The Last Reporter (13 page)

“Dr. Duke,” she said, “don’t feel bad. It’s not hopeless. I’ve got an idea. When I was looking for people to save the
Slash,
I found this investigative reporters’ website. And it had a section with tips on getting people to talk —”

Oh, my God, Adam thought. He wanted to kill her. Another big idea from Jennifer. Like Jennifer’s so-secret iPod source she couldn’t even tell him. Oh, Jennifer — she would have some big-deal plan, no doubt about it, but he knew, when all was said and done,
he
would be the one who’d have to do the sneaky work, and he was sick . . .

“So one of their reporting tips,” Jennifer said, “was if you can’t find anyone to talk to you about problems at a company, try to find someone who’s about to retire or just retired from the company. Because they’re not going to be worried about pissing off their boss, no offense. They can tell the truth. What I was thinking, when you were talking with my coeditor here — if we could find a teacher . . .”

“About to retire!” said Dr. Duke. “Jennifer, that’s brilliant! That’s no problem at all. I can get you a list, easy. Every year, the district sends out a release on all the retirements.”

“Good,” said Jennifer. “And we know the ones from Harris. The
Slash
always does a little profile on each one. The boy who’s writing them this year sent me the first drafts. At the middle school, I remember Mr. Bearak and Mrs. Kelleher, and in elementary, Mrs. Gross —”

“Mrs. Gross?” said Adam.

Jennifer and Dr. Duke looked at him, as if they’d forgotten he was still around.

“I had Mrs. Gross for fourth grade,” he said. “I loved Mrs. Gross. She was so nice.” Adam didn’t say it, but what he used to love — when he answered a really hard question no one else could get, Mrs. Gross would say, “Adam, you’re the complete package.” He wasn’t 100 percent sure what that meant, but the way her voice sounded — it had felt good, being the complete package.

“Fourth grade is perfect,” said Dr. Duke. “That’s one of the best examples. . . .” She made a little note. “Good,” she said.“Now. You need to know one more thing. The state does not make the tests public after everyone’s taken them. They say that would give away their testing secrets. They say it would make it too hard to create new tests. A lot of us think that’s bull. A lot of us think they just don’t want the public examining the tests, finding problems. You know how you take a Social Studies unit test, and there’s a question about stuff the teacher didn’t cover or a question that has more than one right answer? And you complain to your teacher? Well, the state doesn’t want to deal with complaints. Talk about Top Ten bullies. The state says anyone caught giving out a copy of the test will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Maybe thrown in jail. Teachers get a copy, of course, but they’re supposed to be collected in each building and destroyed afterward.”

Dr. Duke stood. “That’s about all I have,” she said. “If you decide to write something, I’d be happy to fact-check it. Just don’t call my office. Have Mrs. Quigley track me down.”

She walked almost to the door, then stopped. “Adam, I’m really sorry,” she said. “I know you’re upset. I know you think I’m a coward, and I guess I am. But don’t give up because of me. This is really important. Schools need some testing, but these state tests are taking over everything. They’re squeezing the fun out of school. You know that from your science-fair story — kids used to spend months working on fun projects in school, but there’s no time now because they’re cramming you full of facts for the state test. When I was here in middle school — yes, I went to Harris, too — I had Mr. Brooks for World History, and for weeks we did this game, World Domination. It was the best, but this year —”

“We know,” said Jennifer. “No more World Domination. My coeditor tried to write about it last fall. Mr. Brooks asked us not to.”

Dr. Duke shook her head. “I didn’t know,” she said. “Very sad. A great man like Mr. Brooks. Does he still make you memorize speeches?”

Adam nodded. He’d hated that assignment; he’d got an 85 on his Winston speech. He’d forgotten that stupid part about sinking into an abyss of a new Dark Age. Dr. Duke really knew how to bring up bad memories.

“Adam, you don’t realize it,” she continued, “but you have a very powerful gift. I hope you’ll go see Mrs. Gross. Even if it doesn’t work out, she’ll be happy to see you. It will be a nice retirement present for her.”

“Of course we will,” said Jennifer.

Adam didn’t answer. He hated the way adults twisted stuff around to make you feel bad. He felt like he was sinking into an abyss of a new Dark Age.

“You don’t have to go.”

“I’ll go.”

“Really, you don’t have to. I don’t mind going alone.”

“I want to.”

“I’m the one Mrs. Ameche called.”

“You don’t even like the Ameche brothers. Every time you go there, you run away. You said they’re idiots.”

“Mrs. Ameche’s not. She’s really smart and nice.”

“The Ameche brothers are her sons. If she’s so smart, how can she have idiot sons?”

“Your mother did.”

“Oh, you are a riot, you really are.”

“Can we not talk unless we have to?”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Meet you there.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Mrs. Ameche was on the warpath, but it wasn’t Adam and Jennifer’s fault. As she led them into her kitchen, she apologized. She said she’d invited Jennifer over to talk about a big ethics problem for the
Slash,
but it was going to have to wait. “Jenny, honey, since you guys started coming, these Ameche brothers think they’re Rupert Ameche-doch. They act like media moguls. They want to spend all day wheeling and dealing in their May Way West studios and forget their mother’s tomatoes. You don’t forget your mother’s tomatoes, do you, Jenny?”

“Ma,” said Don, “she’s probably like a normal person, who doesn’t have tomatoes.”

“Come on, Ma,” said Alan. “You know we work hard on the tomatoes. It’s just — the contest isn’t till the end of August, Ma.”

“There’s lots of time, Ma,” said Don. “Can you just calm down for a second?”

“Have we ever let you down, Ma?” said Alan.

Mrs. Ameche slapped her palm on her forehead. “Have you ever let me down? Am I hearing right? Do you really want me to answer that? Because I will. I just need to go upstairs and get my list. You stay put; I’m going upstairs! Stand back, I’m getting the list! You asked for it. The seven hundred thousand ways the Ameche brothers have let down their mother. Every single one of them documented. I’ll be right back —”

“Ma, Ma, stop,” said Don.

“Just stop, Ma,” said Alan.

“We’ll do your tomatoes, Ma,” said Don. “I swear. Right now. We’ll get out the stuff.”

“We will do them, Ma,” said Alan. “Just, not the list, Ma, please.”

“You don’t have to go upstairs, Ma,” said Don. “We’re on it.”

Mrs. Ameche eyeballed them suspiciously, but she did stop talking about the list.

“We’re happy to help,” said Jennifer. “My coeditor and I here will give the Ameche brothers a hand, so it goes faster. Then we’ll talk about the
Slash
?”

“Oh, Jenny, honey, you don’t have to,” said Mrs. Ameche. “It’s kind of . . . messy —”

“I insist,” said Jennifer. “My mother’s a big gardener. She belongs to the Tremble Garden Club. Her hydrangeas are pretty legendary. Sometimes I help with the planting. It’s kind of fun.”

Kind of fun? Right! Adam was looking forward to this. Jennifer did not have a clue what she was about to get into. This was too good to be true. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she realized. For once in her life, Jennifer was going to find out the true meaning of dirty work. He put on a big grin and said, “Mrs. Ameche, you’re right. Jenny honey here will be a great help.”

Mrs. Ameche smiled. “If you insist, that’s very sweet,” she said. “Come out back; I’ll get you the stuff.” She led them down the back stairs and across the cluttered yard. “When you’re done at the rocks,” she said. “I’ll have a fresh batch of cannoli waiting. With the rainbow sprinkles. Then we’ll talk about the
Slash.
”

“The rocks?” said Jennifer.

“Oh, yeah,” said Mrs. Ameche. “It’s not far. Just a block up, at the end of the street, by the river. That’s where you find the best stuff. Tons of it. The birds roost on the rocks. You can’t tell anyone, Jenny, but it is
the
secret ingredient that won me state champion tomato three years in a row. Did the boys tell you my tomato was nearly five pounds last year?”

Mrs. Ameche disappeared into the Ameche brothers’ headquarters. They could hear her rattling around in there. When she came out, she had plastic bags, paint scrapers, old painting hats, and four pairs of surgical gloves. She handed a scraper, a trash bag, a hat, and gloves to each of them. “Uncle Louie used to work as a dental technician before he went away,” Mrs. Ameche explained to Jennifer. “He’d bring us cartons of extra gloves from the dentist’s office.”

She told them to be sure to wear the gloves. “It’s not the most sanitary stuff in the world,” she said. “I don’t think you can get any diseases that will kill you or anything, but it doesn’t hurt to be safe.”

“What’s the hat for?” asked Jennifer.

“Aerial bombardment,” said Mrs. Ameche. “You don’t want to risk a direct hit.”

The three boys were already out the gate.

Jennifer seemed frozen in place.

“Ameche brothers!” Mrs. Ameche yelled after them. “You know the drill. I need a bag full — and not just the doo. I want vomit, too.”

To the east, by Adam’s house in River Path, the Tremble River was lined with docks for boats and swimming, but here in the West End, the bank was covered by big boulders. The rocks — along with large chunks of cement from the demolition of old buildings — had been stacked here years ago by diesel-powered cranes to stem erosion of the riverbank. When Adam was little, he came with his dad on Saturday mornings, and they’d climb the rocks, as far as they could go, sometimes all the way to the end, where there was a chain-link fence with barbed wire, marked
PRIVATE PROPERTY
, that blocked off the Tremble Boat Yard.

The rocks were stacked at all angles, and it was tricky moving from rock to rock. Some were flat, some jagged, and you had to be careful where you put your foot as you jumped from one to the next. When Adam was little, he’d missed the next rock more than once and gotten some pretty good scrapes.

The Ameche brothers led the way with Adam close by and Jennifer lagging. “There.” Don pointed, indicating a stretch of rocks where dozens of black birds were perched. “Can you smell it yet?”

Adam could. It was a fishy, garbagey, stinky smell that shot up your nostrils to the inside of your brain.

“When we get close,” said Alan, “breathe through your mouth. It’s really disgusting close up.”

Adam was surprised. “I thought it was going to be seagulls,” he said, staring at the flock.

“I wish,” said Don.

“Cormorants,” said Alan. “A nasty, ducky kind of bird.”

“With vampire wings,” said Don.

“Cormorants,” repeated Adam. “I know them from Geography Challenge. A red fruit from a subtropical shrub found in dry parts of California, Iran, India —”

“That’s pomegranates,” said Jennifer. “Pomegranates.”

“Right,” said Adam. “I knew that.”

Jennifer started to pull on the surgical gloves.

“Not yet,” said Don.

“Wait till we’re closer,” said Alan. “If you slip on the rocks, the gloves will rip.”

“And then you’re touching that stuff with your raw hands,” said Don.

“Try to walk on the same rocks we do,” said Alan.

Don went first, Alan second, then Adam and Jennifer. The Ameche brothers moved as if they’d memorized the rocks, jumping from one to the next like mountain goats, then stopping to wait for Adam and Jennifer. When they were about fifty feet away, Adam thought he heard a thumping sound. Don stopped immediately. “I’d put on the hat,” he said.

“Definitely,” said Alan.

They moved closer, and Adam was sure this time he heard a thump. Jennifer must have heard, too, because she stopped. She was looking kind of ashen. “Can I ask a question here?” she said. “What exactly are we doing?”

“What do you mean?” said Alan.

“What part don’t you understand?” said Don.

“All of it,” said Jennifer. “I don’t have a clue what we’re up to.” There was another thump. Adam looked around, but he still couldn’t tell what the noise was.

“See that white stuff all over the rocks?” said Don, pointing. “Like they’ve been painted white? Well, you know what that is?”

Jennifer didn’t answer.

“Bird doo,” said Adam.

“That’s a lot of what it is,” said Don. Alan said, “There’s also —” But Don interrupted him.

“I think that’s all they need to understand for now, unless the other comes up,” Don said.

“Very funny,” said Alan. “Good pun.”

“Lowest form of humor,” said Don, “but thanks.”

“Isn’t slapstick lowest?” said Alan.

“I can never remember,” said Don.

“I’m really sorry,” said Jennifer, “I know you must think I’m an idiot, but I still don’t get it. Why are we so interested in bird doo?”