“Is this Jack Johnson?”
My remark invokes AJ’s incredulous face. “Where’d ya get Jack Johnson?”
I listen to the words, about a girl who’s shy but strong, hasn’t yet figured out where she’s going, and doesn’t know the power of her words. The boy in the song says he’s known from the start she’s something special. At first I think the chorus is “Everything she says.” But then I listen more closely and realize he’s saying “Everything Sam says.”
“Oh my God! This is you!” My mouth is so dry, my lips stick to my teeth. “I didn’t know you could sing and play guitar.”
AJ grins. “Don’t forget ‘writes songs.’”
“You wrote me a song? This song is about me?” My vision blurs. I take the next right turn too sharply, roll over the curb, and nearly hit a mailbox.
“Steady, Sam-I-am,” AJ says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I’ve got a death grip on the steering wheel, but what I want more than anything is to throw my arms around him.
“Uh, how ’bout we switch places?” AJ suggests.
“Done,” I say.
I pull to the curb and park. Our doors swing open simultaneously, and we both walk in front of the Jeep. Our paths are about to crisscross as we head to opposite sides, but then I grab AJ’s hand. We are standing face-to-face in the headlights’ glow. I move to give him a hug. He moves, I think, to kiss me. I tilt my head toward him. Can this finally be happening? Suddenly, the Jeep starts rolling backward.
“Crap,” AJ says, running toward the open door and leaping into the driver’s seat.
* * *
A few hours later, around midnight, I call AJ from the house phone. I left mine with him so he can upload my playlist and my song.
“So, your car’s all right?”
“It’s fine. I forgot to tell you to use the emergency brake.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Not letting the Jeep go.”
My cheeks and neck are on fire, and my heart is pumping in double time. My body is obviously telling me how much I like him, so why aren’t the words coming out of my mouth? Say it, Sam, just say it! My mind screams.
“AJ?”
“Yeah?” he says, lowering his voice.
“I know how we can help Michael get his mayor story.”
“Of course you do. And here I thought you were going to talk dirty to me.”
Me too.
chapter twenty-five
Police Log
On Wednesday, I pull into the bank parking lot, keeping a safe distance from the mayor’s car. AJ and Michael are in the back seat. A photographer named Lane sits up front with me.
“Okay, this is it,” AJ says when the mayor exits his car. “Just like we planned.”
“Should I go with Sam and AJ?” Lane asks.
“No,” Michael says. “You and I will go in the back door now and try to get some audio and photos.”
“Got it,” Lane says.
We all exit the car at the same time, a slightly nerdy vice squad, and head for the bank. Inside, the mayor is standing at the counter where the blank deposit and withdrawal slips are, filling something out. AJ and I pretend to do the same on the opposite side of the bank. Michael and Lane stand near the entrance, looking at bank brochures. We all close in when the mayor approaches the teller’s window. “Hello, Mr. Goldberg,” says the friendly teller I spoke with last time.
Michael and Lane stand in line behind the mayor, within earshot. It’s time for me and AJ to do our thing.
“Mr. Goldberg, Mr. Goldberg,” I yell.
The mayor whips his head around. “Do I know you?” he says.
I go with the excuse I used the first time.
“We just started working at Bargain Books & Beans. Your daughter said you’d be able to cash our paychecks for us since we don’t have accounts yet.”
“What? How did you two know where to find me?”
Michael speaks up from behind him. “Because we followed you, Mr. Goldberg.”
The mayor spins around at the sound of Michael’s voice. Lane snaps photos as Michael continues talking. “Care to tell us why the mayor of East Passaic banks here as Sy Goldberg?”
Michael whips out a photocopy of Sy Goldberg’s yearbook picture. “Look familiar? Remember your old, deceased classmate?” Lane keeps clicking.
The mayor doesn’t answer. Instead, he pushes past Michael and Lane and hustles toward the back door. AJ, Lane, and I go after him while Michael stays inside and starts asking questions. Once the mayor’s through the back doors, he starts running. The three of us stand on the sidewalk and watch as he jumps into his luxury car and speeds away.
* * *
Five days later, Michael’s story takes up the entire front page of MONDAY’s paper:
WHO IS THE REAL SY GOLDBERG?
That’s how the headline with a point size of around seventy-two reads. Underneath are two photos: one of the mayor at the bank, the other of Sy Goldberg, taken from the 1964 East Passaic High yearbook I found.
Michael worked for more than a week, conducting interviews and writing the main story. He also did a piece on identity theft.
“Bless my tabloid heart,” Harry says, holding the paper at arm’s length and gazing at the front page like it’s a newborn baby. “This is a fine start to my Monday morning.”
“Yeah, the tellers and bank manager gave me some great quotes about how they knew the mayor as Mr. Goldberg,” Michael says.
“I like the interviews you did with Sy’s old classmates who remembered the day he died in the car crash,” I say.
“Good job, all,” Harry says. “Now get me my follow-up story on Kiki Ramirez.”
Most identity thieves use stolen Social Security numbers to open credit card accounts, take out loans, and steal cell phone service. The mayor’s scheme to put dead people on the payroll and collect their salaries was slightly more ambitious.
We’re sharing all our information with federal authorities, and hopefully, on the day the mayor walks out of city hall in handcuffs, the Herald Tribune will still be in business and Michael will be there to cover it.
“It’s a shame Bargain Books & Beans will probably close. I’ve grown to like that place,” I say to AJ and Michael. “Guess the mayor’s daughter is going to have to find either a new calling or someone to bankroll her coffee shop legally.”
“You rock. You know that, don’t you?” AJ says. He grabs my hand and gives my fingers a light squeeze. Friday can’t get here soon enough.
“Group hug!” Michael yells, and throws his arms around both of us. “The Harp tonight?”
Sy Goldberg died today, again. May he finally rest in peace.
“D’Angelo, catch!” Harry yells before slamming me in the back of the head with the Nerf basketball.
“Come on, you two,” Harry says to me and AJ. “I’ll play you both at once and still win.”
“You’re on,” AJ says.
I don’t know how to play basketball. It’s not a sport for the altitude challenged. I must look like an idiot, running around the newsroom floor, arms flailing, waving to AJ to pass me the ball. But who cares? I’m having a great time. Harry does indeed beat us, but not before I make one spectacular basket. AJ and Harry are shuffling around near the net. I go long or far or away from the basket—whatever it’s called in this game. AJ passes it to me. I jump and take a shot from about ten feet away. It arcs up high and goes right in.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” AJ yells, and then gives me a high five.
* * *
Shelby calls the obit desk that afternoon. We haven’t seen each other since that bar night, but at least we’ve been texting and talking.
“I read the story today,” she says. “You’re like Peter Parker.”
Spider-Man’s alter ego was a news photographer, but I don’t correct her. She’s trying.
“Wanna do something after work today?” she
asks.
“I can’t, I’m getting my hair done. I’ve got an appointment with Meg’s stylist.”
I imagine I hear Shelby falling out of her chair.
“What are you getting done? Don’t cut it—you have gorgeous hair.”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking about dying it red.”
“Okay, okay. I can see that.”
“Want me to stop by when I’m done?” I ask.
“I’d love that,” Shelby says.
It will be good to see her. The dynamic between us is changing, but it’s a good thing, I think, for both of us.
* * *
Meg’s stylist, Jimmi, gives me the star treatment. When I get there, he kisses me on each cheek, European style. Then he has someone fix me a sparkling water with lime as he sits me down at his station. Above his mirror I notice a plaque that says YOU ARE MY HIDING PLACE.
“I got them from a customer,” Jimmi says when he sees me looking at it. “She says she comes here to escape her life for a while.”
“I get that.”
“You have beautiful hair,” he says, pulling the back out straight and studying the color.
“Meg thinks I should dye it red,” I say.
“What do you think you should do?” he asks.
“Definitely leave the length,” I say.
Jimmi shows me a color chart, and we discuss the option of highlights, but in the end, I decide on a mere trim, a little product, and a blowout. Jimmi turns me toward the mirror. It’s funny, I’m actually startled by my own reflection. My first reaction is, Who is that pretty girl? Jimmi looks worried by my lack of immediate response but relaxes when I break into a nearly giddy grin.
“That’s me!” I cannot stop smiling.
“It sure is. Gorgeous.”
chapter twenty-six
Stop the Presses
It’s still dark when I pull into the Herald Tribune’s parking lot on Wednesday morning. Spaces are scarce. I find a spot in the last row. I take a deep breath and get out of the car. Crickets are chirping away in the skimpy shrubbery lining the parking lot. Moths and mosquitoes swirl around in the streetlights. It’s like I’m going to a funeral. In a way, I guess I am.
As I walk toward the building, John from the deli down the street pulls up next to the side entrance in a white van. He rolls down the window. “Hi, Sam,” he says. “Harry asked us to cater a breakfast for your shindig. Came in early to help him out.”
“Wow. That was nice.”
“Can’t say no to Harry.”
Don’t I know it. When John opens the van’s back doors, the scent of bacon wafts toward me. Maybe today won’t be so bad after all. Bacon makes everything better.
I step into the newsroom at 4:50 a.m. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it this packed. There are some dudes in suits gathered in front of Harry’s office, by Alice’s desk, and Bernadette is back! Harry emerges from his office sporting his office-casual look, with one addition—a black armband. He’s carrying a small cardboard box, too. I’m not surprised when Harry reaches in and pulls out clumps of black armbands, the kind professional athletes wear to symbolize a fallen team member. He passes them to Meg and to the reporters who sit across from her. “Here, put these on.… Sam!” Uh-oh. I make a beeline for him, and he hands the box off to me. “Pass these out.”
We are all about theatrics today.
As we begin filtering into the press room, the enormous machines, which I now know are outdated, are still running. The front page and three others are passing overhead in big sheets. Chug, chug, chug. Like it’s taking its last breaths. The death rattle. No wonder the press guys wear soundproofing headphones. Harry assembles everyone near the control panel, where, predictably, there’s a green on and red off button. Harry waits for a signal from Franco, who’s standing a level above us, leaning over a rail and watching the paper go by for the last time. He gives Harry a thumbs-up.
“That’s it,” Harry says. My throat tightens at the sound of those words. I don’t know why I’m getting so emotional. Harry walks over to the control panel. I assume he’s going to hit the red button, but he says something to Dan, who then walks over to the wall, where there’s a red button with a softball-size circumference that says EMERGENCY—it’s almost cartoonish.
Dan smacks the button, and the machines grind to a halt.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Dan says. And then he wipes his eyes with his thumb and index finger, a quiet motion that is duplicated by more than half the people standing in the room.
“Dan, Franco, and Henry. Come up here. I’d like to say a few words,” Harry says.
“These are the men who have been putting the ink on our paper for at least three decades. The ones who work through the night so a newspaper comes out each and every morning. They were here through eight presidential elections, Vietnam, the day John Lennon was shot, Nine-Eleven, two wars in Iraq, and the same number of space-shuttle disasters. They helped us chronicle local events and world history. They are the Herald Tribune’s soul. We owe these men a round of applause.”
With that, the room erupts. Tears stream down my face. I’m not alone. Even AJ’s eyes are watery behind his glasses.
* * *
I go for a coffee run at three o’clock—maybe my last. When I come back, the newsroom is eerily empty. AJ’s at his desk, but that’s it.
“Harry wants to see you in the conference room, right away,” AJ says.
“Am I in trouble?”
“Well, all the dead people on today’s obit page are in fact dead, so I’d say you’re probably safe,” he says with an AJ-like smirk. “Nice hair, by the way. I meant to say it earlier.”
I touch the top of my head. I’m surprised he noticed. “I just got a trim.”
“I know.”
Tentatively, I make my way toward the conference-room door and step inside, expecting to see angry Harry. Instead I’m greeted by a chorus of “Surprise!!!” The whole newsroom is there—even Bernadette stuck around. There’s a sheet cake on the table.
“It’s a going-away party and belated Happy Birthday all in one,” Jack explains.
“Wow,” I say. “Thank you all so much. I can’t believe you did this for me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, D’Angelo,” Harry cautions. “We did this because we like cake.”
The icing reads HARK, THE HERALD ANGEL DRIVES!
“It’s all spelled correctly, Moronica,” Bernadette snarks. “You weren’t here to write it.”
“I’m glad you’re back to proof it,” I say, and smile.
“Only part-time,” Bernadette adds. “And my doctor says no more burgers.”
She’s looking well, rocking a lilac tank top and matching eye shadow. Slimmer even. The sight of her makes me remember the beginning of the summer, before so much of everything happened. I’m just happy she’s still breathing.
“We also made you this,” Grace says.
It’s a framed copy of my POW feature story.
“You can show it to your kids someday. Tell them it’s how people used to get their news before we all got chips implanted in our brains,” Jack says.
“This is amazing. Thank you,” I say.
“D’Angelo,” Harry says, “try getting some work done after you have your cake. I want to see you in my office before you leave today.”
I notice Tony exiting with Alexis on his heels. A perfect pair. Without either of them in the room, I’m able to enjoy my big piece of fattening cake with my friends.
When we’re back at the obit desk, AJ asks, “So, is this really your last day? What did Harry say when you showed him your blog and told him about your idea?
I’m tidying my desk and packing up my personal stuff. I open the top drawer and take out a file folder filled with my clips.
“He said he’d read it and get back to me. Between the mayor and the presses shutting down…”
I trail off. My voice is on the verge of cracking, and my eyes are getting watery. AJ chang
es the subject.
“So, Friday?”
“Friday,” I say. “Finally.”
“I’m out of here. I’ve got to meet with my adviser to get some classes changed,” AJ says. He puts a hand on each of my shoulders and looks down into my eyes. “Call you later?”
“You better.”
* * *
It’s four thirty when I sit down in the chair facing Harry’s desk. I’ve been here for nearly twelve hours.
“You’ve done a great job this summer,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you about your blog idea and your request to stay in the fall.”
I don’t like the sound of this.
“Given the events of this morning, even with all the restructuring, the future of the paper is shaky at best. Layoffs are imminent, and I don’t know that we’d be able to pay you. Your senior year is an important one. I don’t want you wasting your time here if we don’t have much to offer.”
“That’s okay, I don’t need the money. I can be an unpaid intern or work for credit or something. It wouldn’t be a waste of time, really. Before I started working here, I felt … People here get me. I get them. I need this place.…”
My voice cracks. I thought I could do this without getting emotional. Harry senses it. He clenches his jaw and looks out the window.
“Tell you what. I like your high school blog idea. I do. Maybe it can be a weekly thing on our website. And if you really can’t live without the obit desk, and you don’t mind working for credit instead of money, we can probably use you around here a few hours a week. Especially since Coma Boy is leaving and I’m moving AJ to features. As long as the paper stays in business, we’ll always have a place for you.”
“You mean it?!” I spring out of my chair and plop back down again. I’m more excited to hear AJ’s moving to features than I am to be staying.
“There’s something seriously wrong with you, D’Angelo. But it makes sense. That seems to be the general theme around here.”
“Thank you, Harry. So I’ll see you Monday after school?”
“No, you won’t. I want you to settle in to school first. Get more ideas for your blog. Whip that yearbook staff into shape. Be the first to figure out what the next big trend is going to be, or start your own. Go out with a bang, not a whimper. Get it?”
Famous Last Words Page 18