The Last Reporter (2 page)

“What do you mean?” said Adam. “This
is
nice. That has to be their headquarters over there.” He nodded toward a wooden storage shed that took up the entire width of the yard, maybe ten feet across. The yellow wire they’d been following went right inside it.

“What if they’re Internet predators like they tell us about in Health and Careers class?” Jennifer whispered. “Maybe they’re not even kids. Maybe they’re two fat old guys with bad teeth who lure kids into their junky backyard and then . . . Oh, my God, we should go.”

“Junky?” said Adam “What do you mean? No way. Two fat old guys with bad teeth wouldn’t paint their rim with zebra stripes. They’d never have a neon-orange backboard. My reporter’s instinct tells me we’re onto something big here.”

“I’m getting out,” said Jennifer.

“No you’re not,” said Adam. “You’re way too good a person to leave me at the mercy of two fat old guys with bad teeth. You could never live with yourself if something terrible happened to me while I was here
alone.
”

“But you can live with yourself if it turns out that you are leading
me
straight into a fat old perv trap?”

“I’m not as good a person as you,” said Adam.

“Deep down inside you are.”

“That’s a long way to go,” he said, and before she could say more, he knocked on the shed door.

There was no response, so he knocked twice more. Adam and Jennifer could hear talking inside, then saw a curtain over the shed window move slightly, and heard someone say, “It’s not Ma.”

“Then open it.”

“Fans, our next two guests have arrived. Please say hello to . . .”

Two boys who were talking into their computer with microphone headsets were now staring at Adam and Jennifer. One of them was pointing a webcam on the top of his screen at them.

“Welcome to the
Ameche Brothers’ Talk Till You Drop, All-Live Except the Recorded Parts
webcast, with Don and Alan Ameche serving your needs 24/7. Would you like to tell us your names, or are you fugitives from the law?”

Adam and Jennifer looked at each other. “Are you really broadcasting?” asked Jennifer. “Are people watching?”

“Globally speaking, two billion people have Internet hookups,” said the bigger Ameche. “So don’t get nervous.” He motioned for them to sit on a couple of plastic crates that were squeezed in beside the Ameches. Adam glanced around. The shed was as jam-packed as the backyard, but mostly with gardening stuff: bags of potting soil, peat moss and fertilizer, gloves, spades, a pitchfork, a rake, a couple of saws. And there were stacks and stacks of used paint cans.

The bigger Ameche picked up an empty seed packet from the floor, crumpled it in his hand, then held his closed fist in front of the webcam and squeezed it all around, making crinkling noises. “I have a hundred-dollar bill in my hand at this very moment that I’m ready to give away to the e-mailer with the best question for our guests this afternoon.”

“Oops,” said the smaller Ameche. “It’s 4:17. Time for the weather report.” He looked at Adam. “Would you mind doing the weather report for us?”

“He doesn’t know anything about the weather,” said Jennifer.

“Sure he does,” said the bigger Ameche brother. “Just step outside. That’s right. What do you see?”

“Well,” said Adam, “not much. The sky’s blue, the sun’s out, and it feels kind of cold.”

“Perfect,” said the larger Ameche. “That’s better than the lady on News 12 Accu-Weather.” He turned toward the webcam. “Our
Talk Till You Drop
meteorologist has checked the Doppler radar readings here at the Ameche May Way West studios on the banks of the Tremble River in the heart of beautiful Tremble County and reports blue skies, plenty of sunshine, and temperatures — Wait a minute. . . . What’s that? Oh, please, no. . . . Did you say . . .
funnel cloud
? That cloud’s getting closer. . . . Oh, my God, I’ve never seen it get so dark, so fast. . . .
A twister!
”

The bigger Ameche grabbed a blue plastic tarp that was covering a pile of bags of soil under the table and tossed it over the computer, the webcam, his head, and his brother’s head. “I hope you folks at home can see what we’re up against here as this monstrous tornado bears down on us. I can’t make out my fingers in front of my face. . . . And my brother? Alan, are you there? Alan? Oh, little Alan, I hardly knew you. . . . I have to apologize to all our loyal fans out there in cyberspace, but we’re heading for cover. This is Don Ameche, signing off. . . .”

Adam and Jennifer looked at each other. Adam poked his head out of the shed just to be sure. The sky’d never looked bluer. He stepped back in. Both Ameches were still under the tarp. All Adam could see was two bumps in the tarp where their heads were.

“They look ridiculous,” Jennifer whispered.

Adam wished he’d thought of it.

“Hey,” said Adam. “Excuse me, I just . . .”

“Shhh,” said one of the head bumps. “Just one second and the website will go remote. I’m uploading some video of the tornado from
The Wizard of Oz.
It’ll make a nice wrap-up. . . .”

They finally tossed the tarp off, then brushed potting soil from their hair and clothes.

“Boy,” said Adam, “that’s a lot of work. You must be worn out.” He went into his pocket and pulled out the plastic bag with his giant jawbreaker. “Want a suck?” he said. “Great energy pick-me-up. Has one hundred percent of the daily sugar dose recommended by the National Council of Candy Manufacturers.”

“That’s gross,” said Jennifer. “It’s bad enough that
you
do it. Now you’re going to share your germs with them?”

“What are you talking about?” said Adam. “Give me your water bottle.” He took the jawbreaker out of the bag. “OK if the floor gets a little wet?” he asked.

“No problem,” said the bigger Ameche. “We need to wet down the peat moss; the dust’s bad for the computers.”

Adam doused the jawbreaker with water and handed it to the bigger Ameche, who took a long, slurpy suck, then cleaned it off and gave his brother a turn.

“Too bad the webcast’s on remote,” said Don Ameche. “This would have been a terrific guest segment.”

“What’s your viewership?” asked Jennifer.

“Pretty much nobody,” said Alan Ameche.

“That’s not true,” said Don Ameche. “We get a couple of hits a month. An occasional e-mail.”

As if on cue, there was the sound of an e-mail arriving.

Alan glanced at the screen. “That doesn’t really count,” he said. “I can tell without reading it. It’s that annoying third grader who tries to win the hundred-dollar prize every time.”

“We think she’s a wack job,” said Don. “Very grandiose. She claims to be the world’s greatest third-grade reporter.”

Adam and Jennifer looked at each other but didn’t say a word.

“Anyone ever win the hundred-dollar prize?” asked Adam.

“You kidding?” said Don. “Does it look like we have a hundred dollars?”

“OK,” said Jennifer. “We should go. It was nice visiting with you.”

“Wait,” said Don. “We’ve had other e-mails. Not that long ago, either. From this girl who wants us to help her start a newspaper.”

“She seemed pretty smart,” said Alan. “Her spelling was good.”

“Yeah,” said Don. “I’m pretty sure she’s no wack job.”

“That’s me,” said Jennifer. “But we don’t need to bother you. I can see it would be a waste of time. We need a business manager and webmaster to raise money so we can put out our newspaper — which, by the way, is based on this old-fashioned idea that it’s important to stick to facts, something I can see you’re not familiar with. We need money, not empty seed packets.”

“Hey, wait,” said Don. “We make lots —”

“And I’ll tell you one more thing,” said Jennifer. “That third-grade wack job? Phoebe is no wack job. A little difficult maybe, a bit high-strung. But she really may be the world’s greatest third-grade reporter. And I think it’s cruel that you’d lie to people that way — especially a third grader, sitting at home in front of her little computer trying so hard to win a prize that’s just a big joke to you.”

“Jennifer,” said Adam, “please. I think the Ameches can help us. It’s just a goof.”

“Great,” said Jennifer. “Then you and the brothers work it out. You don’t need me. A little responsibility would be good for you, Adam Canfield. I’m going. I’ve got real stuff to do.” And she stomped out, knocking over paint cans and stirring up a cloud of peat-moss dust as she went.

Adam apologized to the Ameche brothers for Jennifer. He told them what a great person she was. He said that once they got to know her, they’d think she was terrific, too, and then he started explaining why they’d come. He hadn’t gotten very far when there was a bunch of noise outside, in the yard. They could hear things being knocked around.

“Shhh,”
said Don. He pulled the curtain away from the shed window a tiny bit and peeked out. “Oh, geez, it’s Ma,” he said. “She’s back from Busy Bee already. Quick, grab a bag of soil and pretend you’re helping us with the tomatoes.”

They were too late. Mrs. Ameche was at the door. “Ameche brothers,” she said. “I see the same weeds in my tomatoes that were there at nine this morning when I left. I don’t see any evidence of fresh topsoil. I don’t see any fresh bird poop.

“I will not stand for this,” she continued. “You love it when I win the Big Tomato. You love the prestige of being state champ. You stick it on every jar of tomato product you move out of here, but I don’t see you working for it.”

“Aw, Ma,” said Don. “We were just getting to the soil.”

“Eight hours to lift a bag of topsoil?” said Mrs. Ameche, shaking her head.

“If you must know, Ma, we were setting up an important business deal here,” said Don.

“We’re negotiating to join a big media company,” said Alan.

“Really?” said their mom. Then she turned to Adam, “You’re a big media company? You don’t look it, unless . . . You’re not one of the Murdoch kids, are you? And if that’s a yes, why would you waste your time with the Ameche brothers?”

“I don’t think I am wasting my time,” said Adam. “I’m coeditor of the
Slash.
We’re the student newspaper of Harris Elementary/Middle School. Well, I
was
coeditor of the
Slash.
”

“You lost your job?” said Mrs. Ameche. “The Ameche brothers are negotiating with an unemployed coeditor? Typical.”

“Actually, I lost my newspaper,” said Adam. “I’m still coeditor, but our newspaper got shut down.”

Mrs. Ameche nodded. “Bad time for newspapers,” she said. “Who was that black girl running out of here? She a media company, too? She looked upset. Ameche brothers, you didn’t say anything prejudiced, did you?”

“Aw, come on, Ma,” said Don.

“You think we’re like Uncle Louie?” said Alan.

“Thank God, no,” said Mrs. Ameche. “I raised you better than that. So what is going on here? Certainly nothing to do with taking care of my tomatoes.”

“Well, if you must know, Ma,” said Don, “not much is going on.”

“Because someone interrupted the negotiations,” said Alan. “You wouldn’t have any idea who, Ma?”

“Sorry,” said Mrs. Ameche. “My apologies, Ameche brothers. You two have been so busy, you probably haven’t had a moment to listen to the weather report this afternoon. I heard they’re predicting some pretty violent storms. Anybody heard the weather report?”

All three boys looked at her, but Mrs. Ameche turned her attention to Adam. “Well, let’s hear it, young man. So you’re no Murdoch. That’s all right. Neither are the Ameche brothers. You got a name?”

It took quite a while for Adam to tell. He gave them some of the history of the
Slash,
including the name (“Harris Elementary
slash
Middle School, get it?”). He also described several of the best stories they’d done in the past year. And even though the Ameche brothers went to a different middle school, they’d actually heard about one of the stories, the one that saved the basketball hoops.

“Jennifer and I discovered that the zoning board had a secret plan to get rid of all the hoops, and we did a big front-page story,” said Adam. “That’s what got everybody working so hard to save the hoops.”

“We signed a petition for the hoops,” said Mrs. Ameche. “That was your story?”

Adam nodded. “I really like your hoop,” he said. “I wish I had zebra stripes.”

“Ma’s an artist,” said Don. “She does portraits at the Busy Bee flea market. Her record is four in an hour.”

“Please, that’s pushing it,” said Mrs. Ameche. “Nearly killed me. Drained all my artistic juices. I like having at least a half hour for each painting. You need time to get the eyes right.” She gave Adam a business card. It said
DONATELLA AMECHE/PORTRAITS-WHILE-YOU-SHOP/SATISFACTION GUARANTEED
.

“So why’d they shut you down if you did such great stories?” asked Mrs. Ameche. “Sounds like they should have given you some big award.”

“That was the problem,” said Adam. “The stories got a little too great.” He told them about the final edition of the
Slash,
the March/April issue. He described how they’d done a big investigation about the Bolands’ attempt to take over the poor section of town, the Willows, by pressuring people to leave so that the Bolands could build million-dollar mini-estates. “After that,” Adam said, “the Bolands got so teed off, they made the school shut down the
Slash.
”