“Well, no,” she says. “But I know you’re going to figure it out.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious.” She pulls her knees to her chin. “You know, Spelman wasn’t my first choice.”
“Geez, thank you for sharing that.” I roll my eyes. “It’s not like it’s the school I wanted to go to ever since I was in eighth grade. It’s not like it’s the only school I applied to.”
“Can you stop feeling sorry for yourself for a second?” she says. “First of all, you literally applied early decision. You still have more time to apply to other schools. And second, I’m telling you so you feel better. I wanted to go to Emory.”
“Ew. Where all the white kids go?” I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”
“Josie,” Alice says. “I don’t know. I just did. I figured I’d be farther away from home. They have such a beautiful campus. Ava and Chloe and I decided we’d all go together.”
Her best friends from high school. I haven’t heard her talk about them since she went away.
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah.” She makes a face. “It was the worst. I thought my life was over. Ava got wait-listed and Chloe was the only one who got in. So we had to figure out a new plan.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Um. That sucks.”
“Yes, it totally did.” She smirks. “But I love it at Spelman. I’m not saying that to make you sad, I swear. I’m just saying—it works out. You end up where you’re supposed to be. Maybe you weren’t supposed to be there.”
“But it’s tradition,” I say, staring down at my lap. “You all did it.”
“Maggie didn’t.”
“She could.”
“But she’s not going to,” Alice says. “And she’s still part of the family.”
“I’m not—” I huff. “I know I’m not, like, excommunicated if I don’t go. I just really wanted to. That’s all. I wanted it for a long time.”
“I get it,” she says. “But you’ll make your own tradition somewhere else.”
“I guess.” I bite my lip. I feel the tiniest bit better. “I could take a gap year, maybe.”
“That sounds good,” Alice says. “Work on your writing.”
Writing sounds like the last thing I want to do, but I nod anyway. Mom and Dad won’t give me a hard time about a gap year if I’m working. I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get freelance work after this whole mess. I sigh.
“Um,” I say after a second, “do you have advice about the whole I might get sued thing?”
“Hell no.” She leans back. “Maybe you should talk to another journalist. I have advice for dating and prom, but not this. Getting advice from someone who has gone through it can help. Because, for real, I just don’t have any suggestions.”
But that gives me an idea. I reach for my phone and open up my contacts list. Monique’s number is on my “Favorites” list.
@JosieTheJournalist: help i think i’m dying
Monique’s apartment isn’t like Marius’s. There isn’t a cute café around the corner or a doorman in the lobby. She lives in Harlem in an apartment the size of a shoebox, but it’s cozy, and there are Lena Horne posters that make me smile.
Monique has a curly Afro, one that looks like it should be a wig because every curl is so perfect. She’s a little plump and has a big smile. As soon as she pulls me in for a hug, I’m reminded just how much I love her.
When I called to ask if I could hang out at her place to finish a story, I think she could tell I was a mess. I still am, even though I’ve gotten myself set up at her desk and have opened all my writing on my laptop. Something about the change of setting helps. This isn’t the place I’ve spent hours daydreaming about Marius.
I can’t stop replaying the last time I spoke to him, the way his face crumpled and he immediately closed himself off to me.
All this time, I’ve been freaked out about speaking to survivors of sexual assault the correct way. I didn’t want to imply I didn’t believe them or make them relive things any longer than necessary. But I didn’t even try with Marius. I didn’t even think something like this could’ve happened to him.
Once Alice and I got settled at Monique’s, I switched back over to the profile, but it’s not like writing it is any easier; I’m pretty sure I’ve written only a few lines in two hours. I groan.
“Josie?” Monique says. “It sounds like you need to take a break.”
Alice looks over from her spot on the couch. The two of them have spent the last few hours pretending to watch Living Single while secretly watching me.
“I can’t take a break,” I say. “I need this done, Monique. It’s due today and I only have two hundred words.”
I run a hand over my eyes. They’re burning. Usually, I don’t mind this feeling. It comes after I’ve spent the entire night writing something amazing or reading the best book ever. That’s definitely not the case now.
“Hey.” She places a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to meet her fierce gaze. “Deep Focus wouldn’t have given you this project if they didn’t think you could do it. The only person who doesn’t believe in yourself is you, and honestly, I think it’s the saddest thing.”
I force a breath through my nose. Before I started this, I was nervous but definitely thought I could do it. That was before I realized what I’d be getting myself into. Monique doesn’t even know about the investigation.
“It’s not about thinking I can’t do it,” I say. I don’t know if that’s true or not. “I just—I feel like I’m doing it all wrong. Have you ever gotten too close to a subject? I’ve never spent this much time with one. It’s always been fast for me.”
Monique studies my face. It’s almost like she knows what happened without my saying it. I feel like Black ladies always know what I’m talking about, even when I don’t come right out and explicitly say it.
“I don’t think it’s possible to ever be completely objective,” Monique says slowly. “We should always try to, but I don’t think it can happen. There’s something that pulls you to the story in the first place. And the best stories are the ones where the writers really care.”
“I always care,” I say. “But sometimes I think it’s too much and it doesn’t even help. I just care and care and don’t know what to do with it.”
“I don’t know, Josie,” she says. “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. You can’t take on all of the responsibilities of the world. We can’t control everything. You can only control your own actions. That’s where you start.”
I stare down at my hands. The best I can do for Marius is write the profile he deserves. I know this isn’t any way to make up for what I said. I signed up to write a profile before anything happened, and that’s what I’m going to do.
So I write.
It’s not clean at first. I write out everything—the way Marius looks when he smiles and talks about acting, how he can’t dance, the way he watches people when they speak. He’s kind and talented and smart. He deserves everything that’s happening for him right now and none of what Lennox did to him.
I have to go through and edit it, clear out the parts that sound like a love letter. People reading this will be able to tell I like him. Profiles sound like that sometimes, though. It’ll be fine.
When I’m finished, I take a moment to close my eyes, leaning back in my chair. I did it. It’s actually done. For a second, I wonder if I should ask Monique to read it, but then I remember Ms. Jacobson said her editors would work on it. I pull up her email address, trying not to stare too hard at the words Deep Focus in her address. Then I hit send.
“There,” I say. I sound like I’ve just climbed a mountain. “It’s over.”
Alice and Monique cheer, wrapping me in a hug from both sides. I barely register it. I should be happy. Two weeks ago, I would’ve been
ecstatic. But things aren’t as simple as I thought they would be.
“Stop thinking,” Alice demands, pulling away. “So what, you made a mistake with Marius? Everyone makes mistakes. You can’t beat yourself up over it. Come on. You’re watching Living Single with us.”
She doesn’t even like the show—at least, she always makes us turn it off when we’re at home. I’m too tired to call her out. I want to believe what she said—that everyone makes mistakes and I should get over myself. But this feels like more than a mistake.
You can only control your own actions.
I need to tell Penny I’m not the right person to write the article. I feel like someone else should be responsible. Someone who wouldn’t have said something so horrible to Marius. I should probably call her; this is the sort of thing you talk about on the phone. But I won’t be able to handle it.
While we’re sitting on the couch, Living Single playing in the background, I pull out my phone.
Penny, I text, I have to talk to you about something really important.
I wait a minute or two. She doesn’t answer. There aren’t even the three dots at the bottom of the screen, showing that she’s typing. I’m not sure if that makes this easier or harder.
I don’t know if I’m meant to do this.
She doesn’t answer that text, either.
I lean back against the couch, trying to immerse myself in the show, in Alice and Monique’s conversation. Instead, I zone out. I start to think about Marius, the way he laid himself out in front of me, like I could move him however I wanted, eyes soft with trust, laughing when I poked his side.
I ruined that. And I can’t stop thinking about the way Savannah teared up when we spoke to her, the painful silences when I spoke to Tallulah. Marius has been dealing with this by himself, and I didn’t help him. I guess I couldn’t have known, but still. I wish I could change the entire thing.
But I can’t change the entire thing—not by myself. The most powerful thing I can do is finish this story. No matter what anyone else says, I feel like this is my problem now. Maybe it always has been. I can’t just give up, even if there are big consequences. I owe it to all of them. I owe it to myself.
I push myself off the couch and walk back to my laptop.
“Josie?” Monique calls.
I open up the document with all of the stories, all of the words entrusted to me, and begin to write. Behind me, I hear Alice’s quiet voice explaining things, hear Monique exclaim loudly with surprise, but I ignore it. I write and write and don’t stop until there’s a story I’m proud of. Finally, after what feels like hours, I attach the story to an email and send it to Penny.
It’s finished. And now it’s out of my hands.
@JosieTheJournalist: i’m sorry I keep forgetting to tweet. things are crazy rn
Alice and I head back to the hotel to finish packing our stuff and check out. By the time we’re ready to leave for the airport, to sit around and wait for our flight later tonight, I check my phone and see I have a barrage of texts from Penny.
the story is AMAZING
remember how I said I’ve been trying to figure out who to send it to? I think I have an idea
okay so I sent the story to an editor at the Times that I know! Fingers crossed
I’m guessing you’re asleep
okay you aren’t answering bUT JOSIE, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY: KIM (the editor) SAID SHE THINKS THE STORY IS GREAT AND WANTS TO HAVE A CALL WITH US TODAY. HELLO?????
I hate talking on the phone, but nothing is more terrifying than getting on a conference call with an editor from the Times. Like, I can’t actually picture anything any more terrifying than what I’m doing right now, especially since I’m standing in the hotel lobby.
“I just wanted to let you two know that this is such an important story,” the editor says. She introduced herself when she called, but I don’t remember her name. I’m barely figuring out what’s going on. “I’m so impressed by what you already have.”
“It’s really all Josie,” Penny says from the other line. “She’s super talented.”
I know now is the time for me to say something. My throat is dry.
“Thanks,” I say. And then there’s a long pause.
“Anyway,” the editor continues, “we’d really like to take a crack at publishing it. But that means we’ll need you to come down to the office to work out the details.”
Details? Like what? I try to swallow, but my throat is still dry.
“Details? Like what?” asks Penny, who still has her voice. “Do we need a lawyer?”
Alice pulls her suitcase over to a sofa and sits with a dramatic flourish. I stick my tongue out at her. She winks at me.
“If you’d like,” the editor says. “But we have our own. I’d like to review any notes and recordings that you have from reporting the story. We’d also like our lawyer to review the story and advise us on any further steps we should take to fact-check.”
I picture Penny sitting next to me, giving me a meaningful glance. I force my eyes closed and take a deep breath. I’ve been keeping everything in order because I figured something like this would happen—also because I know journalists need to be able to back up everything they write. But something about turning it all over to this editor, to the Times, makes it scarier. It makes it realer.
“So should we say three?” the editor is saying. “We’ll be done with lunch by then.”
“Sure,” Penny says. “That works for us. Right, Josie?”
I glance over at Alice, who is now looking at her phone. Technically, our flight is a few hours away, and we don’t have to leave for the airport right now. And anyway, this is something I have to do. How long could the meeting be?
“Right,” I say, but it comes out as a croak.
* * *
The Times building is this gigantic silver structure with the paper’s logo across it in big, sparkling letters. Well, they look sparkling from across the street, but I can see bird poop as I get closer.
I’m shaking as I enter, as I show my ID and get a visitor’s pass, as I wait for Penny in the lobby. I hold my bag close to my chest. She arrives only a few minutes after me, but it feels like hours. Maybe I’m just going crazy. Maybe I’m taking this too seriously. Then again, I don’t think it’s possible to take something like this too seriously.
“Do you have your notebook?” Penny asks as we walk up the steps to the office. “All your recordings?”
“Yeah,” I say, gesturing to my bag. “I have everything.”
“God,” Penny says. “I can’t believe this is happening. This is insane.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But it’s okay. It’s just going to be a quick meeting, right? I’ll give her my notes and we’ll be good.”
We reach the newsroom. There’s a bunch of cubicles all spread out, people typing away, drinking from coffee mugs, chattering….I thought most journalists worked in silence, but surprisingly, this reminds me of a cafeteria. Other people run back and forth between desks, speaking intently while staring at computer screens. There’s so much energy in this room. More than I would’ve guessed.
Penny walks confidently behind the security guard assigned to us. I follow them.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen, exactly,” she says. “I’ve never done this before.”
I bite my lip. I was counting on her knowing more than me. I’ve read about this sort of stuff, but not about teenagers doing it. Not about nervous, awkward teenagers like me doing this. I’ve read All the President’s Men and In Cold Blood. This is definitely not one of those stories.
But being inside the corner office definitely makes me feel like I’m in a movie. There are two walls of big windows that let you see the entire city. It almost reminds me of Working Girl. I’m stuck in the doorway, staring, instead of going o
ver and introducing myself, like Penny.
There are a few people in the room—a brown man sitting at a desk, a white man sitting in a chair close to it, and a white woman sitting in another chair. They all turn to face me. I force myself to shut my eyes, transporting myself back to my bathroom at home, right in front of the mirror. I’m a journalist. I wrote this story. I belong in this room.
I open my eyes.
“Josie and Penny,” the woman says, standing up. She has big, curly hair pulled away from her face and a gap between her front teeth. She shakes hands with both of us, and I hope my hands aren’t too sweaty. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Kim.”
I smile in response.
“This is our editor in chief, Tom,” Kim says, gesturing to the brown man sitting at the desk. “And this is our lawyer, Stan.”
I shake hands with them and try to smile, but I’m not sure if it works. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be smiling during a moment like this. Stan has a face that makes him look like he’s always smiling. Tom isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t look upset, either.
“All right,” Kim says, clapping her hands together. “First things first—we need to go through every single line of this story and corroborate what you’ve written.”
I gulp. This definitely isn’t the quick in-and-out I thought it would be.
We sit at a circular table in the center of the room. I transcribed and printed out my interviews in the hotel business center, so Kim, Tom, and Stan go through each one, passing them around the circle.
“Where was this interview held?” Stan asks, putting on his glasses. “Were there other people there?”
“Who is on the record?” Tom asks. “Is the interview with Tallulah Port on the record?”
“How is this corroborated?” Kim asks. “Did you speak to family members? Coworkers? Managers?”
That’s how I end up spending the rest of the afternoon making calls. While Penny sits next to me, trying to convince Charlotte Hart to give her the contact information of a manager or family member, I have to call everyone else. Julia is easy—she hasn’t been shy about this at all. But Savannah is harder.
Off the Record Page 23