The Last Reporter (18 page)

“Oh, please,” said Phoebe. “That doesn’t have the same
oomph.
Where’s the juice? People react to people; they need fellow humans to identify with. Precious little Teresa — that brings tears to my eyes. Kidnapped and gone, just because she didn’t have a stinking cell phone. It makes me sick.”

“Fine,” said Adam. “Specific examples are great. I agree. And I’m all for tears. Tears and laughter, that’s the whole writing deal. But as coeditor, I need to see some proof that there really is a precious Teresa.”

“How about if we changed her name?” asked Phoebe. “Change it to Cindy, precious Cindy.”

“Is there a real kidnapped Cindy?” asked Adam.

“I bet anything there is,” said Phoebe. “Cindy’s just the kind of name that gets kidnapped.”

Adam was surprised. The other questions didn’t need as much work. Someone had written in about losing his pencils and pens all the time, and Ask Phoebe actually had quite a good plan. She said she used magnetic tape on the inside of her locker door to make sure she always had a few extras on hand.

Adam thought he might give that a try. He did have a tendency to lose pretty much everything.

A boy had written in complaining that when he was at camp last summer he’d lost a tooth and the Tooth Fairy only left him a nickel. “Come on, ease up,” wrote Ask Phoebe. “She’s just the Camp Tooth Fairy.” Phoebe advised bringing a small Tupperware container to camp, saving any lost teeth, then bringing them home at the end of the summer and resubmitting them to the regular Tooth Fairy, who paid Phoebe three dollars a tooth.

A girl wrote and said that she wanted to be an artist when she grew up, but she had two older brothers who made fun of her all the time and she was losing her confidence. Could Ask Phoebe offer any help? Ask Phoebe answered that she had
three
older brothers, and there was no limit to how mean and stupid they could be sometimes, but other times, they were very sweet, they looked out for her, and told her not to let some big moron like the coeditor of the
Slash
discourage her. Phoebe advised tuning out any negative comments and suggested that while the girl was waiting to become an artist, she should practice her signature. “A lot of artists find themselves famous, and they don’t have a good signature,” Phoebe wrote. “It should be something where you can tell it’s your name but looks pretty messy, like you’re too busy to worry about it. And of course, all signatures must be in cursive.”

All in all, Adam felt the column wasn’t bad. “Do you want to say which coeditor is the moron discouraging you?” he asked, quite sure he knew the answer.

“No, it’s OK,” said Phoebe. “I think people will figure it out.”

“No doubt,” said Adam, but he wasn’t angry. He’d never admit it to Phoebe, and he might not admit it to Jennifer even if they went back to, being, well, you know — but Ask Phoebe was pretty entertaining.

The thing that saved him from killing her was that under all Phoebe’s ridiculous third-graderness, she had a pretty decent heart.

“What about the letter you read out loud at the meeting?” asked Adam. “The one that had the whole
Slash
staff howling?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Phoebe. “It’s here. On the second sheet.”

“You’re going to use it,” he said.

“I guess,” said Phoebe.

Adam reread it.

By the time Adam got to the end, his stomach ached and his head was throbbing. How could he have not . . . ? No wonder Jennifer . . . He was such an idiot.

“An answer?” he asked softly.

Phoebe handed him a third page.

It was the first thing Adam thought of every morning: how many days left until summer vacation. As he lay in bed, under a single sheet, squinting against the morning light, his windows wide open, he could hear and feel and smell summer on the way, and it was glorious. The wind was from the south now almost every day, and it brought the moistness of the river into Adam’s room, along with the sounds of tug-boat horns and gulls squawking. Last Saturday morning he’d woken to an explosion — the starting gun at the River Path Sailing Club, holding its first sailboat races of the new season. Twice Adam had been out to the civic beach — really a bunch of rafts latched together along the riverbank. But when he ducked his arm in, the Tremble still felt chilly. A couple of years ago, after a warm winter, he’d gone swimming on Memorial Day weekend, his personal early-season best, but this would not be a record-breaking year.

He thought of the next month as a running club race. Not one of his recurring running club race nightmares. Please, he didn’t want any more of those. No, this was a race where he could see the finish line. He might have to punish himself to get there, he might have to dig deep to summon up every last one of his vital fluids, but once he crossed that line, he could collapse into a grassy meadow and spend his days staring up at a cloudless summer sky.

That was his goal, anyway.

“Adam, I’m really pleased,” said his dad as he pulled up in front of the middle school.

“Great, Dad,” said Adam. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Wait, just a second,” his dad said. “Do you know what I’m pleased about?”

“Yeah, sure, Dad, see you tonight.” Adam tried to hop out, but his dad had him by the arm.

What was his dad pleased about? Adam’s brain was used to figuring out what his parents were
dis
pleased about. “Umm . . . you’re really pleased . . . that . . . umm . . . I haven’t got an in-school suspension like last semester?”

“No, Adam,” said his dad, “I’m really pleased that you’re going for all this before-school extra help. On your own. This is like your sixth time in six days.”

“Oh, right, Dad, right. Can’t get enough extra help. Bye, Dad.”

“What subjects are you going for?”

What subjects? This wasn’t fair. Adam wasn’t in trouble; he was totally out of trouble. “Just all the big subjects,” Adam said. “The usual big subjects everyone needs help in.”

“Because we got a letter from school that listed all the extra-help sessions for final exams,” said his dad, “and it didn’t say anything about before school.”

“Of course not,” said Adam. “They never put it in. Everyone knows teachers are usually there early for help.”

“You’re not up to anything, are you, Adam?”

“Come on, Dad.”

“Why do I feel like you’re up to something?”

“Because you’re a dad, Dad; it’s your job to assume I’m up to stuff. It’s OK — I don’t take it personally.” And he jumped out and raised his arm in a wave without looking back.

Adam had the drill down: drop off his backpack at his locker; make sure he had his notebook, his pen, and the secret list; hurry to the 300 corridor; force himself to slow down and look random (
one, two, three, lollygag, four, five, six, lollygag
); a final check to ensure he was operating in a Phoebe-free zone; then casually walk over to the locker where the two boys were talking.

“Hey, how’s it going?” said Adam, holding out his notebook and pen. “I’m just checking to make sure kids got their free iPod downloads from Stub. For the election . . .”

“Oh, yeah,” said the first boy.

“Definitely,” said the other, and he pulled his iPod from his pocket and showed it to Adam.

“Great,” said Adam. “Just checking. Can I get your names . . .”

He held his breath. He hoped they couldn’t hear his heart pounding. It was so loud, it seemed to have relocated to the middle of his head, between his ears.

“No problem,” said the first.

“Sure,” said the other.

And they gave Adam their names. Spelled them, too.

“Great,” said Adam. “Just trying to make sure. Checking people on the list.” He pulled the secret list from his back pocket and flapped it in their direction.

“Cool,” said one.

“This means you’re voting for Stub next week?” said Adam.

“Prez Stub,” said one.

“He’s got great music,” said the other. “Appreciate the download.”

“Great,” said Adam. “Thanks a lot.”

“Sure,” said the first boy, and he nodded down the row of lockers. “You can get him, too,” he said, indicating a boy who was kneeling and pulling stuff from his locker.

“Another satisfied member of the Stub Two-Fifty Club,” said the first boy.

“Another vote for Stub,” said the second.

“Right,” said Adam. “Thanks.”

And Adam got that boy, too.

The bell was ringing. He had to hurry to homeroom. He couldn’t believe it. He did it. He did it! So much worry. Arguments with Jennifer. Weeks of preparation. Getting the homeroom list from Mrs. Rose. Matching the lists. Yearbooks, YouTube, Facebook, MySpace, memorizing photographs. Practicing walk-bys. Weeks of worry.

And the actual reporting?

Just a couple of minutes.

And the key quotes?

Just seconds.

He couldn’t believe it.

He did it.

He really did it.

He had to tell Jennifer.

He couldn’t even be sure anymore: Was he mad at her, or was she mad at him?

It didn’t matter.

He had to tell Jennifer.

He’d nailed it for the front page.

A couple of times a day, Adam’s mom or dad drove slowly past the house where the kid who stole the bikes lived, looking to see if they saw any sign of Adam’s. This made Adam uncomfortable. “It’s kind of like we’re stalking him,” he said.

“That’s the idea,” said his mom. “Let them know we know.”

At dinner they were talking about it, and Adam said now that they knew the kid’s name, he was going to figure out what he looked like, get the kid’s homeroom number, and confront him at school.

“You think you can track him down?” said his dad.

“Sure,” said Adam. “I’ve got a list of kids by homeroom. Last year’s yearbook with everyone’s photo is in the school library; just match them up and pay a visit.”

“Adam,” said his dad, “do you do this a lot?”

“Dad, you don’t need to know all the details. Just trust me — I’m a trained reporter.”

“Well, I don’t want you getting in a fight over this,” said his mom. “You can get in trouble at school for something that’s not your fault. That’s why we’re talking to the police.”

“Well, I think it’s weird to keep driving by his house,” said Adam.

His parents were quiet. They were looking at each other. Finally his dad said, “Adam’s right. We need to go talk to these people.”

“Really?” said Adam.

“After dinner,” said his dad.

Adam was excited. He’d never seen his father get into a fistfight.

They parked in front of the house. His dad turned off the van, and Adam wondered if this was a mistake — they might need to make a quick getaway.

On the other hand, if the kid stole bikes, maybe the kid’s father stole cars, and it was best not to leave it running.

Their house was nice, as nice as the Canfields’, and the woman who answered the door was dressed up, like Adam’s mom when she got home from work in the city. She held the screen door open while Adam’s dad introduced himself and Adam.

He said he was sorry to be there, but he had reason to believe that her son had stolen Adam’s bike from their front yard.

“It couldn’t be my son,” she said. “He wouldn’t do that; he’s not that kind of boy.”

Adam’s dad said they’d reported the theft to the police, and talked to people at school. “I have a bill for the bike,” he said. “If you’re willing to pay for or return the bike, I’d be happy to tell the police that we’ve worked this out and we wouldn’t press charges.”

“My son wouldn’t do that,” she repeated. “You’re mistaken.”

“Look, I know he’s been in trouble,” said Adam’s dad. “I’m sorry. This is making me very uncomfortable. But it must be very hard living in a house with someone you can’t trust. It must be a terrible thing to know your child’s a liar.”