by Robin Caroll
Sam felt like she was going to throw up. This was just what her father didn’t need—what he’d probably been afraid would happen with her staying on this story. Maybe she should’ve done as he asked and let Aubrey give the assignment to someone else. Her dream wasn’t worth hurting her father.
Lord, what do I do now?
CHAPTER 13
TO WRITE A WRONG
Dad?” Sam called out as she stepped from the kitchen. He’d come home, dropped his keys in the wooden bowl in the entry, then headed to his room just like always. But that was fifteen minutes ago. It never took him this long to lock up his gun.
She moved slowly toward the hallway. “Daddy?”
“I’m here.” He shut his bedroom door behind him and gave her a quick hug. “Dinner about ready?” He led the way to the kitchen.
He might force a lighter tone into his voice, but Sam could hear the stress. Even if she couldn’t, there was no way she could miss the deepness of the lines in his face which hadn’t been quite so visible this morning.
“Yeah, I just took the casserole out of the oven.”
“Good. I’m hungry.” He cut the casserole and placed pieces of the chicken cacciatore on the two plates beside the helpings of sweet peas.
Sam set the rolls on the table, then put glasses of milk on the placemats before sitting across the table from him.
“It looks and smells great. Thank you. Do you want to offer grace over the food tonight?” he asked.
“Sure.” Odd, because Dad always said the blessing. She closed her eyes. “Father, thank you for this meal before us. Please use it to nourish our bodies, and our bodies to honor You. In Jesus’ name we pray and give thanks, Amen.”
“Amen. Thank you.” Dad shoved a forkful of peas into his mouth and chewed with vigor.
She set down her fork. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just hungry, like I said.” He took a bite of casserole this time, still chewing almost in double time.
She stabbed peas off her own plate. If he wanted to be über polite like this, fine. Just fine. She chewed without tasting.
For the next several minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was of silverware scraping against glass and the gulping of milk. Even Chewy lay on the rug by the door, her head resting on her paws as she stared at her owners as if to ask what was going on.
As if Sam had any more clue than her dog.
Ten more minutes and Sam couldn’t take any more of the silent treatment or false pleasantries. “Dad, did you see the comment Jessica Townsend left on my post on the paper’s blog?”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then slowly wadded it up and set it on his empty plate. “I did.”
She waited . . .
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
Thirty.
“And?” she asked. “What did you think?”
“I think Ms. Townsend still suffers from some mental issues.” He ran a finger along the edge of his plate. “That is off the record.”
The back of her neck went hot. “I know that.”
“Good.” He took his plate to the sink, threw away the napkin, rinsed his plate, fork, and glass, and then put them in the dishwasher.
Sam followed, doing the same, while he covered the other part of the casserole and put it in the refrigerator.
He wiped the counter without a word.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say about it?” Sam crossed her arms over her chest and dug her hip into the side of the kitchen island. “No new warnings for me not to contact her? No telling me I should resign this assignment? Nothing?”
She was sick of his silence. She’d even risk getting in trouble by deliberately provoking him. At least he’d be talking.
Dad tossed the rag into the sink and stood across from her, almost mimicking her stance as he leaned against the counter housing the sink. “What do you want me to say, Sam? To stay away from her? I already told you that. That she’s a few screws loose? You already know that. That I want you to give up the story? You already know that.”
He ran a hand over his face. “But I don’t really want you to give up the story. And your mom would certainly have my head if I tried to make you.” He gave her a weak grin.
At least he was trying.
She crossed the space between them and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry if I’m making it harder for you to do your job. I’m trying really hard not to even ask you anything. I mean, officially.”
“I know that, and I appreciate it.” He hugged her tight, then kissed the top of her head. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m fine.”
She kept her arms around his waist and stared up at him. “Are you sure? If this is a problem for your job, I’ll let Aubrey assign another reporter.” She nearly choked on the words, but it was the right thing to do.
He smiled and squeezed her. “I thank you for the offer, because I know how much this means to you, but you don’t have to do that, Sam.” He let her go and folded the dishtowel on the counter. “Now, you go get started on your homework.”
“Okay.” She headed to her room. Dad still had something he wasn’t telling her, but that was all right. Maybe he just had a lot on his mind with the case.
She opened her laptop and checked her email. Nothing of any importance. She checked the blog. Only a few new comments. Most of those were asking for clarification from Jessica Townsend’s comment.
Lead the investigation down the wrong path, huh? Well, we’ll just see about that.
Sam popped her knuckles just as her cell phone rang. She checked the caller-ID and grabbed it. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, there, my girl. How’s your day been?” Mom’s voice always made Sam feel all warm and mushy.
The words tumbled over each other as Sam spilled the events of her day until she was done and out of breath.
“Oh. My.”
“Dad didn’t tell you?” It was one thing for him to keep something from her, but to keep something from Mom—that was serious.
“I haven’t talked to him yet tonight.” Mom’s voice got all husky. “How did he seem at dinner?”
Sam told her.
“Well . . . if he doesn’t want to tell you what’s bugging him right now, nothing will get him to open up.”
“True. But I am worried about him.”
“I know.” The smile came through in Mom’s voice. “Now, what else is happening with you? Not about the story.”
“Well . . .” Sam glanced around her room. She caught sight of her pom-poms on the dresser, safely out of Chewy’s reach. “Our first game is tomorrow night.”
“I hate to miss it.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Sam hadn’t really given too much thought to cheering this week. Her mind had been wrapped totally around the bomb and suspects and articles.
What if she messed up in one of the routines? The rest of the squad would be furious with her.
And rightly so.
“I’ll ask Dad to video some for me and then we can watch it together.” Mom paused for a moment. “Are you nervous?”
“A little.” Only because she hadn’t practiced outside of her time with the squad.
“You haven’t been concentrating on cheering much, have you?”
Sam squirmed. That guilty feeling returned. With a vengeance. “I’ve been busy, Mom. You know how time-consuming journalism can be.” What, could Mom read her mind too?
“Oh, that I do. But you have to make sure you don’t overextend your obligations.”
“I know,” Sam mumbled.
“It’s hard to balance everything you want to do and everything you’re good at, but sometimes you have to choose. You don’t want to do things and not be able to give 100 percent. When you accept a position — cheerleader, reporter, whatever — you accept responsibility for that. You don’t want to let anything fall between the cracks.”
Sam swallowed.
“I’m not getting on you, Sam. I’m just telling you to consider how yo
u manage your time and responsibilities is all. I know how difficult it can be.”
“I know, Mom.” She did. It was just that she loved cheering but loved reporting too. Why couldn’t she do it all?
“You don’t want your grades to slip.”
“Of course not. I’m studying just as hard, Mom. I promise.” She’d worked hard to maintain her honor-roll GPA. And she took all pre-AP classes. Those advanced placement subjects were really tough sometimes, too.
“I know you are. Dad and I have always been very proud of you too. I just want you to know that it’s okay if you feel overwhelmed and like you need to give something up. No one expects you to be able to do everything.”
But she loved everything she was involved in. “Thanks, Mom, but I think I can manage.”
“I just wanted you to know that Dad and I will support you if you need to back out of something.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“What else is new?” Thank goodness she changed the subject.
Grace Brannon’s image slammed into the front of Sam’s mind. “Mom, do you have any friends who aren’t Christians?”
“Uh, I guess I might. I don’t rightly know. Why?”
“I do. I mean, I thought she was a Christian but she told me she wasn’t.”
“How do you feel about that?”
That was the question, because Sam didn’t really know how she felt. “I guess I’m confused. I know God loves us and that Jesus died for us and accepting Him is the way to eternal life . . .”
“But?” Mom asked.
“Well . . . Grace asked me, If God is so good and loves us so much, then why do bad things happen to innocent people.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Just what I know to be true: that I want to have eternal life after I die and the only way for me to have that is to know Jesus is God’s Son, that He died for me, and I accept Him in my heart.”
“You told her right.” Mom’s voice cracked a little. “It’s hard to witness. It’s hard to share your faith with someone, but you were honest and shared your feelings. That’s all you can do, Sam.”
But was it enough? “I don’t know, Mom. She didn’t seem changed by what I told her.” Wasn’t that the whole point of witnessing — to lead people to Jesus?
“Oh, my sweet, sweet girl. It’s not for you to change someone’s heart. You’re only to plant the seed by sharing your faith. God will do the rest.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I know. I’m very proud of you, Samantha.” Unlike Dad, who only used her full name when he was mad, Mom used it when she was really, really emotional. Like now.
“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”
Mom cleared her throat. “Okay. I’ve got to run or I won’t get my article edited and sent in. I’ll call you tomorrow night and see how your first game went. I love you bunches.”
“Goodnight.” Sam set down her phone and returned to the blinking cursor.
Jessica Townsend.
Maybe she shouldn’t lash out and slam her like she’d intended. Wouldn’t she be expecting that? Maybe, just maybe, she should consider taking a different path.
She grabbed her iPhone and called Makayla, who answered on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Hey. Can you talk?” Sam asked.
“For a few. Mom’s helping Chloe with her homework. What’s up?”
“About Jessica Townsend.”
“What about her?” Mac asked.
“Did you get the name of the convent she was in?”
“Hang on.”
Sam stared at her pom-poms while she waited. She wouldn’t let the squad down. As soon as she finished the article and the one worksheet she had for homework, she’d practice the routines and cheers until they were perfect. The squad had practiced the stunts and pyramids during practice after school, so Sam felt pretty confident in those areas.
“Got it. She was in the Discalced Carmelite Nuns of Little Rock.”
Sam jotted it down. “Here in town, huh?”
“Yeah. Part of Carmel of St. Teresa of Jesus on West 32nd Street. They’re cloistered.”
“What does that mean?”
“Um, kinda shut off from society, I think,” Makayla said. “Oh, and they’re a practicing discalced order, too.”
Sam wrinkled her face. “What does that mean?”
Makayla laughed. “I had to look that one up. It means they either go barefoot or wear sandals.”
“Why?” Seemed like a silly thing to announce they did.
“I’m not real sure. Had something to do with Francis of Assisi or Clare of Assisi. I don’t know.”
“That’s weird,” Sam said. What was the religious importance of going barefoot or wearing sandals, other than the fact that Jesus wore them? Then again, washing the feet was kinda big back in Jesus’s time.
“I know, right?” Makayla laughed again. “Did you see Jessica’s comments on your blog post?”
“I did. I’m working on my article for tomorrow right now.”
“Ruh-roh, Scooby . . . guess this means you’re writing about her again.”
“I am, but not in the way you think.”
“How’s that?” Makayla asked.
It was Sam’s turn to chuckle. “Well, I’m not 100 percent sure yet, but it won’t be the flaming that everyone will expect.”
“Interesting.” There was a slight pause before Makayla whispered into the phone, “Oops, Mom’s coming down the hall. See you in the morning.”
Sam set the phone down and popped her knuckles again.
Interesting indeed.
CHAPTER 14
FOR THE LOVE OF THE GAME
. . . Jessica Townsend, the woman who heads up the local chapter of the Central Arkansas Coalition of Reason, an anti-God organization, spent over five years with the Carmelite Nuns of St. Teresa of Jesus, a convent so extreme they are cloistered and are so devoted to the order that they only go barefoot or wear sandals.
What do YOU think? Could someone who spent five years in a convent, practicing to be a nun, be capable of losing her faith? Or, do you think it’s more likely that she only became involved in an anti-religious organization because of some other, personal and private reason? Sound Off, Senators. Leave a comment with your thoughts. ~ Sam Sanderson, reporting
“I totally don’t see how this relates to the bomb, Samantha.” Aubrey crossed her arms and stared at her from behind her desk—the editor’s desk.
Sam wanted to be in that chair next year. She licked her lips, swallowing back the sarcastic reply nearly burning her tongue. “It’s a follow-up to yesterday’s story.”
“But that’s just it — this isn’t a story that has anything to do with the bomb.”
Ms. Pape nodded. “I have to agree with Aubrey on this one, Sam.”
The smirk returned to Aubrey’s face. “We need something about the bomb, Samantha. Not rehashing of personalities of possible suspects.”
“Mrs. Trees told me about the personal attacks Jessica Townsend made against you and your father yesterday,” Ms. Pape said. “And I read her comment on yesterday’s post. I must commend you for not lashing out and being ugly in today’s, but the news about the bomb is getting a little lost.”
“I thought your dad was going to give you information,” Aubrey said.
“He can’t give me inside information, Aubrey,” Sam said. Yeah, she’d kind of implied he would back when she asked for the story initially, but whatever.
“No, but you can get information the same time it’s released to other press outlets, right?” Aubrey asked.
“Uh, right,” Sam said. Where was Aubrey going with this?
Aubrey’s sarcastic look was cemented with her smirk. “Then how come the front page of this morning’s paper had information regarding the type of bomb and an idea of where it originated and you turned in nothing about the bomb itself?”
What? “Uh . . .”
“They got the report that the bomb was made using spec
ifications found on multiple sights on the Internet, made with items easily purchased statewide that wouldn’t raise any type of suspicion,” Aubrey said.
At least it was only a report of a dead-end lead. Had there been a new direction, they’d probably be having a totally different conversation entirely right now. Sam didn’t want to think about that.
“I understand how it can be tempting to want to be an investigative-type reporter, the one who gets to solve the case,” Ms. Pape said. “However, a good reporter stays on top of the facts being released by law enforcement in order to have enough information to actually investigate.” She smiled kindly at Sam, a complete opposite of Aubrey’s expression. “Understand?”
Sam nodded. “Got it. I’ll bring it more into focus for tomorrow’s story.”
“If it’s not, I’ll assign someone else to continue coverage,” Aubrey said. “It might be a good idea to cut down the articles on this story anyway. I don’t want it to seem that we’re forcing a local news story just to move outside of the school for news.”
“Good point, Aubrey,” Ms. Pape said.
“I’ll make sure I have a focused story tomorrow, with newsworthy information.” Sam couldn’t believe Dad hadn’t given her the heads up about the bomb information. She’d have to make sure to cover it, but not just a repeat of what everyone else already reported. Something she could scoop the others with.
If this story went down, she’d be relegated back to interviewing teachers for study tips. Social suicide in the highest form. And forget having a chance at editor next year.
She returned to her area between Lana and Celeste.
“What did the she-beast want?” Lana asked.
Sam brought them up to speed on Aubrey’s decision. “So I have to figure out something to write about that is directly related to the bomb.” She sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I guess I’m going to have to steer clear of potential suspects.”