Peeled (18 page)

The Ludlow house loomed on the screen.

“People are hungry to find new ways to get together. You know the beauty of a theme park? No one goes there alone.” A big midway stretched across the screen, filled with families. A dark building cast shadows across the
people. “A haunted theme park, ladies and gentlemen, where people can come and find a place to release their fear in a safe environment.” A map of Banesville appeared. “It would be perfectly situated along that expanse of badly used land on Red Road.…”

Badly used? There were homes there, family farms!

“My great-grandfather bought our plot of land,” a man shouted out. “We grow six kinds of apples there, plus peaches and pears. Who are you to say that land is badly used?”

The mayor walked to the microphone. “Now, this isn’t the kind of respectful attention I told Martin to expect—”

I heard the sound of a folding chair moving behind me.

“I understand your concern,” Martin Midian said gently. “No one’s saying you’re not using your land, but using it for this new project will bring millions of dollars into this town. Tourism will explode. That means all of you folks who have stores will be riding high. All of you who grow apples will have thousands more customers. The name of Banesville will be known far and wide. Don’t you see the beauty of this? Yes, a few will need to be relocated. But the greater good for all will be immeasurable.”

Mom stood up.
“Relocated
is a big word, Mr. Midian. Relocated
where
?”

He smiled like a movie star. “That’s part of Phase Two. All those issues will be worked out equitably.”

A voice rang out. “How can the community take part in this exciting opportunity?”

All turned to look at Pen Piedmont.

“I’m glad you asked that, Pen,” the mayor said. “Because we’ve got a plan to beautify all of Banesville. We’re giving a special tax credit to anyone who paints their house up pretty or adds to their garden.”

From the row behind me, Baker leaned in close to my ear. “Ask them when the planning assessment report will come out.”

I wasn’t sure what that was, but I asked it.

“In a couple of weeks,” Martin Midian said.

“Ask who gave him the authority to relocate people who have lived on that land for generations,” Baker directed.

I asked that, too, and got a cop-out answer about zoning regulations. “We’re looking into an equitable relocation package,” Midian promised.

“Ask him what research has been done to show how this will affect traffic patterns, crime rates, and pollution,” Baker said.

I shouted it across the hall.

Applause broke out.

“Who’s that girl asking those questions?” someone asked.

“Why, that’s Mitch Biddle’s daughter.”

That’s right.

That’s who I am.

The meeting went on for two hours. By the end of it,
Martin Midian had lost some of his tan, but it was clear the Midianite invasion had begun.

I had one more question: “Mr. Midian, where is your company located?”

“We’re in Boston,” he said proudly.

The news at school was impossible.

Mrs. Kutash called me into her office.

“Hildy, do you understand how school boards operate?”

“Not really.”

“School boards operate on cooperation.” She peered at me over her thick glasses. “School boards cooperate with the school and the community. They are comprised of people who understand how the system works.”

This sounded bad.

“And I have worked very hard to support
The Core.
But I’m afraid I can no longer do that.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“You see, Hildy, based on your reporting, Pen Piedmont is threatening to sue this school.”

What?

“And I cannot allow that.”

“Why would he sue—”

“He says you have misrepresented the facts about him. He says you have lied in your reporting and fabricated information to damage him by misquoting him about his past employment.”

“Mrs. Kutash, I checked everything. I killed myself to get it right!”

“The school board decided that
The Core
must suspend publication until further notice. I have informed Mr. Polton that we no longer need his services.”

“That’s crazy!”

“What’s crazy, young lady, is for the financial security of this school and this school district to be compromised in any way.”

“But—”

“There are no buts! I was served a twelve-page summons from his lawyer!”

“Mrs. Kutash, Pen Piedmont is the liar, not me! He uses fear to control people and he’s doing that now to get his way.”

“I do not give in to fear tactics, but I have to look at the good of the school. We have neither the finances nor the resources to take up this fight. That is all, Hildy.”

“Baker Polton was the best thing that ever happened to our paper! There are things going on that—”

“That is all, Hildy!”

That can’t be all!

I ran out the door; I couldn’t hold the tears back.
I had to find Baker. The bell rang for second period. I didn’t care about second period. I didn’t care about school boards or cowardly principals or threatening lawyers or any of it!

I ran to Room 67B. Baker was putting his things into a bag.

“You can’t go!” I shouted.

“I don’t have any choice, Hildy.” He wrapped the photo of his ex-wife in paper.

“But we can fight back, right? We don’t have to take this!”

We looked at the
VERITAS
sign hanging crooked on the wall.

He shook his head. “Look, I appreciate how hard you guys have worked. None of this is fair. If you’re thinking about doing this for a living, this is decent experience in how lousy things can get.”

“Who’s going to stand up against Pen Piedmont, Baker? What about Martin Midian and all he wants to do?” I wiped away tears. “Can’t we do something?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

I told the school nurse I was sick. Truer words were never spoken. I was sick right down to my core, sick of the lies, sick of the manipulation, sick of the world that lets bullies keep bullying the little guy until the little guy gives up.

I sat in my truck in the school parking lot, too upset to drive.

A flock of birds flew through the sky in V formation. Dad used to say to me they were making a
V
for
victory.

V
for
vanquished
was more like it.

A knock on the window. It was Zack. He climbed into the truck.

“I’ve been looking for you. I heard what happened.”

My hands gripped the wheel.

“This might be the wrong time for me to say this to you, Hildy, but I’m really hoping you won’t let this stop you.”

“It’s over.”

“There are other ways to—”

“I quit.
Okay?
I quit reporting.” I slammed on the horn. “It’s too hard! The rules aren’t fair! Don’t try to talk me out of it!”

“Okay,” he said.

“I’m completely and totally
done.
”

“I can hear that.”

We sat there in silence.

“I’m probably the wrong person for you to talk to about this,” Zack said quietly.

“Why?”

“Well, to begin with, I believe in you.”

Bad time to start crying, but I did.

“And the other thing is, Hildy, I don’t believe in quitting.”

“I guess it’s not
scientific.”

“No, it’s not. Scientists change the variables until we find the answer.”

I glared at him. “I’m out of variables, Zack. The experiment
failed
!”

I wasn’t expecting to go to the cemetery. I hadn’t been to Dad’s grave since spring. Nan came once a week and planted flowers around the headstone. For fall she’d planted ivy and yellow mums.

I was standing there now, looking at my father’s headstone.

That’s all it said. I wished we’d thought of something special to put on it. We were all so shocked, no words seemed right.

I sat on the cold ground, remembering the funeral.

The long line of harvest workers driving their trucks in the procession.

MacIntosh running up the center aisle of the church to Dad’s casket.

Nan’s voice breaking with power and sadness as she closed her eyes and sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

Uncle Felix weeping—the only time I’ve ever seen him cry.

Elizabeth handing me a picture of Dad laughing inside a photo frame she’d painted.

Tanisha sitting with me in the silent bond of friendship.

Mom, in the midst of her impossible grief, saying, “I don’t know how, but we’re going to keep going.”

Darrell writing the obituary for the middle school newspaper, calling Dad “a courageous reporter you want to read all the way through.” Most people only read the first few paragraphs of a newspaper article.

I touched the grass over his grave.

“I don’t know what to do, Dad.” I couldn’t say any more because I was crying.

My father always knew what to do. In my mind, I could see us walking in the woods together. Dad could find his way back on any trail. It was impossible to get lost with that man. He’d remember bends in the road, landmarks on the horizon.

I felt so lost right now. I felt like everything I’d worked for had died. I touched Dad’s headstone. How could a man with so much heart die from a heart attack?

It was getting dark. I hated November. It stole the late afternoon light and brought night too early. I headed to the pickup and drove down the old cemetery road. I could almost hear Gwen, my old therapist, saying, “Hildy, remember, you know how to see in the dark.”

I stumbled through the blue door of Minska’s Cafe, walked to the counter, and ordered a beef brisket sandwich on an onion roll with creamy horseradish sauce, curly spiced fries, and hot cider.

I ate my food in the back room at one of the round tables. Minska walked to my table and put a piece of her famous apple strudel in front of me. “Free this week for young woman reporters.”

“I’m not a reporter anymore.” I looked down and told her what happened. “It’s over, Minska. All the hard work. The bad guys won.” I ate a curly fry in grief.

She considered that. “You want to know something about bad guys?”

I know enough, thanks. I sipped my cider.

“They never win, Hildy. Not really. Come with me.”

We walked out the front door, down the steps to the street. Minska stopped at
The Bee
’s corner paper box and frowned with disgust. I saw the headline:

“Help me turn it,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She put her hands on the paper box. “Help me.”

What was she doing?

“I don’t want to see it,” she explained. “It gives me a headache. So we turn it.”

Inch by inch we turned the heavy metal paper box in protest.

“Okay,” Minska said. “That’s a start.”

I followed her back inside the restaurant past the big bookcase, past the couches and chairs in the main room, and into the back with the round tables and the framed photographs of Solidarity’s march to acceptance. She stopped at a photo of women standing at a closed gate.

“My mother, she was back here.” Minska pointed to a head in the crowd. “She went every day for news of my father. The authorities would give her nothing. They said he was being detained for questioning. They told us this for two years.” She turned away from the wall. “They didn’t know who they were dealing with. You know who worked day and night to keep Solidarity going?” She watched me steadily. “The
women.
”

I gulped.

“Back then in Poland, the Communists didn’t see the women as much of a threat, except for a few, like Anna. When they arrested the men, they thought Solidarity would tumble.” She laughed. “Women know how to keep the candle burning.” She lit a tea light candle on the table. “Yes, we are very good at that.”

My heart sped up. “What do you think I should do?” I asked her.

“I think you should celebrate living in a country with a free press.”

“I was thinking about retreating, actually.”

Minska shook her head. “Not you.”

Yeah, me.

“Your school paper is suspended, yes?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds perhaps as though you need another one.”

What was she saying to me?

“You mean like an underground one?” I whispered.

She surveyed the back room. “We print our own menus here. I suppose we could publish a paper.”

“I can’t publish a newspaper! I’m only sixteen and I have no idea where to start and I doubt that I even have enough brain cells for this and, honestly, the Polish thing was then and we are here now, and let’s not forget that there were thousands of you—”

“Over a million,” Minska said.

“Even more reason to quit.”

“But it began with one, you see, and then a few joined and a few more.” Minska handed me a cup of tea. “You don’t understand how much light you’ve got until the lights go out. My grandmother told me that.”

I buried my head in my hands.

“They called the women in the underground press the Dark Circles,” she said, “because they didn’t get enough sleep; they wrote night and day. When you have something so important, something that you’ll stay awake for, something you know that you were designed to do, well, it’s worth getting a few dark circles, don’t you think?”