Famous Last Words (14 page)

“Okay,” Shelby says.

When they’re out of earshot, Shelby whips her head at me. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem. Cute guys want to sit with us, and you don’t even talk to them.”

“You mean cute guys want to sit with
you
, and besides, that guy Josh was mean to me.”

“Mean? How? When?”

I tell her about how he called me Angry Girl when I didn’t want to play Quarters with him.

“Did you ever think maybe he was flirting and you blew him off? You can be sort of … stuck-up sometimes.”

“Stuck-up? Where’d you get that? I’m shy.”

“I know that, Sam. But not everyone does.
Shy
can come off as snobby. It puts people off. Like Nick Costas. I know he liked you. He always stared at you when you were at your locker.”

Is that true? It can’t be. “If he liked me, why didn’t he ask me out?”

“He was probably afraid of getting shot down. Like I said, you can be—”

“Stuck-up. Yeah, I heard you.”

“I’m trying to help. You scare guys.”

“Scare guys? What? No, I don’t.”

I consider what Shelby said as we meander toward the permanent, concrete bleachers and look around for a place to sit. We find some space toward the top and climb the stairs. Once we settle in, I decide to tell Shelby what happened with Tony today. I want to get her take, but more important, I need to prove that some guys aren’t afraid of me.

“There’s this amazing-looking guy at work.”

“AJ?”

“What? No. Not AJ. Why would you say that?”

“Hellooo. The shrubbery? Jessica Palladino?”

I get queasy when I think about it. I shake my head.

“Forget AJ. I’m talking about Tony.”

“Oh, okay, Tony,” Shelby says. “And…”

I relay my brief Tony encounters for her—the flirtatious body contact, the walk to the deli, the concert invite—but I keep the bar-night information to myself. If Shelby knew that such an opportunity existed, she would bug me relentlessly to go.

“So. Whataya think?”

“He sounds like a total flirt, and don’t forget, he
is
older,” Shelby says. “But who cares? You should go for it.”

“AJ thinks he uses people.”

“So? You can use him. It would be good practice,” Shelby says. “A perfect summer thing.”

*   *   *

By Wednesday, I’m already regretting my decision to tell Shelby about Tony. Ever since I mentioned him at the fireworks on Monday, she’s become my self-appointed love coach. Today I barely have time to plop my butt in my desk chair before the obit phone starts ringing. I know it’s Shelby. I ignored the text she sent five minute ago.
Is TG in?
Henceforth, according to Shelby’s instructions, Tony Roma is known as TG, for “the God.”

“Obit desk,” I say.

“Well?” I was right.

“Well what?”

“Is he there?”

“Not yet.”

“Text me when he gets there.”

“Why?”

“Sam, face it. If you want to get this guy, you’re going to need my help.”

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll call Fiona this morning.”

“Why?”

“Because if you’re going to get a job this summer, you’re going to need
my
help.”

Talk of employment always gets Shelby off the phone. I should’ve kept my crush a secret. It always seems possible when it’s all in my head. It’s like Jane Eyre pining away for Mr. Rochester is almost better than when they finally get together.

My phone rings again. Where’s AJ? Why must he always be late? I pick up the avocado-colored receiver. The decor at the
Herald Tribune
is so retro, I’m considering taking some of this stuff to the
Antiques Roadshow
, beginning with this phone.

“Obit desk.”

“Samantha?” says a vaguely familiar voice. “It’s Eileen Abraham, Abigail Kraus’s daughter. I just wanted to thank you for the wonderful story you wrote about our mom. We could tell you really cared, and it meant a lot to me, my sister, and my brothers. I cut it out, and I’m going to have it laminated.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “It was a pleasure to write.”

“You’ve got real talent, dear,” she says.

“Thank you.”

“What was that all about, D’Angelo?” Harry asks from behind me after I’ve hung up.

“Oh, just the daughter of the woman I wrote the feature about a couple of days ago. She wanted to thank me for the story.”

“Imagine that,” he says. “People actually care about obits.”

“It was nice of her to—are you wearing a tie?”

My question makes his shoulders slump. “Meeting with the publisher today. Again.”

“Is that bad?”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, D’Angelo.”

“What?”

“Everything. Now get back to being an intern. That includes our feature-obit writing exercise. That should make your partner in crime here happy.” Harry nods toward the arriving AJ when he says that last part.

“What’s he talking about?” AJ asks.

I tell him about Eileen Abraham and how that seemed to remind Harry that I’m now the go-to girl for feature obits.

“That was a good story,” AJ says. He’s not wearing his glasses today. His eyes are a coppery shade of brown. He hesitates, then adds, “Reminded me of my mom.”

“It did?”

“She used to go to all my swim meets.”

“Wait. You swim?”

“Used to. Practiced every morning before school. In the winter, my mom was out in the driveway by five warming up the car.”

The memory takes AJ somewhere else.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Swimming was something I did with my mom. When I lost her, I didn’t care about swim meets anymore. There was nothing worth winning.”

Poor AJ. My mom is such a constant presence in my life, sometimes I don’t know how I feel about something until I gauge her reaction. I may not be able to talk about everything with her, but just having her there all the time is what makes things real.

AJ adjusts the ring around his neck, and suddenly I get it.

“So, drums?”

“Drums. I switched my effort into becoming the next Neil Peart. That’s—”

“The drummer for Rush. I know,” I say. “My dad—”

“Plays bass in an eighties cover band. We
all
know.”

“I’d like to see your band sometime,” I say.

“We’re not playing out again until the Friday before Labor Day.”

My eyes fall to the ring on its leather cord. I almost reach for it, but he tucks it into his shirt without looking at me. “What do you think? Bar night tonight. You in?”

“Seriously?” I say.

He rolls his eyes at me. It’s nice to have sardonic AJ back. It was hard to watch his face when he was talking about his mom.

“I’m there!” I say.

The phone rings, and I pick it up.

“Obit desk?” I recognize the voice, and the smile leaves my face. “Sure, Jessica, he’s right here. Hold on.”

I hand the receiver to AJ. “I’m going to see if the mail’s here,” I say. He can talk to his
girlfriend
alone.

About a half hour later, I’m back at my desk when Michael crashes through the back door, his face the color of a pomegranate. I hope he’s feeling okay. Do kidney stones come back?

“What are you doing here before lunch?” AJ asks.

“Got thrown out of city hall this morning.”

“By the mayor?”

“Who else?”

“Can he do that?”

“Nope. He can’t keep a list of all city employees
with
their salary histories from me either, but that’s what he’s been doing. He also refused to disclose the names of anyone who received aid from the weatherization board Sy is supposedly managing. The mayor’ll be hearing from our lawyer again today.”

“No more Mr. Nice Guy?” AJ asks.

“No more Mr. Nice Guy.”

“Want us to follow him again?” I ask.

“Follow who, D’Angelo?” Harry booms from behind me. He’s quite stealthy.

“Uh, no one,” I say.

“That’s what I thought. How’s my feature obit coming?”

“Great!” I say, and look at my screen until Harry retreats to the city desk.

Around three o’clock, I take a break to watch part of the Mets-Phillies doubleheader. The TV is suspended from the ceiling at the far end of the city desk, above Rocco’s head. Normally we’re tuned in to some kind of news programming, but Harry is a huge Phillies fan and there is no shortage of Mets fans (i.e., gluttons for punishment) in the room, myself included. So an exception has been made. Tony and some of the guys from sports are gathered under the screen, heads tilted upward. Usually they’re back in the sports department, listening to games on the radio or watching them on the Internet or the miniscule TV they have back there.

I’m sitting next to Rocco on his desk. The starting pitcher for the Mets is on the mound. There’s a man on first, one out. The pitcher keeps throwing to first to keep the runner from stealing. He winds up and then quickly throws to first again.

“Balk!” I scream, unaware I had spoken aloud. It’s how we watch baseball at our house. “Take your base!”

The guys turn around, amazed I got the call right even before the announcers. Tony smiles.

“All this and she knows baseball too,” Tony says. His blue eyes lock on mine and linger there for a second.

Here come my nervous splotches. I’m too frazzled to focus on the game. I retreat to my desk to allow my body temperature to return to normal. Time to get crackin’ on my feature obit, anyway. I’m about to start in on my lead when I hear Tony say, “Come on, Sam, I’ll drive you to get coffee.”

I wasn’t planning on a coffee run at that very second. In fact, Harry is waiting for my feature obit. But then I think about the phone call from Jessica right after AJ invited me to bar night, and I can’t help myself.

“Okay,” I say, rising from my seat. “Just let me see who needs what.”

*   *   *

Today, Tony has the top down on his black Mustang. All I keep thinking as we drive along Main Street is,
Please, God, please let someone from my high school see me with this guy, in this car!
Apparently I measure myself against the popular kids at Chestnutville High School, even when I’m not around them. They’re like my constant Greek chorus.

“So, you’re a big baseball fan, huh?” Tony asks.

“Yup. Mets,” I say.

“Yankees,” he says.

“Figures,” I say.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, a smile in his voice.

“You just seem like a Yankee fan. Mets fans? It’s like we don’t expect to win. We’re odd.”

“Not odd,” Tony says. “Pretty great if you ask me.”

“Thanks,” I say, keeping it simple and just accepting the compliment like they say to do in all those women’s magazines, but about to freak inside.

The trip through the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through is a quick one, and Tony opens the car door for me when we get back to the newsroom.

“Let me take that,” he says, reaching for the tray of coffees I’ve been balancing on my lap.

I return the favor and open the side door for him when we reach the building. As soon as I walk back into the newsroom, AJ looks at me quizzically when he sees me with Tony, who’s carrying coffees. I offer no explanation—much like he never offers one about Jessica—as I finally settle in to put the finishing touches on my story. As soon as my hands hit the keyboard, my phone rattles. A text from Shelby. It’s like she senses I’ve got work to do.

Party@Rob’s. You in?

I text back.

Can’t. Workin’ late.

I get a return text seconds later.

I wonder if she’ll go to the party without me. I hope so. It will make me feel less guilty for not mentioning bar night.

*   *   *

After another long day in the realm of the unliving, I head to the ladies’ room to primp for the Harp & Bard. I apply mascara and do the best I can with this liquid eyeliner I bought. I gloss my lips a coppery color, then brush out my hair and leave it long. I’m all set.

“Ready to go?” I ask AJ when I return.

“You mean you’re not getting a ride from Coma Boy?”

I want to pinch him really hard, but instead I ignore him as I text my mom to tell her I’ll be extra late and AJ will be taking me home. Another lie of omission. It feel tons worse, though, when it’s my mom I’m hiding the truth from. This is so not me. I hesitate for a second and consider calling her to come clean, but then I skip it. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, and anyway, how would she ever find out?

chapter fifteen

Sidebar

The Harp & Bard, despite its poetic name, is the kind of corner bar frequented by old men—three or four total on a
good
night—who come in, flop their ample butts down on the red vinyl barstools, and wait for the lottery on the lone television, which isn’t even a flat screen. It’s also the kind of bar that serves minors if they happen to be with the usual crowd from the
Herald Tribune
.

Most of the
Herald Tribune
people stand near the bar. The rest are at tables that look like they belong more in a seafood restaurant than a place that serves alcohol, stale pretzels, and very salty popcorn—which I begin absently munching on as I scan the room for Tony. I’m about to reach for another handful of sodium when, out of nowhere, a Bud bottle is presented to me from behind. I grab it and turn around to find Tony. It’s like my heart fills with helium. He looks and smells nice. His hair has some gel in it, and he’s wearing different clothes. I guess features interns have time to change.