President of the Whole Sixth Grade_Girl Code

by Sherri Winston

  Not to him, apparently. ’Cause that boy’s face split into a grin wider than the Detroit River.

  “You see it?” he asked eagerly. “Yeah, I have to shave now. Uncle showed me a few tricks. You know, so I don’t get razor burn.”

  I burst out laughing and shaking my head, but soon realized my mistake. All it took was seeing the totally humiliated look on his face. When I tried to make it better, my words tangled up. (And to tell the truth, I may have laughed some more.)

  Finally, I cleared my throat and asked if we could get back to the journalism thing.

  Neptune held himself very still for a few moments. I recognized how he managed his stress by managing his breathing. A swimmer thing, I guessed. He said, “How do you know you’ll even want to be a journalist when you go to college? Aunt Kaye says people go to college to figure themselves out. You don’t have to figure all this stuff out now. You’ve got time, Brianna.”

  Out of the corner of the frame, someone entered Neptune’s room and spoke to him.

  “I have to go,” he said. “I know how you are, Brianna. If you want something bad enough, you’ll find a way. But for someone with your vision and outlook, have you considered that investigative journalism might not be the end of the road for you?”

  Whoa!

  “Um, uh, huh? End of the what now?” I said. “Boy, I’m just trying to get on the road, period.”

  “Sorry. Don’t tell anybody, but Uncle likes to listen to old-school R and B when we hang. ‘End of the Road’ was a song by Boyz II Men. Guess it stuck in my head.”

  “So you and POTUS just hanging, listening to old soul?” I asked.

  “Pretty much, but be quiet. I was making a point. All I’m saying is maybe it’s too soon to settle for any one thing. I mean, you’re only eleven. Who knows? Maybe what you really want to be is the president. As in, of the whole United States.”

  We both thought about that for a second. “You mean, maybe one day I’ll be in the West Wing, eating chips and listening to slow jams from back in the day?”

  “Just keep an open mind about the investigative journalism thing, that’s all. Who knows? You might find something else you like even better. In the meantime, why not find another story to investigate. Something that ol’ LaTonka Steele can’t ignore.”

  “Um, that’s Yavonka Steele.”

  “That’s what I said,” he replied with a wicked grin.

  He was about to push his END button, when he said, “Oh, I wanted to tell you, Aunt Kaye and I are coming to Michigan in February.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  He shrugged and said, “Not sure. Some kind of First Lady stuff for President’s Day. A meeting with some politicians. I’m hoping we can hang out. I’ll be in touch. Later, Bossy.”

  “Later.”

  Reporter’s Notebook

  Thursday, January 4

  Mrs. G. says a reporter is only as good as her questions. Tips for good interview skills:

  1. Be prepared. Know something about your subject before your interview, if possible. Do your research.

  2. Always ask the basics—what is happening, when will/did it happen, who caused it to happen, how did it happen, and why?

  3. Never end an interview without asking the subject if they can think of anything important that you should know but didn’t ask.

  5

  Reporter’s Notebook

  Thursday, January 4

  “News is something someone wants suppressed. Everything else is just advertising.”

  —Unknown

  6

  The entire school-paper staff, plus several others, were crammed into the Blueberry newsroom.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Red.

  Even before she answered, I knew. My heart dropped. No time for a new story now. It was “The Mystery of Cafeteria Food” or nothing.

  The mentors had arrived.

  “Now that we have distinguished guests and honored visitors,” Mrs. G. was saying, nodding toward our principal and mentors, “join us once again in congratulating Julian Berger for a job well done!”

  Mrs. G. stood beside our principal. Mr. Striker, big and tall with hands larger than lunch boxes, was grinning from ear to ear. Alongside him stood several grown-ups I didn’t recognize.

  Except for one.

  A tall, cinnamon-brown woman with high cheekbones and intense brown eyes. A short haircut that looked sleek and sophisticated and a navy pantsuit with pale stripes. It was my all-time favorite investigative reporter, Yavonka Steele, Action News 9.

  I felt a lump in my throat. I wasn’t ready. I. Was. Not. Ready!

  My gaze raked over the other mentors. I swallowed hard. My in-depth nutritious lunch story definitely didn’t seem strong enough anymore.

  I felt desperate. Yavonka Steele had to pick me. She just had to, right? Right?

  Wrong!

  Yavonka Steele stepped forward and said, “We all discussed it and agreed, Julian, little man, you are the best choice for me. Julian Berger, would you be my partner?”

  I was so numb. I barely even heard when my name was finally called.

  Not by Yavonka Steele, either. It was a youngish-looking man. At least, I thought he was behind that thick brown mustache and trendy hipster beard. Groan! And he was wearing a sweater-vest and a bow tie. A bow tie, y’all.

  “…Matthew McShea, but you can call me Matt,” he said. His hand was extended, I realized, waiting for me to shake it.

  The greatest, crime-busting-est reporter in all of Detroit was over there huddled up with her “little man,” and here I was, at the mercy of Hipster McSweater Vest.

  “Um, I mean, hi,” I said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Lie! Lie! Lie. You know what would be nice? Getting paired with Yavonka Steele, that’s what would be nice!

  McSweater Vest grinned wider. He also wore large, black glasses with plastic frames. Hmm… I wondered if his nose and mustache were attached to the glasses.

  My brain couldn’t process everything that was happening. Mrs. G. was still going on about Julian’s greatness. Then she told us we’d need our parents to sign permission slips to allow us to ride in the car with our mentors.

  “They’ll pick you up tomorrow after school,” she said. “Instead of working in the newspaper room here, you’ll work with the professionals in their newsrooms or studios. Isn’t that great?”

  Yeah, greaaaaaaat.

  Could I stand his chipper hipness long enough to learn anything? He wasn’t even an investigative journalist, like Yavonka Steele.

  Part of me wanted to quit.

  When I walked into the journalism room the next day, I spotted McSweater Vest, wearing tan cords and a tan, cream, and brown rust-striped vest over a cream-colored shirt. The sleeves were pushed above his elbows. He didn’t spot me right away because he was playing with his phone.

  I moved quickly out of his line of sight and spotted who I was looking for.

  Yavonka Steele.

  She was sitting with Mrs. G. to the far side of the room, and they were both holding cups of coffee. Last night, I decided I needed to find out exactly why she picked Julian and not someone else. Like yours truly, for example.

  “Um, hi, excuse me,” I said, clearing my throat.

  “Oh, hello, Brianna. Yavonka, this is one of my brightest young students, and president of the whole sixth grade, Brianna Justice.”

  “Oh, a politician, eh?” said Yavonka.

  I felt myself stand taller. Okay, so Mrs. G. does think I’m one of her brighter students. I reached out my hand and Yavonka Steele took it in hers. She had a firm grip and cool fingers despite holding the coffee cup.

  She said, “Look at her with that hair bun high and tight, and that crisp white shirt. She looks like an executive. Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Miss President!” I liked the way she looked right at me, giving me her full attention.

  I wanted to play it cool; instead, enter the crickets sound effects. ’Cause ya girl was
scared silent.

  I just stood there. Mouth open. Eyes rolling back and forth.

  “Madam President,” said Yavonka Steele with a sly grin, “may I have my hand back, please?”

  Did I mention it was getting awkward? I dropped her hand.

  “Brianna,” began Mrs. G., “did you need something, dear?”

  I closed my eyes for a second. Took a deep breath. Glancing from one to the other, I blurted:

  “Miss Steele, I am a huge fan of your segment on the news and hope one day to follow in your footsteps, which is why I did an investigation into the mysterious ingredients in some of our lunch items. I mean, if a girl can’t trust her school lunch, how can she be expected to learn and eventually become a productive member of society!” What? I was babbling. Miss Steele’s eyes got bigger and she wore what could have been an amused look.

  Or a cry for help!

  “Sure, honey, I remember your story,” she said. My heart leaped in surprise.

  “Did you think it was good? I mean, no offense to anyone, but I really wanted to work with you. I feel like our styles and personalities would, you know, mesh well together.”

  Mrs. G. let out a hoot of laughter.

  “Ha! She’s got a point there, YaYa!” Mrs. G. said.

  YaYa?

  She must have caught the questioning look in my eyes, because she said, “Yavonka and I were college roommates at Michigan State. And you do remind me of her.” This brought a fresh round of laughter between the two of them.

  “Are you saying she’s driven like I used to be?” Miss Steele said.

  Mrs. G. pulled a face. “Used to be? Girl, please!” she said.

  Now they were laughing full out. It was weird watching Mrs. G. act like a, well, you know. A regular person wearing a Spartan hoodie and going to college football games. It was blowing my mind.

  I was so busy yukking it up with Mrs. G. and my news idol that I didn’t see McSweater Vest until he was right up on me.

  “What’s so funny?” he said. When he smiled, the ends of his mustache quivered.

  What Yavonka said next stopped my heart cold. I was dead. Worse than dead. I was the living dead.

  President Zombie.

  “I think your mentee is trying to ditch you,” she said between laughing fits. I felt all the blood drain from my face. I didn’t want to hurt McSweater Vest’s feelings. At that moment, I just wanted to disappear!

  Please, somebody, run down to the science room and build me a time machine. I need to go back ten minutes and start this over.

  My eyes were shut tight and I wanted to back away. But I felt a hand on my shoulder holding me in place. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw it was McSweater Vest. He was smiling.

  “By the time we’re finished working together, she won’t even remember your name, Steele,” he said.

  “Uh, no, um… it’s not like that. No offense, Mr. Sweater, I mean, McShea, sir. I mean, well, I just really wanted to know how the mentors picked their student partners. I really want to be a TV reporter. Why did Miss Steele pick Julian and not, um, someone else?”

  “You mean, why didn’t she pick you?” Mrs. G. said, wiping laugh tears from the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. She said to Yavonka, “See, YaYa. Told you she is a lot like you. A real go-getter.”

  Yavonka Steele stood straighter and tried pulling together a more serious face. She nodded at Mrs. G., then turned to me and said, “That is an excellent question. I read your cafeteria story. And the story you wrote a while back about the little girl with cancer. I’ve read all your stories, I believe.”

  Yavonka took both my hands in hers. Looking right at me, she said, “I deal in two kinds of news—breaking and stories that allow me to investigate and dig deep. My favorite is a story that offers both.

  “The ability to recognize when news is going on around you is critical for a journalist. Out of all the kids who submitted stories, Julian was the only one with the instincts to react to what was going on around him and recognize its news value,” she said.

  Seeing the look of total hopelessness on my face, Yavonka said, “Honey, don’t worry. Whether you start out in print or not, the rules for getting good news are the same. But especially in TV you have to work fast and think on your feet. You’ll get there.”

  And that was that. I felt woozy and sick. If she didn’t think I had what it takes now, how could she be sure I’d “get there”? Was she trying to give me hope? Or did this mean I didn’t have what it takes to be a real investigative journalist?

  Reporter’s Notebook

  Friday, January 5

  Notes from Mrs. G.’s board

  Do

  1. Keep an open mind.

  2. Be respectful.

  3. Ask follow-up questions.

  4. Finish all interviews with, “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

  Don’t

  1. Make promises you can’t keep. (e.g., “This story will run on the front page… bring you more business… save your job.”)

  2. Assume anything. Take nothing for granted.

  3. Belittle your subject.

  4. Give up!

  If I don’t get my act together, I’m not going to need the online business to pay for J-school. I’ll need it to support me!!! Wonder if I can create a website for a business I haven’t even started yet.

  7

  Icy pellets of snow ticked against the windows of McSweater Vest’s car.

  The entire world was pale white and pearl gray as traffic moved along the M-10. We were almost downtown, approaching the tunnel at Cobo Center and Joe Louis Arena. Whenever I saw Joe Louis or Cobo, I knew I was downtown.

  My gaze shifted over to McSweater Vest. He had been talking to me about the story he wanted me to work on. Something about inner-city girls and computers. If I did a good job, he said, the story would get published in the newspaper.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that getting into the paper or the online edition was fine, but I still wanted to be on TV!

  McSweater Vest parked and the two of us rushed inside a huge gray cement building. He was chattering about how it used to be the Federal Reserve Building. He said the famous Free Press Building on Lafayette had been sold to some big investor.

  Inside the blocky building was like something in a magazine. You couldn’t help feeling a little important in a place like that. Stone and glass shimmered beneath overhead lights throughout the lobby area. Huge windows revealed fat flakes of snow falling noiselessly from a colorless sky.

  A big dude whose name tag read J. sat on a stool. He wore a green blazer that bunched up around his massive arms.

  My trusty mentor flashed his ID badge and J. smiled. He looked at McSweater Vest and said, “McShea, didn’t know you had kids.” J. looked at me and grinned.

  Hmph! So J. works the comedy circuit on the weekend, right? He’s got jokes.

  McSweater Vest released a short laugh, his cheeks, already cherry red from the cold, turning even redder. “J., my man, this is Brianna Justice. She goes to school out in Orchard Park and I’m her mentor.”

  J. cocked a brow. “Orchard Park, eh? Fancy!”

  I didn’t know if he was trying to be funny or not. I had never thought of Orchard Park as fancy.

  Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot, I smiled. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  J. nodded and said, “McShea is one of the good ones. Be nice to him. Y’all take care.” He stepped aside and we moved past him toward a group of elevators.

  “This is the newsroom,” said my mentor when the doors finally opened. We walked into a wide-open space. The windows overlooked Fort Street. Pearly gray daylight blended with the glare of overhead lights.

  I looked around the space and felt a ripple of excitement.

  “We’re back here,” McSweater Vest said, leading me deeper into the space. People glanced up, gave me a look, then went back to doing whatever.

  “This area is called the city desk,” he said. �
��Not an actual desk, per se, just a way of characterizing what we do. All of us report on various aspects of the city—crime, courts, education, government, categories like that. You can drop your stuff right here. No one’s using this desk right now.”

  I dropped my bag on the floor and removed my heavy coat.

  “Sooooo, if it isn’t the Bearded Boy Wonder and his new protégée. We could use some new blood around here,” said a voice. I turned and found myself looking at a big, round dude who was using his swivel chair to move across the room.

  If I were giving out nicknames, which I was in my mind, his would be Ginger Bear. He was pale and freckled, with curly reddish brown hair, and hands like bear paws. He had happy blue twinkly eyes.

  He held out one hand for me to shake. “I’m Buffalo Bob, nice to meet you. Ol’ Matthew told us he was bringing a student in today. What’s your name?”

  “Brianna Justice,” I said. A black T-shirt stretched tight around his belly. I squinted at the light brown outline of a woman’s features superimposed against the darker background. Beside the woman’s silhouette, the shirt read:

  “THE MOST COMMON WAY PEOPLE GIVE UP THEIR POWER IS BY THINKING THEY DON’T HAVE ANY.”

  —ALICE WALKER

  “Do you know who Alice Walker is?” He peered over the top of his wire-framed glasses, challenge in his pale blue eyes.

  “Yes, I know who she is,” I said, proud of remembering how Alice Walker was one of my late grandma Diane’s favorite authors. “She wrote The Color Purple.” I couldn’t help wondering why this big white dude was wearing a shirt with an African American author’s face on it.

  “Do you know what the quote means?” he asked, crossing thick arms over an ample belly. I glanced over at McSweater Vest, who looked like he was about to jump in. Maybe he thought I needed help. I didn’t.

  “Um, I think so, but I don’t understand why anyone would just give away their power,” I said. “That’s stupid!”