Famous Last Words (12 page)

“That’s very sweet,” I say, a lead already forming in my head.

At the end of the call, Eileen Abraham thanks me profusely for giving her and her family a chance to sit around and remember happy times with their mother. It was nice to hear them all laughing and talking over each other during the interview.

I type my first paragraph.

To her four
athletic children, Abigail Kraus was more than just a loving, supportive mother—she was a mom for all seasons. Football and soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter, and softball in the spring. “She was our biggest fan,” Eileen Abraham (née Kraus), her oldest daughter, said.

“It’s a little Hallmark for my taste,” Harry says later that day after he reads my story. “But it’s a step in the right direction, D’Angelo. We’ll try this exercise again and see what we get.”

Again? Somehow, I thought this was a one-shot deal. How many more of these will I have to endure? I’m thankful Harry isn’t going to make me rewrite this feature obit, but upset that it’s going to take more than that to prove myself. I want to get back to important stuff.

“Oh, and D’Angelo?”

“Yeah.”

“Send Bernie a fruit basket with the money you collected. She needs to eat better.”

So much for investigative journalism.

chapter twelve

Jobs

Bargain Books & Beans is a lot more happening since my visit with AJ. They’ve set up a sidewalk café, and the wrought-iron tables are all occupied by parents with kids in strollers and couples sipping iced coffee. It’s Saturday, and Chestnutville is holding its pre–Fourth of July festival today, complete with blow-up bouncy things, face painting, and free concerts. No doubt the extra foot traffic downtown is good for business.

As promised, I spent most of the day with Shelby at the pool, and somehow convinced her to take a late-afternoon walk to the mayor’s coffee shop so she could help me with snooping. Harry didn’t say I couldn’t help Michael on my own time.

Inside the coffee shop/bookstore, there’re a few adults with laptops, and I recognize a group of girls from our high school in the back. So does Shelby.

“Holy crap, Joanne Feinstein looks like she’s lost about three hundred pounds,” Shelby whispers in my ear.

Ignoring Shelby’s hyperbole, I look toward their table. Wow. She looks fantastic. Fiona Baxter is behind the counter. She’s the editor of our high school’s literary magazine,
Folio
. With a name like Fiona Baxter, could she be anything else? Fiona is friends with Joanne, the yearbook editor, and the other girls at Joanne’s table; all of them write for
Folio
, the yearbook, or both. I walk up to the counter with Shelby.

“Hey, Fiona,” I say.

“Hey, Sam!” She’s one of those perpetually upbeat people who can be superannoying sometimes. But I’ve never heard her utter a nasty word about anyone, so she gets points for being genuine.

“How long have you been working here?”

“This is my second week.”

“Are they still hiring?”

“Why? You need a job?”

“Not me. Shelby.” I touch Shelby’s elbow and guide her toward the counter. “I’ve been working for the
Herald Tribune
this summer.”

“Cool. Writing stories?”

“Kinda. Obituaries mostly.”

“Really?” Joanne says.

Shelby pipes up. “I know, right? Who knew people wrote those.”

“I’m hoping to do more news, though.” I try to say it without sounding like I’m bragging.

“Nice. Well, if you want to write for
Folio
this year, just let me know.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“Anyway,” Fiona says, “I don’t know if we’re hiring, but Shelby can fill out an application. Let me see if I can find one.”

Fiona retreats through a swinging door, presumably to some kind of kitchen/office. Shelby’s scanning the place, looking at all the used books and magazines. “I honestly don’t think I want to work here, Sam. I need a place with an employee discount I can
use
.”

“Shh. I’m just hoping you get called for an interview. Then you can ask a few questions. Help me find out what the deal is.”

“What kind of questions?”

On the walk here, I tried my best to break it down for Shelby and explain what the
Herald Tribune
has been looking into. How Michael thinks Sy Goldberg is collecting a city salary without doing any work and how he’s a partner—a very silent partner—in Bargain Books & Beans.

“Well, maybe the mayor or Sy Goldberg will interview you. That would answer some questions right there. Maybe we can find out how often you get paid and who signs your checks.”

“Why don’t
you
apply, then?”

“Because you’re the one who needs a job.”

Fiona returns from the back room. “Here ya go. Just fill this out and I’ll give it to the manager. Need a pen?”

Shelby wordlessly collects both the pen and the application, and we walk to a table in the back, near Joanne Feinstein.

“Hi, Sam. Shelby,” she says. Joanne is beaming, and I can tell she’s proud of her new body. She should be! She hasn’t lost the exaggerated three hundred pounds, but she’s shed some significant weight and is no doubt wearing single-digit jeans.

“Joanne,” Shelby says, “you look awesome.”

“Gorgeous!” I agree.

Her pals just sit there, lost. They’ve all got that look on their face—the one that says,
Yeah, yeah, the fat girl got thin. Now what are the rest of us supposed to do?
I get it. Change is hard to accept. Sometimes our friends need us to be a certain way. I’m not sure what comes first, the needing or the being.

I try to make small talk while Shelby fills out the application.

“So, are you all doing yearbook this year?”

There’s a chorus of “yeahs,” and Joanne says, “You’re welcome to help out if you’ve got a free period.”

The job offers are pouring in. “Thanks. How’s the Fourth of July fest going? Did you guys check it out?”

“Nah,” says one of the girls, whose name I don’t know. “But we’ll be at the fireworks tomorrow. What about you?”

Shelby looks up from her application. “Fireworks! You’re not working are you, Sam?”

“During the day. I should be free at night.”

Shelby puts the finishing touches on her application, and we say our good-byes.

“See ya, Joanne, girls,” I say.

“Bye, guys!” Joanne says.

We walk up to the counter, and Shelby hands Fiona her application.

“Hey, Fiona,” she says. “Settle a bet for us. Sam says the manager probably signs the paychecks around here. I say it’s the owner.”

I’m floored. I seriously didn’t think Shelby listened to a word I said.

“Looks like you win, Shelby! It’s definitely the owner. Mr. Goldberg.”

“It is? What’s he look like?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Fiona says. “I’ve never seen him. Mr. Amato usually drops off our paychecks. He’s my manager’s dad, you know.”

“That’s interesting,” I say.

“Okay then, Fiona. Thanks for that,” Shelby says. “Maybe we’ll be working together soon.”

I’m still recovering from both Shelby’s initiative and what I’ve just learned. Seems like no one ever sees Sy Goldberg. He’s like the Easter Bunny.

Shelby pulls my arm and drags me toward the door.

“I hear music. Let’s see if the band’s any good,” she says.

“Thanks, Fiona,” I call over my shoulder.

“Anytime. And, hey, Sam, remember what I said about writing for us.”

When we step onto the sidewalk, Shelby looks at me and says, “And that’s how you solve Blue’s Clues.”

No kidding. Who knew she had it in her?

We cross the street and walk toward the public library. The band is set up on the gazebo near the town duck pond. They’re young—like, high school age—although I don’t recognize any of them.

“They’re not bad,” I say as we draw nearer. “Kinda have a surf-rock thing going on.”

“The lead singer looks cute, but I can’t tell from here,” Shelby says. “Come on, let’s get closer.”

We approach the crowd in front of the band. I scan the group to see if there’s anyone we know. There’s a cluster of girls toward the front singing along to every word. Groupies or girlfriends, hard to say which. Hanging toward the back chatting are two men and two women I’m pegging as band parents, and off to the side, talking to a girl with short shorts and braids, is AJ. He’s got a pen and reporter’s notebook in his hand, so I’m guessing he got sent out to work on a holiday story. I’m about to say hi when the girl puts her hand on his upper arm and leans in close to his ear. My breath quickens. AJ grins and shakes his head as she talks. Reflexively, I grab Shelby, pull her around the side of the gazebo, and hide behind a bush.

“Ouch, Sam. What are you doing? I can’t see.”

“AJ’s here.”

Shelby takes a step away. “He is? Where?”

“Wait, no!” I scream, and reel her in.

“Why not? I wanna meet him.”

“He’s talking to some girl.”

“So? What’s the big deal?”

Did he come here with her, or is it someone he just met? He wouldn’t take a girl along on a work assignment. I peer around the shrubbery, and Shelby nudges me out of the way.

“Lemme see.”

“How would you know who he’s—”

“Jessica Palladino.”

“Wha … you know her?”

“She graduated from Chestnutville High two years ago. She’s Jason Palladino’s older sister.”

I’ve got to hand it to Shelby. She knows a lot of people and floats between cliques easily without ever becoming part of one.

“Come on,” Shelby says. “Let’s go talk to them.”

“No, Shelby, please. Let’s go home. He’s working. I don’t want to bug him.”

Shelby hesitates for a split second and then gives in. “Fine,” she says. “Doesn’t look like he’s working. Looks like he’s talking to a girl. But maybe that’s what’s really bothering you.”

“Let’s go.” I walk toward the duck pond with Shelby following. With Jessica at his side and the gazebo in his line of sight, hopefully AJ didn’t notice me.

chapter thirteen

Senior Connections

I’m not a big fan of the Fourth of July. It’s like an anomaly in the time-space continuum. Technically, it comes at the beginning of the summer. But once the long holiday weekend passes, it feels like summer’s half-over. It bums me out because I’m never in any rush to get back to school.

To make matters worse, I’m sitting on six feet of powder blue velour that is the back seat of Aunt Connie’s cavernous Lincoln. Seventeen can’t come fast enough.

“Are you sure you’ve got a ride home?” Gram asks.

“Positive.” I’m not sure, but I’ll risk it.

I’m getting carsick back here. Aunt Connie maneuvers a car like it’s a boat, drifting left to right like we’re on choppy waters. She seems oblivious to the fact that’s she’s in control of this vehicle.

“Where are you ladies headed?” I ask.

“We’re getting manicures,” Gram says.

“We’re going to a wake tomorrow,” Aunt Connie says.

As if one is a requirement for the other.

“You need to get your nails done for a viewing?” I ask.

“Of course. We’ll be shaking the widower’s hand,” Gram says. “I’m getting a paraffin wrap so my hands are extra soft.”

“It won’t matter. I always get in line ahead of your grandmother,” Aunt Connie says. “I usually wink at the widower.”

“But I give his hand an extra squeeze,” Gram says.

“Don’t tell me you’re frequenting wakes to pick up old men,” I say.

Aunt Connie laughs. “It beats ShopRite.”

Is there a name for cougars on Social Security?

Gram turns serious. “We’re just having fun. My husband was my husband. And that was that.”

Poor Gram. I regret teasing her. She shared her life with Gramps for more than fifty years. How do people find that kind of forever love? How do you keep going when that person is gone?

I need to be a better granddaughter and take Gram to a movie or something. I don’t care how old she is—wakes should not be a source of entertainment. My thoughts are interrupted by an abrupt shift in the Lincoln. Aunt Connie is pulling up in front of the
Herald Tribune
and seems to be angling for the parking lot. I do not need her careening into anyone’s car.

“You can drop me right here!” I say too sharply. “The street is fine.”

Aunt Connie screeches to a halt at the curb. I made her nervous.

“Bye, hon,” Gram says.

“Bye, Gram. Thanks, Aunt Connie.” I lean over the front seat, give them each a quick kiss on the cheek, and hope no one sees me getting out of the car.

*   *   *

I
hope today isn’t so bad,
I think as I cross the parking lot to the side entrance. Turns out working yesterday—a Sunday during a holiday weekend—was the worst. The hours passed by slowly, and with no one to talk to, I spent way too much time thinking about seeing AJ with
Jessica
. I liked it better when she was just a voice on the phone.

When I open the door, I’m thrilled to see Michael at his desk.

“Michael! You’re back!” I almost give him a hug. And I’m so not a hugger. AJ’s already here too, which makes me doubly happy Michael’s back—he can act as a buffer.

“Sam-I-am,” Michael says. The nickname is spreading. “What’s the good word?”

AJ holds up a hand. “Please do not ask him about the kidney stones. He’s been referring to one as his first child, Irving, all morning.”

I cover my ears and start humming a nonsense song. “I’m not hearing this. I’m definitely not hearing this.”

Michael laughs. “Follow any mayors lately?”

I shoot AJ a look. “You told him?”

“Irving? I had to change the subject,” AJ says.

“Did AJ tell you about ending up at a bank three towns away? In Belleville?” I ask.

“Yep. Unless he robbed it, there’s no crime there,” Michael laughs. “Not one that we can prove, anyway.”

“I’ve got more news too,” I say.

Michael smiles and puts his chin in his hand. “Enlighten me.”

“Sy Goldberg signs the paychecks at Bargain Books & Beans.”

“How’d you find that out?” Michael asks. I can tell he’s surprised.