Hot Off the Press

by Meredith Taylor

  Zuko let out a deep, exasperated sigh, and shook his head at Simon, his upper eyelids lowered.

  “No. No. I don’t want you to do anything. It’s okay, I can handle it. Everybody’s just kind of feeling everybody else out, testing their worth, or some such crap. It’ll get better. But I mean it, Simon, please don’t do anything.”

  “You’re just going to let them continue treating you like this? Zuko, this isn’t cool. I’m worried about you.”

  For the first time during their conversation, Zuko smiled in recognition of Simon’s affection for him.

  “They promised they won’t do it again. I know I sound like I’m suffering from Battered Wife Syndrome, but they seemed genuine, man. I just want to move on and get to studying, follow in you and Olivia’s footsteps. Be a writer. You guys are the best.”

  “I’m not happy about this at all. But I’ll take your word for it. Please stay in touch, okay? Don’t disappear again.” Simon gave Zuko a gentle hug, now mindful of Zuko’s injured body, and Zuko left to visit the restroom.

  Simon rested his hands on the balcony, a little bit lost in thought. He was worried. And not just about Zuko. Simon was aware that he was a little bit too willing to let Zuko’s dire situation go unattended, precisely because he didn’t want to get too involved. Even though he had learned to accept himself, he wasn’t sure that he was entirely ready to confront other people with the fact that he was gay. He felt a little bit guilty, wondering if he was really being a good friend to Zuko, and, feeling downcast, he walked back into the hall.

  His thoughts scattered, and his mind preoccupied with worry about his friend, he walked over to his table. He felt the heat emanating from the room, and took off his blazer. His eye caught the name tags placed next to each other with his and Olivia’s names. He found himself wishing that Olivia’s name was replaced with ‘Ian Peters’. Simon noticed that the volume of the music was lowered, and that the lights of the room were brightened. He turned around, and immediately his gaze was fixed upon Ian, as was everyone else’s. Simon knew that Ian had a panache, a sense of style that was unrivaled on campus, but tonight he outdid himself. Wearing a pinstripe grey suit that settled snugly on his broad shoulders, his hair wavy, light, and softly luminous, Ian took Simon’s breath away. His blazer was unbuttoned, and foregoing the need for a tie, he had unbuttoned a few of the top buttons of his shirt. Simon felt lightheaded as he noticed how snugly the navy blue cocktail shirt hugged Ian’s chest. Simon was so distracted by the vision that was Ian, that he didn’t notice that Ian was fast approaching him. As Ian neared, a huge grin enveloped his face, and he slyly winked at Simon, as if the two of them shared a secret. Simon shook his head a few times, in an effort to regain focus and appear in control in front of Ian.

  “Simon, buddy, looking smart my friend!” Ian smacked Simon on the shoulder, and luckily for Simon, he managed to steel himself moments before impact, avoiding making himself look like a fool by falling over his feet like the last time. Ian started, “Listen, uh, about the other night... Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. You know, I guess that I thought you just looked, uhh, I don’t know, I guess I had a couple of drinks and was just feeling a little bit overly friendly.” The one corner of Ian’s full lips turned upward, and his hand rested on Simon’s shoulder. This time he gave Simon’s shoulder a soft squeeze, as his eyes became gentler.

  Simon, forever on the ready for a round of rejection, feared that Ian was trying to let him down easy if he got the wrong impression, and he put on his best poker face; his lips became tightly wound, and his eyes projected an unaffectedness. He shrugged off Ian’s hand.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, boss. You were drunk, you needed help cleaning up the office. That’s about as far as my recollection of the evening’s events extends.” Simon raised his eyebrows challengingly, and stared Ian down.

  Ian looked a little bit startled and confused.

  “I see. Well, old chap, I’m sorry to have put you out.” Ian gave an unconvincing grin, and then made his way to the front of the room, where the guests had been impatiently awaiting his address.

  Simon watched him trail away to the stage, unfeeling and determined not to read anything into Ian’s dejected body language.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for attending!” Ian proceeded to thank the various faculty heads, the vice-rector in attendance, and all of his staff.

  “Now, I have a small announcement to make. As richly rewarding, challenging, and exciting as it has been to be the editor of the Ridgemont Weekly, I have unfortunately not been able to dedicate as much time and energy on my studies as I would have liked to as I approach graduation. It is with this concern in mind that I have decided to retire as editor of the Ridgemont Weekly at the end of this term.”

  Simon felt a terrible, sinking feeling in his chest, and his face dropped. Ian was leaving the Weekly? Under Ian’s guidance, the readership for the newspaper had increased, online engagement had tripled, and advertising revenue has skyrocketed. Of course, Simon was well aware that his disappointment in Ian leaving had nothing to do with the future of the Weekly - he would miss Ian desperately.

  Simon steeled himself against the disappointment. What Ian said next piqued his interest.

  “Seeing as I will be leaving the paper in a few weeks, we will be interviewing candidates for the position of editor in the coming weeks. Naturally, a recent record of excellent reporting will count in your favor. Be on the lookout for the job advertisements online and circulated internally in the next few days.”

  Simon’s eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up in anticipation. Could this be the big break he had been waiting for?

  “Now what’s got you looking like you just spotted the cookie jar, Northbrook?” Margeaux’s voice, sickly sweet, buzzed in his ear.

  “Oh, hey there Margeaux.” Simon expertly assumed a neutral expression, his features relaxed as he tried to appear nonchalant, determined not to let his interest in the editor position show. “Oh you know, I was just thinking of a few promising candidates for the editor position that I think I might make a recommendation for.”

  Margeaux gave him a skeptical look, her one eyebrow raised.

  “Is that right, Northbrook? Well, you need look no further. After my brilliant interview with Harry Baleka the other day, it’s as good as in the bag.” Margeaux gave him a wide grin, her obnoxiously white teeth gleaming in the dark, and left Simon stewing.

  Simon walked away from Margeaux, and found himself drifting aimlessly to the balcony again, his thoughts on Ian’s impending departure. He felt conflicted for being given the opportunity to apply for editor, but also acutely aware of the sinking feeling in his stomach at the prospect of not seeing Ian on a daily basis. For what seemed to be the umpteenth time, Simon wanted to punch himself in the gut for acting so cavalier and cold with Ian. He wished that he could summon up the courage to gently touch Ian on the shoulder and gauge his reaction, or to send him a sly grin across the room, or to linger a little bit whenever Ian’s big, warm hands grip his in a handshake. Simon let out a heavy sigh, his chest rising and his spirit descending. He gripped the cold railing of the balcony, and tried to distract himself with the sight of Karelberg Mountain, the strategically placed lights illuminating the mountain to cast a beautiful contrast against the dark of the night.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Simon whirled around at the sound of Ian’s voice, and nearly tumbled forward in the process. Ian alone had this startling effect on him, and he never ceased to be amazed at what a commanding influence his now nearly-former editor had on him.

  “Oh, Ian. I didn’t notice you. You creepy creep, creeping up behind me like that.” Simon let out an awkward laugh and cringed. Really, and I call myself a writer?

  “Well now, I guess I have been called worse than a creepy creep, but hey, at least I caught your attention, right?” Ian’s eyelids were slightly lowered.

  Simon noticed Zuko far off in the distanc
e, slow dancing with Jeremy, the boy who had approached Simon earlier, and couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of envy at Zuko’s ease at picking up boys. What did Simon so glaringly lack?

  Simon glanced back at Ian, his heart racing a mile a minute. If Zuko could so effortlessly get closer to a guy he met barely two minutes ago, why could he not summon up the courage to let Ian know, even just subtly, how he felt?

  Just as Simon was pondering his ineptitude in flirting, a flash of red swooped in between the already constricted space between himself and Ian, and, giggling and giddy, The Flash, otherwise known as Margeaux Chamberlain, planted a wet one on Ian’s cheek.

  “There you are, you ole salt-and-pepper greyhound journo! Finally hanging up the monocle and putting the pen out to dry, huh? At least it means you’ll have some free time for me.”

  To Simon’s astonishment, Margeaux proceeded to kiss Ian full on the lips. Shameless, he thought. Margeaux even had the gall to reach behind her and push Simon back, sending a very clear signal for him to back off.

  “Margeaux, wow, hold on there cowgirl These lips don’t come unscrewed, no matter how hard you suck!” Ian frowned a bit in distaste, to Simon’s absolute delight. Why did he not tell Margeaux off immediately, in no uncertain terms?

  Margeaux, clearly unperturbed, smiled slyly and pinched Ian on the butt.

  “Ole chief, you know what I want, I know what you want, and you and I both know people like us wrote the rules to this game.” Margeaux placed her hands on Ian’s strong, muscular chest, and looked up at him, her upper eyelids lowered seductively and her mouth primed in a pout.

  To Simon’s dismay, even Ian couldn’t resist Margeaux’s feminine wiles, and he threw back his head, laughing.

  “Well, looks like I might need the assistance of Mr. Johnny Walker to keep up with you, Margeaux. I guess it is a celebration after all.” Ian winked at Simon as he left the balcony, and Simon felt his heart skip a beat and his knees weaken ever so slightly.

  “And so, Simple Simon, what’s your story? Do I have some competition for editor-in-chief of Ridgemont Weekly, or should we just fulfil everybody’s expectations and have me land the position? I’m sure I could squeeze you into entertainment. Maybe book reviews or something.”

  Simon squirmed at being called Simple Simon, a nickname from his childhood, mocking him for being so single-minded about his studies - all work and no play. He had confided his dislike of the nickname to Margeaux months earlier in a moment of weakness, before he knew her well enough, and she seemed to delight in dredging up his past hurt and embarrassment.

  “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, Margeaux. But word to the wise: don’t count your chickens before they hatch. And don’t buy the lingerie before you got the man for that matter, either.”

  Margeaux raised her left eyebrow, her mouth slightly agape, and Simon turned around, bolstered by his ballsy comment to Margeaux.

  The battle lines had been drawn. The prize definitely worth fighting for: stepping in to fulfil the duties of editor-in-chief of Ridgemont Weekly, which, under the leadership and vision of Ian, has been voted best student newspaper nationally. Simon reentered the hall, and resolved that he would be editor, no matter what.

  Chapter 6

  Ian rolled over and smiled as Simon entered the bedroom from the ensuite bathroom.

  “Don’t you look super cute? My dream twink boyfriend.” Ian teased Simon playfully.

  “Oh yeah? I guess that makes you my bear cub!” Both Ian and Simon laughed, the happiness shining from their eyes, and Simon jumped into bed next to Ian. He rested his head on Ian’s chest, which was rising and falling, and Simon listened to Ian’s strong heartbeat.

  “And to think, I almost let Margeaux rip me away from you. What a mistake that would have been. I’m so happy that we can be together now, that you’re the editor of Ridgemont Weekly, and that I will be staying on this year to do my masters degree in journalism.” Ian caressed Simon’s messy hair, and his other hand was softly caressing Simon’s upper arm. Simon felt electric tingles race up and down his spine, and he was barely able to contain his happiness.

  “Jackass, watch where you’re going, man!” Simon felt the sudden impact of another person’s body hitting him square in the shoulder, sending his book bag tumbling ahead of him, and he sheepishly apologized.

  He bent down on the busy sidewalk, worrying a little bit that he would be late for his meeting with Zuko, when someone handed him his textbook.

  “Silly banana, you looking for this?” It was Zuko, evidently taking the same path towards the study center where they were scheduled to meet as Simon was.

  “Oh, hey Zee, fancy seeing you here.” Simon smiled at Zuko, thinking immediately of his recent troubles with his res roommates.

  Zuko smiled weakly at him, his eyes not really focused on Simon, his shoulders slightly hunched over, and the pace at which he was walking seeming encumbered and slow.

  “Zuko, what’s the matter? You look terrible.” Simon reached out to lightly touch Zuko’s arm in an effort to show some concern, but to Simon’s surprise, Zuko flinched and quickly pulled his arm away.

  “Hey, what’s wrong? What’s up with your arm? Zuko, come on, I need you to talk to me. I’m not stupid, I can tell something is wrong, and I want to be there for you.”

  Zuko took Simon’s hand, turned left down a side path with a sign reading Ridgemont Botanical Gardens, and found a quiet corner with a comfortable bench. He inhaled deeply, staring at the ground, and rolled up his sleeve. Simon, a little bit apprehensive by then, noticed the huge welt on Zuko’s arm.

  “Zee, what the hell! Who did this to you? Is it that jerk from your res?”

  Zuko nodded, quiet and somber. “It’s pretty intense, man. This is escalating. They have now somehow figured out what my class schedule is, and what my walking route to res is. They shoved me into an alley and just tuned me crap. Telling me I don’t belong here, that I need to go back to the townships. I just kind of blocked out what they were saying after some time and waited for it to be over.

  “Zee, I’m really sorry. But you’re saying that this has been going on for a while now, is that right?”

  “Yeah. You know this. But I guess I wasn’t that forthcoming when it started.”

  Simon carefully hugged Zuko, reminded him of the appropriate channels to follow if he wanted to report harassment. Zuko sat there sobbing, the quiet of the park echoing the intensity between the two friends. Simon felt completely powerless. Zuko had been something of a protégé to him, someone he had wanted to introduce to the amazing life that Ridgemont could offer. He didn’t want it to be a constant nightmare for his friend.

  Simon was very concerned, but something held him back from being Zuko’s knight in shining armor. Was it really his place to do something about it? He felt a sense of dread descend on him then. He was trying to become editor of the Ridgemont Weekly, and he wanted to build his career by forming the right networks at the University. Would he be isolating himself if he caused trouble over Zuko? And shouldn’t Zuko be standing up for himself either way? He thought of many different excuses why it would be wrong for him to do anything. After making up a story, he excused himself. Simon hated to admit it, but he was wondering if Zuko’s openness about his sexuality might be adding fuel to the fire for his tormentors. Ridgemont was known for its socially conservative climate, and Simon wasn’t sure if he was comfortable yet being open about this part of his identity. Especially when he still had many years ahead of him at Ridgemont. Simon felt ashamed, but also the powers of self-preservation kicked in. He’d be there for Zuko, but he wouldn’t get overly involved. At least not until Zuko asked him to. He felt like he was being a terrible friend, but he pushed those thoughts away. He had a lot on his plate to worry about.

  Chapter 7

  Simon entered the Ridgemont Weekly offices, and looked disdainfully at Margeaux’s desk to the right of the entrance, with various knick-knacks scattered all over her it, from crumpled
up post-its, to scattered sheets of paper covering unmarked folders, to a sad dying desk plant molding in the corner. Simon sneered contemptuously, and felt his dislike for Margeaux multiply tenfold, as he recalled Margeaux’s antics from the journalism faculty opening function.

  A few seats down, Simon found his own desk. A small smile of satisfaction adorned his face as he surveyed the perfectly ordered scene: neat, color-coded folders stacked in the corner of the desk, not a loose piece of paper in sight, and his own beautiful potted plant perfectly healthy and bursting with life.

  Simon seated himself at his desk chair, and reclined it as he rubbed his temples to relieve some tension. His right hand found the computer mouse, and as the screen loaded, he noticed Margeaux entering from the far side of the room, rummage around at her desk, retrieve a file, and with a quick wave at Simon, she became absorbed in her computer screen. Simon’s eyes returned to his own screen, and immediately confusion, and then suspicion, clouded his face. His personal folder, labeled ‘Works in Progress’, which he kept password-protected, was glaring right back at him again, opened up in a window. Simon prided himself for his professionalism and meticulous nature: no way would he announce what he was working on for everyone to see or leave his folders open. He vaguely remembered seeing the folder open before. Was he losing his mind? He rubbed the nape of his neck, shook his head, and reminded himself not to become paranoid. Surely everyone, even he, was capable of an oversight or two, right?

  ‘Northbrook, you have to make yourself a little bit more vulnerable. Be more authentic. Don’t hide behind what you think is the right thing to do. Relate some experience you had to help you formulate your own point of view.’

  Ian’s words rang in Simon’s ears. He still didn’t quite get what Ian meant with that line. Wasn’t reporting supposed to be all about remaining objective, gathering and reporting on facts only, distancing your own point of view from events as they accurately transpired? Wasn’t following the rules the best way to get things done?