Brownie Points

by Jennifer Coburn

  Ring.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “A girl-cott?! Li-li, what the hell is a girl-cott?” Jorge asked.

  Ring.

  I heard a rustling sound. Oh no. Our first obscene phone call. “Mrs. Taylor,” a voice whispered. Oh God, no.

  “It’s Bianca and Ken. We’re upstairs in the bathroom, but we wanted to call to tell you that Logan looks great on TV,” Bianca said, hushed.

  “Why are you in the bathroom?” I asked.

  “Only room without a TV,” Kendrick whispered. “Mom locked us in here till O’Mally’s over.”

  “Your mother locked you in the bathroom?!”

  “It’s a really big bathroom,” Bianca assured me.

  “How are you watching then?”

  “Ken’s got it coming through on his phone.”

  “Bianca,” I said hesitantly. “We need to talk, and I think you know what it’s about.”

  “Mrs. Taylor, enjoy your night and don’t worry about us,” Bianca said.

  “We’ll talk soon, okay?” I said.

  “Sure thing,” she whispered brightly, trying to hide my agenda from her brother.

  “Hello, is this the mother of Logan Taylor?”

  “Who’s this?” I asked, watching a muted commercial for Zoloft.

  “This is Brad over at Local News Ten, the local ABC affiliate. How are you this evening?”

  “Frightened that you’re calling. How are you, Brad?” How did he get our number?

  He laughed. “I am fantastic, thanks for asking, Mrs. Taylor. I suppose you know why I’m calling.”

  “Um, you’re doing a special report on home fire prevention and you want to talk to my husband?” I asked, knowing the odds were about one-in-a-thousand.

  He laughed hesitantly. “No, actually I’m not. Who’s your husband?”

  I sighed. “He’s the fire captain. But you’re not calling for Jason, are you?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “You’re calling about Logan.”

  “Right again,” Brad said. “Like the rest of America, I’m watching this thing explode on TV. A cookie boycott, that O’Mally’s a nut! So, I understand you guys live right here in Los Corderos, is that right?”

  “Yes,” I said uncomfortably.

  “We’d love to get an exclusive with your son. Get his take on this. How does that sound to you?”

  “Dreadful,” I blurted.

  Brad laughed again, trying to befriend me. “Well, that’s honest, Mrs. Taylor.”

  “Brad, the commercial just ended. I need to run.”

  “We’re back and I’m still hot under the collar,” said Bob O’Mally. “From the looks of our switchboard here, you are too. I’m gonna open up the phone lines and take a few calls.”

  It was amazing to us how many people had opinions on Logan’s case. At the end of the show, O’Mally said that he promised to run a follow-up report later in the month, and urged his viewers to continue the conversation on his Facebook page. A handful of guys called in and said that this better not mean that Boy Scouts has to start taking girls. Most callers were in favor of Logan suing the Girl Scouts. The trouble was that they were behind him for all the wrong reasons.

  Jason hit the off button on the remote and shook his head. “Wild stuff, ay kids? You okay with all this, buddy?”

  Logan pointed a hand at himself as if to ask, Moi?

  Jason nodded. “Yeah, how do you feel about all this?”

  Logan pressed his lips together and placed his index finger on his head. Whenever he made these dramatic gestures, it was an indicator that he was about to do something very gay. His arms burst from his sides and he began singing, “I feel pretty, oh so pretty … I feel pretty and witty and …”

  Ring.

  “Hello, is this Logan Taylor’s mother?” a woman asked. When I confirmed, she continued. “This is Mara at Channel Four.”

  “Hey there, it’s Ronald Wipsner at KITV.”

  “Hi, Tina from Round the Clock News here.”

  “Hello Mrs. Taylor,” said an Englishman. “Perry Westerfeld at BBC.”

  Jason and I turned to each other in disbelief.

  “Lisa?” Wax asked when I answered the next call. “Are you getting a lot of media calls?”

  “It’s a media shit storm, Wax!” I told him. “Five reporters have called wanting to interview Logan!”

  “Five?” He laughed dismissively. “You’ll get plenty more, but I’m gonna need you to send them my way, okay? I know it’s exciting to think of going on TV and all, but I can’t have clients trying their case in the media, all right?”

  “No problem,” I assured him. “I have zero desire to go on television, Wax.”

  “Darlin’, I wasn’t worried about you,” Wax said with a laugh. “I was thinking about the kids. Leave my number on your outgoing message and don’t answer the phone anymore.”

  Ring.

  Despite the fact that Wax issued this warning less than a minute earlier, I picked up the phone out of sheer habit. As soon as I did, my body jolted, remembering Wax’s directive. “Hello, is this Mrs. Taylor?” a voice asked.

  “Who’s this?” I asked tentatively.

  “Hi, it’s Sophia from Sprint. We’re calling folks in your area this evening to see if we can help save you big money on your long distance phone service.”

  “Oh, thank goodness!” I shrieked with joy. “I’m so happy it’s you!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When Jason and I went to sleep that night, it was with a false sense of relief that we had diverted the media attention that followed the O’Mally show. I woke up to the sound of the front gate buzzer and the security guard’s voice blaring through the house. “Err, I hate to wake you, but there are some folks out here who are pretty determined to talk to Logan,” the guard said.

  Standing in the upstairs hallway, I stood by the intercom to respond. “It’s five o’clock,” I slurred. “Who wants to see Logan at this hour?”

  Suddenly I heard clamoring that sounded like trading time at the New York Stock Exchange. Dozens of voices toppled each other, naming newspapers they were with, television shows they booked and radio programs they reported for. A woman from Dateline barked something while a guy from The Today Show interrupted her and urged Logan to come to the gate and talk to him. From what I could tell, we had about a dozen reporters from the region and a handful from the national morning shows. “Come out and talk to us, Logan,” the Englishman from BBC yelped. Someone grumbled at him and he snapped back. Who had this kind of energy at five in the morning?!

  From his bedroom, Logan emerged wearing Maya’s pink satin robe and sleep mask with the words “Drama Queen” in sequins. “What’s going on, Mom?”

  Maya’s head popped out from her door in an oversized t-shirt with a portrait of Martin Luther King Jr. “Who’s outside?”

  Jason, who can sleep through anything quieter than fire station bells and sirens blaring, snored away, happily oblivious.

  “Logan, Logan, is that you?!” a woman’s voice shouted urgently through the intercom. “Mallory James from People magazine.”

  Logan and Maya turned to each other and mouthed “People magazine?!” They clasped hands with one another and bent their knees as if to say they were dying from the excitement. “Yes, Mallory darling, this is Logan,” my son replied to the intercom box.

  A flurry of voices shouted requests at him, but none of us could make out a word anyone was saying. “People, people, I want to hear what you’re saying, but we’re going to have to take this one at a time,” Logan said, sounding more flamboyant than ever.

  I held up one finger and gave him a stern look. “Back to your room,” I said.

  Logan pursed his lips with disappointment. “My public awaits,” he protested.

  “Listen, Norma Desmond, get back to your room and finish your beauty sleep before you wind up on the cover of the National Enquirer with bags under your eyes.” As Maya opened her mouth to speak, I co
ntinued. “That goes for you too, Miss Thing. Not one word from either of you.”

  They both turned on their heels with noses in the air, closed their bedroom doors and let out a huff. Maya could not resist humming the tune to “We Shall Overcome.”

  ™˜

  Jason called from his cell phone and recommended that I drive the kids to school that morning. He didn’t even sound as if he were kidding when he suggested I have them lie down in the back seat with a blanket tossed over them as we passed through the gates of Utopia. Apparently, he was confronted by fifty reporters barking questions at him, standing in front of his car and flashing cameras at his window. The woman from Dateline jumped on his windshield, he said. I prayed my husband wouldn’t go Hollywood and punch anyone. He only had so much patience for this kind of thing.

  I had always thought that a gated community was elitist. Now I was grateful that Utopia wrapped itself in protective golden gates. When I returned home from school, I sat down at the kitchen table and poured myself a much-needed cup of coffee before there was a knock at the door. Pulling back the curtain, I was relieved that it was just a Girl Scout holding a cookie order form.

  “Hi,” I said brightly. The poor thing seemed dreadfully shy and I hoped my sunny greeting would make it easier on her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Taylor,” she mumbled at her feet. “My name is Amy from the Los Corderos High School troop, and I’m selling Girl Scout cookies.” Her knees were turned inward and her posture was slumped forward horribly. I knew that, despite the fact that I’d buy a dozen boxes of cookies from Maya, there was no way I could turn down this specimen of awkwardness.

  “Sure,” I replied. “Which do you recommend?”

  “Um, the peanut butter ones are good,” she said.

  “All right then, I’ll take two boxes of the peanut butter cookies and a box of Thin Mints.”

  “That’s great, Mrs. Taylor, ’cause we’re really getting the cold shoulder from O’Mally fans,” she said.

  I deflated at the thought of Girls Scouts across the country suffering because of that windbag’s girl-cott. “I’m so sorry about that,” I said, upping my order significantly. “Our family has nothing to do with that, you know?”

  “Really?” she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “’Cause most people think Logan is O’Mally’s nephew or something.”

  “His nephew?!” I nearly gagged at the thought.

  Shuffling her feet on my doorstep, Amy continued. “Have you ever thought about granting an exclusive interview to someone like, say, Dateline NBC, so you could get your side of the story out to people?”

  “Dateline NBC?” I asked, confused. I stopped to look at her more closely. Scanning her uniform, I asked, “Why aren’t you in school right now?”

  “I’m home schooled,” she said, still not looking at me.

  “You just said you were from the high school troop,” I reminded her.

  “The, um, meetings are at the school, but I’m home schooled by my mom. She was a teacher before she had me and my little brother and I …”

  “Amy,” I interrupted sternly. “Let me see your face.” She looked up tentatively, knowing she was busted. “Well, Amy, you’re the first Girl Scout I’ve ever seen with crow’s-feet.”

  She sighed audibly. “That’s it, I’m definitely getting Restylane.”

  “And, my my, little miss Girl Scout, what big boobs you have,” I said, wondering why those double-Ds had slipped my attention before.

  “Well, these I’ve had since I really was a teen,” she defended. “I’m sorry I had to resort to this, Mrs. Taylor, but I want to talk to you about how Dateline is going to handle your story. A lot of these guys out here are going to just do a rush job on their segments, but we really want to tell the whole story from your family’s point of view. You know, why this is so important to Logan. How Mr. Taylor might get fired over this … all that good stuff. We want to give you an opportunity to tell America your story.”

  “Mr. Taylor is not going to get fired over this!” I snapped.

  “Not if we blast his face on a bazillion TV screens, telling the world how much he loves his son,” Amy said eagerly. “They’d never be able to fire him then!”

  “Jason does an excellent job, that’s why they’re not going to fire him. We don’t need Dateline for my husband’s job security.”

  “If you say so, Mrs. Taylor,” Amy said. “The mayor says if this goes to trial it’ll cost the city a bundle, though, and he is none too happy about it. Plus, you know how much extra law enforcement they need when the media comes to town?” There wasn’t a hint of irony in her voice. “Come on, Mrs. Taylor, I promise, you’ll love how great we make your family look on TV.”

  Maybe it was the fact that she was dressed in head-to-toe Girl Scout gear, complete with a badge-filled sash, but this woman seemed completely earnest and sincere. “What do you say, Mrs. Taylor?” she pressed. “Many of our guests go on to sign book deals and sell movie rights after coming on Dateline.”

  Her comment was the splash of cold water I needed. “You make it sound as if appearing on Dateline is what gets them the movie deal,” I said, “when in actuality the person had already achieved some degree of notoriety or newsworthiness, which is why you wanted them on the show to begin with. It’s not like your show profiles the girl next door, and because of the great job you do, Hollywood’s calling for the movie rights.”

  The Girl Scout imposter could have won the Oscar for Best Pout. “That’s not how I meant it, Mrs. Taylor. If I could just come in for a moment and talk to you for just—”

  We were interrupted by the sound of a blaring siren whizzing by outside the gates of Utopia. Then a second siren raced by, followed by a third, then a fourth. It finally stopped at six.

  “What the heck?” slipped from the Girl Scout’s mouth as she lifted her skirt and removed a Blackberry from her garter. With intensity, she flipped over the clipboard that held her cookie order forms, removed the small grey cord that was taped to the back, and stuck a receiver into her ear. She held up a finger to let me know she’d be back with me in a moment. “Harvey, what can you get me on Los Corderos police or fire? I got six sirens going off.” She knit her brow as she listened. “At the middle school?” she said hungrily.

  “What?” I interrupted. “What’s going on at the middle school?”

  The sound of my voice reminded her of my presence. She looked irritated, then remembered she needed me. “My car is parked outside the gate. Can you gimme a ride to the school, pronto?”

  I panicked. “What’s going on?!”

  “Probably a fire. Could be a shooter, who knows?” she drifted off as if into a wet dream.

  I ran to the car and got in, slamming my skirt in the door as I closed it. Amy reached for the passenger door and started rattling it, trying to get in. I rolled down the window. “I’m going alone, Amy.”

  “What are you talking about?!” Amy barked, her eyes wide with panic. “You’ve got plenty of room!”

  As I rolled out of the driveway, Amy ran alongside the open passenger window and kept talking. “Come on, I’ll be the last one there if you don’t drive!”

  “I’m sorry, Amy,” I said. “I have some trust issues with you.”

  “Trust issues?!” she barked. “Aw come on! Why, ’cause of this?” Amy gestured at her Girl Scout uniform.

  As I reached the street, it became clear to Amy that I was not backing down, so she jumped on my windshield, looking like a suction-pawed Garfield. I screamed from the shock. “Amy! I can’t see the road!” I said slowing even more. “This is extremely dangerous!!!”

  Thud!

  Then she was gone from my sight. But what was that noise on my roof? It couldn’t be …

  “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Mrs. Taylor,” Amy shouted, her head hanging upside down at my window. “I am very determined to speak with you!” Gee, y’think? Every time I looked back at the road, Amy kept banging her forehead against the glass to get my attention.
Finally, I rolled down the window so she wouldn’t damage her brain any more than it already was.

  “Amy, I am going to stop this car, and I want you to get off my roof,” I said, calmly. Still, I was anxious about what was going on at the school that required six fire engines.

  “Can I get in the car?” she barked.

  “No,” I replied.

  Without missing a beat, Amy continued, “What was your reaction when Logan first told you he wanted to be a Girl Scout?”

  ™˜

  When Amy and I arrived at the school, there were fire engines and police squad cars parked in the lot with their lights still spiraling. Officers communicated with each other by crackling walkie-talkie. A few parents were scattered outside the gate, clasping hands in anticipation. The intensity level was high until I saw Jason, who looked relatively calm.

  “Hey, baby, what are you doing here?” he asked.

  “What’s going on in there, Captain Taylor?!” Amy asked, holding a microphone up to his face. He knit his brows, trying to recall where he’d seen this woman before. “Is it a shooter?” She sounded famished.

  Before he could answer, Jim McDoyle rushed over to Jason and said, “We got him.”

  “Who’d you get?” Amy begged. “Who did you get, officer? Is it a shooter?” Shit, did Dateline give cash bonuses for live coverage of school shootings?