The Last Reporter (3 page)

“You took on the Bolands?” Mrs. Ameche let out a low whistle. “You’re talking about the Bolands who own Bolandvision Cable and Boland News 12 and the
Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser
and Boland Realtors, Inc.? Those Bolands?”

“Those Bolands,” said Adam.

“Didn’t hear about that story,” said Mrs. Ameche. “But I could understand how that could get you shut down. Powerful people. They like their version of the news. You upset the Bolands, they could squish you good.”

“Like a bug,” said Adam.

Mrs. Ameche wanted to know how a kid paper like the
Slash
got such big stories, and Adam said it was a lot of ways. Sometimes they’d just notice a problem and get suspicious and start nosing around. And sometimes they’d get a call from a top-secret source who gave them an inside tip, and then they’d start nosing around some more. “We just dig, dig, dig until we get to the bottom of things,” he said.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Ameche. “Dig, dig, dig, is it? You hear that, Ameche brothers? Does that remind you of anything you were supposed to do, do, do to the weeds in my garden, garden, garden?”

“Oh, Ma, we were going to do it,” said Don. “Just give us a break.”

“Just one stinking break, Ma,” said Alan. “That’s all we’re asking.”

Adam was getting a bad feeling about Mrs. Ameche. She should be nicer to the Ameche brothers. They seemed like really neat kids.
She
seemed like a slave driver.

Mrs. Ameche was not done, not by a long shot. “So what on God’s earth brings you to the Ameche brothers?” she asked. “You expect them to help you with the Bolands? You sure you got the right Ameche brothers?”

“Ma,” said Don.

“Come on, Ma,” said Alan.

“To be truthful: money,” said Adam. “We need to raise money so we can afford to put out the paper by ourselves. So we can pay to have it printed without using school money. So we can put together a website for the paper. So we can be free from the school and nobody can shut us down again if they don’t like something we write. We need it to be like a grown-up paper — sell ads to raise money. And we need help because, Jennifer and I, we don’t know anything about business. That’s why Jennifer answered the Ameche brothers’ ad about being experts on starting businesses for kids.”

“That reminds me,” said Mrs. Ameche. “Ameche brothers, my apologies, I owe you money. We sold a ton of your golf balls today, and someone bought a rubber raft and a fishing pole, and that guy finally came to pick up that rebuilt model-airplane engine. I wrote it all down. Here . . . I owe you eighty-seven dollars each. Plus, I got two more computer jobs for you. I wrote down their cell numbers.”

Adam’s eyes bugged out. The Ameche brothers did know how to make money! His reporter’s instinct was as good as ever. Jennifer would be
so
sorry she left; he could already hear her begging for forgiveness.

“OK, Ameche brothers, tomatoes. You’ve got work to do. I don’t want to hear any excuses. Weed patrol, march.”

“Please, Ma,” said Don, “just let us talk to Adam about the newspaper stuff, then we’ll do the garden work. We promise.”

“We really promise, Ma,” said Alan. “We honest to God promise. Cross my heart and hope to die, Ma.”

“Cross mine, too, Ma,” said Don. “Hope to die, Ma.”

“Promise, huh? Cross your hearts, huh?” Mrs. Ameche didn’t look impressed. “Well, Ameche brothers, you would definitely be dead if that crossing promise was enforceable. The deal was, you didn’t have to go to the flea market so long as you did the garden work — cross your hearts. Now we have a new deal: you don’t have to do the garden work so you can form this media company — cross your hearts. Adam, would you trust the Ameche brothers for one single second?”

Adam did not hesitate. “They seem good,” he said. “They must be doing something right. I mean eighty-seven dollars each — that’s big money.”

Mrs. Ameche smiled. “Oh, Adam,” she said, “you are a traitor to common sense.” She said she’d be willing to go along with it on one condition. Once they finished the media company, Adam had to help with the tomatoes. “If you’re going to be partners with the Ameche brothers, Mr. Slash”— and here Mrs. Ameche made a slashing motion with her finger —“then we need to find out what kind of work ethic you’ve got. Make sure you’re not afraid to get a little bird doo on your hands. Hopefully, you’ll be a positive influence on these heart-crossing, low-life Ameche brothers.”

“Ma,” said Don.

“Come on, Ma,” said Alan.

They waited a few minutes, then Adam peeked out around the curtain. “She’s gone,” he said.

“You sure?” said Don.

“How do you know?” said Alan.

“I can’t see her anywhere,” said Adam. “And I can see the whole yard.”

“You sure she’s not hiding behind the crates?” said Don.

“Sure,” said Adam. “She’s not there. I can see.”

“Doesn’t mean a thing,” said Don.

“Sometimes she climbs up on the shed roof and listens,” said Alan. “You’d better check.”

Adam walked outside and looked on the roof. Mrs. Ameche was not there. He came back in and sat down on a crate. “She’s tough,” Adam said.

“Yeah,” said Don, “she keeps us on our toes.”

“She gets inside your head,” Alan said. “Ma’s pretty wily.”

“You want something to drink?” Don asked. The computers were sitting on a plywood board that was held up on one side by a two-drawer filing cabinet. On the other side, Adam now realized as Don opened the door, was a mini-refrigerator.

“Zap cola?” asked Don.

“Five times the caffeine of regular cola,” said Alan, popping open a frosty. “We keep it on special order at C-Town.”

“I’m good,” said Adam. “I got the jawbreaker in case I’m running down. Look, I’ve really got to go. We’d better do the tomatoes. We can talk while we get it done.”

The three boys began dragging out bags of soil and peat moss and stacking them by the shed door.

“I’ve got a question,” said Adam. “You said you didn’t have money. That’s why Jennifer got so mad. But your mom just gave you a ton of money.”

“Ooh,” said Don. “You really don’t get business.”

“He doesn’t get how it works,” said Alan.

“Don’t worry,” said Don. “We’ll teach you.”

“You’ve got to spend money to make money,” said Alan.

“Golden rule of business,” said Don.

“Invest in your future,” said Alan.

“Grow your business,” said Don.

“Basic microeconomics,” said Alan.

“That money,” said Don. “It’s spent.”

“You see that power mower out there?” asked Alan.

“The one with no wheels?” said Adam.

Don and Alan each held up their eighty-seven dollars. “Wheels,” they said.

“We can sell that thing for maybe three hundred dollars once we get wheels,” said Don.

Adam grinned. He felt a surge of happiness. These Ameche brothers, they really were the ones for this job. It seemed like they could make money on anything. They definitely might be able to save the
Slash.

“Let’s do the tomatoes,” said Adam. “I’ve got a ton of homework.” His World History teacher, Mr. Brooks, was making them memorize a speech for the World War II unit. It was ridiculous. Adam loved Mr. Brooks, but memorize a speech? Why memorize when in one second, you could Google? Adam got stuck with something from some guy named Winston Churchpail who was like the king of England during World War II. Adam could not imagine naming a kid Winston, especially with a last name like Churchpail. What were his mother and father thinking? Mr. Brooks said they had to learn at least two whole paragraphs, and Adam knew how he was going to pick them: the two shortest.

The Ameches and Adam bustled around, crawling beneath the table, reaching up on shelves and in the far corners, pulling out a bag of lime, garden gloves, hand rakes, spades, a pitchfork.

“I think that’s it,” said Don.

“Let’s do it,” said Alan.

“What about the bird doo?” said Adam. “Where do we get that?”

“Very funny,” said Don.

“Joking makes time go fast,” said Alan.

“I don’t think I was,” said Adam. “I didn’t see any. Where do you get it?”

“Birds,” said Don.

“Definitely birds,” said Alan.

They were all back in room 306 for the first time since the newspaper had been shut down in April.

Things, however, were far from perfect.

The vital links that made it a newspaper were gone.

The phones had been disconnected.

The computer terminals had been removed.

The fax machine had been confiscated.

Still, it felt like theirs. Eddie the janitor had been so kind — he hadn’t cleaned up a thing. Old stories, old photos, and old notebooks were strewn everywhere. Sammy’s conversion tables for calculating his groundbreaking yummy-yummy rating system for the bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches were right where he’d left them, spread all over the floor in a back corner of the room. The survey sheets for Adam’s legendary science-fair investigation were on the desk where he and Shadow had spent so much time plotting the graphs. The Iceberger Crossing sign was on the same couch where Phoebe, world’s greatest third-grade reporter, had fallen asleep in the midst of researching her landmark story that saved the three-hundred-year-old climbing tree.

All in all, it was every bit as messy and dusty and gross as it had been on that now-famous afternoon when Mrs. Boland had made her surprise visit and announced she’d never seen such a pigsty.

“It looks great,” said Phoebe.

“I know how much you missed it,” said Jennifer. “Me, too.”

Jennifer had told the acting principal, Mrs. Quigley, that
Slash
staff members were determined to keep the paper going on their own. And immediately, Mrs. Quigley had said that as far as she was concerned, they could use room 306 for their meetings until the end of the year. She told Jennifer that if school officials found out, they might fire her on the spot. But Mrs. Quigley didn’t care; she was only a fill-in principal and was leaving at the end of June anyway. “Let them sack me early,” she said. “It would be good for my golf game.”

Adam and Jennifer knew that Mrs. Quigley had done everything possible to save the
Slash,
but too many powerful people were against them.

“There’s no way I can get your phones and computers back,” she said. “But I can provide you with a little sustenance now and then.”

“Any support would be great,” Jennifer said.

Before Adam and Jennifer could tell everyone their plans for saving the
Slash,
Phoebe spotted a big box under the old picnic table they used for story conferences.

“Jennifer, call 911!” yelled Phoebe. “We had a lockdown drill today. If we see any suspicious packages, we’re supposed to tell a grown-up immediately and run for cover.”

“I think it’s OK,” said Jennifer.

“The
Slash
has ticked off so many powerful grown-ups,” said Phoebe, “a million people would love to blow us up. Call 911!”

“Stay calm, Phoebe,” said Jennifer. She took a pen and carefully cut a slit along the top of the carton. She pushed her hand through the incision and felt around. There was a crinkling sound.

“Don’t!” Phoebe yelled. “Did you hear that?
Ticking!
It could be a roadside bomb! Take cover, everyone!” She rolled under a nearby desk and tucked herself into a tight ball, the way they’d practiced at the lockdown drill.

The rest of them stared at Phoebe but did not budge, looking back to Jennifer.

Jennifer reached in, pulled out a flat, round object, examined it carefully, removed the cellophane, then went over to the nearby desk, leaned down, and handed Phoebe a Mrs. Radin’s Famous Homemade Super-Chunk Buckets O’ Chocolate Moisty Deluxe chocolate-chip cookie.

Sustenance from Mrs. Quigley.

Adam started off by telling everyone about the Ameche brothers. Not all about the Ameche brothers. There was way too much to tell. He certainly didn’t go into the tomatoes or the bird doo or their May Way West studios or their exciting weather forecasting habits. He just emphasized that they were really good at making money and mentioned a few of their businesses.

He was afraid that if he said too much, he’d stir up Jennifer again.

After their Sunday visit, it had taken Adam three days to convince his coeditor that the Ameche brothers really were good at making money and that she needed to give them another chance. He kept telling her the story about the eighty-seven dollars and the four power-mower wheels, but he must have been telling it wrong, because she just stared at him.

“Jennifer, everyone knows you’ve got to spend money to make money,” Adam had said.

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“It’s basic marketplace principles,” said Adam. “Grow your business. Invest in your future. The golden rule.”

“Geez,” said Jennifer. “All that time alone with the Ameche brothers — it really turned you stupid.”

But she finally calmed down. Maybe Adam’s discussion of Ameche microeconomics had sunk in.

Or maybe it was because they had no choice. Their next best plan was Phoebe’s idea to sell homemade beaded bracelets and necklaces; so far, she’d made twelve dollars.

Jennifer had talked to the print shop. The owner said he could print them five hundred copies of the
Slash
— their usual press run — for one thousand dollars. Then, of course, they’d have to hand it out themselves in front of Harris; school officials wouldn’t let them send it home in every kid’s knapsack anymore, since it was no longer the official paper of Harris Elementary/Middle.