, which would’ve been fantastic. Especially for a freshman. But I was hoping for more.
I believed in him, and, to be honest, I wanted him to beat out the jackass who’d made the ignorant totem-pole comment. “Listen to the instructions. Project a can-do attitude.”
“Can do,” my brother echoed.
As we passed one new house after another, regulation basketball hoops rose from concrete driveways framed by freshly manicured deep-green lawns. A yard sign proclaimed the two-story on the corner home to a varsity gymnast. But sports aren’t the only path to stardom.
“Don’t forget your towel and water,” I reminded my brother. “Say thank you when you’re done with your audition.”
Biting his thumbnail, Hughie said, “Mvto, Sissy.”
“You’re welcome.” Had I made him nervous?
Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Hughie hadn’t called me Sissy since kindergarten.
“Why not?” Daniel asked later at the Hive editors’ new makeshift command center.
“Unless we go to state, sports go on the Sports page,” Karishma said, with a wave of her hand. “News goes on the front page.”
Daniel clicked his pen. “It’s called the front page, not the News page.”
Erasing the whiteboard, Ms. Wilson didn’t so much as glance their way. She’d reserved final approval before the paper went live and handled all the teacher stuff. Otherwise, she wanted us to act like we were working for a real-world media outlet.
She had a twofold policy:
1. Don’t bother me unless you’re on fire.
2. Don’t catch on fire.
Joey had been excused to do a follow-up interview for his senior-photos story. Nick was copyediting Emily’s piece on Marching Band while Alexis called an ACT prep instructor for a quote. The day before, Alexis had successfully pitched her editorial: encouraging students to foster baby animals from the local shelter until they were old enough to adopt.
Nick had filled me in on my fellow girl reporters after French class.
Emily knew everybody. Everybody knew her and she didn’t give a damn what they thought. She wore flowing full-length skirts and dresses and canvas sandals to show off her toe rings, and she was a total potty mouth. Emily had a lot of older brothers and a lot of attitude.
Alexis, on the other hand, didn’t seem to know anybody and nobody knew her, either. She cared too much what people thought and had joined the Hive to push past her shyness. Alexis usually wore her shoulder-length blond hair in a ponytail and spent quality time at the new skate park. Other than her younger sister, Alexis was the only known Mormon student at EHHS.
I hit Send on my questions for a junior doing a semester at sea and wandered over to our bickering leaders. Daniel was saying, “I’m not talking about all Cam Ryan, all the time. One of our girl gymnasts and one of our boy runners are returning champs. Another girl on the gymnastics team came in third last year at state. They’re big news throughout the season.”
“Let me think about it,” Karishma said. “Lou, did you have something?”
Having botched my last attempt at the feature I was about to propose, I’d done more prep this time. Studied materials from the school counselor and stopped by the library, too. “I’d like to reboot and expand my bullying idea into a series of articles. I can do new interviews for an article about verbal bullying. I could also tackle social, physical, cyber, sexual, and prejudicial bullying. Not necessarily in that order.”
Karishma’s standards were exacting. I had to be careful about how I framed my goals.
Frowning, I admitted, “It’s tough, getting students to go on the record. Whichever subtopic comes together, that’s what I’d go with next.”
The editors’ work space was covered in local newspapers — the Lawrence Journal-World, the Topeka Capital-Journal, the Kansas City Star, the Hannesburg Weekly Examiner, and the East Hannesburg Gazette.
They made a habit out of scouring for nuggets that could be localized to EHHS, but Ms. Wilson had urged all of us to check at least three news media sources a day — local, national, and international. And so I did. I also kept up with my official tribal newspaper and listened to Native America Calling.
“That would be another big assignment,” Karishma said. “You’ve already got a series on working students in progress, and we can’t limit our Features coverage to a few special projects.”
She pointed to the Gazette’s lead story on proposed city park improvements. “Nothing to stop the presses over, but this would impact daily lives. School journalism is like community journalism. You can’t ignore bread-and-butter stories strictly in favor of the splashier stuff.”
“I know,” I said, taking a seat. “I’m thinking the bullying series would stretch over the course of the school year, not just this semester. So I’ll have plenty of time for other topics. Besides, we have two Features reporters.”
“Except Joey is also doing photography and videography,” Karishma pointed out.
“Joey insisted that he could handle the workload,” I reminded her. “And so can I.”
“Hang on,” Daniel put in. “Did you say ‘sexual’ bullying? You’re going to talk about sex in the East Hannesburg school newspaper?” In a sarcastic voice, he added, “This isn’t Lawrence, people. We’re bursting with family values.”
Karishma kicked him under the table. “I hate to admit it, but Daniel has a point. The Powers That Be are uptight about anything sex-related. We want to be responsible, not sensational.” She frowned. “What’re your thoughts on an angle, Lou?”
“For the lead? People labeling girls as sluts whether they’ve done anything or not. The idea that either way, that kind of talk is bad. No matter whether a girl’s a virgin or she’s had . . .”
At the word virgin, Ms. Wilson had adjusted her hot-pink cat’s-eye glasses, but Karishma had everything under control. Our editor in chief had already proclaimed her intention that the Hive sweep the high-school journalism awards in May.
It was action item number three of her senior-year plan.
I took a breath. “I’m still zeroing in on my focus.”
“Feeling antsy, Lou?” Emily asked the next day. She’d brought in a bouquet of orange Gerbera daisies that had done wonders to brighten up the newsroom. (Her family owned a floral shop.) “Got a hot date? You’ve checked the time every few minutes since class began.”
I’d been trying to write a lead for my semester-at-sea story. “I can’t concentrate. My little brother’s up for the Tin Man in the musical.”
I didn’t have to tell Emily the final cast list would be posted after school. Arts/Entertainment is her beat.
“Hughie Wolfe’s your brother? He’s adorkable!”
She narrowed her eyes. “Bet you anything Qualey posts the list before the bell, ducks out early, and lets the tears fall where they may.” Emily looped her purse strap over her head. “I’m about to wander over. Want to come with?”
“You’re planning to do a story on slut shaming?” Emily asked as we bounded up the otherwise empty stairwell.
“Sexual bullying,” I replied. “So, yeah.”
“Is it because of what Cam Ryan’s been saying about you?”
I didn’t want to know. On the landing, I asked anyway. “What has he been saying?”
“Uh, that he dumped you because you’re . . . well, he said a lot of things. About your supposedly bitching at him all the time and trying to change him and dictating every word out of his mouth. But the biggie is that you’re a crazy nympho, freaky sick. Into kinky shit like leather and whips and whipped cream.”
Asshole! So petty, so obvious. So Cam.
Up until that moment, I’d been oblivious. It’s not
like he and I ran in the same circles anymore. He’d blocked me on social media, and I hadn’t been living online as much as I used to. (My parents had always strictly limited my screen time anyway.) I kept in touch with my cousins by text, and Shelby was my only close friend at East Hannesburg High.
Emily said, “Don’t stress. Nobody’s buying it. Not even his precious bros. They just let Cam talk. Everyone thinks you’re a total priss.” Which of course wasn’t any better.
She added, “Besides, let’s face it. Cam might normally be a grade-A bullshitter, but he really didn’t think that one through. It’s no stretch to believe he’d dump a girl for being a hardcore virgin, but not for being a hardcore sex addict.”
This was a topic of discussion?
What the hell was wrong with people?
“Screw you,” I said. “I’m a lady.”
“Screw me, huh? That’s a fucking ladylike thing to say.”
Emily briefly detoured to the water fountain for a drink. Wiping her mouth, she added, “I wasn’t talking about myself or anyone with a spine and a clue. I meant the ultra-coiffed aristocracy.”
As we crossed the bridge, Emily swung a friendly arm around my shoulders and I caught the floral scent of her shampoo. She said, “I like you, Lady Lou. You’re an onion.”
I bit back my reply. I was mad at Cam, not Emily.
Steps from the auditorium, Mrs. Q bustled toward us, a piece of bright-yellow card stock in her hand. “That’s it,” I whispered. “The cast list.”
Please, I prayed. For Hughie, please.
“Girls!” she called. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in class?”
“You know why we’re here,” Emily replied, monotone. “I’m covering the musical for the Hive. This isn’t Broadway. You need all the publicity you can get.”
“You’re intruding.” Mrs. Q clutched the list to her chest. “Move along. Come back after school and find out with everyone else.”
Emily hesitated a beat too long, so I said, “Uh, I need to use the restroom.”
Hearts Unbroken Page 6
