hear it from me . . .” the woman continued.
“I promise, Mrs. . . .”
“. . . and I’m not falling for your little trick the second time either,” the woman said.
Lisbeth crossed out the question mark, leaving only
Pro.
Excited by the challenge, Lisbeth started spinning her phone cord like a mini-jump rope. As the cord picked up speed, the sheets of paper thumbtacked to the right-hand wall of her cubicle began to flutter. When Lisbeth was seventeen, her dad’s clothing store had shut down, forcing her family into bankruptcy. But when her local newspaper in Battle Creek, Michigan, reported the story, the smart-ass reporter who wrote it up threw in the words
alleged poor sales
, implying a certain disingenuousness to her dad’s account. In response, Lisbeth wrote an op-ed about it for her school newspaper. The local paper picked it up and ran it with an apology. Then the
Detroit News
picked it up from there. By the time it was done, she got seventy-two responses from readers all across Michigan. Those seventy-two letters were the ones that lined every inch of her cubicle walls, a daily reminder of the power of the pen—and a current reminder that the best stories are the ones you never see coming.
“Regardless,” the woman said, “I just thought you’d want to know that although it won’t officially be announced until later this afternoon, Alexander John—eldest son of the Philadelphia Main Line Johns, of course—will be awarded a Gold Key in the National Scholastic Art Awards.”
Lisbeth was writing the words
National Schola
- when she lifted her pen from the page. “How old is Alexander again?”
“Of course—seventeen—seventeen on September ninth.”
“So . . . this is a high school award?”
“And national—not just statewide. Gold Key.”
Lisbeth scratched at her freckled neck. She was slightly overweight, which she tried to offset with lime-green statement glasses that a rail-thin salesclerk promised would also shave some time off her thirty-one years. Lisbeth didn’t believe the clerk. But she did buy the glasses. As she continued to scratch, a strand of red hair sagged from its ear perch and dangled in front of her face. “Ma’am, do you happen to be
related
to young Alexander?”
“What? Of course not,” the woman insisted.
“You’re sure?”
“Are you suggesting—? Young lady, this award is an honor that is—”
“Or are you in the employ of young Alexander’s family?”
The woman paused. “Not full-time, of course, but—”
Lisbeth hit the
Stop
button on her tape recorder and chucked her pen against her desk. Only in Palm Beach would a mother hire a publicist for her eleventh grader’s elbow macaroni art masterpiece. “It’s a national award,” Lisbeth muttered to herself, ripping the sheet of paper from her notepad. But as she crumpled it up, she still didn’t hang up the phone. Sacred Rule #2: A crappy source today might be a great one tomorrow. Sacred Rule #3: See Sacred Rule #2.
“If I have space, I’ll definitely try to get it in,” Lisbeth added. “We’re pretty full, though.” It was an even bigger lie than the thinning and de-aging effects of her lime-green glasses. But as Lisbeth hung up the phone and tossed the crumpled paper into the trash, she couldn’t help but notice the near-empty three-column grid on her computer screen.
Twenty inches. About eight hundred words. That’s what it took every day to fill Below the Fold. Plus a photo, of course. So far, she had five inches on a local socialite’s daughter marrying a professional pool player (B+, Lisbeth thought to herself), and four inches on a week-old cursing match between some teenager and the head of the DMV (C- at best). Eyeing the balled-up paper in the plastic garbage can, Lisbeth glanced back at her still mostly empty screen. No, she told herself. It was still too early in the day to be desperate. She hadn’t even gotten the—
“Mail!” a voice called out as a hand reached
“I promise, Mrs. . . .”
“. . . and I’m not falling for your little trick the second time either,” the woman said.
Lisbeth crossed out the question mark, leaving only
Pro.
Excited by the challenge, Lisbeth started spinning her phone cord like a mini-jump rope. As the cord picked up speed, the sheets of paper thumbtacked to the right-hand wall of her cubicle began to flutter. When Lisbeth was seventeen, her dad’s clothing store had shut down, forcing her family into bankruptcy. But when her local newspaper in Battle Creek, Michigan, reported the story, the smart-ass reporter who wrote it up threw in the words
alleged poor sales
, implying a certain disingenuousness to her dad’s account. In response, Lisbeth wrote an op-ed about it for her school newspaper. The local paper picked it up and ran it with an apology. Then the
Detroit News
picked it up from there. By the time it was done, she got seventy-two responses from readers all across Michigan. Those seventy-two letters were the ones that lined every inch of her cubicle walls, a daily reminder of the power of the pen—and a current reminder that the best stories are the ones you never see coming.
“Regardless,” the woman said, “I just thought you’d want to know that although it won’t officially be announced until later this afternoon, Alexander John—eldest son of the Philadelphia Main Line Johns, of course—will be awarded a Gold Key in the National Scholastic Art Awards.”
Lisbeth was writing the words
National Schola
- when she lifted her pen from the page. “How old is Alexander again?”
“Of course—seventeen—seventeen on September ninth.”
“So . . . this is a high school award?”
“And national—not just statewide. Gold Key.”
Lisbeth scratched at her freckled neck. She was slightly overweight, which she tried to offset with lime-green statement glasses that a rail-thin salesclerk promised would also shave some time off her thirty-one years. Lisbeth didn’t believe the clerk. But she did buy the glasses. As she continued to scratch, a strand of red hair sagged from its ear perch and dangled in front of her face. “Ma’am, do you happen to be
related
to young Alexander?”
“What? Of course not,” the woman insisted.
“You’re sure?”
“Are you suggesting—? Young lady, this award is an honor that is—”
“Or are you in the employ of young Alexander’s family?”
The woman paused. “Not full-time, of course, but—”
Lisbeth hit the
Stop
button on her tape recorder and chucked her pen against her desk. Only in Palm Beach would a mother hire a publicist for her eleventh grader’s elbow macaroni art masterpiece. “It’s a national award,” Lisbeth muttered to herself, ripping the sheet of paper from her notepad. But as she crumpled it up, she still didn’t hang up the phone. Sacred Rule #2: A crappy source today might be a great one tomorrow. Sacred Rule #3: See Sacred Rule #2.
“If I have space, I’ll definitely try to get it in,” Lisbeth added. “We’re pretty full, though.” It was an even bigger lie than the thinning and de-aging effects of her lime-green glasses. But as Lisbeth hung up the phone and tossed the crumpled paper into the trash, she couldn’t help but notice the near-empty three-column grid on her computer screen.
Twenty inches. About eight hundred words. That’s what it took every day to fill Below the Fold. Plus a photo, of course. So far, she had five inches on a local socialite’s daughter marrying a professional pool player (B+, Lisbeth thought to herself), and four inches on a week-old cursing match between some teenager and the head of the DMV (C- at best). Eyeing the balled-up paper in the plastic garbage can, Lisbeth glanced back at her still mostly empty screen. No, she told herself. It was still too early in the day to be desperate. She hadn’t even gotten the—
“Mail!” a voice called out as a hand reached
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