Famous Last Words Read online

  “D’Angelo!” Bernadette squawks from across the room.

  My bubble of optimism pops.

  “Wow, she used your name,” AJ says. “She must really be pissed.”

  What did I do wrong? I’ve been triple-checking obit names all day. I hope I didn’t misspell a word. It’s never enough for her to beckon me over to the copy desk and tell me which word I spelled wrong; she likes to grab the dictionary that sits on her computer, flip to the page with the word in question, and point it out to me with her yellowed fingernail. I usually try to hide my impatience so that the didactic exercise need not take any longer than necessary.

  But Bernadette is even more animated than usual. She’s waving both arms above her head, and I feel vaguely like a jet being directed into the terminal at Newark Liberty Airport. Then she gets up to meet me halfway between the obit desk and the copy desk, which puts us right in front of the city desk.

  “EFFFF, Whyyyyy, Eyyyyyee!!!” she says when she’s about two inches away from my face.

  I know I’m going to faint from the combination of embarrassment and her awful coffee breath.

  “It is not Rally, North Carolina. It is Raleigh!”

  Bernadette hails from somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line and until tonight, I was never sure where. I guess I hit her right in the hometown with my recent egregious error. Sadly, between her anger and her accent, which has returned with a vengeance, both words are sounding exactly the same to me. But I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Perhaps she reads the persistent confusion on my face, though, because suddenly she begins yelling and spelling at the same time.

  “That’s R-A-L-E-I-G-H, Moronica!”

  Grace, the kindest of the city-desk editors, pushes herself away from her terminal and is about to come to my rescue. “Just a minute, Bernie,” she says, but she’s interrupted by an event that really raises the bar on the sentence “I had a bad day at work.” Grace hasn’t even lifted her backside from the chair before Bernadette clutches her chest and her face turns a shade of red that truly brings to mind blood boiling. She begins taking wheezing, labored breaths.

  “I need to sit,” she whispers.

  Harry wastes no time rolling a chair in her direction and guiding her into the sitting position. Jack is on the spot with bottled water. Grace fans Bernie’s face and administers calm advice. “Take deep, even breaths, Bernie. Deep, even breaths.”

  OhmyGod. Is she having a heart attack?

  “Relax, Bernie,” Harry says. “Are you okay? Should I dial nine-one-one?”

  Bernie shakes her head. “Just hand me that water.”

  I back up slowly, bringing my hands up to my face and covering my eyes. I’m not sure what to do. Is Bernie going to be okay? Does she need to go to the ER? This is all my fault. I want to help Bernie, but I’m afraid. It feels like the music has stopped and I don’t have a chair.

  I’m about to cry and don’t want to do it in front of everyone. I look from my desk to the restroom, and then I do the only thing I can think of. I run. Across the length of the newsroom and straight through the double doors leading to the pressroom. I make a sharp right once I get inside and look for a place to hide. I spot the giant spools of paper, like overgrown rolls of paper towels, and head their way. I slink between two of them, press my back to the cinder-block wall, and slide my butt to the ground. My face is feverishly hot, and I’m sure my nervous splotches are abounding.

  I look up at the presses, a roller-coaster-like network of conveyor belts that snake through the warehouse. It reminds me of a megasize version of that old board game Mousetrap. The bay doors to the loading dock are open. A tempting escape.

  Tears stream silently down my face, and my nose starts running. What did I do? Why didn’t I just hold it together? I’m thinking about how badly I need a tissue when a pair of black Converse shuffle into my sight line. AJ. He doesn’t offer me a tissue, just a hand. I put mine in his and allow him to pull me up, and then he does something I totally don’t expect. He draws me close to his chest and wraps his arms around me. I curl into him. My tears fall against his AC/DC T-shirt. My thoughts are wavering between This should be awkward but it’s not and Wow, AJ is solid.

  Finally, AJ breaks the embrace and says, “Are you done being all girly and emotional?”

  That gets one corner of my mouth to turn up. “I think so. But I can’t go back in there.”

  “Let’s do a few jumping jacks first.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Oh, no, he isn’t. But yes, there he is, doing jumping jacks between the rolls of unused newspaper.

  “Come on. Do them with me. No one can be unhappy when they’re doing jumping jacks.”

  I don’t know why. Maybe because I know he’s doing this for me, but I start doing jumping jacks too. First I smile. Then I laugh. We’re both cracking up when pressman Franco walks up, gut hanging over his belt, and gives us a long look. “Call me when it’s time for Pilates,” he says. And then he walks away.

  “Ready to go back?” AJ asks, a little out of breath. “Don’t sweat it. Bernie’s going to be fine. Jack took her home.”

  “AJ, I still can’t.”

  AJ puts his hands on his hips and looks around. “Okay, then. Follow me.”

  I do as he says as he walks toward the open bay doors, but I freeze when he jumps down into the loading zone.

  “Jump,” he says.

  “It’s too high.”

  “It’s only, like, four or five feet.”

  “So am I.”

  “Come on. Don’t be a chicken. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I can’t leave. I need my stuff.”

  “Sit down. I’ll be right back.” Then he jogs toward the front of the building.

  I turn around to make sure no one is watching, then plop down on the edge of the loading dock. AJ comes back a few minutes later, my bag and phone in hand. He puts them on the ground and walks toward me.

  “Here, give me your hands.”

  I put both my hands in his.

  “Now jump,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

  I push off and land on my feet. AJ never lets go. We stand that way for a few seconds, just looking at each other.

  “AJ, I—”

  When I start to speak, he abruptly drops my hands.

  “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.” I pick up my bag and my phone. “I was gonna say … that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “Sam-I-am, it’s time you started living.”

  Then he smiles, and it’s like I’m jumping off the loading dock all over again.

  chapter ten

  Puzzles

  I don’t even pretend sleep is an option tonight. My thoughts vacillate between my almost-moment with AJ and the unfortunate incident with Bernie that led us to the Herald Tribune’s loading dock to begin with.

  AJ was his usual self on the ride home. He played some tracks by a band he’s into, and by the time we got to my house, it was like the hug, the jump, and the moment never happened.

  After giving my parents a rundown of my horrendous day, I texted Meg. She said Bernie seems all right and promised to see her doctor first thing in the morning.

  Sam, it’s not your fault,

  Meg texted.

  Don’t worry.☺

  How can I not worry? First I made the awful obit mix up, then I nearly sent Bernie to the emergency room. I’m no longer worried about Harry yelling at me. I’m worried about him firing me.

  It’s practically midnight, and for hours now I’ve been fighting the urge to text AJ. To keep my mind occupied, I do some research on Bernie. Turns out, she’s spent her entire career at the Herald Tribune; she even delivered the paper as a teenager. And Bernie actually wrote obits before working her way up and becoming a beat reporter. During her tenure, she covered municipal beats, the county courthouse, and the statehouse in Trenton, our capital city. She has won numerous awards for her reporti
ng and served as city-desk editor before moving over to the copy desk as its chief. I feel bad for not knowing any of this sooner. What if something terrible had happened to her? Bernie has earned the right to call me Moronica.

  * * *

  In the morning, I’m up early. To be honest, I don’t remember sleeping. I stay in bed and watch through my bedroom window while the horizon goes from black to pink and gray swirls as the sky gradually lightens. It’s probably a good thing that I’m off today. The more space I put between me and the Bernie event, the better my chances are for returning to the newsroom. I certainly attracted more attention than the gas station eyebrow plucker. I know one thing: I’ll never forget how to spell Raleigh.

  I reach for Waiting for Godot and flip through the first few pages. The title really spoke to me at the bookstore, but it’s been sitting on the floor next to my bed, unopened, since then. My SAT practice book is down there too, collecting carpet fuzz. My parents think I should take the test again this fall to improve my chances of getting into Columbia or NYU. I can’t make them understand that I’m fine with a state university; I’d prefer it. Especially since I have no idea what I want to do. Journalism was on the short list, but my confidence has been shaken. I wish my stakeout had been more fruitful and I’d been able to help Michael. I wish I hadn’t made Bernadette so angry. I stare at the dialogue in Godot. I’m not really sure where it’s going, but there does indeed seem to be a lot of waiting going on. Frustrated—by Beckett and everything—I slam the play closed and finally get out of bed.

  My parents try to make me feel better when I come downstairs at six, dressed for a run. They both took the day off. They’re going away for the long weekend and wanted to get a head start on holiday traffic.

  Mom, who happens to be both in a related business and protective of her only child, is appalled that Bernadette made that kind of a scene over a misspelled city.

  “I mean, come on. That was completely unprofessional. Copy editing is the wrong career for that woman if she’s going to let an honest mistake get to her,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say, momentarily bolstered. “I thought that’s what copy editors were for, anyway.”

  “Well, yes. But if you think journalism is a career you’d like to pursue, you really do need to work on your spelling and grammar. It wouldn’t kill you,” she says.

  “Or anyone else, for that matter,” Dad says.

  “You crack yourself up, don’t you?” Mom says.

  “Why, yes, I do,” he says.

  I’m not ready to laugh about this. My brain feels fuzzy from worry and lack of sleep. I need to clear my head. “I’m going to work out,” I say.

  “Why don’t you run outside today?” Mom offers. “It’s not that humid right now.”

  I consider it for half a second but don’t feel like messing with my routine. “I’ll stick to the treadmill.”

  I wind up running only three miles. Usually, running puts me in a better mental state, but I can’t find a groove this morning, and all my tunes are getting on my nerves. When I emerge into the coolness of the air-conditioned kitchen, I hear Gram in the living room. On my way to the shower, I see she’s sitting in her chair in front of the TV with a can of tomato sauce in each hand, apparently doing biceps curls.

  “Getting some exercise in, Gram?”

  “This lady is great. She’s got a whole routine that I can do while sitting down,” she says.

  Gram is watching CTV, our municipal access television station. And there is indeed a woman in her sixties, sitting in a chair and performing arm exercises with actual dumbbells as opposed to canned vegetables. I’m wondering if this produces any results. The woman is not even breaking a sweat. But Gram seems to be enjoying herself; she’s even wearing yoga pants and Dad’s old JUST DO IT Nike T-shirt.

  “Good for you, Gram!”

  “You’re not the only one who likes to stay fit.”

  Gram also likes to take walks and occasionally uses the treadmill. She’s in great shape for an older gal.

  “Are you ready for our big bachelorette weekend?” I ask.

  “You bet.”

  In a few hours, my parents will be joining the mass Fourth of July exodus to coastal regions, or as we say in New Jersey, they’re going down the shore. They’ll be staying at my Uncle Lou’s beach house near Island Beach State Park.

  The fourth is Monday, but lots of towns have events planned all weekend, and Harry wanted some extra phone coverage. AJ’s working Saturday, I’m working Sunday, and we’re both on for Monday. If I still have a job, that is.

  My phone rings as I’m on my way upstairs. I look at the screen. I was expecting Shelby, but I’m pleased to see it’s Meg.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “Hey, kiddo. Listen, I know you have the day off, but Harry wants you to ride around with me today. Michael’s still out, so I’m going over to East Passaic city hall,” she says. “Harry doesn’t like to go two days in a row without someone from the Herald Tribune popping in on our favorite mayor.”

  “Really? You mean, he doesn’t want to fire me?” I ask.

  “I told you last night, nobody blames you for what happened to Bernie. Her diet and work schedule finally caught up with her. Harry says she’s taking some time off. Probably a good thing. She needs to start thinking about retirement,” Meg says. “Want me to pick you up and then we’ll head over to city hall?”

  “That would be great. Thank you,” I say.

  “See you soon.”

  My phone rings again. This time it is Shelby.

  “So, we’re on for the pool today?” she asks.

  Oh, no. With all that’s happened, I totally forgot.

  “Shelby, I’m so sorry. I just got called in to work.”

  “I thought you had today off.”

  “I did. But Meg just called, and I’ve got to work.”

  “Fine. So, you’d rather work than hang out with me.”

  I don’t want to offend Shelby, but she nailed it. Meg’s call made me realize just how true it is. It’s like they still want me on their team.

  “Tell you what. My parents are going away, so why don’t you sleep over tonight?” I offer as an attempt to keep the peace.

  “Can we order pizza?”

  “Sure.”

  “Fine. But you owe me a pool day.”

  “Tomorrow,” I say, a plan forming in my head.

  After the pool, we can take a walk to Bargain Books & Beans, where Shelby can fill out an application. It would be sweet to have someone on the inside to help me figure out what the deal is with Sy Goldberg. Plus, it would keep Shelby busy.

  chapter eleven

  Local News

  It’s close to lunchtime when Meg and I finally leave city hall. The intense midday day sun beats down, and heat rises from the pavement. Since summer began, I’ve been cocooned in air-conditioning and missing all this sunshine. Today’s a perfect beach day, and suddenly, I’m longing for the last real summer Shelby keeps talking about—and seems to be partaking in herself—with nothing better to do than swim at the community pool or ride waves all day.

  My longing is enhanced by the fact that our trip to city hall has been mind-numbingly boring. Is this the job I’ve been coveting?

  “Michael and I both start our days in our towns, making rounds,” Meg says as we walk along the sidewalk toward her car. “It’s important to get face time with the people you cover. Build a rapport.”

  Today we visited the police and fire departments, the health inspector’s office, and the mayor’s office, where we requested an agenda for next week’s city council meeting and chatted with Mayor Amato, who, not surprisingly, is very charming and probably considered attractive for an older man.

  “Why’d you pick up the agenda so far in advance?”

  “To see if anything interesting is coming up for a vote. It helps to be able to make calls and do some research beforehand. Summer is usually a slow time of year for city government, but in the case of this
mayor, Harry wants to make sure he knows we’re keeping an eye on him.”

  “Gotcha.”

  As we drive back to the Herald Tribune, my stomach constricts at the thought of facing AJ. Should I act the same? Wait to see how he acts first? Bore him with a minute-by-minute account of my morning at city hall? I needn’t have stressed about it. As soon as we get through the newsroom door, Harry summons me.

  “D’Angelo!” he calls from the city desk, where he’s standing up and paging through his stack of newspapers. “My office. Pronto.”

  Turns out, being scared breathless is a real icebreaker.

  “Wish me luck,” I say to AJ as I put my stuff down on the obit desk.

  “If you’re not out in fifteen minutes, or if I hear any furniture crashing, I’m coming in after you.”

  “My hero.”

  I skulk into Harry’s office, notebook and pen in hand, and sit down in a chair facing his desk. I haven’t been in here since I interviewed with him in May, when I got my armadillo hand stamps and felt oddly pleased by this strange initiation. My eyes travel past the toy-filled desk to the bookcase behind him, and I see something I hadn’t noticed then—an actual stuffed armadillo. Not a fluffy toy. Harry’s peculiar.

  “Do you know why I do this job, D’Angelo?” he asks after a couple of seconds’ worth of silent staring, drawing my attention away from the leathery dead critter and back to Harry. “I’ll give you a hint: It’s not for the job security.”

  Even I know the future of print journalism in general does not look good, and the Herald Tribune’s situation is even more dire. Who knows if we’ll even exist a year from now? I refrain from commenting on his comment, however, and tackle his first question.

  “You love it?”

  “I do,” he says. “I come in here every day excited about what we’ll find out. For me, newspapers are the art of the possible. Anything is possible when you care. Do you care about what you’re doing, D’Angelo?”

  “I’m really sorry about the mix-up and about Raleigh, Harry. I was having a bad—” I say, but Harry holds up his hand and cuts me off.