Late Edition

by Rachel Wise

  It all sounded so cool. I couldn’t wait to get started.

  An exciting thought popped into my mind just then. “Mr. Dunleavy, does working here mean you get to read tomorrow’s news today?” I asked.

  He smiled a wide, happy grin. “Yes, it does!”

  “Wow,” I said. “That is so cool.”

  He seemed pretty psyched that we were so into it and also that we’d picked this topic as an extra-credit project.

  We put on our earphones and followed him in. Inside, we were assaulted by the din. It was like a freight train was running next to us, and Mr. Dunleavy had to shout to be heard. There were forklifts driving around with massive rolls of newsprint. (They looked like giant toilet paper rolls and weighed fifteen hundred pounds each!) We had to keep our hands in our pockets and our wits about us so we didn’t get hurt. Unfortunately, this meant I couldn’t take any notes; nor could we take any photos. Thank goodness for Michael’s photographic memory.

  When we got to the big roller where the front page of tomorrow’s New York Times was being printed, I turned my head upside down to see if I could read the headline as it flew past, but the machine was too fast.

  “No wonder it’s called FlyPrint!” I yelled. Mr. Dunleavy laughed.

  The tour lasted about twenty-five minutes. Then we headed back to the conference room. The first thing I did was grab my notebook and start jotting down facts and figures and confirming what I remembered Mr. Dunleavy saying on the tour. I also noted some more questions I’d have for him after the film.

  “We should do a story about this for the Voice, too,” I said to Mr. Trigg and Michael as Mr. Dunleavy fiddled with the DVD and the TV settings.

  Mr. Trigg nodded. “You can prepare it and we’ll hold it on file to fill a slot,” he suggested. That’s never what a journalist wants to hear about her article (you want everything to be urgent, front-page news), but it’s not like it would be hard to write this up after we finished the science project. Lots of journalists write file articles so the paper has things to run on slow news days.

  Finally Mr. Dunleavy started the film on the TV and dimmed the lights.

  “You never stop, do you?” said Michael quietly as Mr. Dunleavy and Mr. Trigg headed out for their print check, discussing a new improvement on the Voice’s printing line. I looked at Miguel curiously.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked.

  Michael laughed. “Both. I just don’t know when you find the time for it all,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Well, the same could be said about you!”

  “I don’t find the time! That’s why I’m getting a D in science!” he protested.

  “Well . . . I practically am, too,” I said.

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Not for long, though.”

  Michael and I settled into the cushy leather chairs in the dim, cozy conference room with the din of the printer wooshing right beyond the window. The credits rolled and then the film began with an exterior shot of the big FlyPrint words on the side of the building.

  And that was the last thing I remember.

  Chapter 6

  WRITER FIRES PARTNER AT PRINTING PRESS SHOWDOWN!

  “Samantha!”

  Someone was gently poking my shoulder.

  “Samantha! Ms. Martone!”

  I sat bolt upright, with absolutely no idea where I was. I looked around in confusion: TV, conference table, vending machines . . . OMG! I fell asleep at the printer! I looked up and saw Mr. Trigg peering down at me. I jumped to my feet.

  Mr. Dunleavy was laughing. “Yes, our film has that effect on some viewers.”

  “Oh, Mr. Trigg, I am so sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t believe I . . . Hey! Where’s Michael?” I had just realized he wasn’t in the room with us.

  “Men’s room,” said Mr. Trigg.

  “You woke him up first?” I asked.

  Mr. Trigg shook his head and smiled. “He didn’t fall asleep.”

  “Wait . . . it was just me?”

  Mr. Trigg shrugged. “He said you’d been burning the candle at both ends and he’d taken notes for the both of you.”

  Michael walked in right then and with a gorgeous smile said, “Hey, Sleepy!”

  It enraged me. “Michael! I can’t believe you! How could you let me sleep like that?”

  Michael raised his eyebrows and gestured toward Mr. Trigg and Mr. Dunleavy, which put my anger temporarily on hold. “I’m sorry,” I said, reining myself in and turning to the two men to apologize. “I’m also sorry I fell asleep and missed the movie.” I stared daggers at Michael as I said this.

  Writer Fires Partner at Printing Press Showdown!

  Mr. Dunleavy laughed again. “It’s no problem. It is a late night for you kids. I can send you a link to it and you can watch it on our website in the comfort of your own home, if you like.”

  “Thanks. That’s really nice. But now it’s time to go and I still have so many questions for you!” Boy, I’d really made a mess of all this. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep at the printer! Ugh! So much for my big “date”!

  “I’m sure you could chat by phone this week,” said Mr. Trigg.

  Mr. Dunleavy kindly agreed and handed us both his business card. He said it was a kick for him to see kids our age taking an interest in print when supposedly all our generation cared about was electronics, and he looked forward to chatting with us later this week.

  Without further ado, we thanked him profusely and headed out to the car, by which time it was ten thirty, earlier than Mr. Trigg originally thought, but still past my official bedtime of ten o’clock.

  In the backseat of the car, I rested my head against the headrest. I was mortified and crushed; I’d ended a really good experience on a bad note. It was very unprofessional to fall asleep in a situation like that, and I really was mad that Michael hadn’t woken me up.

  Mr. Trigg looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Feel free to take a snooze, Ms. Martone. Mr. Lawrence and I can wake you up when we reach your address.”

  I snapped my head up. “I’m fine. Thanks,” I said sharply.

  “Riiiight,” said Michael Traitor Lawrence in a teasing tone of voice. I saw him and Mr. Trigg exchange a grin in the mirror.

  “Looks like that sleep article is well timed, Ms. Martone,” said Mr. Trigg.

  “Humph,” I said quietly, looking out the window.

  “We’ll be working on it all afternoon tomorrow,” said Michael. “Just don’t conk out on me, Sleepy.” He chuckled.

  And do you want to know the worst part? I fell asleep again! Try as I might, I could not keep my eyes open for the rest of the ride. Before I knew it, I had dozed off again and we were pulling up in front of my house.

  “Ms. Martone, do remember the tips I told you for getting off to sleep tonight: socks, dim lighting, crackers. It all helps.”

  I nodded, too tired to chat. “Thank you so much Mr. Trigg. That was great. I can’t wait to call Mr. Dunleavy and to write about it,” I said. “See ya, Michael.” I knew it was kind of a cool farewell, but I was still annoyed at him for letting me fall asleep in a professional setting. It made him look good and me look bad.

  “Bye, Sleepy,” he singsonged in an annoying voice. Had I ever liked him? I closed the car door (a bit firmly) and went inside.

  My mom had waited up. “Samantha, you look exhausted. Was it great? Was it worth it?”

  I nodded and managed a weary smile. “I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.” It was already eleven fifteen. Skipping a second shower, I went straight to put on my pj’s and brushed my teeth in the dark; then I pulled on some socks and conked out, sleeping until my mom woke me up the next morning.

  I was groggy still when I got to school, and I wasn’t in a very good mood. I flashed back to my sleep research from the previous evening and remembered that lack of sleep causes “dysmorphia” or “bad mood” in kids. I had that now. Plus I was dreading working with Michael this afternoon because I was tired and
still annoyed with him. All I wanted was to go home and watch TV in my pj’s.

  But at my locker, Hailey accosted me. “OMG. I am going berserk. Wait until you see. Just wait until you see.”

  “What’s the matter, Hails?” I asked without a whole lot of enthusiasm.

  “What’s the matter? What’s the matter? I’ll tell you what’s the matter. The matter is that that little . . . troll . . . Molly Grant . . . has dyed her hair pink! That is exactly what is the matter.”

  I slammed my locker door shut in shock. “No way!” I yelled.

  I could tell Hailey was pleased by my reaction. She grinned and shook her head from side to side. “Way! No kidding. The girl is out of control.”

  I slumped against my locker door, my mouth agape as I processed the news. “Wow. She didn’t even wait a whole week!”

  “I know!” said Hailey. “So before we do my paper this afternoon, I need your help in getting this gross stuff out of my hair once and for all.”

  I looked at Hailey. “Um,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Um.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t do today, Hails. I’m so sorry.”

  “What do you mean you can’t ‘do’ today?” she demanded. “My paper is due Monday! And now I’ve got to deal with this hair. I figured if Allie’s home, she can help us.”

  I winced and thought of my practice session with my mom last night.

  “No.” I finally squeezed it out.

  “Just no?” said Hailey.

  I shook my head the tiniest bit and squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn’t have to see the look on Hailey’s face.

  “Oh fine. Whatever,” she huffed. “I can call the tutor for the paper. They owe me like seven sessions anyway. But the hair!” she wailed. “And what about tonight?”

  I opened my eyes. Had it really been that easy to say no to helping Hailey? I’d expected a big, huge drama and this was nothing. Now, in my relief, I felt grateful and generous. “We’re still on for tonight. Meanwhile, do you want me to text Allie to see if you can stop by and have her help you?” Hailey worships Allie and Allie does kind of love it. I was willing to bet that if Allie was free, she’d help.

  “Oh, Sammy, would you?” said Hailey, hanging on my arm in gratitude. I nodded, the generous benefactor, and dashed off a text to my sister.

  “I’ll let you know what she says,” I said.

  “Thanks,” said Hailey.

  Journalist Brokers Peace Accord; All Is Well.

  We gathered our stuff and headed off to our classes. “So why can’t you do it today?” asked Hailey.

  I explained about the science project and the sleep article and admitted I had a meeting with Michael. “But it’s business, not pleasure,” I assured her.

  “Or a little of both,” she said with a small smile.

  “No, trust me. It’s business,” I corrected her.

  “Riiiight,” said Hailey with an annoying smirk. She elbowed me and laughed, and right then, Molly Grant stepped out of the girls’ bathroom. Her hair was flaming pink. It was such an obvious copy that she and Hailey looked like twins standing next to each other. Except for one thing.

  Molly’s eyes were red and swollen from crying.

  She tried to brush past us without saying anything, but Hailey was still so mad she wasn’t about to let her go without a fight.

  “Hey, copycat. How do you like my hair now that you have it?” singsonged Hailey.

  I gave Hailey a stern look; she can be a little too feisty sometimes.

  Molly froze in her tracks but didn’t turn around. I glared at Hailey and then went to Molly’s side and put my hand on her shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?” I asked quietly.

  Molly began sobbing. “Everyone’s . . . making fun of me and calling me Xerox. The people who don’t know Hailey just”—sob—“think I look weird. And the people who do”—sob—“are mad at me for copying her. Everyone’s being so mean!” she wailed. Then she put her hands up and covered her eyes and began to cry in earnest, like a little kid. I glanced at Hailey. Her mean smirk had faded to a look of concern. Hailey could be tough, but she wasn’t psycho. She never wanted to see anyone upset like this.

  “Okay, let’s go back in the ladies’ room,” I said, wheeling Molly into an about-face.

  From behind her hands Molly said, “Are you two going to beat me up in there? I don’t even care. . . .”

  “Beat you up? Are you nuts? We’re going to help you get cleaned up!” said Hailey.

  “Come on. We’ve got only three minutes until the bell rings,” I said.

  Inside the ladies’ room, we propped Molly up on the windowsill and got paper towels soaked with freezing-cold water and began to blot her face. Hailey looked in her knapsack and took out a baseball cap. “Put this on,” she instructed. With a black baseball cap hiding most of her pink hair, Molly actually looked kind of cute. Still, we had to talk about the copying.

  “Listen, Molly, the pink hair look doesn’t work for anyone,” I began.

  “Thanks a lot!” said Hailey indignantly, but I silenced her with a glare.

  “Maybe a little streak of it is fun now and then, but entirely pink is weird. That’s number one. Number two is, you’ve got to lay off copying Hailey for a little while—”

  “But I . . . ,” interrupted Molly.

  “Shssh. Listen to me. It’s annoying to her, and everyone knows what you’re doing. You need to be yourself. Find your own way. Do you understand?”

  Molly sat there miserably. “I guess. But I just . . . I think you’re the coolest!” she said to Hailey.

  Hailey rolled her eyes and looked away to the side, but I could tell she was also secretly pleased. “Oh, what-ever!” she said.

  I smiled. “Why don’t you try to copy someone else for a while? Spread the love around, you know? Then Hailey won’t feel so stalked.”

  “Yeah, like copy Sam here!” said Hailey.

  Molly managed a weak smile.

  “No, don’t,” I said. “Look, most people are copying someone, a little. Except maybe Lady Gaga. But you just need to mix it up—borrow a tiny idea from each person you admire—and then also make sure there’s enough Molly in what you’re doing too. Okay?”

  The bell rang.

  Molly took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll try.”

  “Don’t try, do!” commanded Hailey. We all laughed.

  “Thanks, you guys. I . . . I knew you were cool, but I didn’t know you were nice, too,” said Molly shyly.

  “I’m not nice,” said Hailey, but I elbowed her. Hard.

  “Ow!” said Hailey.

  “Thanks,” I said to Molly.

  My phone buzzed.

  S— Tell H. meet me our house 3:00. —A

  “You’re good!” I told Hailey, and showed her Allie’s text.

  “Woo-hoo!” she whooped. “Maybe I should bring Molly and we’ll get a group discount!”

  “Please don’t,” I said. All I need is someone else copying Allie and her getting an even bigger head.

  “I’ll do the hair and then go home and get my stuff and come back for the sleepover. Pizza and the mall sound good?” she asked.

  “Just what the doctor ordered!” I said.

  Chapter 7

  JOURNALIST OVERWHELMED BY ANGER, EMBARRASSMENT, AND LOVE, NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER

  After school I met Michael outside by the bike rack. I was feeling a little testy still, since he’d let me fall asleep at the printer last night, so when he started off by calling, “Hey, Pasty!” in front of about five other kids, I scowled.

  “Something wrong, Cranky?” he asked when I drew closer.

  “The nickname thing is getting a little tired,” I said.

  “One day when we’re old and gray, we will look back on it and laugh,” he said.

  That perked me up a little. Was he planning on growing old with me? Or maybe he just meant we’ll be in the same nursing home or something. Ugh. I decided to make a little
joke out of it since I didn’t know what else to do.

  “Right, and I’ll call you Drooly,” I said without cracking a grin.

  “Thanks a lot!” he said with a big laugh. That reaction cheered me a tiny bit more out of my annoyance.

  We began walking to Michael’s house, which was on the other side of school from mine, but about the same distance.

  I thought about my mom’s pep talk last night and decided to say something to Michael to stick up for myself—at least to put it out there. So I said, “Uh . . . listen. I just want you to know . . . I was pretty ticked off that you left me sleeping last night at the printer.”

  I couldn’t meet his eye, but I was glad I said it. I braced myself for his reaction.

  There was a long pause. I glanced over to see why he hadn’t said anything. Michael was looking up at the treetops as if struggling to find the right words to say. This was a first, so I was intrigued.

  Finally he said, “I’m sorry, Sam. There were a lot of reasons I let you keep sleeping. I’ve been thinking about it since then and I feel really bad. It was selfish.”

  Now I was fired up. “You made me look like a slacker in front of two people whose opinions I care about and need!”

  Michael blushed. “I just . . . You’ve seemed so tired lately, and I felt bad for you. And I . . . I guess seeing you sleeping there . . . I was sort of flattered that you felt comfortable enough to fall asleep in front of me. And . . . aaack!” Michael made a sound of frustration and stopped walking.

  “What?” I asked, stopping too. Why were we stopping? Boys are so confusing.

  Michael continued on awkwardly. “I . . . I guess part of me did feel superior, staying awake. And I didn’t mind that Mr. Trigg and Mr. Dunleavy would see that.”

  “You see?” I practically shouted. “I knew it! I just knew you were trying to make yourself look good in front of them. And at my expense! That is so annoying!” I started turning around to leave right then and there. The nerve of this guy!