by Robin Caroll
Now she could concentrate on the big story. Who planted the bomb? And why?
What felt like hours later, Dad emerged from the theater and joined her and Makayla in the parking lot. “Let’s get you girls home. Y’all look beat.”
As if she could sleep now. She and Makayla followed him to his truck and climbed inside.
“Dad, do you have any idea who put the bomb in the theater?”
“Not yet, pumpkin. The bomb unit will go over the device itself and see if there is any forensic evidence.” He started the truck, then backed out of the parking space.
“What if they don’t find any evidence? Does that mean the person gets away with it?” She pulled out her smartphone and opened the notes application. She punched in comments as fast as her mind raced.
He sighed. “No. It just means it’ll take a little longer for the case to get some footing. The bomb unit lieutenant will make a profile based upon the device itself, and that will be the starting point.” He met her gaze in his rearview mirror. “Don’t go getting any reporting ideas, Sam. This isn’t a story for a middle school newspaper. And if you got any photographs of the bomb itself, you need to send them to me and then delete them off your phone.”
“Dad, everybody at our school goes to that theater all the time. Of course it’s a story for our paper.” Was he serious? “And I took the pictures. They’re mine.”
“Sam, you either send me those pictures and then delete them, or I confiscate your phone. Understand?”
Makayla shoved an elbow in Sam’s side.
“Yes, sir.” She opened her camera roll on her latest model iPhone and forwarded the pictures. Once they were sent, she deleted them. But she couldn’t let the discussion go. She really felt that the bomb was a story for their school paper.
This could give her a scoop right out of the chute. If she was going to be in the running for editor next year, she needed this. “Someone’s going to write about it, Dad. At least I was there. I know the truth.” Dad wasn’t wild about the press ever since a reporter misquoted him months ago and got him in hot water with his boss. “Somebody else might not have all the facts, and no telling what they might print.”
“True.” Dad flipped on the blinker as he braked for the red light at the intersection of Chenal and Chenal Valley Drive. “But before you run off and start printing articles, let me approve what you submit.”
“Dad, that’s censorship.” She wasn’t some little kid, about to spout off without knowing the facts. Yet that’s just how he was treating her.
“No, it’s smart reporting. We don’t want a panic. What if everyone becomes scared and refuses to go back to the theater? The owner could go bankrupt. You don’t want to be responsible for something like that, do you?”
“No. But people have the right to know. Don’t you think the state newspaper will run an article about the bomb?” Why should she have to get approval for what she witnessed?
“The press will be given information through the proper police channels.”
“Then give me that contact.” She’d begged her father last year to be put on the press list at the police station, but he’d refused. He’d said that only recognized publications were listed, but she noticed the high school paper seemed to get the information with no problem.
“You know I can’t, Sam.” Dad whipped the truck into Makayla’s driveway.
“Thanks again for taking me, Mr. Sanderson.” Makayla opened the truck door and scooted out. “I’ll see you at church in the morning.”
Sam followed her friend out of the truck, snagged a quick hug, then opened the passenger door and climbed in the front seat.
Dad waited until Makayla was inside the house and turned off the porch light before he backed out. “I know you want to run with the story, and I don’t want to hold you back, but there’s a proper protocol for reporters on stories such as these.”
“You mean where the general public could be in danger?”
He clenched his jaw hard. He was either angry or frustrated. In this case, probably a little of both. “Sam . . .”
“Dad, this is big for me. I promise I’ll be responsible in my reporting. You’ve got to trust me sometime.” It wasn’t like she went off half-baked all the time.
“All right.” He pulled into the garage, then turned off the engine. “But if you hear a rumor, before you put that in your article, run it by me first, okay?”
“Sure, Dad.” She slipped out of the truck and slammed the door. “Thanks for taking us tonight.” Without meaning to, he’d given her a head-start on her editor campaign.
She raced into the house. Chewy, her German hunt terrier, met her at the door, jumping and wiggling with excitement. She laughed at her dog’s antics as she let the pooch out into the backyard and then bounded up the stairs, not needing to be quiet since Mom was out of town on assignment.
She plopped into the ergonomic chair behind her desk and opened her MacBook Pro, her pride and joy that had been her Christmas present last year. Mom had said if she was serious about being a journalist, then she needed the right equipment. The Mac meant the world to Sam — mainly because it was a statement that her mom believed in her dream. Besides, she had an addiction to gadgets. She just couldn’t help herself.
After opening Word, she interlaced her fingers, then stretched them out in front of her, popping her knuckles. She rolled her shoulders before typing in the headline she’d come up with on the way upstairs: Late-Night Show Bombs at Chenal Theater.
Chewy burst into the room, her body wagged by her tail. Dad stuck his head in the door moments later. “Get some sleep. We have church in the morning.”
“I will. Just gotta get the emotion down on the page while it’s still fresh in my mind.”
Dad sighed and tapped the doorframe. “Not too late.”
“Only fifteen or so minutes.” She looked up from the monitor. “And Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you weren’t hurt tonight.”
He smiled. “Me, too.” He stepped into the room and planted a kiss on her forehead. “No more than fifteen minutes, then bed, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Night. Love you.”
“Night and love you too, Dad.” She focused on the blinking cursor as Dad left.
Chewy jumped up onto her bed and circled twice before she plopped down on the pillows.
Sam typed as she replayed what she’d felt, then put it in article format. When she’d finished, she glanced at the time — five after midnight. Well past the fifteen minutes she’d promised Dad, but this was for her future.
She opened her email, clicked on Aubrey Damas’s name, and entered BOMB AT CHENAL 9 in the subject line. Her heart quickened a bit as she typed a quick message telling Aubrey about the bomb and that she’d turn in an article for the first edition of the school’s paper. Surely Aubrey wouldn’t let her personal feelings against Sam stop her from running the story?
Sam chewed what was once her fingernail and reread her message. It was polite, to the point, and informative. She glanced at Chewy lying on her pillow. “She won’t assign the story to someone else, right?”
Chewy stared back with her expressive brown eyes as if to reassure Sam. It didn’t work. Sam’s gut still tightened as she pressed the button to send the email.
She shut the laptop and dragged herself into the bathroom to brush her teeth. As usual, she turned on the television hidden in the bathroom mirror. She flipped to the national all-news station as she brushed. Nothing of major interest caught her eye, so she turned off the newscast and the bathroom light. As she crawled into bed and turned off the lights, she made up her mind. If Aubrey tried to give the story to someone else, Sam would go straight to Ms. Pape.
Even if that would make Aubrey hate her all the more.
CHAPTER 3
SUNDAY SECRETS
Stop yawning,” Makayla whispered, covering her own gaping mouth with her hand.
The youth director, Ms. Marth
a, kept on talking about the upcoming skate party. Sam shook her head, trying to focus. It was no use. Despite the coolness of the church’s youth room with the bright green, blue, and purple paint, Sam’s mind wasn’t in Sunday school — it was back at home, in her bed. Where her body desperately wanted to be at the moment.
Another yawn pushed out.
“Sam,” Makayla hissed.
Suddenly, it was all very funny to Sam. A giggle rose from her chest and escaped. Makayla gawked at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. That made Sam laugh harder.
And louder.
Others turned to stare, which made her giggle even more. Within seconds, it was uncontrollable. Sam held her stomach as she bent. No way would she be able to control the outburst any time soon.
Even Ms. Martha chuckled. “Sounds like someone’s giggle box switched on.”
Sam shook her head and stood. “I-I. Bath-room.” It was all she could get out before she turned and rushed from the room.
She found it hard to catch her breath as she made it down the church’s hallway to the ladies’ room. Inside, she stared at herself in the mirror, still chuckling. Her face was redder than her shirt.
What was wrong with her? It had to be exhaustion. She hadn’t slept well. Visions of her father holding a stick of dynamite had drifted in and out of her dreams all night. That stopped the laughter-fest.
Sam splashed her face with cold water. She dabbed a rough paper towel against her cheeks, which were still pretty red. Her eyes were bloodshot.
She’d been running late this morning, so she hadn’t done much with her hair. Normally shiny, thick, and with a hint of a wave, it hung limp today like someone had spilled a bowl of burnt noodles over her head.
Simply put, she looked a mess.
But there was nothing she could do about it now. Sam wadded the paper towel and tossed it into the trash. She reached for the door but froze as she heard voices in the hall.
“Do you think those coalition people were behind the bombing?”
No mistaking that voice: it belonged to Ms. Vanya. Sam’s mom had complained more than a few times that Ms. Vanya was one of the biggest gossips around.
“Probably.” Ms. Kirkpatrick’s nasal voice matched her pinched-looking face. “Those Coalition of Reason heathens? Humph. Did you see those ads they put on the city buses last year? They probably did plant the bomb to go off while we were all sitting in the theater today.”
Sam knew she should probably stop eavesdropping and go back to her Sunday school room, but the word bomb had stopped her in her tracks. Not only because of her article, but also because of her dreams.
“From what I heard,” Ms. Vanya continued, “the bomb was set to detonate about thirty minutes into the movie. It had to be some atheists. Who else would want to bomb during such a time?”
“Are you still going?” Ms. Kirkpatrick asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m too scared. Are you?”
“Of course. No Satan-lovin’ heathens are gonna keep me from walking in victory. That’s what they want — for us to not be blessed by watching that movie. That bomb threat has just made me more determined than ever to go. You should, too. Don’t be a ninny,” said Ms. Kirkpatrick.
Sam held her breath. Her father hadn’t even mentioned the group, but it made perfect sense. The theater had been as sparse as a ghost town last night, and she’d even wondered if it was because Faithfully HIS was being shown today in a private viewing to local churches. Had an opposing group done such an act in retaliation?
The door opened right in front of her. Sam gasped and jumped backward.
“Oh, dear, Samantha. You startled me.” Ms. Vanya patted her chest. “Are you okay, dear? You look pale.”
“You scared me.” Her laughing bout was gone for good now.
“Are you sick?” Ms. Kirkpatrick stared through her thick glasses perched low down on her beaked nose.
“N-No, ma’am.” Truth be told, the woman scared Sam a bit. Always had. “I best be getting back to my Sunday school class.” She inched past the women.
“You have a good day, dear,” Ms. Vanya rang out behind her.
“You, too.” But Sam didn’t stop. She kept a fast walk until she slipped back into the youth group’s special room.
Last year, the youth group had come together to redesign their room. They’d painted it white with stripes in green, purple, and blue. The couch cushions matched the green and blue, and the bean bag chairs were purple. Sam’s favorite part of the room was the verse scrolled on the wall:
Don’t let anyone think less of you because YOU ARE young.
Be AN EXAMPLE to all believers in what you teach,
IN THE WAY YOU LIVE, in your love, YOUR FAITH, and your purity.
1 Timothy 4:12
“Welcome back, Sam. Things all better now?” Ms. Martha asked.
Heat shot to her cheeks. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry. I don’t know what happened to me. I just couldn’t stop laughing.”
“It happens.” Ms. Martha turned her attention back to the entire group and continued her discussion on King David.
“What’s wrong with you?” Makayla whispered.
“Up too late. Didn’t sleep well.” Sam inched closer to her best friend on the couch. “Hey, what do you know about the Coalition of Reason?”
Makayla shot her a strange look. “Why?”
“I’m just wondering if they had anything to do with planting the bomb last night.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Girls, is there something you’d like to share?” Ms. Martha crossed her arms over her chest.
The heat returned to Sam’s cheeks. “No, ma’am.” She ducked her head.
Ms. Martha sighed and sat on the edge of the table in the corner of the front of the room. “We might as well discuss what’s on all of yours minds. It’s what all the adults are talking about as well.”
Everyone gave her their full attention.
“I’m sure most of you heard on the news this morning that a bomb was found in the Chenal theater last night.”
The group nodded.
“It’s scary to think about, isn’t it? Especially when many of you plan to go to the special viewing of Faithfully HIS today with your family,” said Ms. Martha.
“Are they still planning to show the movie?” Ava Kate asked.
“My mom said there’s no way we’re going.” Lissi shifted in her seat. Her skin was a shade darker than Makayla’s smooth mocha complexion, but Lissi’s smile could brighten the darkest of rooms. Sam liked that about her. “Mom said that the bomb was definitely put there by someone who hates Christians. She said if they tried to bomb it and that failed, there’s no telling what they’ll do next.”
Sam gnawed on her cuticle. She hadn’t considered that possibility. While she and Dad hadn’t planned on attending the movie, many of her friends were going with their families, like Makayla and her mom, dad, and little sister.
“As of this morning, I hadn’t heard whether the theater owner had decided to still show the movie or not.” Ms. Martha stretched her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles. “But let’s talk about how we feel about the bomb. It’s scary, isn’t it?”
“My mom’s really freaked out over it,” Jeremy said. “Dad told her to stop being hysterical or he was going to turn off the news.”
Everyone chuckled nervously, but Sam understood. It was scary. She remembered how scared she was for her father last night. Just thinking about it now made her heartbeat kick up a notch.
“We were there.”
Everyone stared at Makayla.
“Me and Sam. With her dad. They’re the ones who found the bomb.”
The room erupted with questions and comments.
“Oh, wow.”
“What’d it look like?”
“How freaky is that!”
“What did you do?”
“Where was it?”
Ms. Martha held up her hands. “Shh, everybody. Yo
u can’t all talk at once.” She gave Sam and Makayla a smile. “Girls, why don’t you tell everyone what happened?”
“Well, we went out to get a drink, but we saw a light shining through the crack of the supply closet door in the bathroom, then Makayla spilled her drink all over my dad’s pants and the manager came and I told her about the light in the supply room and we had to go there to get a mop anyway . . .” Sam sucked in air.
“What?”
“I don’t get it.”
“Huh?”
Again, Ms. Martha held up her hand. “Shh.”
Makayla shook her head and explained what had happened. While she gave the long version, Sam mentally made a list of things she needed to research for her article, like the coalition. She needed to see if there were any news reports of groups protesting the Faithfully HIS showing.
Would Dad tell her if the theater had received any threats?
“I know it’s very scary, as are so many of the events in this day and age. Terrorism. Violence. But this has hit very close to home.” Ms. Martha had everyone’s attention again. “I’ll admit I get scared when I hear of such violent events on the news. But can anyone tell me what Scripture says about fear?”
The room grew quiet.
Ms. Martha laughed. “This isn’t a quiz.”
Lissi cleared her throat. “The Bible tells us not to be afraid.”
“Right. What else?” Ms. Martha asked.
“But,” Sandy said, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, “doesn’t the Bible tell us over and over again to fear God. If fear doesn’t come from God, why does He want us to fear Him?”
“Yeah, I don’t get that either,” Daniel looked to Ms. Martha. He might be in high school, but he never looked down on the younger kids in the youth group. Sam liked that about him. That and his amazing smile and only one dimple. On the right side. Not that she’d really noticed.
“I don’t have all the black-and-white answers, guys. What I do know is that the fear of the Lord that’s talked about in Scripture is a reverent fear and awe, not a scared-of-the-boogeyman type of fear. Does that make sense?”
