The Newspaper Club

by Beth Vrabel

  I wanted to be like that. I was going to be like that, starting with this story, the one I was going to scout out in the middle of nowhere, Bear Creek.

  I texted Mom. Hey, where are you?

  The three dots danced on my screen instantly. I’m at the creamery getting coffee with Juliet. All ok?

  For a moment, everything turned black. What kind of bittersweet mint misery was this? Everyone getting ice cream but me? I growled so loudly the sound echoed in the empty attic. Something scurried in a corner. I tried not to think about what it could be.

  Fine. I texted back. I took a deep breath. Tell Miss Juliet I say hi. It was a good thing Mom and Miss Juliet were hanging out. The Cub Report kind of brought them together, I guess. Our first issue had profiled the ice-cream maker. Thom’s reporting shared that Miss Juliet’s mother had died a few years earlier. So, she and Mom had something in common; both were mourning. Something squished in my heart. I missed Dad so much that I didn’t have words for it. (And as the daughter of two journalists, I always had words.)

  Sometimes I let myself believe Dad was simply on a long business trip to Asia. I had stopped telling other people that—it seemed to make them really worried. But it’s the story I told myself sometimes.

  I straightened my back and sent another text to Mom. Going to interview someone for the paper. Corner of Morgan and Appleyard Roads. Okay? Mom must’ve been enjoying her ice cream because I didn’t see the three dots. I tucked the phone into my backpack, then trotted down the steps to the kitchen for a bottle of water. On a hot day like this, cool water was even better than ice cream.

  That’s a lie.

  I tucked the water bottle into my bag, made sure I had my notebook and two pens, then hopped on my bike and headed toward Morgan Road.

  Dad would be excited to hear about how I scouted out a story all by myself.

  Appleyard Road was farther away than I had thought. A few times, I tried to pull up the map on my phone just to make sure I was heading in the right direction.

  As I pedaled up Morgan Road, the street became narrower. Pine trees soared toward a clear blue sky on both sides. The grass bordering the road was patchy and tall. Birds chirped all around and squirrels darted in front of me like they had never seen a bicycle before. A few cars and pickup trucks passed, but the farther I pedaled, the fewer signs of human life I saw. The way was almost uphill the entire time. I tried not to think about how I was going to have to go down the hill to get home. Fact: I’d always pick going uphill over downhill.

  Gravity was so bossy.

  Some people (ahem, Min) say that I’m bossy. That’s not true. I’m reliably right and thoughtful in my approach.

  Finally, I saw the Appleyard Road sign. I stepped off the bike and stood at the intersection, looking around. If I was going to tell someone’s story from this part of town, I was going to have to find a person, and that was going to be tricky, given there was only one house in sight. And that house looked, well, kind of scary.

  I sucked on my bottom lip, considering.

  I got out my notebook, flipped to a fresh page, and wrote. Lots of weeds along very long driveway. Then I scratched out the word very. Once I overheard Dad tell a reporter that very was a tool for lazy writers. It actually made something weaker to write it. The reporter had written that it was very difficult for someone to get a permit in the city. If it’s difficult, say it’s difficult. Saying it’s very difficult introduces the idea that some things might be more difficult, Dad had told her.

  The driveway was long, stretching back and curving slightly so I could just barely make out the house at the end. Again, I turned to my notebook. Grand-looking house. White, or at least, once was white. Now grayish. Two stories with black shutters and a huge wraparound porch. I squinted down the driveway. One rocker on the porch. Though the house was much larger than the little old farmhouse Mom and I lived in, something about it reminded me of home. If I tilted my head when looking at my house, I could see glimmers of how it had looked when new. This house, I bet, once had been glorious.

  “Well, are you going to go or not?”

  I immediately looked up. People in Bear Creek had a habit of hanging out in trees. I unsnapped my helmet to make sure I could see. But no one was in the trees around me. Instead, behind me stood a small, older woman. Quickly, I scribbled in my notebook: Woman with long white hair. Walking stick. Angry voice.

  “Are you writing about me, young lady?” the woman asked.

  “No,” I blurted. “I mean, yes.” I slipped the pen into the ring of the notebook and thrust out my hand to shake hers. Her hand was strong and callused, and it surprised me. I guess I was expecting soft, tissue-thin skin like my grandma’s. “I’m Nellie Murrow, news editor of The Cub Report.”

  The woman’s eyebrows mushed together and so did her lips. “The Cub Report?”

  “It’s a real newspaper.”

  “Is that right?” the woman replied. “I’m Patricia Wilkonson. A reporter, huh? Well, then, I assume you’re here to talk to me about my pen. I wondered if I’d hear from the media today.”