Famous Last Words (16 page)

I want to call Shelby and tell her about my night, but I can’t, since I lied. Because apparently I’m a liar now. Anyway, I never heard from her again today, so I’m guessing she went to the party. Not that I care much. I’d rather that she keep busy and not get wind of the
Herald Tribune
’s bar nights.

I prop my laptop on my knees. First I check Journey’s website and find out when their concert tour with Foreigner comes to New Jersey. Saturday, July 30. Then I settle in for a couple hours’ worth of searching down inane facts. I type “armadilo” into the Wikipedia search engine. Of course, me being me, I misspell the critter’s name and the website politely reprimands me. “Did you mean:
armadillo
?” Of course I did, but the fact that the search engine produces the correct results even though I spelled
armadillo
with only one
l
only reinforces my belief that spelling is just not that big a deal in the twenty-first century.
In your face, Bernadette!

I find a captivating two-minute video on YouTube of one little guy coming out of his burrow to have a look around. It’s really a lot cuter than I thought. I guess I just needed to see one in action—and not petrified on Harry’s shelf—to truly appreciate how oddly adorable an armadillo can be. Maybe Harry is right—they
are
misunderstood. I mean, anyone can love a bunny, but there’s something I admire about an animal so peculiar looking yet so happy to be in its own skin—“skin” that resembles a coat of armor. That, in combination with his long nose, makes me think of Don Quixote tilting at windmills. I read it in my Great Books class last year.

I Google “Don Quixote,” who reminds me of Harry, so then I type in “Bosnian War.” (I’ve got Google ADD.) It’s hard to believe Harry came so close to a Pulitzer and ended up at the
Herald Tribune
. Not that it’s a bad newspaper. It’s got a circulation of about 30,000, and under Harry the paper consistently wins awards for its news coverage. Still, it’s not the
New York Times
.

For the hell of it, I Google “Sy Goldberg.” It’s become part of my routine. Let’s see.… Sy Goldberg, tax consultant in Nyack, New York. Sy Goldberg of Goldberg & Goldberg Law, Sy Goldberg on various social-networking sites. None appears to be our Sy Goldberg, but then again, how would I know for sure? I’d better step up my game if I’m going to secure my spot as Michael’s vacation substitute.

I put my laptop aside, pull out the spiral notebook I use as a journal, and flip to the back where I keep all the pictures and articles—duplicates of mine and others’—I cut out from magazines and newspapers.

Lately, the pages have really been piling up. I’ve got Anton’s obit, my front-page story, and some of my favorite feature obits. I keep the picture of the dress—the perfect dress—on top. I cut it out of
Seventeen
magazine’s prom issue two years ago. It’s a pale yellow, strapless gown with a full, tea-length skirt. The model is wearing strands of ivory pearls around her neck, and the caption reads “Girly retro.” I get lost staring at this dress. It’s so sweet and light and timeless and pretty. I fantasize about walking into prom with Tony and wearing this dress. It’s like nothing I’ve ever owned, and most people wouldn’t see this dress (or any dress) and think “That’s so Sam,” but I love it.

chapter sixteen

Deadline

It’s the morning after bar night, and I am wiped after only four hours of sleep. I eat my Cheerios while staring through the sliding glass doors at the gnarled, asymmetrical dogwood tree in our yard. Each spring, my dad threatens to cut it down, but I always beg him not to. It’s invariably the last tree to bloom. “It just needs a little more time,” I tell Dad every year. While the world turns pastel around her, the dogwood stands there naked and brown like an exposed network of nerve endings, chronically out of sync. Like me.

I’m finishing breakfast and getting ready for my run when Mom walks into the kitchen, wearing yoga pants, a sea-foam–colored T-shirt and a ponytail. She’s usually gone by now. I’m so surprised, I momentarily forget that I’m in for a cross-examination about last night.

“How come you’re still home? Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

“Doctor’s appointment,” she says. Her clipped tone says,
We’re not going to talk about me right now, we’re going to talk about you
.

Call it the estrogen effect, but mothers and daughters can always hear the words behind the words in a seemingly normal—even dull—conversation.

“So,” she says, “now you’re going to bars? You told me you were working late.”

“I told you I was going to be extra late. I didn’t say what I was doing.”

“The sneaky thing is not going to fly with me, Sam. Not if you want me to trust you.”

She’s right, of course. I’ve got to do damage control.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Please don’t make me quit my job. It won’t happen again.”

“Your father and I talked about it.” She lets out a sigh and continues. “We’re happy you found a job that you truly enjoy, but
I
think you’re too young to be working so much and so late.”

I open my mouth to talk, but she holds up her hand. “Let me finish. So, we don’t think we’re asking too much when we want to know where you are and who you’re with. And if you’re going to be drinking—”

“Believe me, it wasn’t about drinking. I told you, someone spilled beer on me. I just wanted to hang out with everyone. They go out every week.”

It’s mostly the truth. I wish I could tell her sneaking off to bar night had a little something to do with a boy. Shelby and her mom talk about guys all the time. Connecting with my mom that way would be nice, but I’m too embarrassed.

“I want to believe you, sweetie. But it’s hard after you’ve already lied. That’s my point.”

“Okay, I get it. But if I told you I was going to a bar with people from work, would you have let me go?”

“I’m not sure, Sam. You didn’t give me that chance, did you?”

“I’m sorry. I really am.” I say, though I’d like to throw up my arms and yell,
It’s not like I came home pregnant or have a meth addiction.
But I still don’t know where I stand. “So? Are you going to make me quit?”

Mom stares hard at me before answering. “We’re not going to make you quit …
yet
. But it better not happen again.”

“It won’t, Mom, I promise.” I raise my hand like I’m taking the Girl Scout oath.

The tension in her face relaxes. “Okay. I believe you.”

I put my cereal bowl in the dishwasher, then grab my iPod off the table. “Thank you, Mom,” I say, and kiss her cheek. “I’m going to hit the treadmill before work.”

“Do you want a ride? I’ve got some time before my doctor’s appointment.”

“Sure. That sounds good,” I say, adjusting my earbuds. I’m about to head into the garage but change my mind. “I’m going on the street today. Be back in an hour.”

Outside, I inhale the scents of freshly cut grass and the pansies lining our walk. I love how summer smells. After a quick stretch, I jog off toward the high school. I’m going to run there, do eight laps around the track, and run home. I’ve been planning this route for a while, I just haven’t made it out of the garage. According to mapmyrun.com, it’s just over six miles.

I reach Cook Street and know I’ve hit my first mile. Even if I hadn’t plotted my course, I could tell by how many songs have played in my ears and how I feel. It’s funny how my body just knows when it’s ready to pick up the pace.

I run the length of Cook, cut through the new McMansion development, and turn into the high school parking lot. That’s when I hear the familiar sounds of marching-band music bleeding through the alt-rock mix in my ears. Band camp. I get that queasy summer-interruptus feeling.

Lap One: The marching band is too loud. It’s making me think about school. Once September comes, there are going to be exams to take, applications to fill out, colleges to visit—choices I’m not yet ready to make. I haven’t gotten sixteen right yet, and now I’m going to be seventeen. I’m not ready.

Lap Two: Am I selling myself short? Should I take the SATs one more time? Apply to some tier-one colleges, like my parents have been urging?

Lap Three: Do I look for a school with highly rated journalism program? Is that what I want to do? Is that what I should do?

Lap Four: I wonder if AJ will follow the mayor with me again. Prom fantasy aside, I can’t let Tony get Michael’s beat, no matter how adorable he is.

Lap Five: Maybe Harry will let me keep working for the
Herald Tribune
part-time once school starts.

*   *   *

Back at home, I’m proud of myself for completing my first 10k
outside
. But my runner’s high is tempered by thoughts of my job ending and my senior year beginning. I need a game plan, for both.

“Morning, Gram,” I say, reaching into the fridge for some water. She’s at the kitchen table doing her crossword puzzle, her daily ritual.

“Morning, hon,” my grandmother says as she gets up and heads toward the Mr. Coffee to refill her mug. “What’s wrong? You look so serious.”

“It’s just my face, Gram,” I say. “Permanently morose.”

“Morose? You? You’re just not a morning person. We can’t all greet the day with alacrity,” Gram says. “Your great-aunt Mary, God rest her soul, now, she was morose. She was the real crepe hanger of the family. She could turn Christmas into a funeral.”

“Crepe hanger?” I’ll look up
alacrity
later.

“Back when I was a girl, when a family member died, you hung a black funeral drape over the door,” Gram explains. “It let other people know that someone had died.”

I need to write down some of these tidbits before I forget and Gram’s not here to ask anymore. There I go. Being morose again.

“Sometimes I just want to be a normal teenager,” I say. It’s a non sequitur to her crepe-hanger anecdote, but I need to say it aloud. I should have wanted to be at Rob McGinty’s party last night, wearing a strapless top and doing beer funnels. But honestly, I was where I wanted to be.

“I raised four kids, and I can tell you one thing, hon: Teenagers are not normal.” And then Gram comes over and gives me a big, squishy hug. I resist at first.

“Ah, Gram. I’m all sweaty.”

“Oh, come on, that doesn’t bother me.” I put my arms around her and hug her back, happy she can give me just what I need and we don’t have to talk about it.

*   *   *

An hour later, Mom pulls up in front of the the
Herald Tribune
building. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Be careful,” my mom says as I open the door. “I’d say come home early, but I have a feeling I’d be wasting my breath.”

“Okay, I’ll try. Thanks for the ride, Mom,” I say. “Why are you going to the doctor’s today, anyway?”

“Just a routine physical,” she says.

I should have asked sooner. Is Mom worried something may be wrong with her?

“Well, good luck. I’ll call you later,” I say.

“Love you,” she says.

“Love you too,” I say.

*   *   *

AJ is already at his desk when I arrive. I glance at the clock. Am I late? Nope. Right on time.

“It’s Thursday,” I blurt.

“It is.” AJ is nonplussed by my randomness.

“We followed the mayor to the bank on a Wednesday.”

“I’m going to have to trust you on that one.”

“It was. I know because it was the day I made my big obit gaff.”

“Right. Okay, then. Glad we cleared that up.”

AJ goes back to typing.

“So, I’m thinking—”

He pauses then, takes his glasses off, and cleans them on his shirttail. “Here we go.”

“People usually do their banking on the same day every week. Gram does hers on Friday, when the Social Security check arrives, and—”

“I’m begging you, Sam-I-am, get to the point.”

“Maybe we should start following the mayor on Wednesday afternoons.”

“Fine.”

“Really? That was easy. I thought it would take more convincing.”

“I said ‘fine,’ didn’t I? Don’t make me take it back.”

“Great! Thanks! So next Wednesday—”

“Sam…”

“Right. Got it.”

I skitter off to Alice’s desk and pick up the mail, happy to have a plan in motion.

*   *   *

After lunch, Harry stands on Rocco’s desk to make an announcement. “Listen up, people. Mandatory meeting in the conference room at three,” he yells. “Spread the word to anyone who’s not here.”

“Any idea what that’s about?” I ask AJ.

“No clue.”

Curiosity may kill cats, but journalists aren’t far behind. Grace wonders if Harry is resigning, Jack thinks his features staff is being cut, Jim from sports guesses it’s about another pay freeze.

At three, we all cram into the conference room like clowns in a compact car, ready to find out. Every seat is taken. The sports guys are sitting on the bookshelves, which run the length of the room along the windows. AJ is next to them, and he waves me over and points to the spot he saved for me. Everyone else, including our three burly press guys—Dan, Henry, and Franco—is standing. Harry, with hair looking crazier than usual, is at his seat at the head of the conference table. The phone is in front of him.

“Alice, let’s dial up Bernie. She should hear this,” he says. After a minute or so, Alice turns the phone toward Harry.

“I’m putting you on speaker now, Bernie. Hold on,” Alice says.

“Harry!” booms Bernie. She sounds like she’s locked in the bathroom. Oh, how I’ve missed that voice.

“Bernie, I hear you’ll be rejoining us soon. Looking forward to it.”

“Oh, man,” I whisper. It’s great that Bernie is recovering and all, but her return means we’re back to being Moron and Moronica. I catch AJ’s eye. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

“All right, listen up. The publisher and I have been enjoying many breakfast meetings together this summer at the Tick Tock Diner. After extensive negotiations with several potential buyers, he has decided to sell our small group of newspapers to a larger media conglomerate.”