entire broadcast is well done.
“You got it together so fast,” I tell Scott after the Wednesday
presentation. “Impressive.”
“Thanks. Of course, there isn’t anything you guys kept from us,
is there?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He gives me a shrewd look. “There was fresh paint on one of the
basement walls. Not on the fire side. I wondered why.”
I keep cool. “Did you ask Omar?”
“He said someone puked in the corner. He tried to wash it, then
decided he should paint that section of the wall. Something about getting rid of
the smell.”
“So that’s what happened,” I say.
“Yeah, I guess that’s it.”
I wait until Scott goes back to his team before casually
wandering over to our table. Omar’s filling out a Question Sheet for his next
story.
“You should have told me what you said to Scott,” I whisper. “I
could have blown it.”
Omar puts down his pen. “What are you talking about?”
I repeat the conversation. Omar shakes his head. “He didn’t ask
about the paint.”
“He didn’t?”
“I would have made up something better than barf!” Omar snorts,
then nudges me. Across the room, Scott’s grinning at us. It’s kind of creepy,
actually, but I simply return the smile as if nothing’s wrong.
Faking a yawn, Omar turns so no one on A Team can read his
lips. “I do believe Scotty boy knows we’re keeping something from him.”
“You think?” I turn, too. “Do you feel bad about it?”
“Not really. I’m not the one who just lied.”
“Okay, good. Then I don’t feel bad, either.” I tap the Question
Sheet. “All’s fair in love, war and journalism, right?”
“Pretty sure that’s what Carleton would say,” Omar tells
me.
“I’m not going to ask.”
“Neither am I, sista. Neither am I.”
* * *
Exactly twenty-four hours later, Henry drags the entire
team out of class.
“Wait up!” Raul says. “Do we need equipment?”
Henry smacks his forehead. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”
We sign out what’s needed and gallop down to the main hall.
Henry points to the glass-enclosed case that everyone, including Mr. Wilkins,
passes by every day.
“Don’t know how long it’s been there. I just noticed it,” Henry
tells us.
At first, all I see are the usual trophies: WiHi’s 1994
Sectional Wrestling trophy, 1953 Citywide Baseball win, 2011 Girls’ Varsity
Basketball champs, Debate Team champions of 1966. There are awards and
proclamations: Washington Irving High School Community Service Award, Irving
High Certificate of Excellence for Most AP Classes Offered in a NYC School, Best
High School Attendance. Several times.
At last, though, the fakes become apparent. Once I notice them,
it’s impossible not to stare at the two “added” to the case. They’re the type of
trophies a little kid gets after soccer season, but the first one is more
menacing than anything from a recreational center league. A thin rope loops
around the girl’s neck. The other end is attached to the shelf above so that the
trophy hangs. The original nameplate has been replaced with “Roving
Reporter.”
The second fake’s scarier. The player’s head is chopped
off.
Raul whistles. “Right next to the office. That’s bold.”
“No stenciled letters but…broken-off body piece, hanging neck.”
Omar’s eyes narrow. “Anyone see a pattern?”
“First they target Val, now me,” Marci moans.
“Why would you think—oh, soccer!” Henry smacks his forehead for
the second time. “How could I forget you’re captain of the girls’ team?”
“Cocaptain,” I automatically correct. “But it doesn’t mean MP’s
after you, Marci. A rec center trophy is the easiest thing in the world to find.
Sidewalk sales, flea markets. They’re in half the bedrooms in the city.”
She doesn’t look the least bit soothed. “We should tell Mrs.
Fahey. Or Wilkins.”
“No!” comes the choir of voices.
“Anyone remember Punk’d ?” Jagger
gestures down the hall.
“You got it together so fast,” I tell Scott after the Wednesday
presentation. “Impressive.”
“Thanks. Of course, there isn’t anything you guys kept from us,
is there?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He gives me a shrewd look. “There was fresh paint on one of the
basement walls. Not on the fire side. I wondered why.”
I keep cool. “Did you ask Omar?”
“He said someone puked in the corner. He tried to wash it, then
decided he should paint that section of the wall. Something about getting rid of
the smell.”
“So that’s what happened,” I say.
“Yeah, I guess that’s it.”
I wait until Scott goes back to his team before casually
wandering over to our table. Omar’s filling out a Question Sheet for his next
story.
“You should have told me what you said to Scott,” I whisper. “I
could have blown it.”
Omar puts down his pen. “What are you talking about?”
I repeat the conversation. Omar shakes his head. “He didn’t ask
about the paint.”
“He didn’t?”
“I would have made up something better than barf!” Omar snorts,
then nudges me. Across the room, Scott’s grinning at us. It’s kind of creepy,
actually, but I simply return the smile as if nothing’s wrong.
Faking a yawn, Omar turns so no one on A Team can read his
lips. “I do believe Scotty boy knows we’re keeping something from him.”
“You think?” I turn, too. “Do you feel bad about it?”
“Not really. I’m not the one who just lied.”
“Okay, good. Then I don’t feel bad, either.” I tap the Question
Sheet. “All’s fair in love, war and journalism, right?”
“Pretty sure that’s what Carleton would say,” Omar tells
me.
“I’m not going to ask.”
“Neither am I, sista. Neither am I.”
* * *
Exactly twenty-four hours later, Henry drags the entire
team out of class.
“Wait up!” Raul says. “Do we need equipment?”
Henry smacks his forehead. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”
We sign out what’s needed and gallop down to the main hall.
Henry points to the glass-enclosed case that everyone, including Mr. Wilkins,
passes by every day.
“Don’t know how long it’s been there. I just noticed it,” Henry
tells us.
At first, all I see are the usual trophies: WiHi’s 1994
Sectional Wrestling trophy, 1953 Citywide Baseball win, 2011 Girls’ Varsity
Basketball champs, Debate Team champions of 1966. There are awards and
proclamations: Washington Irving High School Community Service Award, Irving
High Certificate of Excellence for Most AP Classes Offered in a NYC School, Best
High School Attendance. Several times.
At last, though, the fakes become apparent. Once I notice them,
it’s impossible not to stare at the two “added” to the case. They’re the type of
trophies a little kid gets after soccer season, but the first one is more
menacing than anything from a recreational center league. A thin rope loops
around the girl’s neck. The other end is attached to the shelf above so that the
trophy hangs. The original nameplate has been replaced with “Roving
Reporter.”
The second fake’s scarier. The player’s head is chopped
off.
Raul whistles. “Right next to the office. That’s bold.”
“No stenciled letters but…broken-off body piece, hanging neck.”
Omar’s eyes narrow. “Anyone see a pattern?”
“First they target Val, now me,” Marci moans.
“Why would you think—oh, soccer!” Henry smacks his forehead for
the second time. “How could I forget you’re captain of the girls’ team?”
“Cocaptain,” I automatically correct. “But it doesn’t mean MP’s
after you, Marci. A rec center trophy is the easiest thing in the world to find.
Sidewalk sales, flea markets. They’re in half the bedrooms in the city.”
She doesn’t look the least bit soothed. “We should tell Mrs.
Fahey. Or Wilkins.”
“No!” comes the choir of voices.
“Anyone remember Punk’d ?” Jagger
gestures down the hall.
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