Famous Last Words (7 page)

My face turns crimson. “He’s my neighbor. I hope that’s okay. I remembered that Mr. Stein knew the chief.”

“It’s more than okay. He gave us great material,” Meg says.

In school, I don’t play sports and I’m not in Drama Club or anything, but tonight, I discover for the first time what I’ve been missing by not being part of something larger than the exclusive clique of me, Shelby, and occasionally Ashley and Caitlin. It’s exhilarating working with other people and doing my best work in record time with a deadline looming over my head. Our heads.

AJ checks in with me before he leaves, “Sam-I-am. Need me to wait?”

I’m happy he’s not as grumpy as before, and touched that he’s starting to feel responsible for me. “I already texted my dad. But thanks.” I look him in the eye and try to make it clear that I’m grateful. “See you tomorrow?”

“Same bat time, same bat channel,” he says. Then he gives me a quick salute and leaves.

The story finally clears the copy desk around eleven thirty. Even though I know my parents are going to freak about me working so late, it’s worth it. It feels like I’ve won something.

Meg says even though the story will be online tonight, the real payoff for her doesn’t happen until the next morning, when she holds the paper in her hands and sips her morning coffee. “And by then everyone has moved on to the next big story.” Meg laughs.

But truly, as I leave the newsroom and Harry says, “Not bad, D’Angelo. You haven’t screwed anything up yet,” it’s all the payoff I need.

I’m practically ecstatic—a rare emotion for me—as I walk into our living room with my dad sometime after twelve. I’m about to tell him all about my night (my brain was too fried for speech during the car ride home), but then I see Gram in her recliner. Her eyes are closed, and she’s incredibly still. Too still.

chapter six

Home and Garden

Okay, Gram is not dead. What’s wrong with me? I realize I had a mental overreaction when I see how unconcerned Dad is as he hovers over Gram and pries the remote from her hand. But for some reason, I’m still standing in the doorway holding my breath as the TV channel guide scrolls and plays light tunes. When Dad shakes her arm lightly, Gram’s eyes spring open like she’s just emerged from underwater to find herself in a strange place. Only then do I exhale. Dad grabs one of her elbows, and I scoot over to help guide Gram out of the chair. At eighty-one, she’s still pretty spry. Probably why, until tonight, I never thought about her dying—not even after Gramps passed away.

I also never spent the summer writing obits before, so there’s that.

“Come on, Gram,” I say. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”

“What time is it?” she asks. Her hazel eyes look huge and confused behind her glasses.

“Midnight,” I say.

“Gee, this job is making you keep some crazy hours,” she says in a loud whisper.

“I know, Gram. But I don’t mind.”

“Well, at any rate, it’s nice to have some late-night company other than the TV for a change,” she says. “
Dateline
did a special report about identity theft. Then I watched the news and
Jimmy Kimmel
.”

“Part of
Jimmy Kimmel
, at least,” I say.

Gram’s a night owl. Unlike my mom, who’s up by 5:30 a.m. on weekdays to get an early bus into Manhattan, where she’s the editor of the magazine
NYC Lawyer
. Gram’s been living with us for the past two years, ever since my grandfather passed away. She has commandeered this TV even though my parents got her a small flat screen for her bedroom. I can tell this bugs my mom. She never complains out loud, but I see her tight smile when she walks through the door after work and gets her usual wave from Gram. Perhaps it has more to do with Gram’s constant presence in the living room and less with the unused bedroom TV. It’s tough on them all. Gram no longer has her own home, but then again, neither do my parents.

“I’m pretty beat,” Dad says. “I fell asleep before the news. I hope these late nights aren’t going to be a pattern.”

“You should talk,” I joke. “Maybe your rock-and-roll lifestyle is catching up with you.”

In addition to being a lawyer, my dad’s the bassist for the Breakfast Club, named for the John Hughes film. My parents
love
all things ’80s, especially the music, even the cheesy one-hit wonders. Like me. I, too, am a one-hit wonder, though I wouldn’t call myself cheesy.

“I contributed to a front-page story tonight,” I say.

“You did? That’s great! That should have been the first thing you told me,” Dad said. “You buried the lead.”

“Quit using newsroomspeak. Anyway, the front-page story
is
an obit. The police chief of Totowa died. I’ll probably get a tag line. No big deal.”

My nonchalant facade doesn’t fool my dad. He understands my supreme indifference is my way of not letting the universe know how badly I want something for fear of jinxing it. Unlike a lot of sixteen-year-olds, in addition to loving my parents, I like them. They get me. Most of the time, though, I worry that I’m disappointing them. I picture Mom and Dad talking about me in bed at night, discussing, in hushed whispers, how the cool gene managed to skip a generation and wondering aloud if I’ll turn out okay.

“Obit or not, I’ll be looking forward to seeing that story tomorrow,” Dad says, kissing the top of my head. We’re one of the few families on the block who still get the paper delivered. Gram likes to work the crossword puzzle at breakfast.

“Good night, Dad.”

Gram shuffles along, and I steer her toward the steps.

“Come on, Gram,” I say. “Show a little hustle, will you? I’m exhausted.”

Gram and I snipe at each other a lot. We both appreciate caustic humor.

“You’ll be happy if you have half my hustle when you’re my age.”

When we finally reach Gram’s room, my eyes settle on a picture of Gramps she keeps on her nightstand. He’s wearing his glasses and a sweater vest. He’s also smiling and waving. Whenever I look at the photo, it always feels like he’s waving to me from where he is now, not where he was when the photo was taken, which was beside my grandmother at their dining room table on Christmas.

“So,
Dateline
did a thing on identity theft?” I ask as I bend down to kiss my Gram on the cheek.

“Did you know 2.5 million dead people are victims of identity theft every year? It’s modern-day grave robbing,” she says, clearly quoting the show. “The program was edifying.”

Gram has an amazing vocabulary, and English isn’t even her first language. Her parents emigrated from Italy, and they spoke Italian at home. Gram didn’t go to college, but she’s well read, curious, and probably the smartest person I know. She uses a pen for even the most complex crossword puzzles and keeps a dictionary and thesaurus by her bed, next to Gramps’s photo.

“I guess it wouldn’t be
so
bad if someone steals my identity when I die.”

“Gram! Why would you say that?”

“I won’t need it anymore. It will be like I’m living forever.”

As I walk to my room, as much as I wish Gram will live forever, I can’t stop myself from imagining a day when Gram, too, is smiling and waving at me in a photograph from a place that isn’t here. My brain is ear-to-ear morbid tonight. Add the five Diet Cokes I drank today to worries about Gram and lingering dead-police-chief excitement, and it’s like the perfect storm for insomnia.

I’m also beginning to see the newsroom in my dreams. It reminds me of when I was younger and we’d spend an entire day at the beach. I always dove into the water as soon as we got there and rode the waves for hours with my green Boogie board. After those marathon beach days, I’d lie in bed still feeling the ocean lifting me up, suspending me atop a wave and dropping me down again. It’s the kind of tired I love, then and now.

Before I finally drift off, I think about helping Meg with the police-chief story and how quickly things get done when time is running out. If teams can win national championships with less than ten seconds on the clock, surely I can run six miles outside, help Michael figure out what’s going on with the mysterious Sy Goldberg, and get a guy like Tony to notice me before school starts in September. Deadlines. They make things happen. I officially set mine for the last day of summer.

chapter seven

Front Page

My ringing cell phone wakes me. I crack one eye and look at the screen, Shelby. “Wha?” I mumble.

“Your name is on the front page of the paper!” she yells. She sounds excited. I can’t believe she’s (a) awake and (b) reading. Shelby seeking information or knowledge is not something I’m used to. “It’s not the first name listed—it’s under Megan O’Shea’s name—but it’s still there,” she says. “I guess it’s more like half a byline?” I love her, but Shelby’s never going to be on
Jeopardy!

“If it were half a byline, it would just say ‘Samantha’ or ‘D’Angelo,’” I clarify for her. I’m already jogging down the steps to the kitchen. “I’m gonna go check it out. Call you back.”

I’d only been expecting a tag line—my name in small print at the end of the story. It was very cool of Meg to share her byline. When I get downstairs, Gram, the consummate obit reader, could not be prouder.

“Well, if it isn’t Scoop D’Angelo!” she booms as she reaches for the coffeepot. She’s wearing pale blue capri pants, white Keds, and a cotton top with a glittery floral print—Gram likes some bling. Her youthful getup erases the nagging image from the previous night.

“Oh, Gram,” I say, giving her a hug.

“Nice job on that obituary,” she says. “I already called Aunt Jo and Aunt Connie. They read it too.”

I pick up the paper and take in the image of my name. Samantha D’Angelo. Meg’s right. It feels better to hold it in my hands.

“Cool,” I say. But inside, I’m turning cartwheels and clicking my heels. (Not that I’ve ever
actually
clicked my heels. Does anyone who’s three-dimensional and not on the Cartoon Network?)

How could I not know I’ve always wanted this? Seeing my name on the front page is so much better than seeing it on the obit page. I imagine this is how it would have felt to see my name on a callback list for all the things I tried out for but never made—the school play (twice), girls’ choir, the softball and bowling teams, and the cheerleading squad (I never had a chance at that last one; it was Mom’s idea). Could it be I’m better on paper?

“Is Dad working from home today?” I ask Gram.

Lucky for me, my dad telecommutes most days.

“Yep. He’s been on a conference call for an hour,” Gram says.

“Good. I need a ride to work,” I say.

“Aunt Connie is picking me up. We’re getting our hair done. We can give you a lift if you want.”

I picture myself adrift in the back seat of Aunt Connie’s 1999 Lincoln Town Car, coming in for a landing, complete with screeching wheels, in front of the
Herald Tribune
.

“I’ll stick with Dad,” I say. “But you be careful driving around with that Aunt Connie. She drives like she’s in London, only she’s not. Remember, stay to the right. It’s the first rule of the road in the state of New Jersey. You keep telling her that.”

“I know, I know. I wish I’d learned to drive years ago. Now I’m stuck,” she says. “Come to think of it, if she gets any more points on her license, I’ll be stuck again—for good!”

“Not if I get my license in August.”

Gram raises her eyebrows. I leave her to imagine the possibilities, and carry the paper up to my room to read the story again. Every quote is heartfelt and genuine. “
He became a police officer because he believed in changing people’s lives for the better.
” “
You couldn’t ask for a more dedicated chief. He was a leader, but more than that, he really cared.
” The article concludes with Mr. Stein’s quote. “
He exuded confidence. The kind of guy who could do anything he set his mind to.
”

The chief was loved, that’s for sure. A lifelong Totowa resident, in high school he was student council president and an all-state pitcher. After graduating magna cum laude from Rutgers, he entered the police academy and eventually joined the Totowa force. As he worked his way up the ranks, he earned a law degree at night.

In addition to a recent photo, the
Herald Tribune
ran an old picture of him on the pitcher’s mound, high-fiving the catcher after a big win. Was the chief confident because he was successful, or successful because he was confident? It’s like some people just know how to hit the switch and turn their lives on faster than others.

I mull this over while I try to decide between going for a run and climbing back under the covers. Before I can make up my mind, my cell plays the alt-rock song AJ downloaded as my new ring tone. I’m still staring at the paper when I answer my phone.

“What?”

“Is that how you talk to the woman who pays your cell phone bills?”

“Mom, sorry. I thought you were Shelby again.”

“Great job on the story, hon. Front page! We’re so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say.

“Let’s try to eat dinner as a family when you get home. I haven’t seen you in days,” she says. “I’m not sure I like you working these late hours.”

“I don’t mind it. I like what I’m doing.”

“I’m glad you do, sweetie. But I miss you.”

“Miss you too,” I say. I barely have time to disconnect before my phone rings again. I look at the screen. This time it is Shelby.

“Hello?”

“You were supposed to call me back.”

“You didn’t give me a chance.”

“We should celebrate your story. Let’s hit the pool.”

“I can’t. I have to work.”

Shelby sighs. “You haven’t been to the pool once since school let out.”

“I know, I know.” For a split second, I feel nostalgic for our old summer routine. Shelby and I have logged a lot of hours at the community pool. “Maybe I’ll get there this weekend.”

“How about tonight? Let’s do something.”

“I’m working late. How about tomorrow night?”

“Okaaay,” Shelby says. I hear her pouting through the phone. I try to smooth things over.