Famous Last Words (17 page)

“What does that mean for us?” Michael asks.

“I’m getting there, Fishman. I’m getting there.”

Harry takes a deep breath. He looks tired. More tired than I’ve ever seen him look.

“For starters, it means layoffs. We’re cutting our workforce by forty percent. There are three papers in our group. A total of a hundred and twenty-five editorial jobs. You will all have the opportunity to apply for the seventy-five remaining positions.” The news sends a wave of grumbling throughout the conference room. Selfishly, I wonder if this dashes any hopes I had about continuing to work here during the school year. It’s like the escape hatch from high school is closing.

“Okay, settle down,” Harry says. “There’s more. This is important.”

“We’re shifting our format to more online content and substantially reducing the size of the print version. I’d like all of you to start thinking about content that will drive people to our site. Blogs, message boards, columns, smartphone apps. We’re changing our entire business model, and while it’s probably a good thing to bring the
Herald Tribune
into the twenty-first century, this last change will be the most difficult of all: We will be shutting down our presses at the end of August and sending the paper out for printing. I am not exaggerating when I tell you it will be the end of an era.”

With that, all eyes fall on the press guys—Dan, Henry, and Franco. They’re all pushing sixty and have been doing this job most of their lives. It’s not like their skill set has prepared them for a career switch at this stage of the game.

“I want all of you here at five in the morning on the day we shut the presses down. Mandatory. That’s all for now. See me about any individual questions or concerns.” People start exiting the conference room, but Harry calls us back. “I almost forgot.” He walks over to the wall, where I notice someone (Harry, I’m sure) has mounted a rectangular countdown clock, like the kind in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. He hits the switch, and it starts counting backward from 1334 hours 00 minutes 00 seconds until the last day of August. I think about all I want to accomplish by summer’s end. It’s like me and the printing presses are on the same deadline schedule.

chapter seventeen

Movie Times

On Friday night, Shelby arrives at my house at seven o’clock with the chocolate Twizzlers, peanut M&Ms, and Diet Cherry Coke—all required, she insists, for a night of movie watching. I left work promptly at five thirty today. I’m trying to earn back my parents’ trust. Mom swung by the
Herald Tribune
and picked me up on her way home from work.

I make popcorn, and then the four of us—me, Shelby, Mom, and Gram—settle in the family room to watch a movie. Mom and I are on one couch, Gram and Shelby share the other. Our snacks are spread before us on ottomans that double as tables by flipping the cushions over.

“You girls ready for the eighties experience?” Mom says.

“Let’s start with
The Breakfast Club
, then
Sixteen Candles
,” I say.

“Two movies? Is Shelby going to sit still that long?” Gram jokes.

Shelby throws up her arms. “Thank you!”

“Okay, fine,” I say. “Just
Sixteen Candles
then.”

I should be happy to have a friend who doesn’t mind staying in on a Friday night to watch movies with me, my mom, and my grandmother, but the truth is, movie marathons are my thing with Mom. Shelby called me at work to see if I wanted to go out, and I felt bad blowing her off again.

Mom puts the DVD in the player. “You’re going to like this,” she says. “All my friends were in love with Jake Ryan.”

I grab a handful of popcorn and slip into my comfort zone. I don’t think about yesterday’s announcement at the
Herald Tribune
, the search for Sy Goldberg, my driving test looming in August, and school starting after Labor Day. I get lost in this hilarious romantic story about a girl named Samantha, who has a major crush on a gorgeous, popular senior named Jake. Relate much? The last scene is killer. Jake spends half the movie looking for Sam because it turns out he likes her too. She comes out of the church, where her sister has just gotten married, and is standing on the steps in her poufy bridesmaid dress watching the guests leave. When the last car pulls away, it’s like the big reveal! There is Jake, leaning against a red Porsche, waiting for her. I am melting. John Hughes
was
a genius.

“Why can’t that happen to us?” Shelby says as she chews the tip of her straw, like she’s done since we were kids.

“As much as I love your dad, nothing that romantic has ever happened to me,” Mom says. She’s already off the couch and loading the dishwasher.

“Real love doesn’t drive up in a red sports car,” Gram says. “When you finally find the right one, it’s so simple. You won’t believe you never saw it before.”

“Was it love at first sight with Gramps?” I ask.

“Yeah, did you know right away you wanted to marry him?” Shelby asks.

“Right away?” She laughs. “It took ten years. Longer, if you count the time when we were just kids. I grew up with your grandfather. We were neighbors, so I really didn’t think of him that way.”

“When did things change?” Mom asks.

“I suppose when I was old enough to start dating. There were so many times when I’d come home after a night out, and there he was, sitting on my porch.”

“Really? What was he doing there?” I ask.

“That’s what I always wanted to know.” Gram chuckles at the memory. “He always said the same thing: ‘Waiting for you.’ Oh, sometimes he’d be inside playing cards with my brothers, but most of the time, he was on the front porch.”

“That might be considered stalking by today’s standards,” Shelby says.

“You could be right,” Gram says.

“So, what made you finally want to go out with him?” Mom asks.

“Well, I was engaged to another man at the time. Joe. He gave me a ring and everything. I hid it on my bookshelf. I told no one except your grandfather. He was my best friend, I suppose,” she says. “I even showed him the ring.”

“You were
engaged
? So, what happened?” I am riveted. My grandmother almost married another man? She
dated
? Who knew? Mom looks as shocked as I am.

“It was Easter Sunday. I’d bought a new dress, gloves, and matching shoes. Oh, and a beautiful hat—we all wore hats back then,” she says. “Joe was supposed to take me to church and then have dinner with my family.”

“What happened?” Mom asks.

“Joe said he was going to New York with his friends instead and wouldn’t be able to see me until later that evening.” She waves her hand, as if to swat Joe away. “I told him, ‘Joe, you
go
with your friends, and don’t bother coming around,’ and then I walked next door and knocked on your grandfather’s door.”

“Gramps caught a break that day?”

“Yes, he did,” Gram says. “When I told your grandfather Joe went out with his friends, he said, ‘I’m glad he did.’ We got married a year later.”

My grandparents were together three times longer than I have been alive. I wonder if anyone will ever love me the way my grandfather loved my grandmother. The way they loved each other.

No disrespect to John Hughes, but Gram’s story was better than the movie.

*   *   *

On Saturday, I return to the bookstore solo, laptop in hand. Yes, I’m on a sort of stakeout, but I heard what Harry said about coming up with online-content ideas, and I want to do some brainstorming. Perhaps he’d let me do a blog for teens, and then I could keep working at the
Herald Tribune
. I need an amazing idea to pitch to Harry.

I sit facing the door at a table toward the back, power up my laptop, and get started. I do a search of existing blogs using key words like
teens
,
girls
,
high school
,
punk fashion
,
college music
,
YA book reviews
—whatever pops into my head. I wind up reading tons of posts, everything from tips on writing college-application essays to toxic shock syndrome. I come to the conclusion that I can blog about almost anything, but it’s better if I focus. What should the point of my blog be? Do I have enough to say? Two hours later, I look up to see Joanne and company settling into a table near mine.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi, Sam,” Joanne says. “Missy, Sarah, and I have made this our new favorite place. Fiona should be starting her shift soon.”

“That’s cool. It’s a good place to come to get ideas.”

“Are you doing something for work?” Sarah asks. “Fiona mentioned you’re writing for the
Herald Tribune
.”

“I guess. Sort of.” I hesitate, wondering if I want to share what I’m doing with this bunch. “I’m trying to come up with an idea for a blog. For kids our age.”

This gets Missy going. “I follow this blog by a girl who dishes about all the kids in her high school. She doesn’t use real names or anything.”

“How do you know she’s not lying? She might not even be in high school,” I say.

“She could be a
he
,” Joanne offers.

“Burst my bubble, why don’t you.” Missy laughs. “I don’t care. It’s still entertaining.”

“What do you want to write about?” Sarah asks.

“I’m still trying to decide. I want it to help readers, and I want it to be the truth,” I say.

I spend the next hour tossing around ideas with Joanne, Sarah, and Missy. They’re a big help, and I find I really enjoy talking with them. Shelby’s topics of conversation are limited to boys, clothes, parties, and … well, that about covers it.

By the time I leave the coffee shop, the thought of writing for the yearbook and
Folio
this year is sounding a lot better.

chapter eighteen

News Brief

The next couple of weeks fly by in a repetitive cycle of work punctuated by running, mayor stakeouts, parent-approved bar nights, and coffee-shop visits. The latter is not so much about stalking the mayor. More and more, I’m finding I enjoy hanging out there on a regular basis with the yearbook crowd and working on ideas for my yet-to-be-launched blog. It’s beginning to look like I can actually make it happen. I haven’t asked the still-jobless Shelby to join me on my trips to Bargain Books & Beans. I feel a bit guilty, like I’m cheating or something, but I don’t see Shelby and those girls mixing.

Shelby and I do get to the beach once. She’s baffled by how I don’t want to have more summer fun. But what she doesn’t get is, I
am
having fun. A romance is heating up between her and the keg boy, Mark, though, so lately she’s not as bothered by my lack of availability.

I’ve been more determined than ever to impress Harry with my feature obits. I want to prove to him I can do exceptional work on the obit desk before I approach him with my blog idea. And the cool thing is, I’m hitting my stride. It’s amazing, the things people share with me, a stranger. The memories my questions trigger; the simplest details that make them laugh or cry. I’ve learned the importance of listening patiently. I let people talk, and wait for that one quote that sparks an idea for a lead and gives me something to build a story around.

My father always used to say he wanted us kids to have roots and wings.…

Every Sunday, she sat and peeled ten pounds of potatoes, ten pounds.…

I can’t imagine not hearing him play piano anymore.…

My goal is to write a story people will clip from the newspaper and keep with their other mementos, something they will read ten years from now and smile at, or laminate like that woman Eileen Abraham. Yes, only the rich and famous get feature obits in newspapers like the
New York Times
, but at the
Herald Tribune
, everyone has a shot at getting his or her story told by me. It feels awesome.

The amount of fan mail I get from appreciative relatives is surprising. It’s not varsity softball or the lead in a school play, but I’ll take it. At the last bar night, some reporters—and even a couple of old-guy Harp regulars, like Bob and Sharkey—told me they really look forward to my feature obits. And much to my utter shock and surprise, Bernadette called last week to pay me a compliment in her own way.

“Moronica,” she said when I picked up the phone, “keep it up. You finally figured out you’re writing about a life, not reporting a death.”

chapter nineteen

Dateline

It’s the last Wednesday in July, and I’ve earned my shot at covering Michael’s beat while he’s on vacation. Harry made it official yesterday, when Michael left for Maine. Even though the news caused Tony to leave early in a huff—no pit stop by my desk to congratulate me—I smile every time I think about it.

“Are we still on after work?” AJ says, referring to our weekly “date” following the mayor.

I smile every time I think of that, too. We’ve determined that Wednesday is not always the mayor’s banking day. Last week we wound up following him to his house, but we’ve gotten better about timing a food pickup with our stealth operation.

“Yep, we’re on. I plan on finishing the feature obit early.”

“Nice. These have been the best weeks of my life at the
Herald Tribune
,” AJ says.

AJ has been able to write more music-related articles since I’ve been taking care of all the feature obits. His features are very well written, and Harry has stopped by the obit desk on several occasions to tell AJ he’s impressed. One time, Harry actually used the word “talented.” Probably why AJ’s been such a good sport about helping me with this mayor business.

“Your review of that local band was excellent,” I say. “I love the way you describe music. Not like those reviewers who care more about making obscure musical references than doing justice to the band. You could totally have a career as a music writer if the whole drummer thing doesn’t pan out.”

“Yeah?” He tries not to smile. “Thanks. Harry liked it too.”

At three o’clock, I’m surprised when Alice calls my phone to say there’s someone here who wants to see me. When I step into the reception area, Antoinette at the front desk nods her head toward an old—make that very, very old—man seated in one of our mustard-colored leather chairs that’s almost as old as he is. He’s wearing long sleeves, even though it feels like it’s a hundred degrees out today with this humidity.