Famous Last Words (8 page)

“What happened with Hollister? Maybe you should apply to a few other places in case that job doesn’t come through. How about the shoe store?”

“Sam,” Shelby sighs. “Unlike you, I don’t exactly mind not having a summer job.”

Two roads diverge in the woods—I take one and Shelby takes the other. Or maybe Shelby sits down on a rock and relaxes. I almost laugh out loud.

“Call you later,” I say, and then I hang up and reach for my running shoes.

*   *   *

Later that day, at work, I cut out my first front-page story and put it in my top desk drawer, where I also placed Anton’s obituary. When I look up, Tony is sitting on the corner of the obit desk. I nearly fall out of my chair, and my stomach does a back handspring.

“Front page!” he says. “Nice.”

“Thanks.” My face is on fire. I wonder if I look like I’m having an allergic reaction.

AJ gives me a strange look as he passes behind Tony en route from Alice’s desk to the mailboxes, the giant U.S. Postal container in hand.

“Come on,” Tony says. “I’m going to the deli. Let me buy you a congratulatory coffee.”

“Okay.” I don’t particularly want or need coffee, but I can’t help it. Before I know it, I’m following him out of the newsroom like a sheep.

“Going to the deli,” I say to AJ as I walk toward the exit with Tony. “Want anything?”

He never looks my way, just continues to sort mail. A few awkward seconds tick away. Finally he says, “Nope. I’m good.”

*   *   *

On our way back to the
Herald Tribune
, Tony and I run into Tessie. She’s another regular at John’s Corner Deli. I see her most afternoons. She’s carrying her pink motorcycle helmet—the one that matches her Harley-Davidson parked at the curb.

“Hey, Tessie,” I say. “Taking a break from deliveries?”

She laughs. “I need my afternoon cup of joe,” she says.

Tessie’s a riot. She’s got to be close to seventy, and she still rides around on her Harley delivering Avon. She told me she got bored with retirement and went into cosmetics sales.

“She’d make a great profile,” I say to Tony as we stroll down the sidewalk. “I was going to ask Jack if I could work on it.”

“You should. He’ll let you. You’re like the newsroom wunderkind,” he says, nudging me lightly with his shoulder.

The sudden contact sends my heart rate straight into the aerobic zone. “No, I’m not,” I insist. “I hardly did anything. It was all Meg.”

“Don’t be so modest,” he says. “I’ve been thinking of asking Harry to let me cover more hard news. My adviser thinks I need some stronger pieces for my portfolio.”

“You should,” I say. “I’m sure he’d let you.”

Tony grimaces. “Well, that makes one of us. I’m not his favorite person.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true,” Tony says as he holds open the side door for me.

Does Harry not like Tony? I’m not sure what to say, so I keep my mouth shut as I step into the dimly lit stairwell. It’s one flight up to the newsroom.

“Thanks again for the coffee,” I say.

“No problem. If you come to bar night, I’ll buy you a beer,” Tony says just before we go through the newsroom door.

“Bar night?”

“Yeah, at the Harp & Bard. Every Wednesday. Sometimes Thursday. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“No.” I feel the familiar pang of being left out.

“Try to make it. Everyone usually heads over right after work,” he says.

“Maybe,” I say, trying to sound casual, and wondering if I’ll need a fake ID.

“Oh, come on, you can do better than ‘maybe,’” he says, and does that shoulder-bump thing again. “The first round is on me.”

Is he flirting with me? Maybe he’s this way with everyone.

“I’ll try,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see AJ watching us.

“You’d better do more than try.”

“Thanks again for the coffee.”

I stride toward the obit desk, intent on laying into AJ for not telling me about bar nights, when I’m intercepted by Meg.

“Great job on that obit, kiddo,” she says.

“I hardly did anything,” I say. “Thank you for the byline. That was awesome.”

“You know, Harry will never say this to you,” she says, leaning toward me, “but he was very impressed by how you handled yourself on deadline. If I were you, I’d show a little chutzpah and ask him if you can cover some spot news, or maybe even a council meeting or two. It’s summer. Reporters will be looking for vacation coverage.”

My mind immediately jumps to Michael’s beat. I’ve been researching other public corruption cases in New Jersey in my free time. (I should be getting gel manicures like Shelby, but at least I’m aware of my nerdy ways.) Kickback schemes, embezzlement of county funds, tax evasion; it’s unfortunate, but there are countless examples of how our elected officials abuse the public’s trust. A common thread running through a lot of these cases is that reporters are usually the first to uncover the corruption.
We are the watchdogs
, I’ve heard Harry say. Even then, it takes years for the authorities to bring these people to justice. Michael is honing in on Sy Goldberg as a starting point. Finding him is just the beginning; who knows where it could lead?

“Do you think Harry will let me cover real news?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “But even if he says no, Harry appreciates aggressive writers.”

“Thanks, Meg. For everything.”

I finally settle into my desk chair and tap my keyboard, bringing my computer screen to life.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” AJ says. “Ready to do some work, or are you going to milk the police-chief obit accolades for the rest of the day?”

Why is he being such a jerk? I’m racking my brain for a razor-sharp comeback, but I’ve got nothin’. The obit phone rings, and for once I’m thrilled. I snatch the receiver. “Obit desk, can I help you?” It comes out louder and angrier than I intended. “Sure. How many do you have?”

I start typing and vow to ignore AJ for the rest of the afternoon.

*   *   *

Around dinnertime, I plop a Snapple carton filled with orders on the obit desk. AJ is on the phone and doesn’t look up. We still haven’t spoken. I sneak a peek in Tony’s direction and see Alexis, one of the
Herald Tribune
’s photographers or photogs, leaning her butt against Tony’s desk, with her long, thin legs stretched out before her. Tony’s tilting back in his chair, hands behind his head like he’s about to do a crunch, and smiling up at her as she relates what must be some wildly interesting anecdote involving her and her five-foot-nine, size-double-zero friends.

At that very moment, I vow to start wearing makeup and use a blow dryer instead of always wrapping my long hair in a careless twist. I slump into my seat. What was I thinking? Why would he flirt with me when girls like Alexis so obviously flirt with him? Maybe there’s something going on between them. I’ll find a subtle way to ask AJ about it, if he’ll talk to me. In the meantime, I’ve got dinner orders to distribute.

I take the box with me and purposely wait to give AJ his roast beef sub last.

“What’s going on between Tony and Alexis?” I blurt out as I hand him his sandwich.

“Are you starting a
Herald Tribune
gossip blog? Cool. Our lame-ass website needs
something
,” AJ says, nonplussed. “How should I know who Coma Boy is doing these days? At times it seems like his life’s ambition is to work his way through every chick in the newsroom.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’s going to hear you calling him that?” I ask.

“In addition to being stupid, he’s so arrogant he’d never think I was talking about him. Why are you so interested, anyway?” he says, and then, much to my horror, starts singing, “Sam and Tony sitting in a tree…”

“What’s wrong with you?!” I whisper-scream. “Shut up!”

AJ laughs and slaps the desk. “I don’t think I’ve sung that song since first grade. It was worth it to see the panic on your face.”

“Don’t talk to me,” I say. “Why don’t you go call Jessica or something?”

“Oh, now you’re mad at me for one little joke?” he asks.

“No, I’m mad at you because you’re an idiot and because you never told me about bar nights,” I say.

“Did Coma Boy mention bar night?” he asks.

“Yes,
Tony
did,” I say.

“Figures,” he says.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Uh, listen, Totally Underage Girl, it’s not exactly my thing. Anyway, I usually have band practice.”

“Oh, so, because
you
don’t go,
I
shouldn’t go.”

“I never said that. I just don’t give bar nights much thought,” he says.

“You don’t seem to give
anything
much thought,” I say, and immediately feel bad for the dig.

“Whatever,” he says.

“
Whatever
,” I mimic like a big baby, and stomp over to Jack’s desk to pick up a bunch of press releases. I carry them back to my desk and start sorting them. After a few silent minutes, during which I try not to look at AJ or Tony and pretend to be terribly engrossed in writing Community Calendar blurbs, AJ is the first to speak again.

“So, what did he say about bar night?”

“That I should go,” I say. “That he’ll buy me a beer.”

“He’s such a dog.”

“We should both go sometime. If you don’t have a band thing,” I say. I almost add,
Or a girlfriend thing
, because, it occurs to me, I
still
don’t know where AJ stands with that Jessica person. But I don’t want him mad at me again, so I leave the girl part out.

“So, now you’re using me for a ride? Nice.” He’s smiling, though, in his subtle AJ way, so I know he’s only joking. Earlier today, I wasn’t so sure.

“You
know
I don’t drive, and I can’t ask my mom or dad to pick me up from work and drop me off at a bar,” I say. “Anyway, it will be more fun if you’re there.”

“I’ll think about it. I’m warning you, though. If we go, I’m going to tell everyone you begged me to take you.”

“Whatever,” I say as Alexis once again arrives at Tony’s desk. Shouldn’t she be out taking photos?

Sometime before lunch, I must have sprung a slow leak, because all the excitement I felt when I walked in here this morning has slowly seeped out of me.

chapter eight

Special Investigation

“Kidney stones.”

That’s what AJ says when I ask him if anyone’s heard from Michael. I waited for him all day yesterday, but he never came in. I’ve been dying to find out what happened on Monday when he confronted the mayor about Sy Goldberg being his coffee-shop partner.

“What do you mean?”

“Michael has kidney stones.”

“Is it serious?”

“To Michael. They’re a bitch to pass.”

“Pass? Huh? Is he going to call in again?”

“Why?”

“I want to find out what happened at city hall yesterday.”

“Tell Harry you want to talk to Michael when he calls.”

“Good idea.”

I do a quick check of Harry’s hair. When he’s stressed, Harry runs both hands through his curly locks like he’s rinsing shampoo. When he takes his hands out, his hair stays put at the new, higher elevation. Looks like I’m in the clear. I walk to the city desk, where’s he’s sitting in front of a computer.

“Uh, Harry?”

“D’Angelo.”

“If Michael calls in today, can I speak to him?”

“Sure,” he says without looking away from whatever he’s reading.

“Thanks.”

That was easy. May as well go for it.

“Harry?”

“D’Angelo.”

“Meg mentioned to me that you sometimes need people to fill in for vacationing reporters.”

“Yep.”

“Well, uh, I was wondering, when Michael goes away this summer, do you think maybe…”

“Spit it out, D’Angelo.”

I say it so fast, my words blur together. “Do you think Icouldcoverforhim?”

This gets his attention. He looks up at me.

“Say that again?”

“Do you think I could cover for him?”

“You do know it’s one of our most important beats?”

“I do. But I’ve been doing research, and I even tried to help Michael by visiting the coffee shop, and—”

“You’re not the first intern to call dibs on Michael’s beat, you know.”

“I’m not?” Did AJ ask Harry about it?

“But it’s possible you’re more qualified than the other applicant. I’ll think about it.”

I’m beaming. “You will?”

“I just said so, didn’t I? Now get back to work. I can find some filing cabinets for you to clean if we’re not keeping you busy enough.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

I scurry back to the death desk before he makes good on his threat.

“Hey,” I say to AJ. “Did you ask Harry about covering for Michael this summer?”

“Why the heck would I do that?”

“Just checking. I asked Harry about it. He said another intern was also interested. I wouldn’t want to stand in your way.”

“It’s either Coma Boy or the sports intern.”

Of all the ways I’ve envisioned Tony, “the competition” wasn’t on the list.

Late in the afternoon, I get a text from Shelby alluding to the fact that I never called her back yesterday.

Forget something?

I pick up the phone and call her.

“Nice of you to remember your best friend.”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“So. Can you go out
tonight
?”

Do I feel like going out with Shelby? I’m about to answer when Harry screams my name and points to the phone receiver in his hand.

“Gotta run. Call you back.”

I hang up on Shelby to free my line.

“I’ve got Michael,” Harry says. He transfers the call, and my phone rings a second later.

“Michael, how are you?”

“Awful. I’ll be better once I pass these things,” he says.
Pass these things.
I’m not completely clear about what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.

“How’d it go at city hall on Monday?”

“I never got there. The pain hit on the ride over.”

I’m disappointed. It’s too bad about the kidney stones and all, but still, I was looking forward to hearing all about it.

“But I did call the mayor this morning,” Michael says.