True Colors (12 page)

Mr. Gilpin stared at me, and I wished the earth would just swallow me whole. What was the matter with me, rattling on about twilight and fireflies? Mr. Gilpin was going to think I was missing some marbles.

The corner of Mr. Gilpin’s mouth curled up into a smile.

“How’d you like a job, kid?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.

“Ida Barclay’s going to be away right up until the celebration, visiting her daughter,” Mr. Gilpin went on. “I need someone to write her column while she’s gone. You want the job?”

Working at the newspaper seemed like a way I
might be able to find out more information about my mama.

So I rode home as the newest reporter for the
Monitor
, all because of
crepuscular
.

Reader’s Digest
was right. It
did
pay to increase your word power.

chapter 16

First thing I did when I got home was tell Cat about my new job.

“Maybe I’ll be a writer instead of a cowboy,” I told her.

Cat finished off the milk in the bowl and cleaned herself. I guess the newspaper business didn’t interest her that much, but I was excited. I was going to be a reporter, like Lois Lane!

That excitement lasted until the next morning, when it was replaced with panic. What did I know about writing a newspaper column? I couldn’t spell worth beans, and now I’d be a laughingstock in town. People would point and whisper behind my back.

I rode into town thinking I’d tell Mr. Gilpin that I’d made a terrible mistake, that I really didn’t want to write the column, but somewhere between my house and the
Monitor
, I lost my nerve and ended up bringing home some of
Mrs. Barclay’s columns that Mr. Gilpin pushed on me to read so I’d know what I was supposed to write.

I made another decision, on the way home, one I was determined to keep. I was going to ask Nadine for help. She wrote for her school newspaper; she’d know what to do. No matter what she’d said to me, it was time to make up, and if Nadine wouldn’t make the first move, then I’d have to. All I had to do was remind Nadine how much fun we’d had over the years, how much fun we could
still
have this summer. We’d been friends for too long to let it all go to waste.

My determination went up in smoke when I climbed the steps to Nadine’s camp. I felt more like I was making my way to the guillotine. My knees wobbled as I knocked on the door (which shows how nervous I was, because in all the years Nadine and I had known each other, we never knocked on each other’s door—we always just burst in on each other, like family).

Nadine answered the door, and her eyes narrowed. I jumped in, quick, before she could slam the door in my face.

“I’m a reporter for the
Monitor
now,” I told her. “I thought you could give me some advice about my column.” If there was one thing Nadine liked, it was giving advice. But I didn’t tell her I hoped this job was also going to help me find my mother.

Nadine seemed to take forever deciding.

“Okay, you can come in,” Nadine said, and I followed her up to her room.

I dumped the papers on Nadine’s bed.

“You know, it’s just a gossip column,” she said, all hoity-toity. “It’s not like you’re a
real
reporter.”

I knew she was only saying all that because she was jealous Mr. Gilpin hadn’t picked
her
to write the column, but it still made me mad. Here I was, being nice to her, and she kept on being mean. Why was I always the one who had to apologize, even when it wasn’t my fault? I picked up one of the papers and blinked fast so Nadine wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

“Why’s it even called the
Monitor
?” Nadine asked. “Seems like a funny name for a newspaper.”

I shrugged, wishing I hadn’t bothered to come over in the first place.

“Of course, it isn’t even a
real
newspaper,” Nadine went on. “Not like the
New York Times
. When we lived in New York, Daddy always read the
New York Times
. Now he reads the
Washington Post
, but he still subscribes to the
New York Times
too.”

I ignored her while I flipped through the pages for Mrs. Barclay’s column.

“It’s right there, on the back,” Nadine said, snatching the paper out of my hands. If there was one thing Nadine hated, it was being ignored.

Nadine scanned the column and snorted.

“I told you!” she said, rolling her eyes. “This isn’t
news
. This column could put people to sleep!”

I glared at her and snatched the paper back. I wanted to smack Nadine, but reading the column, I saw she was right.

What did that mean? I wondered. Remains the same as what?

I saw two problems right off. First, I sure didn’t want to be writing about things like hernias! Second, how was I going to find the news? Mrs. Barclay just called folks to ask them about their comings and goings and family news, but the thought of calling grown-ups to ask them about their business made my stomach ache. Besides, we didn’t have a telephone. That left interviewing them in person, but just the idea made me break into a sweat. I didn’t think I could bear it if Mrs. Thompson started talking about her husband’s hernia.

“I’m pretty sure the
New York Times
doesn’t report on people’s hernias,” Nadine said.

As mad as I was at her, I was pretty sure she was right.

“Okay,” Nadine said. “You obviously need my help.” I didn’t tell her that instead of helping, she was just making me more nervous. Thinking about being nervous reminded me what Hannah had said.

“Are you nervous about starting junior high this fall?” I asked her.

“Of course not,” Nadine said, tossing her head. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.” And then I knew she
was
.

“Well, I know I’ll be nervous when I start junior high,” I said.

Nadine chewed on her lip, and for a moment, I thought she was going to confide in me, but then she changed her mind.

“It’s not like you have to change schools, the way I do,” she declared. “You’ll still all just be in that one-room schoolhouse.”

What did that have to do with anything? I wondered. But instead of asking her, I decided just to go home and read through the rest of the columns.

Hannah wasn’t too keen on me taking the job (“You know I don’t hold with spreading gossip,” she said), but when she saw how nervous I was, her face softened.

“All you have to do is just visit with folks when you make your deliveries,” she said. “Ask them how they are, then sit back and listen. Being a good reporter is mostly about being a good listener.”

That sounded simple enough, but still, when I rode up to Mrs. Gallagher’s door the next afternoon, I felt like I had about a hundred of those crepuscular fireflies in my stomach. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a reporter after all.

Mrs. Gallagher answered the door. I could hear loud moans coming from inside the house. Sounded like a cow bellowing.

Mrs. Gallagher gave a wave of her hand.

“Oh, that’s Roger,” she said. “Painful gas, don’t you know. He was playing in the old-timers game at the ball field and ate three chili dogs! Serves him right, I say.”

This was worse than hearing about Mr. Thompson’s hernia. I was sure Mr. Gallagher wouldn’t want me reporting on his gas pains. I mean, would you want the whole town knowing that?

The next day was Sunday. Hannah said I ought to catch people at church and interview them. All through the service, I felt nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, swinging my legs and chewing my lip, wondering who I should interview, and what questions I should ask. A hundred times I wished I hadn’t agreed to write Mrs. Barclay’s column. What was I thinking?

Folks clustered in little groups on the church lawn after the service, visiting. Hannah pulled a little notebook and pencil from her purse. She handed them to me and gave me a nudge.

“Go on,” she said, but when I shook my head, she strode right out into the middle of the lawn.

“Blue’s writing Ida’s column while she’s away,” Hannah announced in a loud voice, “and she’d really appreciate whatever news you could tell her.”

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me, I was so embarrassed, but folks did come over to speak to me, and I filled up two pages of Hannah’s little notebook.

That afternoon, instead of going to the ball field, I worked at writing the column.

By chore time, this is what I ended up with:

I was sure Nadine would roll her eyes at what I’d written, so I didn’t even show it to her, and Mr. Gilpin made me rewrite it seven times before he said it was acceptable (I’d
had to look through most of the
C
section of his dictionary to find out how to spell
carburetor
), but Thursday morning, when the paper came out and I saw my name, Blue Spooner, in print, something opened in my chest, like a flower opening to the sun.

I watched across the supper table, my hands sweaty, as Hannah read my column. She refolded the paper and set it down beside her plate. The corners of her mouth turned up in a smile.

“Ida just might find herself out of a job when she gets back,” Hannah said.

chapter 17

I carried the paper out when I fed Cat, and read my column to her while she ate, and went to bed with a nice warm glow.