Adam Canfield of the Slash (5 page)

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” said Adam. “I didn’t mean to make a racial —”

“Honey, don’t you worry,” said the woman. “When it comes to race, none of us is perfect. You just learn from this and go forward.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Adam. “Look, is there a chance there’d be someone who could answer a simple question about what an accessory structure is?”

“Oh no,” said the woman. “No one can speak for the Herbs.”

Adam asked when to call back.

“Hard to say,” said the woman. “The Herbs, they work eight to four, but they don’t keep a fixed schedule. They’re in; they’re out. As the Herbs say, code enforcement is not forty hours behind a desk. They’re constantly rushing out to investigate fresh zoning violations.”

“Could I leave a message?” asked Adam.

“You could,” said the woman, “but the Herbs are terrible about returning calls.”

“Well, when’s good to call back?” asked Adam.

“Best time to get the Herbs is morning,” she said, “before they go out.”

“About eight o’clock?” Adam asked.

“Normally that would be good,” said the woman. “Problem is, it’s my job to answer the phone and I get in at nine.”

“So the only time to call,” said Adam, “is when no one answers the phone?”

“I didn’t say that, honey,” the woman said. “The Herbs will pick up when I’m not here, if you catch them in a good mood.”

Adam was getting the hang of this. He had a hunch you could never catch the Herbs in a good mood, and said so.

“Oh, you’re right about that, honey,” said the woman. “Code enforcement is thankless work. People think the law means everybody except them. I’ll tell you, the Herbs — the stress — this job has aged those Herbs something terrible. Their nerves are shot, their stomachs ruined. It’s made them very bitter Herbs.”

“I am so sorry,” said Adam.

“Just doing my job, honey,” said the woman, and the line went dead.

Adam glanced at his notes. He hadn’t written a single complete sentence. He ripped up the paper and tossed it in the wastebasket. What a stupid story. Jennifer had no clue — sure it was easy to think up assignments that sounded great. But doing them? It was the reporter who got stuck with all the dirty work. The thing about Jennifer — she really was a typical editor.

Jennifer lay in bed, trying to figure out what she was doing that morning. First she remembered it was a day off because even with her eyelids shut, she could tell there was more sunlight in the room than on a school day, when her dad woke her early. That almost made her open her eyes, until she remembered that the twins would be downstairs already, in control of the TV remote, watching Nick or Animal Planet. Jennifer felt she never got a fair chance to watch her shows. The worst thing was, the twins would hide the remote to spite her and forget where they hid it and Mom would start screaming, “Turn off the TV before I throw it out the window.” And then, of course, Jennifer got the blame, because she was “oldest and should know better.”

She tried pushing deeper under the covers, then froze. It was Saturday. No school! No church! A wave of joy surged through her and she sat bolt upright.

Until it all came back: she was going to the mall to baby-sit Phoebe for the smile contest story. Instantly, all the juices drained out of her, and Jennifer flopped back on the pillow.

She hated Adam.

The two girls met at 11:30, a half-hour before the contest. Phoebe was standing with her mom, and as Jennifer walked up, she could hear Phoebe hissing, “You can go now, Mom. Really, you can go. Bye, Mom. I mean it.”

“Hello, you must be Phoebe’s mother,” Jennifer said in a reassuring coeditor’s voice. Then Jennifer explained that her parents had some shopping to do and would be happy to take the two girls home.

It was easy to see Phoebe had thought of everything. Her hair was in a ponytail with two barrettes on each side so her bangs didn’t fall in her eyes when she took notes. She wore pants with a back pocket for a reporter’s notebook and kept sliding her hand back there to make sure the notepad hadn’t fallen out.

“Got plenty of pens?” asked Jennifer, knowing the answer, but trying to make conversation.

“Right here,” said Phoebe, twirling around to show Jennifer her leather backpack. “Eight pens, plus a camera and two extra notebooks.”

“Whoa,” said Jennifer. “You covering a smile contest or an earthquake?”

“I know what you mean,” said Phoebe, “but I was surprised — for the Eddie the janitor story, I filled two reporter’s notebooks on both sides. The first time I interviewed Eddie, I was thinking, I’m going to get one page of notes, at most. He kept answering yes, no, yes, no. When I asked him to tell me his life story, he said, ‘Young lady, there’s not much to tell.’”

“I hate when that happens,” said Jennifer.

“That’s happened to you?” said Phoebe. “Well, I got double worried, because I’m thinking, What if that guy Adam was right? What if Eddie was a crappy story? So I just started asking everything I could think of: ‘How’d you save the baby birds? How’d you know to feed them with the eyedropper? How’d you know about using a toothbrush to wipe off bugs?’ Eddie started talking in sentences and my notebook started filling up. It was like he got patience for me. He said, ‘You like all those nitty-gritties, don’t you, girl?’ And I said, ‘You bet, Eddie.’”

“On my fourth visit,” continued Phoebe, “Eddie said —”

“Fourth visit?” said Jennifer.

“Oh yeah,” said Phoebe. “The fourth visit was when he said he was going to have to set up an office for me in the boiler room. And on the fifth visit —”

“Fifth visit?” said Jennifer.

“Oh yeah, on the fifth visit, Eddie let me tag along when he worked in Mrs. Marris’s office after school. That was so neat being in the Bunker when everyone was gone for the day.”

“That is neat,” said Jennifer. “Last time I was in the Bunker, Marris grilled me like a hot dog on Memorial Day weekend. I was so nervous, I could barely think.”

Phoebe stopped in her tracks. “You get nervous? The coeditor of the
Slash
? I don’t believe it.”

“Even the coeditor of the
Slash,
” said Jennifer.

“Can I tell you something off the record?” Phoebe said. “You seem like a nice person for a big kid. But that coeditor Adam guy, I don’t think he likes me. Even if I do great on this story, I think he’ll say it stinks.”

“Oh no,” said Jennifer. “Why would you think that?”

“He yelled really loud at me for no good reason.”

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” said Jennifer. “It makes him stupid sometimes. Don’t take this wrong, but you’re a third grader; it’s hard for you to understand. In middle school, they have us so programmed, the pressure builds and builds. You just happened to be in the way when Adam needed to blow. The thing about Adam — he’s a great reporter. He cares about truth too much to lie about whether a story’s good or not.”

“I don’t know,” said Phoebe. “It seems like he’s prejudiced against third graders.”

“Nah,” said Jennifer. “He used to be a third grader himself”

“Sounds like you like him.”

“I’m actually unbelievably pissed at him,” said Jennifer. “Last night I told my mom I never wanted to see that jerk again. And Mom said, ‘Jen, you must have patience for middle-school boys. They’re slow developing.’ Mom said they’re like cartoons. Funny to watch, zipping around a lot, but inside, there’s nothing there yet except the back side of the cartoon.”

“We’re still off the record?” said Phoebe. “That Adam guy said Cable News 12 might be here. I think maybe he gave me this story because he thought I’d do terrible compared to News 12.”

Jennifer just stared at Phoebe. To prepare for being a coeditor, she had read a book over the summer about the ten secrets to becoming a great manager. But there wasn’t a single secret in that book that seemed to cover Phoebe. “Does that brain of yours ever rest?” Jennifer said, then smiled kindly. “Look, I guarantee, you will do a better job than News 12.”

“I know,” Phoebe said. “Why are they so bad?”

“Their news always makes me sleepy,” said Jennifer. “A truck crash on the Beltway, a spelling bee champion, a triple murder — every story feels the same.”

“Jennifer, you know what I like about you?” said Phoebe. “You give me confidence.”

“That’s my job,” said Jennifer. “It’s my job as coeditor to be here for you.”

“Is that Adam guy coming, too?” asked Phoebe.

“No,” said Jennifer.

“Isn’t it his job to be here for me, too?”

“I think he had a, uh, soccer game,” said Jennifer.

Phoebe looked at Jennifer funny. “Can I ask you a favor,” the third grader said. “Can you not help me on this story?”

“I won’t be a bother,” Jennifer said. “I just thought, if you had some questions, I’d hang out, and —”

“I need to do it myself,” said Phoebe. “I need to show that Adam guy I can do it. Otherwise he’ll say you did it all for me.”

“He’s not like that,” said Jennifer.

“I think he is,” said Phoebe.

The press release said the contest was being held along the west strollway, in the opening by the Gap. Sure enough, there were sixty folding chairs set up in rows in the middle of the strollway and three tables along the side — one for contestants to sign in, one for judges, and one for the press. As children arrived, they were given a packet that included rules, a toothbrush, dental floss, and a foot-long construction-paper tooth with a number. The paper tooth came with a piece of string and was to be worn around their necks for identification purposes.

The winner would be the child who smiled longest. First prize was a five-hundred-dollar savings bond.

When Phoebe went to the press table, the woman there assumed she was confused. “Oh no, sweetheart,” the woman said to Phoebe, “you want the contestants’ table. That’s for little smilers like you. Hurry, now — get your paper tooth.”

Phoebe explained that she was actually a reporter, from the
Slash,
the Harris student newspaper.

“A reporter? Oh, is that adorable,” said the woman, calling over her friend Phyllis. “Phyllis, look, she’s a reporter. Did you ever see anything so cute in your life? From the Harris
Slash.
”

“The
Slash
?” said the woman named Phyllis. “Where did they ever get a name like that?”

Phoebe was getting irritated. They were wasting time she could be using to do pre-game interviews. “Harris . . . Elementary . . .
SLASH
”— and here Phoebe made a slash line in the air with her finger —“Middle School,” said Phoebe, speaking slowly so as not to confuse the poor women.

“And where’s the
Slash
photographer?” asked the first woman. “Don’t tell me. I bet it’s his nap time.” After a few more ridiculous jokes, the first woman issued Phoebe a press pass in the shape of a tooth and the Phyllis person pinned it on.

As Phoebe turned to go, someone very large bumped into her, stepped on her foot, then elbowed past her to the press table without apologizing.

“Peter Friendly,” the man said in a booming voice to the two women at the press table. “Cable Action News 12.”

“My favorite TV news station,” the first woman said.

“All the news I ever need,” said her friend Phyllis.

“All news, all the time,” said Peter Friendly, repeating the station’s twenty-four-hour news slogan. He explained that unfortunately he had only a few minutes. “We just heard over the police scanner that a four-hundred-pound man sat on his stepson out in West Tremble. Very nasty domestic dispute. Apparently it was intentional. We must get there ASAP. Could be the lead item at the top of the hour. The guys in the News 12 truck are beaming up our remote transmitter; we’ll go live on that one. So we’re here on the run. Would you mind if we just have all the kids quickly sit in the chairs with their paper teeth and give us a fast smile, pretending the competition has started?”

“We’ll have to ask Dr. Cooper,” the first woman said coldly. “He is adamant about sticking to the schedule. He’s the incoming president of the Tremble Dental Association. A very civic-minded dentist. He puts his patients’ teeth first.”

“Right,” said Peter Friendly. “How about if we videotaped this Dr. Cooper standing in front of our little smilers? Give the doc some free TV exposure.”

“Rules are made to be broken,” chirped Phyllis. “By the way, I’m Dr. Cooper’s wife, Phyllis Cooper. I’m cochair of today’s event. I’d be delighted to get him, Mr. Friendly.”

“We’d certainly want Dr. Cooper’s charming wife standing up front with him,” said Peter Friendly, giving Phyllis a big Friendly wink. “I do appreciate it, Mrs. Cochair.”

“All news, all the time,” said the dentist’s wife, high heels clicking as she hurried to fetch her husband.

Phoebe used the time before the contest to interview kids. A girl wearing Tooth Number 12 said she’d been practicing smiling all week. “My best time was two hours and two minutes,” said Tooth Number 12. “I’d watch TV and smile. Do my homework and smile. Catch up with my chat room and smile.”

Phoebe noticed Tooth Number 12’s left leg was bouncing a mile a minute.

“Nervous?” asked Phoebe, who was writing down Tooth Number 12’s comments.

“I am,” said Tooth Number 12. “I wish I had something to destroy. I like to rip up stuff when I’m nervous.”