Famous Last Words

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  “Did you know 2.5 million dead people are victims of identity theft every year? It’s modern-day grave robbing,” she says, clearly quoting the show. “The program was edifying.”

  Gram has an amazing vocabulary, and English isn’t even her first language. Her parents emigrated from Italy, and they spoke Italian at home. Gram didn’t go to college, but she’s well read, curious, and probably the smartest person I know. She uses a pen for even the most complex crossword puzzles and keeps a dictionary and thesaurus by her bed, next to Gramps’s photo.

  “I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if someone steals my identity when I die.”

  “Gram! Why would you say that?”

  “I won’t need it anymore. It will be like I’m living forever.”

  As I walk to my room, as much as I wish Gram will live forever, I can’t stop myself from imagining a day when Gram, too, is smiling and waving at me in a photograph from a place that isn’t here. My brain is ear-to-ear morbid tonight. Add the five Diet Cokes I drank today to worries about Gram and lingering dead-police-chief excitement, and it’s like the perfect storm for insomnia.

  I’m also beginning to see the newsroom in my dreams. It reminds me of when I was younger and we’d spend an entire day at the beach. I always dove into the water as soon as we got there and rode the waves for hours with my green Boogie board. After those marathon beach days, I’d lie in bed still feeling the ocean lifting me up, suspending me atop a wave and dropping me down again. It’s the kind of tired I love, then and now.

  Before I finally drift off, I think about helping Meg with the police-chief story and how quickly things get done when time is running out. If teams can win national championships with less than ten seconds on the clock, surely I can run six miles outside, help Michael figure out what’s going on with the mysterious Sy Goldberg, and get a guy like Tony to notice me before school starts in September. Deadlines. They make things happen. I officially set mine for the last day of summer.

  chapter seven

  Front Page

  My ringing cell phone wakes me. I crack one eye and look at the screen, Shelby. “Wha?” I mumble.

  “Your name is on the front page of the paper!” she yells. She sounds excited. I can’t believe she’s (a) awake and (b) reading. Shelby seeking information or knowledge is not something I’m used to. “It’s not the first name listed—it’s under Megan O’Shea’s name—but it’s still there,” she says. “I guess it’s more like half a byline?” I love her, but Shelby’s never going to be on Jeopardy!

  “If it were half a byline, it would just say ‘Samantha’ or ‘D’Angelo,’” I clarify for her. I’m already jogging down the steps to the kitchen. “I’m gonna go check it out. Call you back.”

  I’d only been expecting a tag line—my name in small print at the end of the story. It was very cool of Meg to share her byline. When I get downstairs, Gram, the consummate obit reader, could not be prouder.

  “Well, if it isn’t Scoop D’Angelo!” she booms as she reaches for the coffeepot. She’s wearing pale blue capri pants, white Keds, and a cotton top with a glittery floral print—Gram likes some bling. Her youthful getup erases the nagging image from the previous night.

  “Oh, Gram,” I say, giving her a hug.

  “Nice job on that obituary,” she says. “I already called Aunt Jo and Aunt Connie. They read it too.”

  I pick up the paper and take in the image of my name. Samantha D’Angelo. Meg’s right. It feels better to hold it in my hands.

  “Cool,” I say. But inside, I’m turning cartwheels and clicking my heels. (Not that I’ve ever actually clicked my heels. Does anyone who’s three-dimensional and not on the Cartoon Network?)

  How could I not know I’ve always wanted this? Seeing my name on the front page is so much better than seeing it on the obit page. I imagine this is how it would have felt to see my name on a callback list for all the things I tried out for but never made—the school play (twice), girls’ choir, the softball and bowling teams, and the cheerleading squad (I never had a chance at that last one; it was Mom’s idea). Could it be I’m better on paper?

  “Is Dad working from home today?” I ask Gram.

  Lucky for me, my dad telecommutes most days.

  “Yep. He’s been on a conference call for an hour,” Gram says.

  “Good. I need a ride to work,” I say.

  “Aunt Connie is picking me up. We’re getting our hair done. We can give you a lift if you want.”

  I picture myself adrift in the back seat of Aunt Connie’s 1999 Lincoln Town Car, coming in for a landing, complete with screeching wheels, in front of the Herald Tribune.

  “I’ll stick with Dad,” I say. “But you be careful driving around with that Aunt Connie. She drives like she’s in London, only she’s not. Remember, stay to the right. It’s the first rule of the road in the state of New Jersey. You keep telling her that.”

  “I know, I know. I wish I’d learned to drive years ago. Now I’m stuck,” she says. “Come to think of it, if she gets any more points on her license, I’ll be stuck again—for good!”

  “Not if I get my license in August.”

  Gram raises her eyebrows. I leave her to imagine the possibilities, and carry the paper up to my room to read the story again. Every quote is heartfelt and genuine. “He became a police officer because he believed in changing people’s lives for the better.” “You couldn’t ask for a more dedicated chief. He was a leader, but more than that, he really cared.” The article concludes with Mr. Stein’s quote. “He exuded confidence. The kind of guy who could do anything he set his mind to.”

  The chief was loved, that’s for sure. A lifelong Totowa resident, in high school he was student council president and an all-state pitcher. After graduating magna cum laude from Rutgers, he entered the police academy and eventually joined the Totowa force. As he worked his way up the ranks, he earned a law degree at night.

  In addition to a recent photo, the Herald Tribune ran an old picture of him on the pitcher’s mound, high-fiving the catcher after a big win. Was the chief confident because he was successful, or successful because he was confident? It’s like some people just know how to hit the switch and turn their lives on faster than others.

  I mull this over while I try to decide between going for a run and climbing back under the covers. Before I can make up my mind, my cell plays the alt-rock song AJ downloaded as my new ring tone. I’m still staring at the paper when I answer my phone.

  “What?”

  “Is that how you talk to the woman who pays your cell phone bills?”

  “Mom, sorry. I thought you were Shelby again.”

  “Great job on the story, hon. Front page! We’re so proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say.

  “Let’s try to eat dinner as a family when you get home. I haven’t seen you in days,” she says. “I’m not sure I like you working these late hours.”

  “I don’t mind it. I like what I’m doing.”

  “I’m glad you do, sweetie. But I miss you.”

  “Miss you too,” I say. I barely have time to disconnect before my phone rings again. I look at the screen. This time it is Shelby.

  “Hello?”

  “You were supposed to call me back.”

  “You didn’t give me a chance.”

  “We should celebrate your story. Let’s hit the pool.”

  “I can’t. I have to work.”

  Shelby sighs. “You haven’t been to the pool once since school let out.”

  “I know, I know.” For a split second, I feel nostalgic for our old summer routine. Shelby and I have logged a lot of hours at the community pool. “Maybe I’ll get there this weekend.”

  “How about tonight? Let’s do something.”

  “I’m working late. How about tomorrow night?”

  “Okaaay,” Shelby says. I hear her pouting through the phone. I try to smooth things over.

  “What happened with Hollister? Maybe you should apply to
a few other places in case that job doesn’t come through. How about the shoe store?”

  “Sam,” Shelby sighs. “Unlike you, I don’t exactly mind not having a summer job.”

  Two roads diverge in the woods—I take one and Shelby takes the other. Or maybe Shelby sits down on a rock and relaxes. I almost laugh out loud.

  “Call you later,” I say, and then I hang up and reach for my running shoes.

  * * *

  Later that day, at work, I cut out my first front-page story and put it in my top desk drawer, where I also placed Anton’s obituary. When I look up, Tony is sitting on the corner of the obit desk. I nearly fall out of my chair, and my stomach does a back handspring.

  “Front page!” he says. “Nice.”

  “Thanks.” My face is on fire. I wonder if I look like I’m having an allergic reaction.

  AJ gives me a strange look as he passes behind Tony en route from Alice’s desk to the mailboxes, the giant U.S. Postal container in hand.

  “Come on,” Tony says. “I’m going to the deli. Let me buy you a congratulatory coffee.”

  “Okay.” I don’t particularly want or need coffee, but I can’t help it. Before I know it, I’m following him out of the newsroom like a sheep.

  “Going to the deli,” I say to AJ as I walk toward the exit with Tony. “Want anything?”

  He never looks my way, just continues to sort mail. A few awkward seconds tick away. Finally he says, “Nope. I’m good.”

  * * *

  On our way back to the Herald Tribune, Tony and I run into Tessie. She’s another regular at John’s Corner Deli. I see her most afternoons. She’s carrying her pink motorcycle helmet—the one that matches her Harley-Davidson parked at the curb.

  “Hey, Tessie,” I say. “Taking a break from deliveries?”

  She laughs. “I need my afternoon cup of joe,” she says.

  Tessie’s a riot. She’s got to be close to seventy, and she still rides around on her Harley delivering Avon. She told me she got bored with retirement and went into cosmetics sales.

  “She’d make a great profile,” I say to Tony as we stroll down the sidewalk. “I was going to ask Jack if I could work on it.”

  “You should. He’ll let you. You’re like the newsroom wunderkind,” he says, nudging me lightly with his shoulder.

  The sudden contact sends my heart rate straight into the aerobic zone. “No, I’m not,” I insist. “I hardly did anything. It was all Meg.”

  “Don’t be so modest,” he says. “I’ve been thinking of asking Harry to let me cover more hard news. My adviser thinks I need some stronger pieces for my portfolio.”

  “You should,” I say. “I’m sure he’d let you.”

  Tony grimaces. “Well, that makes one of us. I’m not his favorite person.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true,” Tony says as he holds open the side door for me.

  Does Harry not like Tony? I’m not sure what to say, so I keep my mouth shut as I step into the dimly lit stairwell. It’s one flight up to the newsroom.

  “Thanks again for the coffee,” I say.

  “No problem. If you come to bar night, I’ll buy you a beer,” Tony says just before we go through the newsroom door.

  “Bar night?”

  “Yeah, at the Harp & Bard. Every Wednesday. Sometimes Thursday. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “No.” I feel the familiar pang of being left out.

  “Try to make it. Everyone usually heads over right after work,” he says.

  “Maybe,” I say, trying to sound casual, and wondering if I’ll need a fake ID.

  “Oh, come on, you can do better than ‘maybe,’” he says, and does that shoulder-bump thing again. “The first round is on me.”

  Is he flirting with me? Maybe he’s this way with everyone.

  “I’ll try,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see AJ watching us.

  “You’d better do more than try.”

  “Thanks again for the coffee.”

  I stride toward the obit desk, intent on laying into AJ for not telling me about bar nights, when I’m intercepted by Meg.

  “Great job on that obit, kiddo,” she says.

  “I hardly did anything,” I say. “Thank you for the byline. That was awesome.”

  “You know, Harry will never say this to you,” she says, leaning toward me, “but he was very impressed by how you handled yourself on deadline. If I were you, I’d show a little chutzpah and ask him if you can cover some spot news, or maybe even a council meeting or two. It’s summer. Reporters will be looking for vacation coverage.”

  My mind immediately jumps to Michael’s beat. I’ve been researching other public corruption cases in New Jersey in my free time. (I should be getting gel manicures like Shelby, but at least I’m aware of my nerdy ways.) Kickback schemes, embezzlement of county funds, tax evasion; it’s unfortunate, but there are countless examples of how our elected officials abuse the public’s trust. A common thread running through a lot of these cases is that reporters are usually the first to uncover the corruption. We are the watchdogs, I’ve heard Harry say. Even then, it takes years for the authorities to bring these people to justice. Michael is honing in on Sy Goldberg as a starting point. Finding him is just the beginning; who knows where it could lead?

  “Do you think Harry will let me cover real news?”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “But even if he says no, Harry appreciates aggressive writers.”

  “Thanks, Meg. For everything.”

  I finally settle into my desk chair and tap my keyboard, bringing my computer screen to life.

  “Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” AJ says. “Ready to do some work, or are you going to milk the police-chief obit accolades for the rest of the day?”

  Why is he being such a jerk? I’m racking my brain for a razor-sharp comeback, but I’ve got nothin’. The obit phone rings, and for once I’m thrilled. I snatch the receiver. “Obit desk, can I help you?” It comes out louder and angrier than I intended. “Sure. How many do you have?”

  I start typing and vow to ignore AJ for the rest of the afternoon.

  * * *

  Around dinnertime, I plop a Snapple carton filled with orders on the obit desk. AJ is on the phone and doesn’t look up. We still haven’t spoken. I sneak a peek in Tony’s direction and see Alexis, one of the Herald Tribune’s photographers or photogs, leaning her butt against Tony’s desk, with her long, thin legs stretched out before her. Tony’s tilting back in his chair, hands behind his head like he’s about to do a crunch, and smiling up at her as she relates what must be some wildly interesting anecdote involving her and her five-foot-nine, size-double-zero friends.

  At that very moment, I vow to start wearing makeup and use a blow dryer instead of always wrapping my long hair in a careless twist. I slump into my seat. What was I thinking? Why would he flirt with me when girls like Alexis so obviously flirt with him? Maybe there’s something going on between them. I’ll find a subtle way to ask AJ about it, if he’ll talk to me. In the meantime, I’ve got dinner orders to distribute.

  I take the box with me and purposely wait to give AJ his roast beef sub last.

  “What’s going on between Tony and Alexis?” I blurt out as I hand him his sandwich.

  “Are you starting a Herald Tribune gossip blog? Cool. Our lame-ass website needs something,” AJ says, nonplussed. “How should I know who Coma Boy is doing these days? At times it seems like his life’s ambition is to work his way through every chick in the newsroom.”

  “Aren’t you afraid he’s going to hear you calling him that?” I ask.

  “In addition to being stupid, he’s so arrogant he’d never think I was talking about him. Why are you so interested, anyway?” he says, and then, much to my horror, starts singing, “Sam and Tony sitting in a tree…”

  “What’s wrong with you?!” I whisper-scream. “Shut up!”

  AJ laughs and slaps the desk. “I don’t think
I’ve sung that song since first grade. It was worth it to see the panic on your face.”

  “Don’t talk to me,” I say. “Why don’t you go call Jessica or something?”

  “Oh, now you’re mad at me for one little joke?” he asks.

  “No, I’m mad at you because you’re an idiot and because you never told me about bar nights,” I say.

  “Did Coma Boy mention bar night?” he asks.

  “Yes, Tony did,” I say.

  “Figures,” he says.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Uh, listen, Totally Underage Girl, it’s not exactly my thing. Anyway, I usually have band practice.”

  “Oh, so, because you don’t go, I shouldn’t go.”

  “I never said that. I just don’t give bar nights much thought,” he says.

  “You don’t seem to give anything much thought,” I say, and immediately feel bad for the dig.

  “Whatever,” he says.

  “Whatever,” I mimic like a big baby, and stomp over to Jack’s desk to pick up a bunch of press releases. I carry them back to my desk and start sorting them. After a few silent minutes, during which I try not to look at AJ or Tony and pretend to be terribly engrossed in writing Community Calendar blurbs, AJ is the first to speak again.

  “So, what did he say about bar night?”

  “That I should go,” I say. “That he’ll buy me a beer.”

  “He’s such a dog.”

  “We should both go sometime. If you don’t have a band thing,” I say. I almost add, Or a girlfriend thing, because, it occurs to me, I still don’t know where AJ stands with that Jessica person. But I don’t want him mad at me again, so I leave the girl part out.

  “So, now you’re using me for a ride? Nice.” He’s smiling, though, in his subtle AJ way, so I know he’s only joking. Earlier today, I wasn’t so sure.

  “You know I don’t drive, and I can’t ask my mom or dad to pick me up from work and drop me off at a bar,” I say. “Anyway, it will be more fun if you’re there.”

  “I’ll think about it. I’m warning you, though. If we go, I’m going to tell everyone you begged me to take you.”

  “Whatever,” I say as Alexis once again arrives at Tony’s desk. Shouldn’t she be out taking photos?