Winter (Four Seasons #1) (19 page)

There’s no
chance I’m getting out of Media Law and Ethics, though—not after
Professor Lang’s disappointed speech last time. I arrive exactly on
time for class and sit down in my seat, too wary to glance over and
look at Noah. Professor Lang has been speaking for twenty minutes
by the time I find the courage, and it’s a major anti-climax when I
realize he isn’t even there. Noah skipped. He’s skipped class
because of yesterday. It’s completely ridiculous that he’d do that,
but then his whole reaction was ridiculous. I push him out of my
head, sick and tired of worrying about the whole thing. Professor
Lang does a damn good job of distracting me, anyway.

“
The news is
no longer folded sheets of paper that we buy should we happen to
remember on our way to work. It’s alerts on our phones, pop-ups on
our computer screens, interruptions to our favourite television
shows. Global events are instantly reported mere seconds after
occurring. With everything so immediate, so push of a button, so in
our faces, we need to ask ourselves, how have the roles of
journalists evolved in the wider world? What are their duties?
Their responsibilities?”

I can’t help
but feel like Professor Lang’s gaze lingers on me a little too
long. My suspicions are confirmed when he removes his glasses and
polishes the lenses on his untucked shirt. “Perhaps you have some
thoughts on this matter, Miss Patterson?”

Curse him.
He’s never called on me before. All eyes are on me—a sensation
instantly unpleasant and confronting. “I, uh…” Sweat beads on my
forehead. “I personally feel that there’s an onus on journalists to
be truthful in their reporting. The truth has to be the most
important thing, right?”

“
You’re asking
me, or you’re telling me?”

Fuck. If this
is some sort of test, I have no idea how to pass it. I imbue my
tone with a level of confidence I don’t feel when I say, “I’m
telling you.”

Lang frowns,
returning his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “Okay. So if we
work to that principle—that the truth is the most important factor
here—how does a journalist know fact from fiction when they’re
required to report on something so quickly? Before someone else can
jump in with both feet and beat them to the punch?”

“
I…I don’t
know. I guess that’s where fact checkers come in.”

“
Fact
checkers?”

“
Yes.”

“
This isn’t
the seventies, Miss Patterson. Anyone with a smart phone and enough
common sense to ask questions can do so freely. You request a fact
checker at the New York Times and you’d be fired on the spot. Your
job as a journalist is to be able to quickly and efficiently check
the veracity of your information in person. I suggest if you need a
week to comfortably confirm your sources before going to print or,
indeed, to air, then you should perhaps go to the The New Yorker
and become a fact checker yourself.”

The class
titters at Lang’s remark. I slump down into my seat, wondering why
I’m being torn a new one. So far I’ve been invisible in this class,
and I’ve liked it that way. But worse than being the center of
attention right now, Lang is challenging me to defend my
decisions…decisions I’m sure he knows are very personal to me.
“Then I’ll revise my statement. The most important responsibility a
journalist has is to report as judiciously as possible, including
only information they believe to be true after verifying first the
legitimacy of their information to the best of their ability.
Journalists who choose to sensationalize the news for their own
ratings, people who scavenge over the truth like it’s a goddamned
buffet and they can take and leave whatever they decide without a
thought or care for how their words effect people, that’s the kind
of journalism that should be avoided at all costs.”

The room is
silent. Lang considers this for a moment, his lips pursed. “I
agree. But it’s not always that easy, is it? Emotions often get in
the way regardless of how hard a person may try to remain
impartial.” He breaks his focus, a reprieve from the intensity of
his stare, and takes a look at the rest of the student body. “I
have an assignment for you, class, and you can thank Miss Patterson
for the extra workload. I want each and every one of you to tell me
the truth. Tell me a greater truth about an event that has shaped
and formed you into who you are today. And I don’t want to hear
anyone telling me such an event in their past does not exist,
because that would be…wait for it… a
lie
. There’s always something. We all
have one. But—” he breaks off when the class starts groaning.
“
But!
I want you
to tell that greater truth from someone else’s perspective, someone
else who knows that terrible incident inside and out. This is where
the problems begin, class. We hit brick walls when we start to
borrow other people’s truths. Our experiences, our prejudices, our
own personal beliefs all color the way we choose to pick over the
buffet of truth as Miss Patterson so eloquently worded it. So, in
short, be creative. Be bold. Be subjective. Be whatever you need to
be, but most importantly, be honest. I’ll expect all of your
Pulitzer worthy, vainglorious pieces to be turned in by the end of
the week.”

The lecture
theatre erupts into conversation and complaints as Lang begins
packing his laptop and papers away, and I sit there trying to
become invisible again. But I can’t. He’s asking me to do
something, to put myself out there—but not only that. He’s asking
me to involve someone else in the process, look at my situation
through their eyes and report it back in stark black and white
without allowing my tormented past to effect the work. It’s just
not possible. It’s cruel is what it is.

I pack up my
laptop, my desire to escape becoming more and more pressing as the
seconds tick by. I have three text messages waiting for me when I
get outside. Just what I need on top of my new, terrifying
assignment: more boy drama. And that’s exactly what it is. My
stomach pitches when I see one message is from Luke, the other two
from Noah. Noah’s first message reads,

Noah: Sorry,
Avery Patterson. I know what you’re thinking right now, and yes, I
feel stupid.

I skip over
Luke’s message in the middle to read Noah’s second text—not because
I’m so much more desperate to read Noah’s, but because I’m more
apprehensive about what Luke might have to say.

Noah: It’s
funny how sometimes one apology just doesn’t feel quite enough. I
need to say it again: I’m really sorry. I can’t bear to see you
again until you say you’ve forgiven me, and that you’ll give me a
second shot. Please?

Me: There’s
nothing to apologize for. And of course I want to see you. Come by
the apartment after five if you aren’t busy.

It takes me
until I reach Margo’s diner to talk myself into opening Luke’s
text. His is a little more concise and less pleading, but it’s an
apology all the same.

Luke: Didn’t
have time to look through our homework yesterday, sorry. Something
came up, so no news. Will call later if I have anything.

I reply and
tell Luke not to worry about it, and then order two extra large
coffees for me and Morgan to drink once I’ve made it home. My hands
are in heaven the whole journey back to 125
^th
Street thanks to the scalding
takeaway cups, but the rest of me is a frigid ice block. Worse
still, it starts snowing halfway home and my hair is damp and
ratty, running melted water down the back of my neck by the time
Morgan lets me into her apartment.

“
Sheesh, you
look like crap, Patterson.”

“
Thanks. You
look terrific, yourself.” She actually does look pretty good, aside
from the shadows under her eyes and the way she seems to flinch
whenever she moves, like every joint in her body aches.

“
Is that a
coffee? For me?” she demands, relieving me of one of the
takeaways.

I snatch it
back and thrust the other one out to her. “Trust me, you don’t want
that one.”

Morgan shakes
her head and eases herself down onto her computer chair. “I’m
surprised you have any teeth left with the amount of sugar you
imbibe.”

“
Yeah, well,
we can’t all be sweet enough without it.”

Morgan snorts
and wraps herself in a thick blanket. I take off my boots and flex
my toes out, trying to get the feeling back.

“
You’re gonna
dirty up my place with your foot stink,” Morgan moans. I ignore her
and snap the cookie I bought along with the coffee in half to share
with her.

“
Ooh,
chocolate. You know what an occasion like this calls for, don’t
you?”

I quirk my
eyebrow at her and drink deep on my coffee, needing the heat to
defrost my insides. “Go on. Enlighten me.”

“
Charlie St.
Cloud.”

I laugh and
make myself comfortable on her sofa. “Y’know, I’ve tried to watch
that movie twice now but things just keep getting in the way. My
uncle doesn’t appreciate Zac Efron the way he should.”

“
The
way
everyone
should,” Morgan corrects.

“
Right?”

She cues up
the DVD on her laptop, and we both snuggle under a blanket,
watching the titles and getting chocolate chip crumbs everywhere.
Wouldn’t happen in my apartment, but Morgan doesn’t care about
things like that. It feels good that I can be a slob here and then
maintain the order and routine of my own space. Kinda selfish, I
know, but still. The movie is about fifteen minutes in when my
phone buzzes in my bag. I panic, thinking it might be Noah already
upstairs waiting for me. The clock on the wall reads one-forty,
however, so it can’t be that. But the text
is
from Noah, and there’s an
attachment on it. I hit
open
, half watching the screen and
wiggling to keep Morgan from shoving me off the couch while I wait
for it to load. The cookie in my mouth turns to sawdust when I see
the picture he’s sent me.

It’s
me.

Really
me.

Iris
Breslin
.

The poster
bears the picture from my high school yearbook, under which my real
name is printed in neat italics. Along the top of the poster, the
words,
‘Way Out Of Wyoming killer’s
daughter among you. Columbia’s very own murder spawn.’

SamO’BradyJeffersonKyleAdamBrightSamO’BradyJeffersonKyleAdamBright.
Morgan’s laptop nearly crashes to the floor when I
jump up, staring at my cell phone screen. “No, no, no, no!” I sob,
collapsing a little with each repetition. The print at the bottom
of the picture is too small to read but I know what it says. My
fingers are useless, and I barely manage to close the attachment so
I can read the line Noah has sent.

Noah: Looks
like we have ourselves a lying little psychopath! :) I knew you
weren’t an Avery. Perhaps I should call you Murder
Spawn?

“
Avery, what
the hell? You nearly smashed my Mac. What’s wrong with you?” Morgan
hops up, too, but has to sit back down when I start frantically
pacing.

“
Someone
knows,” I mutter.

“
Knows
what?”

“
Someone
knows
!” She suddenly realizes what I’m talking about. The blood
drains from her face,

“
But how? I
swear I haven’t told anyone. I swear!”

I don’t reply.
I know she hasn’t told anyone but I can’t reassure her. I’m too
busy sobbing uncontrollably. My legs collapse out from underneath
me and I sink to the floor in a heap.

“
You want me
to call Noah?” Morgan asks, her hands fluttering nervously on my
shoulder.

“
He’s the one
who sent me the picture!”

She snatches
the phone out of my hand and starts mashing buttons while I let
myself fall apart. All of the constructing, all the time spent
fighting to build a new life for myself, all the hours spent
feeling like I’m barely holding on by the skin of my teeth, it’s
all been for nothing. Nothing. Morgan starts talking quickly, low
and quiet, into my phone. I only start paying attention when her
voice raises, and suddenly she’s shouting.

“…
so answer
your phone, you selfish prick!”

“
Who did you
call?”

“
Noah,” she
spits out. “I can’t believe he said that to you. It rang forever
and then went to voicemail.”

“
He’s probably
pissed at me.”

“
He has no
right to be pissed.”

I blow out a
sharp breath and roll my eyes. “I didn’t tell him the truth.”
Morgan drops to her knees beside me and grabs hold of my shoulders,
shaking me until I look up at her.

“
Don’t you
dare defend him! I’m sure there are plenty of things Noah hasn’t
been truthful with you about. You guys don’t owe each other
anything.” The sharp look in her eyes takes me back. “I’m gonna
throttle that douche bag when I get hold of him. Hold on, he
doesn’t have my number. He might pick up if I call from my
phone.”