After Phantom left, no one said anything. Nobody got up to leave, either. Then one of the chicks asked, “We still got a group, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We still got a group.”
16
“Why won’t you shut off the light?” Bethany whines.
It’s after eleven. She’s been out of school for a couple of days. It wasn’t a cold, but a virusy thing that was making her extra cranky.
“Just a minute.” I type the last sentence of my history essay and don’t even proof it before hitting Print. While I wait, I click over to email. Holy crap! A new message. It’s from a Gmail account, though, not Hotmail.
If you want to know more about MP, meet me at the Promenade playground, 4:00 tomorrow. Don’t tell anyone. I will know if you disobey. Come alone.
My immediate response: I’ll be there. By myself.
Even though the time elapsed from reading the email to sending the reply is probably no more than sixty seconds, I feel my sister’s eyes on my back. Sure enough, when I turn, she gives me a pouty stare.
“If I’m still sick tomorrow, it’s your fault.”
I don’t get into the science of germs with her. Like the fact that they have a specific life span and keeping the light on five more minutes won’t make a lick of difference to her health. Instead, I gather pages from the printer.
“Done! Go to sleep.”
“Shut the light!” she commands.
I flip the switch on my way to the bathroom. That means I have to feel my way across the Sloth Queen’s Cave of Darkness upon my return. It’s not like I’m falling asleep anytime soon, however. A million questions run through my mind: Who sent the email? What will the person tell me? Why the playground?
Every night, before going to sleep, I pull the curtains together in order to get the room dark enough for my sister. Long ago, I discovered that if I shift the fabric in a certain way and lean against the window, the light from the streetlamp shines only on me. Without waking Bethany, I slide my Campus News notebook out of my backpack and come up with questions to ask. My assumption is that MP will freak if I whip out a notebook so I memorize the list.
Once that’s done, it’s hard not to pick up my cell, charging on the desk, and text Marci. Or someone else on the team. But if I do that, I’ve broken my promise. Gone public with something private. When you’re investigating a story, “off the record” is the hardest thing to deal with. It means the reporter’s not allowed to name the source who gave up the information. The problem is that no one can double-check the accuracy of what I’m saying. I could be accused of lying like Hailey had done.
There are other reasons to keep quiet. I could be getting Punk’d. No one shows up and I look like a gullible twerp. Or they do show up and I can’t convince whoever’s meeting me to agree to an interview—or get them to go public—so I can report it. Better to not embarrass myself in front of Jagger and the rest of the team until I find out what’s up.
Still, I’m so excited. I stare at the moon.
“I’m meeting MP!” I mouth, knowing the moon, at least, will never tell.
* * *
At school, I’m antsy all day. Jagger uses the computer station next to mine to edit his Spotlight interview, but I barely notice. It’s only when I hear Henry say, “The stuff on Ali’s rehearsal tape is really great,” that I glance over.
“What rehearsal tape?” I ask.
“Ali gave Jagger video of a rehearsal that Mrs. Malmgren shot,” Henry tells me. “She brought it home to check how the dances look. Ali’s in the show and she’s choreographing.”
“Guess she’s doubly talented. When did you get the tape, Jags?”
He looks up. “What? Oh, after I left Tony’s. That’s the reason I ran out of there so fast. Ali said she’d meet me in front of her building at five forty-five and I didn’t want to be late. Why?”
Wow. I’d completely misinterpreted the situation but at least I hadn’t said anything to him. “No reason.”
Jagger shrugs and shifts his attention to the screen. “Henry, do you think this part is a little slow…?”
Happy to dodge that bullet, I return to my list, reviewing the questions I plan to ask my MP contact and adding a couple of new ones. I want to be ready for anything the contact says.
What I’m not prepared for is the envelope propped on the shelf in my locker at the end of the day. It’s not as creepy as finding a dead animal, but being reminded that MP has my combination—and is not afraid to use it—makes me furious.
It’s a plain white envelope, the kind all parents have on their desk, and that any kid can take without it being missed. Nothing’s written on the front or the back. Inside, the typed note is brief:
Change of plans. Tonight at 9. Same place. Remember—not a word to anyone. Do not come one minute earlier.
“Damn!” I breathe.
How scary is a playground in the afternoon, with parents and nannies alert for any whiff of danger? Not very. Nighttime, however, is a whole different story.
My immediate thought is to email MP, tell him I can’t go at night and ask for another afternoon. But if the past is any example, there won’t be a reply. I could skip the meeting, but that ruins any chance for an interview.
Someone’s cleverly thought this through. If I want the story, I have no choice but to do what I’m told.
* * *
When I get home after school, I discover the Cub Scouts are having a spaghetti dinner fundraiser at the elementary school. Mom’s on the committee and she made Dad come home early to help.
For once, I’m the daughter who whines. “Nobody told me about this! I’ve got stuff to do.”
“We bought you a ticket,” Mom says.
“Is Bethany going?”
“No!” my sister shouts from the living room couch. “I hate spaghetti dinners. Gross pasta and hard garlic bread.”
“See?” I look to Dad for support. “Come on, Dad, tell Mom I shouldn’t have to do it.”
He shrugs. “I don’t see why you have to go. But it’s your mother’s decision.”
Mom throws up her hands. “Fine! Eat leftovers, girls.”
Bethany scoots into the kitchen. “No way. I am not eating meat loaf again. It was disgusting the first time.”
“Then come to the dinner. Those are your choices.” Mom stomps out of the room, yells up the steps, “Jessie! James! Time to go.”
Dad puts a finger to his lips and pulls out a couple of tens. “Get a pizza or something.”
My sister grabs the money and grins at Dad. “Thanks!”
“Frank!” Mom is on the front stoop. “We’re late!”
“Have fun, guys!” I shout. After the door closes, I hold out a hand for my share of the dough. “Nice going, Bethany!”
She shrugs. “I hate meat loaf.”
“So does Dad.”
“Then why do we have it?”
“That is an excellent question.”
She looks to see if I’m messing with her. I’m not, but Bethany isn’t sure.
“I’m going to order Chinese when I get hungry,” she says. “Do you want something?”
Bethany knows I hate Chinese, so it’s not a surprise when I say no. She gallops happily upstairs. I finish my homework in front of the living-room TV, watch a rerun and then the news. Emily Purdue interviews a Wall Street dude about the stock market dip. She’s focused and polite. When the guy doesn’t answer a que
stion and shifts the conversation to what he wants to say, she rephrases. A useful tip—and one I’m eager to try.
The delivery guy shows up about seven o’clock. It’s against house rules to eat anywhere except the kitchen or dining room, but Bethany doesn’t care. She takes the bag and starts back upstairs.
“If cockroaches show up in our bedroom tonight,” I shout, “I’ll kill you!”
Her reply is a door slam. It’s not only roaches I’m worried about. Now the room’s going to smell like Kung Pao chicken. Suppressing the urge to run up and choke my sister, I head for the kitchen. I don’t hate meat loaf as long as there’s ketchup. If I eat that now, my share of the money is saved for after-school pizza emergencies.
Half a meat loaf sandwich later, my stomach, tied up in knots from nerves, rebels. I toss the rest into the trash and check the time. Restless, I go through my backpack. Phone charged, new pen, small notebook in case the contact person lets me take notes. Check, check and check.
After reviewing my questions for the hundredth time, I run halfway up the steps—no way am I stepping foot into the bedroom until my sister’s done eating—and yell, “Bethany, I’m going out for a little while!”
Five minutes later, I’m on the way to my first-ever interview with an unknown source.
* * *
The little park that’s the rendezvous point is next to the Promenade on Pierrepont Street. The Statue of Liberty, the East River and Manhattan are visible from the top of the slide. The twins still look for Easter eggs there during the annual hunt.
What surprises me, though, is just how dark the playground is at this hour. Twisting branches of maple trees block the streetlamp, creating shadows within shadows. The benches are vacant. It’s not like I thought I’d see kids swinging on swings or making sand castles. Still, it’s a surprise to find the place completely empty.
The play area itself is small, surrounded by a spiky metal fence that reaches my shoulders. There’s only one gate into—and out of—the playground. The sign says Open 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. I check my cell. It’s 8:59.
The final minute is taken up with trying to open the gate. Did MP screw up? Does the city lock it early? Finally, it occurs to me that I have to reach through the metal bars, twist my hand and slide the latch from the inside edge.
Dead, crinkly leaves drift across the walkway. The gate clangs. I glance over my shoulder, but it’s only the weight of the metal set to close each time someone enters. No one’s behind me. My gaze sweeps the area. The usual assortment of swings, teeter-totter and slides are off to the side. In a central pit, a large structure made of wood, rope and plastic has climbing steps, bridges—and several hiding places.
“That’s close enough!” Coming from either inside or behind the play structure, the voice is distorted. There’s an app for that. Given the Gaines girls’ lame phones, we aren’t able to download it, but I’ve seen it before on Jagger’s phone.
“I told you to stop!”
It’s too dark to see any movement ahead of me. I’m not sure the person is even in the playground. He could be on the other side of the fence, hiding behind the bushes.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I shout.
“Go to the Starbucks on Montague. Second table on the left. Look inside the napkin holder.”
“I thought we were going to talk—”
“If you don’t get there by nine-fifteen, the note will be gone.”
I check my cell. Eleven minutes to go. Even if I charge forward like Phil blitzing an opposing quarterback, I can’t get out of the playground. The fence is impossible to climb. By the time I move back through the gate and run to the other side, the person will be gone.
There go all my carefully crafted questions. With no choice but to hike down Pierrepont, I scan the side streets for anyone scrambling away. No luck. I swerve onto Montague. Starbucks is two-thirds of the way down, not far from Trinity Church’s school auditorium.
With barely a minute to spare, I burst into the coffee shop completely out of breath. A few weird looks from people drinking chai lattes and mocha cappuccinos get thrown my way, but nobody says anything. It’s Brooklyn. I’d have to have a bloody face or bullet in my arm for anyone to actually speak to me.
I check out the tables. Is it two from the back—or front? It seems logical to count from the door. I walk up to the balding man sitting at the second table.
“Excuse me. I have to switch this.” The man, focused on his laptop, barely looks up as I replace his metal napkin holder with one from another table.
In the corner, an empty leather chair beckons. Hunched over, I pop out the napkins. Fan them carefully. Nothing. Either my contact lied, or he’s counting from the back.
The couple at the second-from-last table when I first arrived is gone. I do the same pull-the-napkins routine. Stuffed behind the last one is a note.
Your broadcasts are right. MP is not a person but a group. We chose someone from the people who put stuff in the box and told her she could join as long as she went through an initiation. She said yes, but it went wrong. Now she’s in the hospital. It changed everything. I could get in big trouble for telling you this. Don’t let anyone know I contacted you. Spies are everywhere.
The house is dark when I slip back in, twins and parents tucked away in bed. That’s a happy surprise because it means I don’t have to explain where I’ve been.
Despite the fact that Bethany cracked the window about an inch, my bedroom smells like a Chinese restaurant. Apparently, being the Queen of Sloth is an unusually tiring occupation because she fell asleep before getting rid of the leftovers. The takeout carton sits on the night table between our beds. With visions of roaches skittering across my pillow, I grab the box with two fingers and toss it into the downstairs trash.
Now that I’m sure everyone’s asleep, I decide to reread the note in the full light of the kitchen. The news hasn’t changed. Someone’s in the hospital. Joining MP isn’t a game.
What to do? I lay out three options: say nothing, tell the team or show the note to an adult. Mr. Carleton, Mrs. Fahey or Wilkins. But something nags at me. It’s still possible to be the victim of an elaborate Punk’d scheme. What if the note’s a setup? A lie? I go ahead, broadcast the story—and then somehow they prove it false. That would make me look unreliable. To the school, Mr. Carleton and the team.
What I need is a second source. In Intro, Mr. C. screened All the President’s Men. The whole point of the movie is that the reporters had to confirm every piece of information discovered two ways—or their editor wouldn’t publish the articles.
“I’m holding you to the same standards,” Mr. Carleton told us. “Campus News is not gonzo journalism. Not the Grunge Report.”
The good part is I’ll be perfectly safe broadcasting a story as long as I find one other person to verify the information in the note. That way, I haven’t burned my source and I can’t get in trouble for not checking things out correctly.
Then the adults at school can take over and actually do something about shutting MP down—instead of making stupid announcements in the middle of class. B Team will get that story, too, so it’s win-win.
How I find the second source, though, is what makes being a reporter interesting—and really, really hard.
17
“I want to do a story about accidents,” I announce the next day.
Raul perks up. “Car? Snowboards? Walking under a ladder and then falling i
nto a hole—”
“That’s a superstition,” Marci tells him. “Like breaking a mirror.”
“Not superstitions!” It comes out harsher than I intend. “Sorry, Marci, didn’t mean to yell. I want to find kids who are in the hospital because of an accident. Any kind.”
Jagger looks at me curiously. “Isn’t that kind of…random?”
“Not really,” Omar says. “It’s like a Spotlight but with more than one person.”
“I’m in,” Marci says. “Nice idea, Val.”
“Since when is nice one of a producer’s qualities?” Jagger asks a bit too innocently. “I thought they’re supposed to be hard-hitting, a little bossy—”
Not for the first time, Raul rides to my rescue. “If the girl wants to do a puff piece, she can. Change it up, right, Val?”
Marci kicks me under the table just as Henry asks, “You sure there’s anyone to interview?”
“Definitely,” Marci says. “There’s the girl who got into a bad accident last week. Our goalie knows her—”
“Got a name?” Raul asks.
“I can find out.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll check with the attendance office,” I say. “Who’s up for a trip to the first floor?”
Raul pops up. “I’m not afraid of Mrs. G.”
Marci smiles brightly. “Great!”
I slip my backpack over my shoulder. “Don’t bother to sign out a camera, Raul. Gribaldini refuses to let us shoot in her office, but it won’t matter because all we need are names. The rest of you know what you’re working on?”
At this point in the year, we’ve got stories in all stages of development; some ready to roll, a few half-finished, a couple just getting started. Chairs scrape as the team scatters. Raul and I walk out of the Media Center side by side.
“How’d you come up with the idea?” he asks.
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