Famous Last Words Read online

  “Very nice,” I say. “You’re right. Maybe I should start drinking.”

  Shelby slumps down to her knees and starts to cry. Not good. Shelby always starts out crying about one thing and ends up crying about her father. It’s one of the reasons I can never stay angry with her for long. I reach into the small purse I brought with me.

  “Here,” I say. “Have some gum. I’ll call your mom.” Without saying a word, I hand Shelby a tissue.

  I am so over all things high school. I can’t wait to get back to work.

  chapter four

  Book Review

  I wake up early Saturday morning thinking of Sy Goldberg. Maybe I can help Michael find the evidence he needs to prove the mayor has been up to no good, I think as I tie the laces of my running shoes and head downstairs to the garage, where the treadmill lives. The house is still quiet.

  I pop in my earbuds, step on the belt, and adjust the speed. I know if I’m serious about doing a 10k this fall, I’ve got to start training outside. Next time, I promise myself. This is good enough for now. Treadmills and iPhones were made for people like me. Running while hiding. It’s a sport; it’s a way of life. I like the solitude of the garage. When I run, I pretend I’m a different kind of girl. My best ideas and fantasies come to me as I watch the red blip that is me doing laps on my NordicTrack’s screen.

  Mile One: I’m fronting a band. I’m the kind of female rocker who can stand on a stage, uninhibited, and belt out a song. Oh, and I can play guitar too. Today at least. Sometimes it’s drums.

  Mile Two: A photographer snaps my picture as I receive a New Jersey Press Association Award. I’m the youngest reporter ever to be honored for her investigative journalism, for my work on the Sy Goldberg story.

  Mile Three: Rob McGinty leans on his car outside my house, waiting to drive me to school. He’s holding my vanilla latte like he has every morning since he dumped Liza and started dating me, the award-winning journalist.

  I’m a sucker for a movie montage. I like mine with power pop and alt-rock in my ears. Today, some harder rock in the form of Love Gas made the playlist. AJ downloaded his band’s songs for me. They’re really good. I’m glad. It would have been awkward to pretend I liked them.

  By the time I finish my cooldown, I’m convinced I can help Michael with his corrupt-mayor investigation, and I have an idea about where to start. Without stopping to think, I text AJ.

  Wanna go to the mayor’s coffee shop with me today?

  That may be the first time I’ve asked a guy to do anything. But this is AJ. No reason to feel weird about it.

  When I emerge from the steamy garage, Gram is at the kitchen table doing a crossword puzzle.

  “Morning, hon,” she says when she sees me. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks, Gram. I’m going to shower first. Where’s Mom and Dad?”

  “Your mother had to go into the office for a couple of hours,” Gram says. “And your dad just went outside to cut the lawn.”

  “Got it,” I say, then take a paper towel and wipe the sweat from my eyes. “I’m going to get cleaned up.”

  “Okay. I’ll make a fresh pot when you’re done.”

  “Sounds great. Thanks, Gram.”

  I check my phone on the way upstairs. No reply from AJ yet. It’s not even nine. He’s probably still sleeping. I should have waited.

  After my shower, the hours tick by and I grow tired of obsessively checking my phone every three minutes for a return text. At noon, I call AJ. But when I dial, it goes straight to voice mail. That’s when I decide I’ve got to do something, anything, besides stare at my phone. I find my dad and ask him to take me out for driving practice. Thirty minutes into our session, it’s obvious this is a big mistake. On a good day, it’s impossible for me to parallel park Dad’s minivan, but today, I’m extra preoccupied. Did AJ think I was asking him out? Is he screening me? Is he with Jessica? Somewhere around one o’clock, my exasperated dad decides it’s time to practice on the highway.

  “Let’s fill up the tank first,” Dad says. “Pull into that station on the right.”

  “Okay.”

  I maneuver into Pit Stop behind a blue BMW with a vanity plate that reads SHEDVL, which is either Yiddish or an ill-conceived abbreviation. In the driver’s seat is a girl a little older than me who’s feverishly plucking her eyebrows in the rearview mirror. The gas station attendants are half checking her out, half amused. Oddly enough, I’m inspired. If this girl remains undaunted by the attention her public grooming is attracting, surely I can run outside. There’s nothing remotely odd or unexpected about that.

  “Sam?” My dad’s voice tears my focus away from the hypnotic plucking.

  “What?”

  “We can go now. The guy just gave me my credit card back,” he said. “You’re going to have to back up a little to get around this car. Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t hit the plucker.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say. I turn around to make sure no one is coming into the gas station behind me and put the car in reverse.

  Five minutes later, I’m headed down the on-ramp for the Garden State Parkway. Ugh. Merging. No one ever wants to let you in. After some wincing and teeth sucking from my dad, I finally navigate my way into the slow lane. I reach to turn on the radio, but my dad takes my right hand and puts it back at two o’clock.

  “You drive,” he says. “I’ll deejay.”

  “Okay, but try to find a song that came out in the last three years. I’m not listening to ‘Tom Sawyer’ while you play air drums.”

  “Come on, Rush is timeless.”

  “If by timeless you mean old, then I agree.”

  “Just drive,” he says.

  “I’m driving,” I say. “I’d rather be sitting in your seat playing with the radio, though.”

  “Sam, you live in New Jersey. You’ve got to learn to drive on highways. It’s a matter of survival.”

  To me, the parkway is like high school. I’ll put up with both if they take me someplace better. In the meantime, I keep a really safe distance. I don’t want to get too close and get hurt.

  My phone rings as I’m pulling onto our block. My dad gives me a look that says, Don’t even think about it, and answers before I can stop him. He thinks he’s being funny.

  “Sam’s phone. Who’s calling? AJ?”

  My heart does a double pump when I hear it’s him. I’m not sure if I’m happy or relieved.

  “Hold on. I’ll turn the phone over to her in a sec. She’s just pulling into the driveway.… No problem.”

  When the ignition is off, Dad hands me my phone and gets out of the car.

  “Not bad. You’re getting there,” Dad says. “We’ll take Mom’s car next time.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, and then talk into my phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” AJ says. “I just got your text. Sorry about that. My phone’s been off.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. It was early. I should’ve waited.”

  He doesn’t mention the missed call from me, and I’m relieved. I don’t want him thinking I was desperate to get in touch with him.

  After a long, awkward pause, AJ says, “So … still want to go?”

  “To the coffee shop?”

  “No. The Statue of Liberty.”

  “Ha, ha,” I say, but I’m relieved to be back in banter mode with AJ. “I know it’s probably a lame thing to do on a Saturday. But Michael mentioned it, and I was thinking—”

  “The lameness can be overlooked.”

  “Cool.”

  “But it’s got to be later—like, seven? I’m in the middle of a thing.”

  What kind of thing? A Jessica thing? Did I interrupt a date? It’s getting hot in this car. I’ve got to step outside.

  “Oh, yeah. Seven. That works,” I say as I swing the door open.

  “I’ll come by your house?”

  “Sure. Great.” I’ll be here doing nothing, because I don’t have “a thing.”

/>   “Later,” AJ says, and then he hangs up.

  * * *

  That night at the mayor’s coffee shop/used bookstore, Bargain Books & Beans—how clever—I flip through well-worn copies of Waiting for Godot and one of my top-ten favorites, Jane Eyre. I’ve never read Godot, but the books were side by side on the shelf, and something about that intrigued me. AJ sits across from me. He’s sporting a Beastie Boys T-shirt and reading the inside jacket of Slash’s autobiography.

  “Oh,” I say, looking up from Godot. “I almost forgot. I checked out those Love Gas tunes today. Awesome.”

  “Yeah?” says AJ with a smile. “I mean, I know we’re good. Just surprised you like us.”

  “Why? Because girls can’t like harder music?”

  “The Rick Springfield ringtone?”

  He’s got me there. I take out my phone and hand it to him.

  “Do with this what you will.”

  “Any song?” AJ immediately tabs to my phone’s settings.

  “Your choice.”

  “Nice.”

  I decide it’s time to get down to business. I lower my voice. “So. Do you think this place is legit or some kind of cover?”

  AJ only half listens as he focuses on his music download. “Whataya mean?”

  “I mean … do you think the mayor is up to something? Why would he open this place for his daughter?”

  “Because she needs a job?” AJ looks at me now, raising his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his iced coffee.

  “I guess.”

  “Is that why you wanted to come here?” AJ asks. A look I can’t quite define passes over his face. “Research?”

  The hot, red splotches are creeping up my chest toward my neck. I know it. “Sort of. I told you it was lame. I shouldn’t have bothered you. Especially since you had a thing and all.”

  “No. It’s all right. I just…” AJ shakes his head as if to clear away some train of thought. “The thing. It was for my mom.”

  I feel silly now for assuming he was with Jessica. “Oh, is it her birthday?”

  “More like an anniversary,” he says. “She died five years ago. We had a mass for her this morning. My grandparents and uncle came. Then we all went to the cemetery and out to lunch.”

  “AJ, I’m so sorry.” Without thinking, I reach over and pat his upper arm. “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t talk about her much. I probably should, right?”

  I don’t know what to say. So, for a few seconds, I say nothing. Finally, AJ scoops up his book and stands. “Ready to go? The smell of old books and coffee is getting to me.”

  I try to lighten the mood. “What did you expect? It’s a coffee shop and they sell used books.”

  AJ shrugs and looks around. “Something more.”

  I try to gauge AJ’s meaning as I look around the place myself. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting to find here. Granted, the place is still new, but there isn’t much of a scene—no kids with laptops listening to music and drinking five-dollar lattes. No couples sharing dessert.

  I’m feeling guilty for dragging AJ with me, so I take his book from him. “Here. It’s on me,” I say, and then walk toward the checkout. I place all three books on the counter—Slash, Godot, and Jane, what a combination.

  We stand there for a few minutes in silence. AJ stares out the window. “This is a nice downtown you got here. Quaint.”

  Quaint. The word sounds funny coming from AJ. “After we pay, we can walk around. I’ll give you the tour.” And then I quickly add, “Only if you want. We don’t have to.” I don’t want to pressure AJ into spending more lame time with me.

  “A walking tour of Chestnutville? Let’s do it.”

  “I can show you where Annie Oakley lived.”

  “Seriously? Well, now I can hardly wait to get started. If we ever get out of here, that is. Did the barista just up and leave for the night?” AJ asks.

  “I was beginning to wonder the same thing.” I look around to see if there’s a bell or buzzer to ring for service. That’s when I spot, behind the counter and next to a framed five-dollar bill, the health department certificate. My father’s cousin, Dana, is an inspector for the town. She has told us one too many stories involving animal droppings and substandard refrigeration. So now I have this compulsion to check the health ratings of every restaurant I go into. I lean over the counter and strain my eyes to see what kind of rating this place received, but I still can’t see. There’s no sign of the barista, so I step behind the counter for a better look.

  “What are you doing?” AJ asks.

  “Shhh,” I say as I lean close to the certificate.

  The rating is “good”—that’s a relief—and then I notice the names of the proprietors.

  “No way!” I say, louder than I expected. Giovanni Amato—that’s Michael’s ne’er-do-well mayor—and Sy Goldberg!

  chapter five

  Death Notices

  Monday morning. My dad drops me off early, before my scheduled shift, so I can do some research. I’m also anxious to see Michael and talk more about Bargain Books & Beans and Sy Goldberg. AJ and I phoned Michael on Saturday to tell him what we found out, but he’s waiting until today to confront the mayor about his interesting choice for a business partner.

  When I arrived at eight thirty this morning, only Harry, Alice (Harry’s secretary), and Bernadette were here. No one gets in before the triumvirate. Since then, I’ve been perusing the Herald Tribune’s electronic archives for back stories about Michael’s mayor. If I’m understanding it correctly, the city got a million-dollar federal grant to help low-income families reduce their energy bills by making their homes more energy efficient. The mayor hired Sy for $75,000 a year to oversee both the program and two additional employees. Interesting.

  Is Sy short for something? Is that an actual first name? I wonder. First I Google “Sy Goldberg” and get some hits, then I simply type in “What is Sy short for?” Sylvan, Sylvester, Syahid? I check a few baby-name websites. Turns out, it could be any of those or just Sy or a bunch of other choices. I’m about to check the online white pages for Sy Goldberg when the phone rings—again.

  If only my research didn’t keep getting interrupted with obits and other death-related inquiries. I find I’m always explaining to some caller that death notices and in memoriams are paid services, that they’re handled by the classified department and people can write whatever they want in those but there is a per word charge. At the Herald Tribune, the obits called in by funeral homes are free. (It’s probably why our paper gets so many.) If only I were free of obit writing. It’s not without its perks, however. For starters, it really helps put things like a stupid high school party in perspective. It’s not even ten o’clock, and already there are three people I’m happy not to be: Helen Scavone, seventy-seven, retired teacher; Ernest Jacobs, ninety-one, optometrist; and Ina Mukin, ninety-two, housewife. All dead.

  There’s something to be said for breathing.

  “Hey, Sam,” Michael says.

  I jump when I hear his voice behind me. “What are you doing here so early?”

  Harry likes to see empty desks until deadline. He wants reporters out covering their towns, not sitting around the newsroom.

  “I had to pick up something on my way to city hall. Wanna come with?”

  “Really? I can? Now?”

  “Sure, why not? Maybe I’ll let you ask the mayor about his very silent business partner in the coffee biz. He can’t call you an a-hole.”

  “Okay! Wait right here. Let me ask Bernie.”

  I bounce over to the copy desk, buoyed by the possibility of getting out of the newsroom to tag along with Michael. But Bernie quickly shoots me down. I should have known.

  “Is AJ here?” She asks without looking up from her paper.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then no.”

  “He’ll be here any minute.”

  “Sorry. Back to the obit desk, Moronica. It’s where all good writers star
t, and it’s where they all end up.”

  I get the feeling Bernie invented snarky. I give her a cheesy smile and walk over to the door, where Michael is waiting.

  “Can’t go,” I say.

  Michael swings his leather messenger bag over his shoulder and picks up his keys.

  “Bummer. Next time.” Michael heads for the door, then turns around. “Good work, Sam. You’ve got some skills.”

  “Thank you!” His compliment eases my disappointment.

  I sit down at the obit desk and type on a blank screen.

  Bernadette Dunne, copy editor for the Herald Tribune since the days when the news was delivered by the Pony Express, died Monday. She was very, very old. Known to everyone except Herald Tribune intern Samantha D’Angelo as “Bernie,” she died shortly after allowing the aforementioned D’Angelo to spend the morning away from the obit desk. Apparently, it could kill to be a little nicer.

  Select all. Delete.

  After Michael leaves, the newsroom is quiet except for Alice’s squeaky chair and the intermittent crackling of the police scanner. The Herald Tribune has its own rhythm, and I like feeling the day gain momentum. The door behind me swings open with a bang, and I don’t even have to look up to know who it is. The order is always the same.

  First in, features editor Jack Ballard. Ext. 3214. Coffee, light and sweet.

  It’s funny. At school, I’m terrible with names. I struggle to make the most basic connection with kids my age.

  “Morning, Jack.”

  “Hey there, Sam. You here already?”

  He’s a big teddy bear of a man who drives a Smart car that just seems to hug him. I’ve been collecting some feature ideas to pitch to Jack. AJ says as long as it doesn’t interfere with our intern duties, Harry’s usually cool with it.

  Thunk. The back door again. Next up, the city-desk editors. First Grace, ext. 3211, cream, no sugar, followed by Brian Sullivan, ext. 3210, black coffee with a Marlboro red in the parking lot. Jack’s assistant; the editorial-page editor; the sports intern; a couple of reporters; and our graphic designer arrive next, in rapid succession. Rocco will be rolling in here soon, and then comes the lull until late afternoon, when most of the reporters and the copy-desk editors start arriving.