Peeled (7 page)

“I know that Mr. Loring was a great help to you all, and I’m sure that his inspiration will carry us through this season.”

It was going to be a
long
season.

“I’m…well…not exactly a writer. But I do have a cousin who’s worked at a lot of newspapers. I’ll see if he can help.” He paused like that might not be a good idea. “He takes some getting used to…” Another clap. “Okay, team. I’ve seen you all out there. I know what you’ve got inside.” He pointed to T.R., our sportswriter, and said, “Keep up that good game coverage. You’re the man!”

T.R. smiled bleakly. He was working on a think piece called “Why Homecoming Matters When You Have a Losing Team.”

Darrell stumbled forward. Editors don’t leap. “Mr. Grasso, thanks for…jumping in.” Darrell turned to us. “We’re going to make a difference this year, everybody.” He passed out a sheet. “But we need to watch the mistakes in our copy. I’ve found some real bloopers in our back-to-school edition.”

He passed a sheet around. All newspapers publish corrections, but ours were, well…

Oops!

A story in our back-to-school issue concerning teenage drinking mistakenly referred to beer as “bear.” We want to emphasize that popping a couple of bears (or beers) isn’t recommended by this paper.

Mrs. Perth’s slide presentation, “My Vacation in Slovenia,” was not on Thursday last week, as reported, but Wednesday. We apologize to Mrs. Perth, who had donned full native garb for
the event. Those wishing to see this multiscreen event and Mrs. Perth’s outfit should contact the school office.

Our apologies to the Sadie family, whose ad last week commemorating the death of their dog, Rosco, referred to Rosco as a “Great Dame.” Rosco was all man.
The Core
mourns his passing.

Mr. Grasso looked down, smiling.

Darrell continued, “And listen, everybody, Career Day is in two days and we want
The Core
to have maximum presence. We want to get the inside story.
Think
about your interview questions, please.”

Mr. Grasso scooped up a book,
So, You Want to Be a Journalist?
He flipped through the pages and read, “Getting a great interview isn’t as difficult as one might think. All that’s required is a complete knowledge of your subject and a prepared list of both insightful and hard-hitting questions. Always avoid any questions that can be answered by yes and no answers.” He turned to us. “Any questions?”

No.

The staff took a collective gulp and stumbled out of the office.

Darrell whispered, “You realize we could fold with the wrong adviser. That happened to a friend of mine in Cincinnati. They got the school nurse for their paper. I’m not kidding! Their paper shrank into a newsletter and then it became extinct!” His whole body sagged.

“You’re turning into Chicken Little,” I mentioned.

The stage crew of
Desperate People
struggled past us,
carrying a heavy backdrop of a starry sky, but they couldn’t hold on.

It crashed to the ground.

Darrell turned to me. “You know what, Hildy? Sometimes the sky
is
falling!”

I was in the second-floor bathroom of my house—a room so big, we had a chair in it. The light blue paint was peeling off the walls; it had been for years. This whole house needed an overhaul, but we didn’t have the money for that. I looked at myself in the scratched bathroom mirror. I had shoulder-length strawberry blond hair, a small nose, a few freckles, sincere brown eyes; I was five-seven and a half, just like my mom.

Just like my dad, I had a fierce desire to find the truth and help others find it, too. A fierce desire can get you a long way in this world, but sometimes I wondered if I had the right stuff to be a good journalist. My notes were always a mess. I had a hard time leaving my opinions out of what I was writing. Dad said you can’t approach a story thinking you know how it’s going to turn out; you’ve got to let it show you.

MacIntosh circled me; border collies are always trying to herd something. I was working out my theory that the sheriff couldn’t have liked the article in
The Bee
since it was sensational and exaggerated, and that if he was looking for a local reporter who would be sensitive and careful and promise to quote him accurately, he need look no further.

The problem is, I’d called his office and left six messages. He hadn’t called me back.

I’d been calling the number for D&B Security in Boston where Houston Bule had worked, too, but I kept getting their voice mail: “This is D&B. We’re out. Leave a message.”

I didn’t leave one.

I jutted out my chin and said to the mirror, “Sheriff Metcalf, I’m writing an article about the Ludlow house and I’m wondering if we could talk about the dead guy—”

Maybe I should say
deceased?

Maybe instead of standing at this mirror, I should just call him again.

This time I got him.

“Sheriff, I want to write an article about what’s happening at the Ludlow house, and I don’t want to exaggerate anything.”

“That would be refreshing.”

I took a big breath. “I need to ask you about the dead guy.”

“The death is being investigated. The coroner’s report won’t be out for a couple of weeks.” He said it like he’d been saying those lines all day long.

“Was the dead man Donny Lupo of D&B Security?”

“Good Lord, Hildy, where are you getting your information?”

“I was at the courthouse on Friday.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Sheriff, all I want to do is get the facts straight.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Then get them straight. There were no marks on the body and no apparent struggle. Quote my office as giving you the information.”

I wrote that down. “Thank you! Was the dead guy Donny Lupo?”

“The dead man has been identified as Donald Lupo, co-owner of D&B Security in Boston.”

“Yes!” I shrieked, writing it all down. “I mean, thank you.” I hung up before he took it all back.

In my room, typing. No fact escapes my grasp.

The body of Donald Lupo, co-owner of D&B Security in Boston, was found dead in the grove of apple trees on the Ludlow property early Friday evening. “There were no marks on the body and no apparent struggle,” said the sheriff’s office, squashing rumors that the man had been viciously attacked. Earlier that morning, Houston Bule, a part-time security employee of D&B Security, was arrested on the Ludlow property, trying to break into the abandoned house…

I cut in the rest of my article about the break-in. Read it, reread it, fixed the tense, ran a spell check.

I jumped up, did a little dance.

In mid-shimmy, I had a thought. Should that be
squashing rumors
or
quashing rumors?

I checked my dictionary.

Quashing
…

I fixed my copy, sent the article to Darrell, felt a major rush of accomplishment.

Getting the words right is right up there with dancing.

A mob of students wound around Joseph P. Buzz, correctional officer (aka prison guard). He was holding forth on “the worst dregs of humanity behind bars, and you can thank God that’s where they are and they’re being watched.”

“Have you ever been scared in your line of work?” I asked him.

“Nah…”
His chest enlarged. Tanisha took a photo of that.

“Wow,” I said. “I’d sure be afraid in a job like that. How do you handle it?”

He hesitated. “You learn to deal with it.”

“How do you do that?”

“Gun helps,” some kid said, and the others snickered.

“No,” Buzz insisted. “That’s not it.” He pointed to his head. “It’s up here. I can’t spend time thinking about fear. I got a job to do.” For just a second his face softened. “I tell
myself those guys are more scared than me. I tell myself that every day.”

I wrote that down. “Thank you, Mr. Buzz.”

I walked to the next table over. Elizabeth was interviewing a professional dancer. “I’ve always wanted to know what happens to a dancer’s feet. I mean, do you have foot problems?”

The dancer groaned and took off her shoes—her feet were covered with Band-Aids. “That’s the part people don’t see,” she said. Tanisha swept in and took several photos up close and personal.

T.R. was asking a plumbing contractor what was the thing he liked most about his work.

He laughed. “It’s when I hear the suck in the drain and I know I got the blockage.”

Darrell muttered happily, “Now, that’s an inside story!” He grabbed my arm and pointed to a man who had just sat down at the table in front of a hand-printed sign that read
JOURNALIST
. “Do you know who that is, Hildy?” We watched as Mr. Grasso walked over to the man and slapped him on the back.

“That’s Baker Polton,” Darrell explained. “He used to be managing editor of
The Albany Dispatch.
He’s the cousin Mr. Grasso was talking about.”

“The one who takes some getting used to?” Baker Polton looked like he’d slept in his clothes.

Darrell pushed me forward. “Get something really good.”

“I didn’t know he was coming.”

“Nobody did.”

I took a deep breath; walked over. Mr. Grasso said, “Baker Polton, meet Hildy Biddle. Hildy’s our top writer.”

I smiled. “Thanks. Mr. Polton, I’d love to know about your career in journalism.”

“In what respect?”

“Well, I guess, how did you—”

“You
guess?
Or do you have a real question?”

Mr. Grasso grimaced.

“I have
several
real questions, sir.”

“Shoot.”

My mind raced to find some. “What’s the toughest story you’ve ever worked on?”

“Sarasota, Florida. Brutal double murder. I was one of the first on the crime scene. Blood everywhere. Couldn’t get it out of my mind. The killer got off.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

I bit my lip. “Why did the killer get off?”

“Because he was rich, famous, and had a fancy-talking lawyer who derailed the jury.”

I wrote that down. “How did you get into journalism, Mr. Polton?”

He leaned forward. “Don’t you want to know who the guy was? Don’t you want any of the details?”

“Well…”

Mr. Grasso closed his eyes.

Baker Polton pointed his finger at me. “Let me tell you something. Whether you’re on a school paper or a top city daily, you don’t shortchange an interview. You ask all the follow-up questions you can. You never know what might come out.”

I nodded, feeling like a moron.

“And keep good eye contact. That shows confidence. Nobody opens up to someone who gets easily thrown.” He leaned back. “‘So, Baker,’” he said. “‘Who was this murderer? What were the charges? Where was the trial? When did this happen? Why did it happen? How did you write it? How did it affect the way you see your trade? What are you doing sitting at this stupid table?’” He scratched his day-old beard.

I’m not the idiot you think, mister!

I asked him the questions, got the facts on the murderer.

“Spelling,” he said.

“What?”

“Jon Graves. How did you spell it?”

“J-O-H-N—”

“Wrong. J-O-N.”

I felt my face flame red. I knew better. “Why are you sitting at this table?” I asked him.

Baker Polton rose slowly. “I’m standing up for truth.”

I was in the high school library, trying to get over the complete humiliation of having Baker Polton take me down a few notches. There are three kinds of people in the world: the ones who want to help you, the ones who ignore you, and the ones who love to see you squirm. Polton ruled in the last category.

I’d researched him online and discovered he was a semi-big shot in midsize dailies, meaning he’d had some important jobs at daily papers in cities like St. Louis, Albany, Stamford, Springfield, and Tampa.

I wished I’d seemed more professional when I interviewed him.

Deep humiliation always comes with a soundtrack—over and over I could hear him saying,
No one opens up to someone who gets easily thrown.

In my pocket was Baker Polton’s e-mail address. Mr. Grasso had given it to me. “Just so you know, Hildy,” he’d told me, “Baker’s staying at my house for a while until he gets…situated. You might want to contact him. He knows a lot.”

Contacting Baker Polton seemed right up there with approaching a rabid dog.

A chair moved next to me. The new guy, Zack, sat down.

“I thought you handled that Polton guy well in there.”

There was a witness to my shame! Couldn’t the floor just open up and—

“You stayed with him,” Zack insisted. “You got some interesting stories out of him.”

“He spooned them into my mouth,” I said.

“No one will know that when they read it, Hildy.”

That was a decent thought. Zack had quite a strong profile, actually.

He smiled warmly.

I did, too.

Tanisha walked by and pointed to her black sweater. Black meant “What’s going on?”

Oh, please. Absolutely nothing.

Zack opened a book and Lev came over to our table. “There’s been a P.A. sighting at the Ludlow place,” Lev whispered.