that was more than routine.
Those standing close in, like Jillian, heard Mr. Braden thump the page proof and say to Harrison and me, "Good work, you two."
She waited till the others had drifted away. Then she said, for once sounding sincere instead of ditzy, "That's great, Maggie. It's really cool that one of us has been able to work on a real story."
She pointed to the page proof that I was still reading. "And look! Your name's right there." Tapping the byline at the top, she said, "That is so, so..."
But I was looking at the last paragraph: "Any investigation into possible improprieties in city planning practices could further delay work already backlogged because of Yeager's death and the abrupt resignation of planning office employee Donald Landin shortly thereafter. Landin was subsequently killed in a drive-by shooting near the International District May 23."
The International District? I'd assumed the shooting had occurred on the Eastside. That since he'd worked there, that was probably where he'd lived.
"Harrison," I said. "Is that right? About where Landin was killed?"
"Yeah, in front of his apartment," he said. "Does it matter?"
"No," I answered. "Except that's where my dad diedâor in the same area, anywayâthat afternoon."
Frowning, Harrison said, "Could he have been chasing the same story?"
"Since he covered business news, I suppose it's possible," I replied. "Only I think his boss would have said so."
"Well, it's easy enough to check," Harrison said. "Someone can call him tomorrow. I'll mention it to Fran. And meanwhile, you ought to give yourself a pat on the back. If your father
was
going after the Galinger story, he'd have been pleased that you found the connection that brought it in!"
***
I went home brimming with details of the piece that would be in the next morning's paper. The evening before, I'd given Mom only the bare outline of what Harrison and I had been working on. Now, though, I had an actual story to tell her about, and it was one with my name attached to it. Not a by-line, exactly, but clear acknowledgment that I'd helped. I might have worked all summer without something like that happening.
"Mom, you should have heard Galinger. He's the developer who..." I rattled on a bit and then stopped short. If Mom was excited for me, she sure wasn't showing it.
"What?" I asked. "Is something wrong?"
"I just wish you were doing something else with your summer," she answered. "Having a good time. Playing and going places with your friends."
"Bett and Aimee are in the San Juans," I reminded her. "A ferry ride and fifty miles away. And this is better than playing. It's doing a real job that's important. What if somebody's building a house on land that won't support it, because an elected official took a payoff toâ"
Mom busied herself pulling salad makings from the refrigerator.
"Mom!" I said. "I want to tell you about this. It's really a big deal."
Her face tightened, and the cords in her neck strained taut. She set out a cutting board and washed a tomato. Then she turned to me. "I know. And I want to hear. It's just hard."
"Why?"
"Because you sound so much like your father. Because you
are
just like him."
She continued making salad, shredding lettuce, slicing a cucumber. Chopping green onions so fast it sounded like mahjong tiles clicking.
Then she said, "I'm sorry, Maggie. That was selfish. I'm proud of you and your story. I only wish you'd stay a kid a while longer. I'm not ready to lose you, too."
"It's just a job, Mom."
"The internship is. But the news? I know you as well as I knew your father, and that means knowing it can consume you." She managed a small laugh. "Not to be melodramatic."
I laughed with her. "Not to worry. I have another year of high school, and I promise to enjoy it."
But as I set out place mats and water glasses, I went back over what she'd said, focusing on a different part from what she'd meant me to. Her words reminded me about Dad's unknown
Those standing close in, like Jillian, heard Mr. Braden thump the page proof and say to Harrison and me, "Good work, you two."
She waited till the others had drifted away. Then she said, for once sounding sincere instead of ditzy, "That's great, Maggie. It's really cool that one of us has been able to work on a real story."
She pointed to the page proof that I was still reading. "And look! Your name's right there." Tapping the byline at the top, she said, "That is so, so..."
But I was looking at the last paragraph: "Any investigation into possible improprieties in city planning practices could further delay work already backlogged because of Yeager's death and the abrupt resignation of planning office employee Donald Landin shortly thereafter. Landin was subsequently killed in a drive-by shooting near the International District May 23."
The International District? I'd assumed the shooting had occurred on the Eastside. That since he'd worked there, that was probably where he'd lived.
"Harrison," I said. "Is that right? About where Landin was killed?"
"Yeah, in front of his apartment," he said. "Does it matter?"
"No," I answered. "Except that's where my dad diedâor in the same area, anywayâthat afternoon."
Frowning, Harrison said, "Could he have been chasing the same story?"
"Since he covered business news, I suppose it's possible," I replied. "Only I think his boss would have said so."
"Well, it's easy enough to check," Harrison said. "Someone can call him tomorrow. I'll mention it to Fran. And meanwhile, you ought to give yourself a pat on the back. If your father
was
going after the Galinger story, he'd have been pleased that you found the connection that brought it in!"
***
I went home brimming with details of the piece that would be in the next morning's paper. The evening before, I'd given Mom only the bare outline of what Harrison and I had been working on. Now, though, I had an actual story to tell her about, and it was one with my name attached to it. Not a by-line, exactly, but clear acknowledgment that I'd helped. I might have worked all summer without something like that happening.
"Mom, you should have heard Galinger. He's the developer who..." I rattled on a bit and then stopped short. If Mom was excited for me, she sure wasn't showing it.
"What?" I asked. "Is something wrong?"
"I just wish you were doing something else with your summer," she answered. "Having a good time. Playing and going places with your friends."
"Bett and Aimee are in the San Juans," I reminded her. "A ferry ride and fifty miles away. And this is better than playing. It's doing a real job that's important. What if somebody's building a house on land that won't support it, because an elected official took a payoff toâ"
Mom busied herself pulling salad makings from the refrigerator.
"Mom!" I said. "I want to tell you about this. It's really a big deal."
Her face tightened, and the cords in her neck strained taut. She set out a cutting board and washed a tomato. Then she turned to me. "I know. And I want to hear. It's just hard."
"Why?"
"Because you sound so much like your father. Because you
are
just like him."
She continued making salad, shredding lettuce, slicing a cucumber. Chopping green onions so fast it sounded like mahjong tiles clicking.
Then she said, "I'm sorry, Maggie. That was selfish. I'm proud of you and your story. I only wish you'd stay a kid a while longer. I'm not ready to lose you, too."
"It's just a job, Mom."
"The internship is. But the news? I know you as well as I knew your father, and that means knowing it can consume you." She managed a small laugh. "Not to be melodramatic."
I laughed with her. "Not to worry. I have another year of high school, and I promise to enjoy it."
But as I set out place mats and water glasses, I went back over what she'd said, focusing on a different part from what she'd meant me to. Her words reminded me about Dad's unknown
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