The Last Reporter (24 page)

“‘Should any accident befall him,’” repeated Adam. “No one talks like that.”

“Big difference,” said Mrs. Gross. “Big. We teach our kids to make a personal connection to what they read. The Oregon Trail — that’s foreign to them. It’s not that they can’t do it — they can. It’s just a lot harder than a story about an otter eating frogs.”

They were nearly finished.

“I kind of know the answer to this last question,” said Adam, “but I just need to hear you say it. Mrs. Gross, you’re the teacher. Do you think you had anything to do with scores going up?”

“I got a cash bonus,” said Mrs. Gross. “Teachers, principals, deputy superintendents — we all get extra pay if the test scores go up.”

“So, do you think they went up because of you?” Adam repeated. “You’re the one who sees the kids most. It must have something to do with you. I thought you were pretty great, Mrs. Gross.”

“That’s nice, Adam, but I was the same teacher last year, when the scores went down. It can be so many things, and not just how hard the test is. It can be the group of kids I get in my class that year. Sometimes the kids I get are a little sharper; sometimes they have more challenges. That’s not me; it’s who they send me. You know how I said I tried to get Jennifer? Well, suppose one year they give me three extra Jennifers. My test scores go up. Is that me? Or is that three Jennifers?”

Adam was quiet. His brain felt clogged. He felt as if someone had told him water might not be wet. “So when they print stories about scores going up in the paper — does it have anything to do with kids getting smarter and teachers teaching better?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Gross.

“But you’re the teacher,” said Adam.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Gross.

The hallway was empty now as they headed out a back exit, walking toward the elementary-school playground. They had a half hour to kill before the late buses arrived.

Two mothers and their little kids — none looked older than kindergarten — were racing around from the slides to the swings to the monkey bars. The air was warm, the sun still strong, so the coeditors headed for a big oak and sat on the grass in the shade.

“I’m starved,” said Adam. “Got anything else to eat?”

She didn’t.

“Mind if I take a couple of quick sucks?” He pulled out his jawbreaker. “I know it kind of grosses you out.”

“Not anymore,” she said. “You can pretty much get used to anything.”

From his pocket, he pulled out the plastic bag, which was getting really stretched from all the use, then popped in the jawbreaker.

“Anyone ever suck one down to nothing?” Jennifer asked.

Adam held up his hand to get in a few more slurps, then put it away. “Supposedly this kid in Australia got one down to marble size in nine days, then swallowed it. They claim it’s a world record, but I don’t know. I saw it on a blog — hard to know if you could trust it.”

Jennifer nodded. “I guess if you worked on it sixteen hours a day for nine straight days — it’s possible, maybe.”

They were watching the little kids. One boy was flying along the monkey bars, grabbing a bar with his right hand, the next with his left until he reached the end, vaulted off, ran back, and did it again.

“That kid’s good,” said Jennifer. “I always had to hold on with both hands. . . .”

“You know who was great?” said Adam. “In kindergarten — Stub Keenan. You think this little guy will grow up to rig an election?” Adam felt funny, like he was watching the actual former Stub. “People change,” he said softly.

“Stub got a lot bigger,” said Jennifer.

“He’s not that big,” said Adam.

“He is,” said Jennifer. “He’s like the football team’s star linebacker. I bet he weighs forty pounds more than you.”

“Great,” said Adam. One of the things Adam really didn’t like about Stub — he always called Adam
Big
Adam. Hilarious. Adam intended to be good and ready when they went to interview Stub about the election.

“I’m packing a weapon,” said Adam.

“No,” said Jennifer. “You have me.”

“Right,” said Adam. “I’ll clobber him over the head with a coeditor.”

“So here’s what I started to say,” said Jennifer.

Adam opened his mouth to stop her, but Jennifer grabbed his lips with her fingertips and mooshed them together. “I’m not going to let go,” she said, “unless you promise to listen. . . . You promise? You have to.”

“Eebyeebywooby,” said Adam. It was impossible to talk when someone had your lips mooshed together. For a second, Adam thought of jerking back. Even though Jennifer had surprisingly strong fingertips — it must be all the tennis and cello — he could’ve gotten out of it easy.

The truth was, he didn’t mind.

“I don’t know,” said Jennifer. “That didn’t sound like ‘I promise, dear wonderful Jennifer.’ Is that what you were saying?’”

Adam gave her a thumbs-up and she let go.

“Don Ameche is not my boyfriend,” she said.

Holy cripes. For once, Adam was at a loss for words. He’d been so sure. It seemed like that Ameche brother knew all the right moves — take girls to movies, give them tomato sauce, and stuff. Don had so much going on — all those business projects, sneaking onto the golf course at midnight, putting the wheels back on power mowers, and making big bucks. He was a pretty exciting individual. He just seemed more action-packed than Adam. The Ameche brothers and Adam all went to middle school, yet when Adam was around them, he felt so — he hated to admit this — so
young.

“I mean, I thought we might be,” said Jennifer. “And there was a little . . . you know . . . nice personal stuff. . . . But I learned something. . . .” She looked at him.

Was she waiting for him to talk? Adam didn’t know what to say. It couldn’t be his turn yet; she’d only said a couple of sentences. Having this talk was Jennifer’s big idea. He was just planning on saying a few words at the end and then they could get back to normal.

“It’s nice when a boy takes you to a movie and asks you out for a Sunday afternoon and holds your hand . . .”

Oh gross,
gross,
why was she telling him this? He did not want to hear it. He did not want that picture in his head.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s going to work. You can take someone to a movie and give them nice little gifts and spend Sunday afternoon together, but it still might not add up to something special. I was wrong.”

Adam had been on the verge of standing up and running home, but then he heard Jennifer say those three little words. He didn’t ever remember hearing those words from her.

“I was wrong,” she repeated.

“You don’t want to go to movies?” asked Adam.

“Oh, I do,” said Jennifer. “But not
Blood Zingers of the Purple Sage.
”

Adam had wanted to see that; he’d heard the special effects were really amazing. But he got Jennifer’s point. “Too many people getting their heads cut off?” he asked.

“Pretty much the whole hour and forty-five minutes,” she said.

“Sunday afternoons?” he asked.

“Great in theory,” she said. “But Don wanted to go to Tooky Berry’s Billiards and Paintball Emporium. He had coupons for a semiautomatic rental gun, full goggle system, and safety orientation. A three-hundred-dollar value.”

Adam nodded.

“So,” said Jennifer, “I just wanted you to know . . . that me and Don . . . we’re still . . . but we’re not . . .”

Adam nodded.

“So, that’s about it,” she said. “I just felt I had to say . . .”

Adam nodded.

“Not really
had
to,” Jennifer said. “Wanted to say. I wanted you to know.”

Adam nodded.

“Is there anything you want to say?” asked Jennifer.

She was looking at him really hard again. There was definitely something; he just wasn’t sure he could. It felt a little dangerous.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?” she repeated. “Sorry? You’re sorry it didn’t work out with Don Ameche? Oh, God, Adam, you
are
sorry.”

She stood and pulled on her backpack.

The late buses were coming up the driveway.

He ran to catch her.

“I’m not sorry,” he said.

She kept walking.

“I’m not the least bit sorry,” he said. “I’m glad.”

She stopped.

“You are?” she said.

“I am,” he said.

He was smiling.

“You are,” she said. “I can tell.”

He was beaming; he couldn’t help it.

“Come here,” she said, and she put one hand on each of his shoulders, leaned toward him, and pressing her lips against his right ear, whispered, “I’m glad you’re glad.” Then she yelled, “Yipes!”, bolted off, and looking back over her shoulder called, “Last one’s a rotten egg.”

For once, he did not chase her. He did not want to lose the feel of her whisper.

Money was pouring in — everything from hundred-dollar checks donated by grown-ups to quarters, dimes, and nickels from Phoebe’s daily cafeteria bead sales. Jennifer didn’t have an official count yet; there were still two days until the Friday deadline, and a lot of people hadn’t reported back. When she saw Adam before science class, she told him it looked like there was going to be enough to print the
Slash,
plus pay the Ameche brothers, and maybe even have a little left over.

“We can start a bank account for the
Slash
for next year,” said Jennifer.

“We’re having a party,” said Adam.

“Adam Canfield,” said Jennifer, “these people gave this money because they believe in the
Slash.
Free speech. The First Amendment, all that Constitution stuff.”

“Come on,” said Adam. “I remember for a fact — the unit we did on the Constitution — the right to have parties is guaranteed. Swear it is.”

“Political parties,” said Jennifer. “Democrats. Republicans. Not birthday parties. Not surprise parties. Not
Slash
staff parties.”

“Oh, my God, you are a killer,” said Adam. “Everyone works so hard — reporters have got to have a little fun. That’s in the Constitution.”

“Sure,” said Jennifer. “Right beside birthday parties.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Adam. “How about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness — fun, fun, fun!” He raised his hand in a
V
for
victory
sign, then dashed into class before Jennifer could appeal to the Supreme Court.

Between studying for finals and goofing off when they should have been studying for finals, the
Slash
reporters finished their stories.

The coeditors read them to make sure all the big questions had been answered and the right people had been interviewed. Then they passed them on to the copy editors, who looked for problems with grammar, spelling, and sentence structure, and sent them back to Jennifer and Adam for one more read.

The last kid to see stories was Shadow, who was fond of explaining, “I find any mistakes that no one else found because these mistakes were so tricky or sometimes not so tricky.” Shadow loved describing the mistakes he found to Adam. It was Shadow who noticed that Sammy had spelled Nesquik wrong. “N-e-s-q-u-i-k is chocolate milk,” said Shadow. “N-e-s-q-u-i-c-k is chocolate milk in a hurry.”

“Good job,” said Adam.

“I know,” said Shadow. “I found nine mistakes so far. The boys’ lacrosse team was seven wins and six losses, not eight wins and six losses. You can’t count scrimmages as wins. Scrimmages are practice games. Practice games aren’t real games. Scrimmage wins aren’t real wins.”

“Are scrimmage losses real losses?” asked Adam.

“Good question,” said Shadow. “No.”

“Good job,” said Adam.

“I know,” said Shadow. “That’s nine so far and we don’t even have your story on the student-council election yet. Probably a lot of mistakes in that, too.”

“Thanks,” said Adam. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“I know,” said Shadow. “Probably I’ll find eleven mistakes or even twelve by the time I finish.”

“Good job,” said Adam.

“Maybe thirteen or maybe fourteen mistakes,” said Shadow. “That’s just maybe but it could be probably.”

After all the stories were edited and the pages laid out, the paper would go to the printer, who would make up one copy — the proof. They planned to show that to Mrs. Quigley to be sure there were no big problems they’d missed. They didn’t have to — the
Slash
was a true, independent, kid-financed paper now — but Jennifer felt they should pick one grown-up they trusted to see the paper before it went off into the world. “I don’t want the Bolands suing us for a billion dollars,” said Jennifer.

“How long do you think it would take Phoebe to make a billion dollars’ worth of ankle bracelets?” asked Adam.

“Under a week,” said Jennifer.

“She is pretty high-energy,” Adam agreed.

And then, hopefully, they’d roll the presses, five hundred copies of the
Slash,
plus the new
Slash
website designed by the Ameche brothers.

From Mrs. Quigley, Jennifer got the e-mail address for Mrs. Boland’s assistant. The principal did not look overjoyed. “You’re investigating the Bolands again?” she asked. “Another Boland story? I’m going to have to buy us all bulletproof vests. I may have to reopen Mrs. Marris’s old bomb-shelter bunker downstairs.”