Sources Say

by Lori Goldstein

  “Right. Sure. Okay.” Cat fumbled for her wallet. This was the same guy she’d seen when she’d gone to Frank’s looking for the security camera footage. Except then he’d been wearing the wrong uniform. “You, uh, go to school here?”

  “Not anymore. Graduated last year. But this is just a side gig. Once my gamer channel takes off, I’m sticking those cheese sticks to Frank.”

  “Right. Sure.”

  He left, but Cat’s mind stayed with him. With that lime-green sweatshirt. With the writing on it. Like they saw in Tad’s photo. Coincidence? Had to be.

  Her phone buzzed with a text.

  Maxine: Slothy is mine!

  Cat: You got into the webcam?

  Maxine: In and found this.

  It was a photo, time-stamped around six in the morning on the day the Frankengirls photos appeared. Someone in a lime-green sweatshirt with the hood pulled low over their forehead, carrying a package from PosterPrinters.com. Cat couldn’t make out a face, but this time, the writing was clear. And exactly the same as the delivery guy’s.

  Frank’s Pizza.

  No one remembered seeing someone in a green sweatshirt at Maxine’s party because that someone wasn’t a guest. That someone had been delivering a pizza.

  Maxine: Looking for more.

  Cat: I might have a lead.

  Cat was grabbing her bag to go after the delivery guy when she heard a “Dude, missed you” from the hallway.

  “Devon? What are you doing here?”

  It sounded like Grady. Cat peered around the doorway to see him tugging at his dark curls.

  “Delivery. And, dude, you ever wanna make some bank like you did this summer, you can be my runner again. Same deal. I drive, you pop in, we split the tips.”

  “Uh, yeah, maybe.”

  “I’ll text you.”

  Cat’s heart beat double-time. Grady had worked at Frank’s Pizza?

  He entered the newsroom, sweat dotting his upper lip that belied his nonchalant nod.

  Grady? Grady?

  He was tall, as tall as Tad Marcus.

  His skin tone was light, like the hand in the photo.

  He was a whiz with editing software.

  But Grady, really?

  Cat needed more. She breathed heavily as she exited the newsroom, rested her back against a locker, and called her sister.

  “Just caught me,” Angeline said from behind the wheel of their hatchback. Cat moved farther down the hall for more privacy for their video chat. “I stopped by my P.O. box, and we were just about to head back out. Want me to swing by and pick you up?” Angeline set the phone in the holder on the dash, freeing her hands to open a package and extract something gold and shimmery.

  Cat squinted at the screen. “Please tell me that’s not another bigger is better?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay it is or it isn’t?”

  “Okay I’m not telling you.”

  Cat sighed. “Just don’t leave it in the back seat.”

  Angeline peeked inside. “Certainly not. It needs the dark of a closet.”

  Course it does. She refocused on the task at hand. “You helped Maxine clean up after her party, right?”

  “Naturally, good friend that I am. Why?”

  “Do you remember pizza boxes?”

  “Loads. Frank’s. What’s this about?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve got a hunch.”

  Angeline’s eyebrow lifted. “Must be a good one. Touch base when you’re un-hunched?”

  Cat nodded and hung up. She reentered the newsroom and attempted a casual smile, but Grady’s eyes barely darted to hers before shifting back to the computer. With trembling fingers, he punched in his password, and Cat committed the numbers to memory thanks to the skills Gramps had taught her years ago.

  She worked and waited, said a “Sure” to Grady’s “See you tomorrow, Chief” when he pushed his chair in. Then she closed the door and logged in to Grady’s email.

  Bo’s name, a few freshmen Cat recognized, his mom—a lot. She moved to his trash, the emails the system had yet to delete. In it was a receipt from PosterPrinters.com. A PDF proof, showing three images . . . one of each of the Frankengirls.

  She heard the creak of the door, a gasp, and a “Cat?” in a whine she’d come to know—and like.

  “I can explain, Chief,” Grady said. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  A tightness gripped her chest. “Grady—”

  “No, wait, just wait.” His glasses fell down his nose, and his eyes shone with guilt. “We needed a story—a big story. And I was reading your series from last year on all those pranks and started thinking. It was just supposed to be the one time and then . . . then you wouldn’t let me cover it, but I figured the next time, you’d see . . . you’d have to let me.”

  He wanted to cover the big stories. And she wouldn’t let him.

  Nellie Bly’s editors hadn’t let her cover the big stories either. Inventing one would have been a lot easier than ten days in an insane asylum. But truth mattered then. It mattered now. It would always matter. Without truth, people shouted past one another simply to be heard. Everyone became noise. And so they stopped listening. They stopped caring. Everyone was in everything only for themselves. That wasn’t the world Cat wanted to believe lay in her future.

  “No. This isn’t on me, Grady. Your actions are your own. Same as the consequences for them.”

  He protested the entire way, begging her not to say anything, and then, the closer they got to the principal’s office, to help spin it for him. A piece of her heart broke as she left him.

  It looked like that peer jury system was going to have to kick into gear sooner than planned.

  When Cat returned to the newsroom, she sat down, placed her fingers on her keyboard, and started to write.

  Acedia Confronts Its Inner Sloth:

  Controversy Surrounding Student Council Unprecedented in Charter School History

  A SPECIAL REPORT

  Part 6 of 6

  The monthlong suspension of Grady Booker from Acedia Charter School marked the end of the Frankengirls and the first recommendation by the Acedia Peer Jury. The responsibility and accountability that had been missing previously was embraced by a student body finally pushed to its limit. Whether it was a move designed to steer clear of blame for the outcome or not, the administration’s decision to let the jury determine Booker’s fate allowed students to send a strong signal that they would not go easy on offenders, as one might assume.

  “Why shouldn’t we decide?” said Goldberg, who is a member of the current jury. “This is our community. We feel the effects more than anyone. We know what’s actually hurting the school. And this did. It’s right up there with the vegan bacon. I mean, the way it impacted the election. Not the vegan bacon itself. There’s nothing wrong with vegan bacon. Some of my favorite foods are vegan. Eggs and cheese . . . Really? Those aren’t vegan?”

  That sense of community was reinforced when a second protest brought students to the front lawn, this time in shades of gray.

  “No way Slothy was leaving that roof, man,” Baker said. “Me and Jay Choi, we had the whole thing planned. They didn’t listen to us, we were gonna do that tree hugger thing and chain ourselves to him. Except we needed to find some chains. And a ladder. And fill a cooler because dudes gotta stay hydrated, right? So, yeah, had the whole thing planned. He commands that roof like a boss, and no one’s taking Slothy down.”

  The protest succeeded in protecting the stuffed sloth, which remains on the roof, with its webcam streaming the watch yard. It’s become something of a confessional, with students entering and baring their souls to Slothy. With no audio, their secrets remain such, but students claim feeling a sense of freedom that Slothy knows. Because in the end, that�
��s all anyone truly wants, whether it’s accomplished through the knitting of angel wings or the clicking of a thumbs-up or a tiny heart or the sharing of posts or pics or video or the continuing solar battery of a stuffed sloth’s camera: to be seen.

  We see you, Acedia, and you’re looking fine.

  INBOX: New Message

  From: cquinn@TheRedandBlueAcedia.com

  To: editor@bostonglobe.com

  Subject: A Special Report

  Following up on our phone conversation from yesterday, please find attached the first draft of our agreed-upon freelance correspondent article: “Acedia Confronts Its Inner Sloth: Controversy Surrounding Student Council Unprecedented in Charter School History.”

  I look forward to your thoughts. Per your suggestion, I’ve submitted my application for your summer internship. Thank you for the opportunity.

  Best,

  Cathleen Quinn

  Editor in Chief, The Red and Blue, Acedia Charter School

  the end

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve had editors since middle school. I’ve been an editor since high school. Both make me more than qualified to know not just a good one, but an inspiring one. That’s what I’ve been fortunate to have across two books with my editor, Jessica Harriton. When I brought the idea behind Sources Say to her, she was an immediate champion for it and helped craft it into the story it became. But neither of us would have been able to bring these characters and their important story to life without the impressive team at Razorbill and Penguin Young Readers Group. I’m especially grateful to Bree Martinez for her creative publicity efforts, and to Theresa Evangelista for the fun, bold, eye-popping jacket design. I’m positive I had a shirt that color in middle school. (And yes, it’s much better suited for a book cover!)

  My agent, Katelyn Detweiler, continues to deserve my utmost respect as a story genius and savvy strategist as well as my awe and gratitude for making me feel like the only client deluging her inbox. She works tirelessly to make my writing sing and my spirits soar. An author could have no better home than with you and Jill Grinberg Literary Management.

  If this book had a masthead, it would include the names of so many authors I admire, starting with Chelsea Bobulski and Natalie Mae, who were invaluable in the early shaping of the story. For the cheerleading, discipline, and commiseration, I am indebted to my talented confidants, Alycia Kelly and Chandler Baker. I’d have never met my daily word count goals without either of you (and what a lonely place my texts would be!). Thanks also to the many professionals and friends who helped flesh out the ensemble cast, especially Jose and Pamela Ardila.

  As always, I’m grateful to my parents, Denise and Frank; my in-laws Martha and Steve; and my Marangos and Goldstein nephews and nieces (oh yes, and their parents too!).

  Rounding out my masthead is my husband, Marc, who got a big promotion on this one. Thank you for being my sounding board (and knowing when to listen, when to offer advice, and when to stop me from chucking my laptop off the balcony). Especially, thank you for being my partner in all things. A partnership that began, fittingly enough, in the newsroom.

  This book, more than any I’ve written, has its roots in my personal life, because I had that editor in middle school and was one in high school, thanks to newspapers. While always drawn to the written word, my writing career began in journalism. I worked on every school newspaper through college, where I began as a writer, moved on to become features editor, and, eventually, editor in chief. Though stashed in the dark, dingy, musty basement of the university center, the newsroom was electric. It’s an energy that’s never been matched. The camaraderie of what was the strongest team I’ve ever been a part of, the adrenaline rushes of landing “the” quote, and the bleary eyes of the twice-weekly late nights (cheers upon hitting the hour of pi, i.e., 3:14 a.m.) formed the student I was, the work ethic I developed, and the writer I became. This book is an homage to those people and that time, including my former professor Jack Lule, who I’m honored to still have in my life.

  But this book is also a reflection of where we are in terms of journalism and the media and where we will go. Both the spark of the idea and the actual writing of this story came when the world was a different place than it is as I write this now and than it will be when the book publishes. But whether we are dealing with “fake news,” a political landscape that challenges and blurs fact and fiction, or a pandemic that alters our daily life, I fundamentally believe that truth matters. Truth is not pliable. I offer my deepest thanks to the journalists who continue to fight for truth in reporting and who will be integral in shaping what that means for this generation and the ones to come.

  Check out

  Turn the page for a sneak peek!

  ONE

  VALLEY OPTIMISTIC • Silicon Valley’s belief in new tech or ideas that engender doubt from those in the outside world

  ♥♥♥♥

  FOUR. STILL. ONLY FOUR.

  Lucy shifted in the hard wooden chair across from her mom’s desk and clutched her phone tighter. She swiped up and down with such force that her Caribbean Blue Baby fingernails would have scratched the glass had she not been diligent about using a screen protector.

  Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Snapchat, Facebook . . . Swipe, swipe, swipe. The likes, favorites, followers, friends . . . she had enough. Enough for her ranking on the Pulse app to be higher than four.

  Four?

  Swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe.

  The pink plastic bracelet the bouncer had secured around Lucy’s wrist danced up and down the same way she had last night, after name-dropping her way into the hottest new club in San Francisco’s Tenderloin District. The fact that she didn’t actually know Ryan Thompson, founder of Pulse, was a technicality that would soon be remedied.

  Her ♥ OUR FINGERS ARE ON THE PULSE ♥ tee only given to Pulse employees opened doors closed even to most of Silicon Valley’s elite. She’d snagged it from a hipster-preneur six months ago at a party in Fremont. He was so busy claiming he left Pulse of his own accord (uh-huh) because his eco-friendly (read: nonprofitable) idea was going to change the world (i.e., drain his bank account) that he scarcely knew what he’d lost. All it took was a deftly spilled cocktail, an exorbitant dry cleaning bill, and Lucy’s favorite tank (note: pomegranate margaritas don’t come out of silk), but it was worth it.

  Soon she’d have one of her own.

  And she’d no longer be a 4.

  * * *

  ♥♥♥♥

  Really?

  The likes on her Instagram story from last night alone should have bumped her up to a 5. Thumping. But here she sat. Still at 4. Still Thudding.

  She stared at the string of hearts on her Pulse profile, knowing that, somehow, this was all because she was wait-listed at Stanford.

  And that, Lucy knew the exact “how” of: Gavin Cox.

  Freaking Gavin Cox.

  She shouldn’t have done it, but her blue fingernail moved on its own, navigating to his profile.

  Level 6. Throbbing. Gavin Cox was Throbbing and she was Thudding. If only she possessed a male member and a wingspan like Michael Phelps, she’d be Throbbing too. But now that high school was over, winning state would no longer be a crutch for Gavin, and his Pulse would plummet. He’d be lucky to be Beating—a measly 3.

  Lucy was tempted to knock her mom’s expansive cherrywood desk. But Lucy Katz didn’t believe in luck. Lucy Katz didn’t hope. Lucy Katz didn’t dream. Lucy Katz did.

  She knew what she wanted.

  And it wasn’t this.

  Thudding and wait-listed and this drab third-floor office in this mud-brown building in this sad little Sunnyvale office park.

  So it wouldn’t be.

  Tired of the edge of the chair digging into the soft underside of her knees, she scooted forward until her wedge sandals reached the floor.

  Her mom was t
wenty minutes late.

  As usual.

  Lucy knew enough to show up for their scheduled lunch a half hour after its start time, but she was on time.

  As always.

  Lucy planned like other people breathed.

  Which was why she wasn’t nervous about Stanford. It was a blip. A minor inconvenience. Nothing that an internship at Pulse wouldn’t wipe away like a hard reset on her MacBook Pro.

  She stared at the gently tanned skin of her exposed ankles and wiggled her toes, enticing circulation to resume after being dangled two inches off the floor despite her heels. She pulled her pink-and-white-striped notebook onto her lap and leafed through the pages, refreshing herself on all the notes she’d taken thus far on ValleyStart, the summer tech incubator program she was about to begin. The five-week competition ended with one team winning an internship at Pulse. If she succeeded (please), she’d spend the rest of the summer at Pulse with Ryan Thompson. And Pulse, well, not even Stanford could ignore a pedigree that included Pulse.

  Satisfied it was all already committed to memory, she closed her notebook and stared at the shiny gold L floating on the center of the cover—the only Hanukkah gift she’d received last year, sent in a FedEx envelope from her mom’s assistant.

  She tucked it under her arm and stood, passing by windows that looked out on row after row of blue, red, black, white, and green hybrid cars lined up like Crayolas in the parking lot, the closest the office came to having a pop of color. A four-by-six double frame propped beside her mom’s three monitors was the only personalization in the room.

  One side held Lucy as a baby, swaddled in her mom’s arms with her dad looking off to the side, toward the London office he’d soon head. The second photo once again displayed the three of them, this time on graduation day, just a few weeks ago. Her dad had scheduled a week of meetings before and after in order to attend.