The Last Reporter (14 page)

“Oh,” said Alan.

“You really don’t get it?” said Don.

“Your good friend Mrs. Ameche,” said Adam. “She puts bird doo in her garden for her tomato plants.”

“Like fertilizer,” said Don. “Normal people go to the store and buy a sack of miracle chemicals. Not Ma.”

“Ma’s into nature,” said Alan. “Her secret ingredient. We mix the bird stuff into the soil.”

“It’s kind of pscyho,” said Don.

“Except —” said Alan.

“It works,” said Don.

They told her how Mrs. Ameche had won the state department of agriculture’s contest for the biggest tomato three years in a row.

When Jennifer said she hadn’t heard of it, the Ameche brothers seemed shocked.

“No?” said Don.

“It’s a huge deal,” said Alan. “One-thousand-dollar first prize. Plus we advertise it all over our tomato business.” And here, Alan paused, changing his voice to sound deep, like a radio announcer: “Made with Mrs. Ameche’s famous championship tomatoes . . .”

“Big is better and the biggest is the best,” said Don.

“You try it,” said Alan.

“You like it,” said Don.

The Ameches explained that there were regional weigh-offs all over the state, where your tomato was matched against other large tomatoes from your area. And then the regional winners would meet at a mall somewhere in the state — it was such a big honor, the location changed every year — for a final weigh-off to crown the state champion tomato.

“Neat,” said Adam. “Kind of like the NCAA March Madness basketball tournament, except for tomatoes.”

“Same thing,” said Don.

There was another thump.

“What was that?” asked Jennifer. “I keep hearing it.”

“Don’t worry,” said Don. “Let’s just get this over with. Remember to keep your hats on.” They got within thirty feet and stopped again. “You can put your gloves on,” whispered Don.

“Get ready,” said Alan.

“Look,” said Don. “You two use your scrapers to scrape the bird doo off the rocks and into your bags.”

“We’ll do the rest,” said Alan.

“The rest?” asked Adam.

“Not your problem,” said Don.

“Our problem,” said Alan.

“It’s our mother,” said Don.

“Lucky us,” said Alan.

The cormorants were fidgeting now, moving nervously along the rocks, bending their long necks in and out of an
S
shape, and making sideways glances at their four visitors.

“Next move,” whispered Don, “they’ll fly.”

“The dangerous part,” said Alan.

“We’ve only been hit once,” said Don. “They got Alan.”

“Really nasty,” said Alan.

“Here goes,” said Don, and they moved forward. In an instant, the cormorants spread their wide black wings and flew off at a sideways angle, in a line, one after the other, the only sound their wings flapping.

And then there was a
thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

Hunks of half-digested fish — fish heads, fish tails, fish bones, fish scales, fish eyes — along with parts of eels, mud snails, crabs — fell from the sky, thumping onto the rocks.

“Oh, gross!” yelled Adam. “They’re throwing up.”

“I’ve got to sit down,” said Jennifer, who looked terrible. “I think I’m going to — Oh my God . . .”

Before going back into the house, they left their plastic bags by the tomato garden, threw the gloves into the garbage, and washed their hands with the backyard hose. As Adam marched up the stairs behind the Ameches, he could smell warm cannoli. When they walked in there was a full dish on the kitchen table, and four tall glasses of milk.

Mrs. Ameche made them wash their hands again, in the sink, with soap.

“So how’d it go?” she asked as they settled in one by one around the table.

“We got your stuff, Ma,” said Don, who was eating his cannoli so quickly, the custard was squirting out the far end.

Alan said something, but it was hard to tell exactly what, his mouth was so jammed with cannoli.

“Jenny, honey,” said Mrs. Ameche. “Take one, don’t let these gorillas eat them all.”

“Not right now,” said Jennifer. “I’m not very hungry, Mrs. Ameche.”

Adam laughed. “I wonder why,” he said, hitting the table to make a
thump-thump-thump
ing noise.

“It wasn’t anything like my mother’s hydrangeas,” Jennifer said softly.

“I guess not,” said Adam. “Jenny honey here must be part cormorant, if you get my meaning, because she —”

“She did great, Ma,” said Don.

Adam tried again. “You should have seen it, just like the cormorants, she —”

“She would have made you proud, Ma,” said Alan.

“Yeah,” said Don. “She’s tough, Ma. Didn’t complain once.”

“Stayed with us the whole way,” said Alan.

“Breathed through her mouth like a pro, Ma,” said Don.

Adam stared at the Ameche brothers. They were supposed to be
his
friends, not Jennifer’s. Everything was getting twisted in favor of Jennifer.

He was sure he didn’t deserve it, but for some reason, he felt like a jerk.

Jennifer, on the other hand, looked happy as a clam — a clam that had escaped the cormorants.

“I knew it,” said Mrs. Ameche. “I have a nose for this. You can tell so much about people by how they work. Good for you, Jenny. You wowed the Ameche brothers. That’s a tough crowd.” She went over to the refrigerator, cracked a bottle of soda, put a few ice cubes in a glass with a straw, then put it in front of Jennifer.

“Ginger ale,” Mrs. Ameche whispered. “Settles the stomach.”

They were quiet, licking the sprinkles and chocolate frosting off the cannoli, Jennifer sipping her drink. “Why do they do that?” she asked.

“The Ameche brothers?” asked Mrs. Ameche.

“No, the cormorants,” said Jennifer. “Why do they throw up like that?”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Ameche. “Well, from what I’ve read, no one’s really sure. Scientists don’t know if they’re emptying their stomachs so they can fly away faster from danger, or if they vomit to scare away predators.”

Jennifer nodded. “Worked on me,” she said.

“Or they might just have nervous stomachs,” said Mrs. Ameche. “People act like everything has an answer if they could just study it enough, but I’m not sure that’s true. Animals aren’t too different from humans. You can study them a ton, but you don’t always know why they do what they do.”

Adam nodded. He definitely agreed with that.

They’d been so busy with vomit and doo, they’d almost forgotten the
Slash.

“So,” Mrs. Ameche said, “we’ve got a new ethics issue with the Ameche brothers selling ads.”

“Ma, we tried our best,” said Don.

“We did what you said, Ma,” said Alan. “Gave them the packet.”

“Showed them all the great stories the
Slash
did,” said Don.

“Showed them the
Slash
wasn’t afraid of no Bolands,” said Alan.

“Alan Ameche,” said Mrs. Ameche. “Mind your double negatives. That’s
any Bolands
— and I know you did. I’ve told you, it’s not your fault. I give you all the credit in the world. We’ve gone from having a serious ethics shortage here, to being the Ameche Society for the Advancement of Holy Ethics. I’m very proud. If you’re feeling let down, boys — we may need an Ameche family hug.”

“It’s OK, Ma,” said Don.

“We’re good,” said Alan.

Adam was lost. The Ameches could really talk a lot, but if anyone had actually mentioned the problem, it had sailed right by him.

“I really appreciate this,” said Jennifer.

“Well, we appreciate being appreciated,” said Mrs. Ameche.

“But there’s still one big problem,” said Don.

“It’s actually huge,” said Alan.

Mrs. Ameche nodded. “The Ameche brothers have not sold a single ad. It appears that once people actually see the paper, they don’t want to buy ads.”

No one said anything, not even the Ameches. Adam felt terrible, like the time he was playing manhunt, jumped off a friend’s lower roof, knocked the wind out of himself, and couldn’t get his breath back.

He was sure the
Slash
was good.

Wasn’t it?

“They think the
Slash
is bad?” Jennifer whispered.

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Ameche, “just the opposite. They’re scared that it’s too good.”

She told them that people seemed scared to advertise in the newspaper that had written something so critical of the Bolands; the newspaper that prompted the state to investigate the Bolands; the newspaper that was shut down by the Bolands. People were worried that if they put an ad in the
Slash,
the Bolands would come after them, too. Mrs. Ameche talked about how the Boland companies — Bolandvision Cable, Boland Realtors, Inc., Boland Broadband, the
Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser
— provided jobs for tons of people in Tremble County. “If a business advertised in the
Slash,
” said Mrs. Ameche, “like a restaurant — and the Bolands turned against them, that business might go right out of business.”

“What’s amazing,” she continued, “is these people know about you guys, even though most had never seen the
Slash.
They told the Ameche brothers they’d heard about this amazing newspaper that stood up to the Bolands. And it was run by kids!”

Adam understood that this was all terrible, but hearing that, he didn’t feel so bad. He felt kind of mythic. People knew about him. It seemed like he really did have a shot at becoming an urban legend, if he could just move into the city.

So what Jennifer said next caught him off-guard.

“Maybe it’s time to quit,” she said, her voice barely audible.

They all looked at her.

“I mean, we gave it our best,” she said. “There’s just a few weeks of school left. We can’t raise a thousand dollars that fast. Everyone’s against us. If grown-ups don’t care, if they’re too afraid to buy a stupid ad, how can we do anything?”

Adam could hear a clock in the next room ticking.

“I’m sorry,” Don said softly.

“We really tried,” said Alan.

“We were wrong,” said Don. “A newspaper’s not like used golf balls.”

“It’s hard,” said Alan.

“Jenny, honey —” said Mrs. Ameche.

“I just feel like we’ve done all middle-school kids can do,” continued Jennifer. Though her voice was quiet, every one of her words felt to Adam like it weighed a ton.

“I feel terrible,” she said. “The Ameche brothers worked so hard, and they haven’t made anything for it and not a cent has been raised for the
Slash.
I just feel . . . like . . . such . . . an idiot . . . I was so stupid. A bunch of kids . . . alone . . .”

Oh, no. Adam could not stand it. Jennifer was crying. Not sniffles either. Loud sobs. He hated this. He felt sad everywhere, though mostly it pressed against his chest. Someone had to help Jennifer. She was such a good person. No one should make her cry. He wanted her to stop. She needed a hug. He felt like . . . Why did they just have to be . . . official coeditors? It was ridiculous. He hated these new rules. Who made them up, anyway? Why couldn’t they go back to . . . like before . . . him and Jennifer, you know . . . That’s what he really . . .

“Now wait a minute, Jenny,” said Mrs. Ameche. “You stop that crying, baby doll.” And she wrapped her arms around Jenny honey until the girl was totally covered in an Ameche hug. “I told you the Ameche brothers didn’t sell any ads,” Mrs. Ameche said. “That doesn’t mean people don’t want to help. They just don’t want to be too public. I think they’re worried that if they buy an ad, it’s like sticking their fingers in the Bolands’ eyes. What I started to say — what I tried to tell you before you got so worked up — was that the Ameches have collected nearly five hundred dollars in anonymous gifts from people who want to help the
Slash.
”

Jennifer couldn’t see it, because she was still locked up in that big Ameche hug, but Adam did: the Ameche brothers looked shocked.

“Ma!” said Don.

“Come on, Ma!” said Alan.

“Quiet, quiet,” said Mrs. Ameche. “I know you wanted to tell her yourselves —”

“We did, Ma?” said Don.

“I know you did,” said Mrs. Ameche. “But I just couldn’t wait. I felt Jenny needed some good news right away.”

All four of them stared hard at Mrs. Ameche.

She nodded.

“Then I guess we’re halfway there,” said Adam.

“That’s what the printer wants for a deposit,” said Jennifer. “This is wonderful. . . .” And she started crying again. But before she could get re-hugged, she waved them off. “It’s OK,” she said. “Like Miss MacLeish used to say in kindergarten, these tears are pink, not blue. Happy tears. I don’t know how to thank you, Mrs. Ameche.”

“I do,” said Adam. “We’re going to put out the greatest
Slash
ever.”

The coeditors were unlocking their bikes from the Ameches’ neon-orange zebra-striped basketball hoop for the trip home.

“I’ll ride with you,” said Adam.

“That would be nice,” said Jennifer.

“I’m glad you’re not crying,” Adam said.

“Thanks,” said Jennifer. “I’m sorry. It’s such a girl thing to do.”

“No,” said Adam. “That’s not true. You’re so —”

“Wait up!”

They turned to see Don running out from the backyard. It was an odd sight — an Ameche brother alone.

Don was carrying a jar of tomato sauce with a little bow, which he handed to Jennifer.

“You try it,” said Don.

“You like it,” said Jennifer, smiling. “That’s very sweet, Don. Thank you.”

“No, you’re the sweet one,” said Don.

Oh, my God. Adam couldn’t believe it. What was going on now?
You’re the sweet one?
He felt dizzy. Why did this Ameche have to butt in now, right at this moment? Adam finally felt like things were getting back to normal with Jennifer, maybe better than normal, and . . .

“Um, Jennifer,” said Don. “I thought you might like, sometime, to you know, go to a movie, maybe, and get an ice cream or something?”

It was hard to say who looked more surprised, Jennifer or Adam. The Ameche brother looked at them both. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “You guys aren’t . . . ?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” said Jennifer.

“No, no, no, no,” said Adam.

“Great,” said Don. “So it’s OK?”