“It is? What’s he look like?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Fiona says. “I’ve never seen him. Mr. Amato usually drops off our paychecks. He’s my manager’s dad, you know.”
“That’s interesting,” I say.
“Okay then, Fiona. Thanks for that,” Shelby says. “Maybe we’ll be working together soon.”
I’m still recovering from both Shelby’s initiative and what I’ve just learned. Seems like no one ever sees Sy Goldberg. He’s like the Easter Bunny.
Shelby pulls my arm and drags me toward the door.
“I hear music. Let’s see if the band’s any good,” she says.
“Thanks, Fiona,” I call over my shoulder.
“Anytime. And, hey, Sam, remember what I said about writing for us.”
When we step onto the sidewalk, Shelby looks at me and says, “And that’s how you solve Blue’s Clues.”
No kidding. Who knew she had it in her?
We cross the street and walk toward the public library. The band is set up on the gazebo near the town duck pond. They’re young—like, high school age—although I don’t recognize any of them.
“They’re not bad,” I say as we draw nearer. “Kinda have a surf-rock thing going on.”
“The lead singer looks cute, but I can’t tell from here,” Shelby says. “Come on, let’s get closer.”
We approach the crowd in front of the band. I scan the group to see if there’s anyone we know. There’s a cluster of girls toward the front singing along to every word. Groupies or girlfriends, hard to say which. Hanging toward the back chatting are two men and two women I’m pegging as band parents, and off to the side, talking to a girl with short shorts and braids, is AJ. He’s got a pen and reporter’s notebook in his hand, so I’m guessing he got sent out to work on a holiday story. I’m about to say hi when the girl puts her hand on his upper arm and leans in close to his ear. My breath quickens. AJ grins and shakes his head as she talks. Reflexively, I grab Shelby, pull her around the side of the gazebo, and hide behind a bush.
“Ouch, Sam. What are you doing? I can’t see.”
“AJ’s here.”
Shelby takes a step away. “He is? Where?”
“Wait, no!” I scream, and reel her in.
“Why not? I wanna meet him.”
“He’s talking to some girl.”
“So? What’s the big deal?”
Did he come here with her, or is it someone he just met? He wouldn’t take a girl along on a work assignment. I peer around the shrubbery, and Shelby nudges me out of the way.
“Lemme see.”
“How would you know who he’s—”
“Jessica Palladino.”
“Wha … you know her?”
“She graduated from Chestnutville High two years ago. She’s Jason Palladino’s older sister.”
I’ve got to hand it to Shelby. She knows a lot of people and floats between cliques easily without ever becoming part of one.
“Come on,” Shelby says. “Let’s go talk to them.”
“No, Shelby, please. Let’s go home. He’s working. I don’t want to bug him.”
Shelby hesitates for a split second and then gives in. “Fine,” she says. “Doesn’t look like he’s working. Looks like he’s talking to a girl. But maybe that’s what’s really bothering you.”
“Let’s go.” I walk toward the duck pond with Shelby following. With Jessica at his side and the gazebo in his line of sight, hopefully AJ didn’t notice me.
chapter thirteen
Senior Connections
I’m not a big fan of the Fourth of July. It’s like an anomaly in the time-space continuum. Technically, it comes at the beginning of the summer. But once the long holiday weekend passes, it feels like summer’s half-over. It bums me out because I’m never in any rush to get back to school.
To make matters worse, I’m sitting on six feet of powder blue velour that is the back seat of Aunt Connie’s cavernous Lincoln. Seventeen can’t come fast enough.
“Are you sure you’ve got a ride home?” Gram asks.
“Positive.” I’m not sure, but I’ll risk it.
I’m getting carsick back here. Aunt Connie maneuvers a car like it’s a boat, drifting left to right like we’re on choppy waters. She seems oblivious to the fact that’s she’s in control of this vehicle.
“Where are you ladies headed?” I ask.
“We’re getting manicures,” Gram says.
“We’re going to a wake tomorrow,” Aunt Connie says.
As if one is a requirement for the other.
“You need to get your nails done for a viewing?” I ask.
“Of course. We’ll be shaking the widower’s hand,” Gram says. “I’m getting a paraffin wrap so my hands are extra soft.”
“It won’t matter. I always get in line ahead of your grandmother,” Aunt Connie says. “I usually wink at the widower.”
“But I give his hand an extra squeeze,” Gram says.
“Don’t tell me you’re frequenting wakes to pick up old men,” I say.
Aunt Connie laughs. “It beats ShopRite.”
Is there a name for cougars on Social Security?
Gram turns serious. “We’re just having fun. My husband was my husband. And that was that.”
Poor Gram. I regret teasing her. She shared her life with Gramps for more than fifty years. How do people find that kind of forever love? How do you keep going when that person is gone?
I need to be a better granddaughter and take Gram to a movie or something. I don’t care how old she is—wakes should not be a source of entertainment. My thoughts are interrupted by an abrupt shift in the Lincoln. Aunt Connie is pulling up in front of the Herald Tribune and seems to be angling for the parking lot. I do not need her careening into anyone’s car.
“You can drop me right here!” I say too sharply. “The street is fine.”
Aunt Connie screeches to a halt at the curb. I made her nervous.
“Bye, hon,” Gram says.
“Bye, Gram. Thanks, Aunt Connie.” I lean over the front seat, give them each a quick kiss on the cheek, and hope no one sees me getting out of the car.
* * *
I hope today isn’t so bad, I think as I cross the parking lot to the side entrance. Turns out working yesterday—a Sunday during a holiday weekend—was the worst. The hours passed by slowly, and with no one to talk to, I spent way too much time thinking about seeing AJ with Jessica. I liked it better when she was just a voice on the phone.
When I open the door, I’m thrilled to see Michael at his desk.
“Michael! You’re back!” I almost give him a hug. And I’m so not a hugger. AJ’s already here too, which makes me doubly happy Michael’s back—he can act as a buffer.
“Sam-I-am,” Michael says. The nickname is spreading. “What’s the good word?”
AJ holds up a hand. “Please do not ask him about the kidney stones. He’s been referring to one as his first child, Irving, all morning.”
I cover my ears and start humming a nonsense song. “I’m not hearing this. I’m definitely not hearing this.”
Michael laughs. “Follow any mayors lately?”
I shoot AJ a look. “You told him?”
“Irving? I had to change the subject,” AJ says.
“Did AJ tell you about ending up at a bank three towns away? In Belleville?” I ask.
“Yep. Unless he robbed it, there’s no crime there,” Michael laughs. “Not one that we can prove, anyway.”
“I’ve got more news too,” I say.
Michael smiles and puts his chin in his hand. “Enlighten me.”
“Sy Goldberg signs the paychecks at Bargain Books & Beans.”
“How’d you find that out?” Michael asks. I can tell he’s surprised.
I told him how I made Shelby apply for a job there and how she asked Fiona to settle a bet for us.
Now AJ’s shocked. “Your ditzy friend? Really?”
“Really. Fio
na says Mayor Amato drops off their checks and that she has never seen Sy.”
“No one has. That’s just the thing,” Michael says. “We suspect other people of having bogus jobs in the city. But all of them at least pretend to do something. They show up from time to time. No one has ever seen Sy. That’s why I’m targeting him. It’s my best chance at proving some kind of abuse of funding or power.”
“So, you think the whole Sy-is-on-his-deathbed thing is a cover?” I ask.
“Sy is probably healthy as a horse and collecting a paycheck in Miami,” Michael says. “That’s my best guess.”
“You’ve done searches on him?” I ask.
“Of course. Nexis, Google, the works. Nothing turned up, which doesn’t mean anything except that nothing’s been written about him.”
It’s sad to think that for some people, an obit is the only time they’ll be in print, and then they’re not even around to enjoy it.
I survey the sparsely populated newsroom and throw Waiting for Godot, CosmoGirl, and Seventeen onto my desk. Only a handful of people are in, which is only slightly better than yesterday, when it was only Rocco and me. I raise my eyebrows when I see Tony’s here. Alice too, which means Harry’s in his office.
“I’m glad I brought some backup entertainment,” I say.
“Yeah, a lot of people took the holiday off,” Michael says. “Stinks to be the intern. Been there.”
“Why are you here?” I ask Michael.
“Just trying to get caught up after—”
“Yeah, yeah. Irving, we know,” AJ says. He’s fiddling with the ring around his neck. I find the Jessica thing puzzling.
The door smacks open, and in walks photog Alexis. There goes my plan for quality face time with Tony. Michael and AJ watch her go by and exchange that knowing guy look. I don’t blame them. It’s hard not to. Her legs are nearly as long as my whole body. She looks like she belongs in front of a camera, not behind one.
What I wouldn’t give to look like her for just one day.
Meg comes bounding through the door and walks toward the obit desk. “It’s dead in here. No pun intended.” Meg laughs. “This is the kind of day that requires an afternoon field trip to the megadrugstore and some bubble tea. Wanna come, Sam?”
“Sure. If Harry lets me leave,” I say. “What’s bubble tea?”
“You’ve never had it? You are so coming along. I’ll talk to Harry,” she says.
“Okay, then.” I’m happy to have something to look forward to, since this seems like the start of another uneventful day.
I spend the morning answering a barrage of phone calls from people—clueless people who obviously can’t read or Google—inquiring about the start times and locations for various parades, festivals, and fireworks. I also field a few complaint calls from older people who don’t like the way our newspaper’s ink gets all over their hands. Just like the obit versus death notice question, I get at least one of these calls a day. We apparently have substandard ink at the Herald Tribune. One more advantage to reading the news on smartphones, tablets, and laptops.
“Hey, Sam. I’m taking off.”
I glance up to see Tony standing by my desk, and I quickly turn toward my computer screen and click on something, anything, so he doesn’t see how nervous he makes me. AJ is sitting across from me, on the phone.
“Can you do me a favor? If this person calls, can you have her call my cell?” He hands me a piece of paper, as if I’ve already said yes.
“I’m covering a concert in Liberty State Park tonight. She’s supposed to hook me up with VIP parking.”
“Sure, no problem,” I say.
He begins to walk, stops midstride, and turns around. “If you don’t have plans, I’ve got a plus one. You’re welcome to come along.”
Are you kidding me? I’m there! That’s what inner Sam screams. Outwardly, it’s business as usual. The responsible-to-a-fault people pleaser.
“Uh-oh. I can’t. I’ve got plans to see the fireworks with a friend.”
“Well, have fun,” he says.
“You too.”
“Hey, and don’t forget. Bar night on Wednesday. We missed you last week.”
AJ’s off the phone now and listening, I can tell.
Holy crap! Did that just happen? I’m such an ass. An amazing-looking guy asks me to do something fun, and I totally blow him off. Why don’t I just bag my evening with Shelby? It’s my parents’ fault for raising me to be so loyal. Maybe it’s not too late. I look down at his number in my hand. I can give it a half hour and call his cell. My stomach gets all floaty at the thought, and then AJ pokes a hole in my happiness bubble.
“He’s probably looking for help writing the review. It’s some eighties act.”
“Oh yeah! He said he missed me at bar night too. Did he want me to write a review of that?” I’m so pissed, I can barely keep my voice from shaking. “At least he asks me to do things. Not like some people who cover bands in my town and don’t bother calling.”
AJ looks temporarily perplexed but quickly gets on board. “Are you talking about that thing in Chesnutville on Saturday? I thought you’d have something better to do.” Then he looks up over the top of his glasses. “How’d you know I was there, anyway?”
“It was in the paper! You wrote about it?” Thankfully, I remembered that small fact. “Speaking of which, don’t you have a parade to cover?”
“I do indeed,” he says.
“You’d better get out of here.”
My mood takes a serious dive after AJ leaves. It doesn’t help that Michael also packs up to go and I’m alone on my side of the newsroom. I do make myself smile, however, with the comical mental image of AJ at his parade, surrounded by kids with balloons, people waving flags, and marching Boy Scouts. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who does anything in daylight.
I call Shelby around lunchtime to see if her mom can pick me up after work. I don’t want to ask AJ today.
“Sure,” she says. “We’re still on for fireworks, right?”
“Of course,” I say, trying to sound happy about it.
Meg rescues me around one o’clock. I’ve been flipping through Seventeen. I can’t believe their back-to-school issue is out already. Oh where, oh where is this fictional high school from the Seventeen magazine photo shoot with girls sporting the latest fall fashions as they walk toward the front doors of their school, leaves scattered at their feet, a perfect mixture of warm autumnal colors? Disgusted, I toss the magazine aside. I’ve had enough false hope for one day.
“Whatcha doing?” Meg asks.
“I just took a quiz called ‘Do You Take Enough Beauty Risks.’” I tell Meg. “I don’t.”
“What counts as a beauty risk? Applying lipstick while driving on the New Jersey Turnpike? Getting a bikini wax from an unlicensed technician?”
Meg has porcelain skin, big, blue eyes and straight black hair she wears in a perfect, chin-length bob. Although she’s probably considered curvy by high school standards, in the real world, it doesn’t seem to matter. The men in the newsroom are always checking her out—just like they do Alexis—the difference being that Meg is genuine.
“Still going to the drugstore?” I ask. “I’m feeling a strange urge to buy berry lip gloss and navy mascara.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she says. “Let’s go.”
It’s more than an hour later when Meg and I finally walk into the newsroom with our haul from the drugstore and bubble tea (I got mango; it’s delicious). I’m beginning to panic about being gone so long, but Harry doesn’t yell at me or anything. I’m sure the burger Meg brought back for him helped.
I see AJ is at his computer, working on his parade story, no doubt. We work in silence for a while before AJ gets up, wanders over to the TV, and starts flipping through channels. When he lets out a really loud yawn, I look up from my computer to see him stretching his arms and twisting his back like he’s warming up for a run. His shirt is more formfitting than usual, and I find myse
lf staring at his broad back and biceps. Drummer muscles, I guess. My skin feels warm and tingly. I quickly look at my screen again when he turns around and starts heading back toward his desk.
“Still mad at me?” AJ asks.
“I wasn’t mad.”
“Good. ’Cause I was only pointing out the obvious about Coma Boy,” he says.
“What? That he uses people? Sounds an awful lot like dating some girl and then referring to her as your I-don’t-know.”
My annoyance resurges as I picture AJ with Jessica on Saturday and the way he was absently touching the ring around his neck this morning.
“Are you talking about Jessica? Because I never said—”
I cut him off. “You don’t have to tell me. I don’t want to know. Who you date is your own business.”
AJ opens his mouth to say something but perhaps thinks better of it.
We drift back into another forty-five minutes of working without talking, till my ride arrives and I can finally put my superslow Fourth of July weekend at the Herald Tribune to bed. Seems like even death took a holiday.
“Nice job on that parade story,” Harry says to AJ as quitting time approaches. “I hate parades, but your writing convinced me that this one was worth seeing.”
“Thanks,” AJ says.
It must have been some article, because Harry’s in an exceptionally good mood and doesn’t make either of us write a feature obit. Maybe he has a barbecue to get to.
chapter fourteen
Holiday Wrap-Up
Shelby’s mom drops us both off at my house after work. The plan is to have pizza with Gram and then walk downtown for the annual prefireworks reunion. It’s been only a few weeks since we’ve seen our classmates, and yet we all flock to Memorial Field, the high school’s football stadium, to walk laps around the bleachers and check one another out.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come with us, Gram?” I feel guilty leaving her home by herself again. I haven’t been around that much this weekend.
“You two have fun. You don’t need an old lady like me tagging along.”
“You’re not old,” Shelby says. She loves Gram. “You should see Ms. Highland, the eleventh-grade English teacher. Now, she’s old. She’s, like, too senile to even be teaching. Sometimes her wig shifts when she’s writing on the chalkboard.”
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