Famous Last Words

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  Following through on the sip would feel disloyal to AJ. But not drinking will make me look completely uncool in front of Tony. I feel like an amateur actress in one of those corny DVDs about peer pressure we watched in junior high health class. I’m still trying to decide what to do when Harry puts an end to my internal struggle.

  “Hand it over, D’Angelo,” he says, putting his arm between me and Tony.

  I comply without turning around to make eye contact. Harry has that effect on me.

  He passes my beer to the nearest reporter, who shrugs and takes a swig as Harry walks back to his table of Herald Tribune people and sits down between Michael and Meg. AJ looks relieved, and I don’t think Tony will try to buy me another round.

  “I’m going to check out the jukebox,” AJ says, and walks away.

  Tony ignores the whole exchange and resumes talking to me as if nothing transpired.

  “How old are you, anyway?” he asks.

  “Seventeen,” I say. “Next month.”

  “Really? I always assumed you were a college intern like me and AJ,” Tony says.

  “I’m going into my senior year in high school,” I say.

  “You look older,” he says, smiling in a way that convinces me older is good. “Did you take your SAT yet?”

  “Twice. I can take it again this fall, but then they average all three scores,” I say. “It’s not worth it unless I really need to.”

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “I’m pretty sure I did well enough to get into my first choice,” I say.

  “Which is?” he asks.

  “Penn State,” I say. “For now.”

  Dad’s alma mater. The D’Angelos are also big college football fans. (Mom went to Rutgers.) My parents have been taking me to see Penn State play since I was eleven. I like the familiarity of it.

  “Good school. Just a little far, isn’t it?” he asks.

  “From what?” I ask.

  “Civilization.”

  “Four hours from here,” I say. “Not so bad.”

  Why would he care if I were going to college far away? He hardly knows me. Does he want to know me better? My mind starts making huge leaps.

  “D’Angelo!” My name being shouted from clear across the room snaps me out of it. Meg is waving me over to an empty seat next to her.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Tony, and make my way over to Meg. She pulls out the chair and smacks the seat when I arrive.

  “Sit down. Have a diet soda,” she says, smiling.

  “Or an apple juice,” Harry says.

  I sit down and look back and forth between her and Harry.

  “Did you need me for something?”

  “Just surprised to see you fraternizing with the competition.” Meg says.

  “Huh?”

  “Coma Boy,” she says, taking a sip of her beer, “wants to fill in for Michael in August.”

  That confirms what I thought, but I’m kinda shocked to hear Meg call him Coma Boy.

  “Why does everyone call him that?” I ask.

  “Because he stinks,” Harry proclaims. “Because someone in a coma can write a feature story better than him. Coma Boy’s just lucky his daddy and our publisher are old frat buddies, or I would have put AJ in that spot months ago.”

  From the way he says it, sounds like Harry’s contempt for Tony and for our publisher is about equal. The Herald Tribune really is an alternate universe. Where else could the best-looking guy in the room become the object of ridicule because, in the words of our illustrious editor in chief, “he stinks”?

  “Please do me a favor, D’Angelo,” Harry says. “Don’t stay in this business if you’re just going to stink. It’s not the kind of job you can do half-assed.”

  It’s like being in a sea of bobblehead dolls, as nods of agreement make their way around the table like the wave. In addition to Harry, Meg, and Michael, the long table is also populated by Grace and Brian, the city-desk editors; Jim, the sports editor; and Jack. Make that bobblehead dolls amid a forest of empty brown bottles. These people can drink. I’m like the kid at the big-people’s table on Thanksgiving. The drunk-big-people’s table. I want to ask Michael what’s going on with Sy Goldberg and the mayor, but it’s clear Harry is holding court.

  “Who am I kidding? We’re all like a bunch of dinosaurs walking around with the comet speeding toward us, anyway,” Harry says. “Enjoy working for a newspaper while you can, D’Angelo. Eventually, we’re all going to be replaced by outsourcing. Some guy in Bangladesh is going to be writing your feature obits for $7.50 a pop. Provided there are any newspapers left.”

  The Herald Tribune is the media’s version of the Brachiosaurus, plodding along like a 150-million-year-old lizard. While larger papers are talking about becoming completely web based, and publications specifically designed for handheld devices are being developed, we’re still printing our paper the old way, and our website is, well, lame. I wonder if Harry had another long conversation with the publisher today. Changes are coming for the Herald Tribune, and clearly it’s giving Harry agita.

  I glance over my shoulder and see Tony at the bar talking to Alexis. I want to get away but can’t. The more they drink, the more unsolicited advice I get.

  “Take Spanish, if you haven’t already,” Grace says.

  “Think about majoring in political science,” Michael says.

  “Don’t just study writing, study everything you can,” Jack says. “Good reporters are more like jacks of all trades and masters of none. You know, the type of people who make excellent Jeopardy! contestants.”

  And then there’s Harry, who’s becoming more interested in talking about himself than about the state of the news industry. AJ joins us halfway through Harry’s war story—a real war story. Harry is telling us about a boy he met while covering the war in Bosnia for the Christian Science Monitor.

  I learn a lot about Harry. The most obvious of which is that not only can Harry outwrite everyone in the newsroom, he can also outdrink them, for a while at least.

  Meg comes back to the table with another round, and then Harry’s stories really come out. I get the impression, however, that for everyone else at the table, this isn’t exactly new material. Me, I’m riveted. Harry was captured by Bosnian Serbs after he discovered a mass grave of Muslim civilians. He was released two days later, after the UN packed on the pressure. Everyone thought he was going to win the Pulitzer for international reporting. But it didn’t happen.

  “Who gives a rat’s ass about the Pulitzer?” he slurs.

  “I’ll bet Stephen King has often said that very same thing,” says Jack, trying hard to lighten the moment. “I mean, sure, he writes horror, but what about the book about JFK and Hearts in Atlantis?”

  “Are we talking about Atlantis the lost city or the hotel casino in the Bahamas?” Brian interjects out of nowhere. He’s just as tanked as Harry, but he’s been quieter about it until now.

  “We were talking about the Pulitzer,” Harry says, slapping the table with his open palm and spilling his beer, some of which travels across the table and into my lap before I have a chance to dodge it. “It’s no wonder Bernie thinks you’re all a bunch of morons.”

  At that point, Meg gently rests her hand on his arm, in a way I would have been afraid to. “Come on, boss, let’s get Jack to drive you home,” she says, and shoots Jack a look.

  Suddenly, it’s like there’re two minutes left to the football game and Meg just called the hurry-up offense. Jack finishes his beer and pushes his chair away from the table.

  “My wife is going to be calling me any second,” Jack says. “Let’s go, Harry. You’re on my way.”

  Harry has a distant, angry look in his eyes, like a caged gorilla. The image is only enhanced by the fact that Harry is, well, hairy. Meg helps Harry out of his seat, and he walks wordlessly toward the door.

  “Do you have a ride home, Sam?” she asks.

  “Got it covered,” AJ answers.

  “See you to
morrow,” she says, and then turns to follow Harry to the door.

  Jack is quick to leave as well.

  “Good night, everyone,” Jack says. “Drive safe.”

  A chorus of “’Night, Jack,” is followed by the sound of chairs scraping across the old linoleum floor. The huddle is broken as everyone makes a move for the exit. Grace and Brian take a last sip of their drinks and say their good nights. That leaves me, AJ, and the sports guy Jim.

  “We’re gonna take off too,” AJ says. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Sure thing,” Jim says.

  “Well, that was fun,” AJ remarks when we get up from the table. “Tonight I got to see a drunk, angrier Harry. Sweet.”

  I know AJ came tonight because of me and he didn’t have any fun. But me, I can’t wait for my next bar night. I’m at home in the land of misfit bobblehead dolls.

  “I’m gonna hit the men’s room,” he says.

  While I’m standing at the front door waiting for AJ, I feel a hand on either shoulder, neck-massage style. I turn to find myself face-to-face with Tony.

  “I’m glad to see you made it out tonight, Sam.”

  “I had fun,” I say.

  “Good,” he says.

  He seems a bit buzzed. He’s staring at me and saying something with that grin of his, something I’m supposed to understand.

  “Too bad you couldn’t make it to the concert Monday night. I’m covering the Journey/Foreigner tour at the end of the month. Maybe you can be my plus one for that?”

  The door swings open, and Alexis pops her head in before I have a chance to answer.

  “Tony! Are you coming?” She never glances my way or attempts to hide her impatience.

  “Yeah, just a sec. We’re going to another bar. Wanna come?”

  “I can’t,” I began, “I’m…”

  “Right. Keep forgetting.” There’s no hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Well, see you tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” I can’t say much more with Alexis continuing to glare at Tony and refusing to shut the door. Thankfully, AJ arrives after they leave so he doesn’t witness my brief encounter.

  “Let’s hit it,” he says, and opens the door for me.

  Rocco walks in just as we’re walking out.

  “What up, man?” AJ says.

  “Guess I’m late to the party.”

  “Harry reached his limit,” I offer.

  Rocco nods knowingly. “May as well grab a beer anyway.” Rocco is heading for the bar when he turns around and says, “Oh, Sam. Your mom just called the newsroom. I told her you’d already left for the Harp.”

  “Uh, thanks.” What I mean is, Oh, shit! I dig my phone out of my purse. Sure enough, there are three missed calls from her. I should have known better.

  AJ arches his eyebrows at me. “Sam-I-am. Taking a walk on the wild side. And wearing makeup too. What’s up with that?”

  As we walk to AJ’s car, my mind is reeling with thoughts of Tony. He says he was happy to see me out tonight, he squeezed my shoulders, he wanted me to go to Journey/Foreigner and another bar with him, but—and here’s the thing—he left with Alexis. He was probably talking to her all night while I was hanging out at the Meet the Press roundtable discussion. Perhaps most disturbing of all is that Tony’s my competition.

  I’m quiet on the ride home. Maybe AJ’s right. This is the second time Tony has asked me to an ’80s concert event. It’s not like I’m Rock of Ages girl just because of my dad’s band. By the time AJ drops me off, I’m left feeling like I’m somewhere in between “happy crush” and “crushed” with a splash of dread at the discussion I’ll be having with my parents.

  “Everything okay?” AJ asks.

  “Just worried about what the parents are going to say. Thanks for the ride.”

  “Sure,” AJ says as he pulls up to my house. It seems like he wants to say more, but whatever it is or was just hangs there between us until finally he just says, “Later.”

  “Later.”

  When I walk through the door, my mom and dad are both waiting for me in the living room. This is not good, especially since my mom should have been in bed hours ago.

  Dad dives right in. “A bar, Sam? Really?”

  “And lying?” Mom says. “You’ve never kept anything from us before. Is this about a boy?”

  I’m mortified. “God, Mom. No. Some people were going out after work and they asked me if I wanted to go, that’s all. Meg was there, Harry, AJ, all the Herald Tribune people.”

  My mom moves closer to me. “Do I smell beer? Have you been drinking?”

  “All I drank was Diet Coke. Someone spilled a beer on me.”

  “I’m not sure I like the influence those people are having on you,” Dad says.

  “Maybe you should quit this job and find something with better hours,” Mom says.

  “I don’t want to quit. I like it there.”

  “Well, your father and I don’t like all these late nights,” Mom says.

  “I’m working. This was the only time I went to the bar.”

  “The bottom line is, you shouldn’t have lied to your mother,” Dad says.

  Yeah, I see that now, my brain screams. But my lips are zipped. I’m in enough trouble.

  “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow,” Mom says.

  Yay.

  “Agreed,” says Dad.

  I’m furious. They’re the ones who wanted me to take on a challenging summer job. It was one little fib. That’s what I get for being such a Goody Two-Shoes.

  “Good night,” Dad says, placing one hand on top of my head before he walks toward the steps.

  “Love you,” Mom says.

  How can they both do that? Just turn the anger off and go to bed. Not me. My arms are crossed, and I refuse to make eye contact, but I mumble back, “Love you too.” I’m still mad, but I would never not say that back.

  * * *

  What did insomniacs do before Wikipedia? My head swirls with too many thoughts, none of them good. My parents are mad and talking about making me quit the Herald Tribune. My crush, who may or may not be attracted to me for my knowledge of the ’80s, has become my competition. And Harry makes it sound like becoming a journalist is about as practical as opening a record store.

  I want to call Shelby and tell her about my night, but I can’t, since I lied. Because apparently I’m a liar now. Anyway, I never heard from her again today, so I’m guessing she went to the party. Not that I care much. I’d rather that she keep busy and not get wind of the Herald Tribune’s bar nights.

  I prop my laptop on my knees. First I check Journey’s website and find out when their concert tour with Foreigner comes to New Jersey. Saturday, July 30. Then I settle in for a couple hours’ worth of searching down inane facts. I type “armadilo” into the Wikipedia search engine. Of course, me being me, I misspell the critter’s name and the website politely reprimands me. “Did you mean: armadillo?” Of course I did, but the fact that the search engine produces the correct results even though I spelled armadillo with only one l only reinforces my belief that spelling is just not that big a deal in the twenty-first century. In your face, Bernadette!

  I find a captivating two-minute video on YouTube of one little guy coming out of his burrow to have a look around. It’s really a lot cuter than I thought. I guess I just needed to see one in action—and not petrified on Harry’s shelf—to truly appreciate how oddly adorable an armadillo can be. Maybe Harry is right—they are misunderstood. I mean, anyone can love a bunny, but there’s something I admire about an animal so peculiar looking yet so happy to be in its own skin—“skin” that resembles a coat of armor. That, in combination with his long nose, makes me think of Don Quixote tilting at windmills. I read it in my Great Books class last year.

  I Google “Don Quixote,” who reminds me of Harry, so then I type in “Bosnian War.” (I’ve got Google ADD.) It’s hard to believe Harry came so close to a Pulitzer and ended up at the Herald Tribune. Not that it’s a bad newspaper. It’s got a c
irculation of about 30,000, and under Harry the paper consistently wins awards for its news coverage. Still, it’s not the New York Times.

  For the hell of it, I Google “Sy Goldberg.” It’s become part of my routine. Let’s see.… Sy Goldberg, tax consultant in Nyack, New York. Sy Goldberg of Goldberg & Goldberg Law, Sy Goldberg on various social-networking sites. None appears to be our Sy Goldberg, but then again, how would I know for sure? I’d better step up my game if I’m going to secure my spot as Michael’s vacation substitute.

  I put my laptop aside, pull out the spiral notebook I use as a journal, and flip to the back where I keep all the pictures and articles—duplicates of mine and others’—I cut out from magazines and newspapers.

  Lately, the pages have really been piling up. I’ve got Anton’s obit, my front-page story, and some of my favorite feature obits. I keep the picture of the dress—the perfect dress—on top. I cut it out of Seventeen magazine’s prom issue two years ago. It’s a pale yellow, strapless gown with a full, tea-length skirt. The model is wearing strands of ivory pearls around her neck, and the caption reads “Girly retro.” I get lost staring at this dress. It’s so sweet and light and timeless and pretty. I fantasize about walking into prom with Tony and wearing this dress. It’s like nothing I’ve ever owned, and most people wouldn’t see this dress (or any dress) and think “That’s so Sam,” but I love it.

  chapter sixteen

  Deadline

  It’s the morning after bar night, and I am wiped after only four hours of sleep. I eat my Cheerios while staring through the sliding glass doors at the gnarled, asymmetrical dogwood tree in our yard. Each spring, my dad threatens to cut it down, but I always beg him not to. It’s invariably the last tree to bloom. “It just needs a little more time,” I tell Dad every year. While the world turns pastel around her, the dogwood stands there naked and brown like an exposed network of nerve endings, chronically out of sync. Like me.

  I’m finishing breakfast and getting ready for my run when Mom walks into the kitchen, wearing yoga pants, a sea-foam–colored T-shirt and a ponytail. She’s usually gone by now. I’m so surprised, I momentarily forget that I’m in for a cross-examination about last night.