Back on the ground, Jennifer brushed all the twiggy dirt from her jacket. “Thank you,” she said.
“No,” he said. “That was really nice of you. I didn’t realize —”
“It’s OK,” she said. “Have we been outdoors long enough?”
“Yup,” Adam said.
“It wouldn’t be a reporting violation to go someplace warm, would it?”
“Hot chocolate’s on me,” said Adam.
Jennifer pulled out a piece of paper. She was writing something.
“See?” said Adam. “It’s paying off. You’re making some reporting notes, aren’t you? I knew it!”
She handed him her pen and the paper, which was folded. “Hold this,” she said, bending over to undo her bike lock.
Then she yelled, “Race you to the Pancake House!” and bolted off. Adam grabbed his bike, but as he jumped on, there was a tug and he couldn’t go anywhere. Jennifer’s lock was still on his bike and he didn’t know her combination! That weasel. For a minute he waited for her to come back. Then he realized. He slowly opened the paper she’d handed him. It had her combination and one word:
He should have left her in the tree.
When he got to the Pancake House, Jennifer was already in a booth. “Get lost?” she asked.
“You are a riot,” Adam said. “Last time I save your life.”
“Let’s not forget what genius almost got me killed,” she said. “Truce? We got forty-five minutes. I called my mom; she’s bringing my tennis stuff and cello. I’ll change in the van.”
Adam felt like a man of leisure. School basketball was over, and baseball practice didn’t start for a few weeks. He was down to two winter teams — swimming and club basketball — and neither was practicing tonight. All he had tonight was a baritone lesson, at seven thirty.
The restaurant was pretty empty — just a few older people there for the early-bird specials. The coeditors ordered grilled cheese sandwiches and hot chocolates, and Jennifer pulled out her list.
For the tree story, Adam suggested they do a simple article saying that the state would be holding a hearing in March to determine what to do about dangerous trees. And the story could mention that one of the trees that could be cut down is the beloved three-hundred-year-old climbing tree. Then they could quote one of Phoebe’s recycling friends talking about how tragic it would be to lose that tree. And then they could get a comment from state officials about how they’ll decide which trees to cut down.
“And then,” said Adam, “we go to the hearing in March and figure out what’s really going on.”
“Fine,” said Jennifer. “I like it.”
“You know,” said Adam, “Phoebe’s story might turn out to be an iceberger.”
“Iceberger?” asked Jennifer. “That’s good?”
“The best,” said Adam. “You know how someone calls you up and says, ‘I finished reading your story on the tree and it’s good, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg!’ And then they tell you some important secret, like the real reason the state wants to cut down the tree is blah-blah-whatever. That’s an iceberger. A story that helps you get below the surface and find new information for your next story.”
“Smart,” said Jennifer. “Only one problem.”
“Phoebe,” said Adam. “I thought of that, too. We tell her that a lot of the great material from her first story — like the first twenty-three graphs — might go in the next story in March. We tell her this will mean two front-page stories in two months. And then we go with her to the meeting to make sure she doesn’t mushroom out of control again.”
“You’ll do that?” Jennifer asked.
“I thought you would,” Adam said.
Jennifer handed him the story announcing the Slash’s First Annual Bully Survey. “It’s done,” she said. “Read it when you get a chance; let me know if you have anything.”
“You know how I feel about this,” said Adam.
“Come on,” she said. “Everyone wants it.” The ballots would be full-size paper, she said, so kids could write in their worst bully experiences.
“Here we go,” said the waitress, setting down the sandwiches.
“I’m starved,” said Adam. But before taking a bite, he grabbed the ketchup and squeezed out an enormous glob on his plate. Then he took half his sandwich, dipped the tip in ketchup, bit off the part covered by ketchup, then dipped again and took another bite.
“Geez,” said Jennifer. “Have a little ketchup.”
Adam ignored her. Girls didn’t know how to eat the right way. “So, how you going to make sure people vote just once?” he asked as thick drops of ketchup fell from his sandwich.
“Election monitors,” Jennifer said. After a person voted, the monitor would cross off the name from the school list. “We’ll do it in 306. Get people from the Slash.”
They started making a list. Adam said he knew a boy who’d make a good monitor. “He never forgets a name or number.” He opened his mouth to tell Jennifer, then stopped.
“Ketchup clog your vocals?” Jennifer asked.
“Theodore,” Adam said. “The boy’s name is Theodore.”
They were dreading the Dr. King story. Neither wanted to do battle with the Bolands, Tremble’s most powerful family — owners of one of the biggest cable companies in the nation — along with various and sundry Boland businesses, including Boland Realtors, Inc.
“We can’t get out of it,” said Adam. “A church full of black people protesting a street named for Dr. King is too amazing.”
“Yeah,” said Jennifer. “Too bad it’s all off the record.”
“Remember what Reverend Shorty said when I asked the date of the protest?” Adam said. “‘Don’t think we’ll have to.’ Why wouldn’t they have to?”
“That was off the record, too,” said Jennifer.
“And the nine boarded-up houses,” Adam continued. “I totally believed his theory.” Reverend Shorty had told them that the Bolands planned to buy all the houses they could in the Willows, not just the nine. They’d board them all up, make the neighborhood look terrible, and get people to move away. And then, Reverend Shorty said, Boland Realtors, Inc., would bulldoze the Willows and put up million-dollar mini-mansions for rich people. Good-bye, Willows. Hello, Boland Estates.
“You know,” said Jennifer, “I’m sure Reverend Shorty’s right, but it’s just his theory right now. And it’s all off the record.”
“That stupid rainbow ceremony,” said Adam. “It’s just the Bolands pretending they care about the Willows when they’re out to destroy it.”
“Another off the record —”
“Stop!” yelled Adam. “Would you stop saying it’s off the record? I know it’s off the record. I was there. Just stop! Stop!”
The restaurant went silent. Old people who’d been happily eating the $4.95 liver and onions special were staring in horror at Adam.
“Don’t worry, folks,” Jennifer said looking around. “He gets very emotional sometimes. He’s not dangerous or anything.” She put her head close to his, and though her voice was a whisper, Adam could see she was smoking.
“I thought you were different, Adam Canfield, but you’re such a typical . . . typical . . . boy,” she hissed. “You’re always pressuring me to do what you want! I’m sick of it. You’re trying to pressure me to shut up by talking louder than me. You pressured me to go up that tree so I’d change my mind on Phoebe’s story. You pressured me to kill the bully survey. You even pressured your way into this Dr. King story. I didn’t ask you to come along.”
Pressure? thought Adam.
“Pressure!” said Adam. “Jennifer, you’re a genius. That’s it! That’s the answer to Reverend Shorty’s riddle. He doesn’t have to protest; he just has to put pressure on them by threatening to protest. I bet anything he pressured the county and that Bleepin school guy big-time by threatening to march if they didn’t call off the ceremony. That’s why they don’t have a date. Reverend Shorty pressured them into backin
g down.
“That’s our story for the February Slash: they’re not going to rename that street. Schoolchildren won’t be going to a rainbow ceremony. Everyone’s too afraid of a Dr. King protest at the Dr. King ceremony. It’s dead.”
“OK,” said Jennifer. “Now, please don’t take this the wrong way, but what’s our source?”
“Notice I’m talking in a very calm, very low-pressure voice?” said Adam. “Our source is you. You’ve got every name we need in your notebook from last week’s board meeting. Lots of people will be telling us the ceremony is off. And Dr. Bleepin, too. It’ll be a new experience for him. He’s going to tell us the truth.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Jennifer.
“Because we’re going to trick him into it,” said Adam.
What a relief. They’d meet after school the next day to finish reporting. They still didn’t know what to do about the boarded-up houses, but they’d worry about that for the March issue.
“Sound OK?” asked Adam.
“Fine,” said Jennifer.
“Not feeling too much pressure?”
“I’ll be all right.”
Jennifer’s mom was waving in the window. It was time to go.
Adam started getting up, but Jennifer grabbed his arm. She handed him a pile of napkins. “Clean the ketchup off your face and the table,” she said. “You’re scaring the old people. You look like the lead story on the six o’clock news.”
Outside, Adam helped Jennifer lift her bike into the van.
“I can take yours, too,” Jennifer’s mom said. “Bring you home after I drop Jen at her lesson.”
“It’s OK,” said Adam. “By some mess-up, no one scheduled anything for me until seven thirty. I think I’ll bike to the Rec and see a friend. See if I can get him to join the Slash.” Then Adam waved, did a curb grind, and was gone.
“Is he all right?” asked Jennifer’s mom. “Looks like someone bloodied his face. Does he get mugged a lot?”
“Just grill-cheesed,” said Jennifer. “Adam’s definitely all right.”
Jennifer sat on a newsroom couch. In her lap was the notebook from the last school board meeting. She’d gone through and circled several names. Beside her were the Tri-River Region white pages.
Adam was working the phones.
“Try this one,” she said, handing him another number.
“It’s ringing,” Adam whispered.
“Hello and hola,” said a man. “This is Javier Freedman of the Perfect Mix. We sing for one and all.”
“Hello,” said Adam. “I just want to make sure I have the right number. You guys are the educational singing group?”
“Exactly!” said the man. “As featured on Boland Channel 12’s Community Miracles.”
Adam told him he was a reporter for the Harris Slash.
“Oh, I love student newspapers,” said the man. “Such a force for enlightenment. How can I help, Adam?”
Adam explained he was doing a story on renaming the street for Dr. King. “I was just wondering what songs the Perfect Mix will be singing.”
“Aren’t you a gem,” said the man. “Unfortunately, Adam, it’s been canceled.”
“Oh no,” said Adam, trying to sound sad, even though he was jumping up and down and pumping his fist so hard, he might have dislocated his collarbone.
“What?” Jennifer mouthed.
“It’s been canceled,” Adam repeated. “But we were really looking forward to it.”
“Weren’t we all?” said the man. “I don’t think I ever remember a single event in Tremble history that was going to be so multicultural. . . .”
“You’re sure it’s been canceled?” asked Adam.
“We had a call from the zoning board.”
“The zoning board,” said Adam. “Mrs. Boland’s zoning board canceled it?”
“That’s right,” said the man.
Adam got the spelling of his name, thanked him, hung up, and turned to Jennifer. “That’s one source,” he said.
She had another number waiting. From her notes, she remembered about the ten kinds of sushi they planned to serve at the ceremony and figured the caterer had to be Huck Finn’s California Sushi De-Lite Restaurant, the number-one sushi distributor for your office or home party needs in the Tri-River Region.
This call took less than a minute, once Adam got the catering manager. The guy told Adam his name was Sal You-Don’t-Need-to-Know-No-Last-Name. He said the King thing was off; he said that he “didn’t have no freakin’ clue why.” Then Sal hung up.
“Two sources,” Adam said to Jennifer. “We’re out of here.”
“To Bleepin’s office,” she said.
They tossed everything in their backpacks. As they were hurrying out, Adam said, “You got your color-coded calendar with you?”
Jennifer froze. “How do you know about that?”
“Trained observer,” said Adam.
“How long have you . . .”
Jennifer kept a daily calendar of her activities, all color-coded. Geography Challenge was green, Quiz Bowl Gladiator blue, cello brown, tennis purple, club basketball black, Slash meetings pink. Adam had known for a long time, but he’d been saving it up. It was one of those perfect pieces of information you could use if you ever needed to torment someone.
Now he felt bad. He’d waited too long to use it against Jennifer. He really did have a good reason for bringing it up.
“It’s for the story,” he said. “I swear. I’ll tell you on the way over.”
The district office was in the same complex as Harris Elementary/Middle, but on the other side of the ball fields. It took ten minutes to walk.
Jennifer explained to Bleepin’s secretary that they were from the Slash and though they didn’t have an appointment, they were on deadline and had a few questions they hoped to ask Dr. Bleepin about Black History Month.
“We know Dr. Bleepin is a real kid person,” said Adam. “Our deadline for the February issue is a few days off, and we thought we’d take a chance dropping by.”
The secretary said she’d peek her head in and ask.
While the woman was gone, Jennifer said, “What was that about Bleepin being a kid person? You don’t know that. Why do you throw stuff like that in?”
“Everyone in education’s a ‘kid person,’” said Adam. “Reporters just say that to establish their expertise. It doesn’t mean anything. The higher up these guys are and the fewer kids they see every day, the more they’re a ‘real kid person.’ I’m just getting on this Bleepin guy’s good side.”
The woman came back and said Bleepin would be delighted to meet; he just had to finish a call.
That was Jennifer’s cue. She pulled out her calendar. “Excuse me,” she said to the secretary. “I’m such a scatterbrain. They have us so busy, I have trouble keeping up with all the stuff I’m supposed to do. I keep this calendar —”
“It’s color-coded!” said the secretary. “Ohhh, is that adorable. You kids — you’re really something. I don’t know how you do it. They’ve got you so scheduled. If I was a kid today, I think I’d crack up.”
“I know what you mean,” said Jennifer. “Look, I’m nervous. We’re supposed to cover this ceremony for Dr. King’s street. I always put special events like this in harvest gold.” And here Jennifer wiggled a harvest-gold pencil from her sixty-four-pencil set at the secretary. “I was wondering if you know when that’s going to be. I’m worried I’ll miss it. If I can color-code it in on my calendar, it calms me down.”
“I am so touched by your little calendar,” said the secretary. “And it is wonderful seeing a young person so interested in her heritage. Unfortunately, that ceremony is not going to happen. There were . . . um . . . problems.”
“Problems?” said Jennifer. “I hope nothing, you know . . . racial?”
“Oh no, honey,” said the secretary. “Nothing like anything racial. No, no, no. Cross that off the list. Absolutely not racial. To be honest, I don’t know what it
is. But it’s the people in the Willows who don’t want it.”
“Really?” said Jennifer.
“Really,” said the secretary.
“Really,” said Adam, who dropped his pen so he could bend over and secretly write down her quote.
Jennifer sat back down. “Guess I won’t be needing this,” she said, giving her harvest-gold pencil one last friendly wiggle at the secretary before sticking it in her pencil box beside sunrise yellow.
Then she whispered to Adam, “Three sources.”
“So glad you dropped by,” said Dr. Bleepin. “You know, I’m a real kid person. It’s wonderful to see a couple of actual kids close up. Reminds me what this is all about.” He lifted a mug of coffee and saluted them. “So what can I do to you? Ha, ha.”
“We were wondering why the Dr. King ceremony was canceled,” said Adam.
Coffee came spraying out of Dr. Bleepin’s mouth in every direction. “You what?” he gasped.
Adam repeated it.
“Where did you hear that?” said Dr. Bleepin. “Nobody said that. Don’t you say I said that.”
“Everybody knows,” said Adam.
“Let’s see,” said Jennifer. “We spoke to that singing group, the Perfect Mix, the one you were raving about at the meeting . . .”
Dr. Bleepin stared at them.
“And Sal the sushi man, he said it was off,” said Jennifer. “And your —”
“Well, we’re not supposed to say that,” said Dr. Bleepin. “We’re supposed to say ‘the celebration has been extended.’ Let me get the exact words.” He rummaged through papers and pulled out a printout of an e-mail. “We’re supposed to say”— and here he began reading —“‘To ensure that everyone in Tremble’s wonderful community partakes in this historic event, school officials have decided to extend —’”
“I’m sorry. Geez, could you please slow down?” said Adam. “If this is what we’re supposed to say, we want to get it right. Could I just look at that for a second?”
Adam Canfield, Watch Your Back! Page 9
