The Biggest Scoop

  There was a knock at my door. “Can I come in?” Mom asked.

  I grunted.

  I felt the bed shift as she sat on the end. “I called the school, told them you were staying home today.” She patted my side through my nest of blankets. “So you just take it easy, Spaghetti-O.”

  I grimaced even though she couldn’t see me. “Thanks.”

  “Breakfast’s ready whenever you are. I made pancakes. Real ones, with eggs and milk.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, they’re in the kitchen.” Mom’s hand came to rest on my arm. “You’re sure you don’t need a strong male presence in your life?”

  There had been a phone call from Yaya the night before.

  “Mom! You not remarrying has nothing to do with the fact that I am never leaving this house again!”

  “I know, honey, but if there was someone at home you could talk to—”

  I raised myself out from the covers to look at her. “There is no stepfather in the world who could make Logan a nice person. Unless, maybe, he was Logan’s stepfather.”

  “I’ve got half a mind to call that child’s parents—”

  “Mom, it’s fine! I’m totally happy staying here alone and miserable. Please.”

  She sighed, standing. “As long as you’re sure. You let me know if you need anything.”

  I burrowed back beneath the covers. Finally! I could be miserable in peace.

  The doorbell rang. I burrowed more deeply under the covers to ignore it, blocking out the conversation in the hall.

  For a few minutes, everything was silent. Then my door banged open.

  “Hurry up and get out of bed! You’re going to be late.” My blankets were seized and tugged violently.

  I grabbed them before they could be snatched away. “Taylor? What are you doing in my bedroom?”

  “Getting you ready for school!” Taylor tried again to pull my blankets away and then went for the expedient process of simply pulling the mattress off the bed. I slid to the floor in a tangle of blankets, and he grabbed my flailing arms, pulling me to my feet. “Don’t just stand there! Get dressed!”

  I clutched my sheet to my chest, watching as Taylor threw open the doors of my closet. “I’m not going to school.”

  “That’s what you think.” Taylor threw a shirt at me, followed by my blazer. “Come on, Milo, move!”

  In catching the shirt, I lost hold of the sheet leaving me standing there in only my boxers. I pulled the shirt on, hoping Taylor wouldn’t notice. “What is even happening? This is taking class president way too far!”

  Taylor smiled grimly at me, holding up my trousers. “You should have thought of that before you nominated me.”

  I grabbed my pants out of his hands, pulling them on as I stumbled into the hall. “Mom! Taylor’s picking on me!”

  “I know, honey.” Mom pushed a ziplock bag into my hands and kissed my cheek. “You have a good day at school, Spaghetti-O.”

  “Mom!”

  “You heard the woman.” Taylor had my backpack and blazer over one arm and the other planted in the middle of my back. He propelled me out the door and toward the waiting car. “Will we be in time for second period?”

  “Traffic willing.” Naomi was already behind the wheel. She caught my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Good morning, Milo.”

  Taylor nudged me and I folded into the back seat automatically. “Good morning— no, this is not a good morning! This is not what I wanted at all!” I started to climb out of the car.

  Taylor swung my bag onto my lap and followed it with my blazer. “Trust me,” he said. “You miss school today and you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

  He poked me again, and I automatically moved over so that he could sit. With anyone else, that level of hyperbole would raise eyebrows, but Taylor gave it the ring of truth. Maybe he was cut out to be on the newspaper after all?

  Naomi started the car and pulled out onto the road. I slid face-first into the passenger seat headrest.

  “Seatbelt,” Taylor ordered, gathering my blazer back on to his lap. “Then breakfast. Then we can finish getting you dressed.”

  I buckled myself in. “We nothing! I can dress myself?”

  “Really?” Taylor smirked. “After what I just witnessed, I’m not sure.”

  I snatched my blazer out of his hands. “I was surprised! Normal people don’t usually just barge into someone’s bedroom and pull them out of bed!”

  Taylor took my complaint with composure. “Here’s your tie. Damn! I forgot a hairbrush.”

  “I’ve got one in my handbag— from the hotel. In case of unexpected press appearances,” Naomi said. “In the inside pocket.”

  “Got it. Milo, hold still—”

  “You are not brushing my hair!”

  ****

  I arrived at school, shell-shocked but marginally presentable.

  “How on earth do you even survive on a day-to-day basis?” Taylor herded me toward the classroom.

  I clutched my bag to my chest. “I do just fine when I’m not being hounded! And I wasn’t expecting to be getting ready for school— I wasn’t expecting to be here at all!”

  At least AP English was normal. I shook off Taylor’s hand and made a beeline to my usual desk.

  Seemingly satisfied with dragging me to school, Taylor lingered in his usual spot, exchanging greetings with Emily and Boomer.

  I studied him as I put a piece of loose-leaf on my desk. Maybe he thought getting me to school was the entire battle? I could lose him after English, sneak back home—

  The intercom chimed. “There is a change to today’s schedule. All students to the auditorium please. All students to the auditorium.”

  Conversation ground to a halt.

  “What’s going on? Mr. Perry, this isn’t another special assembly, is it?”

  “We elected a new class president already, geez!”

  Mr. Perry shook his head. “You heard the announcement. Everyone to the auditorium.”

  I found Taylor walking beside me in the hall. “This is your fault,” I told him. “You did something.”

  He shrugged. “Just wait and see.”

  What the hell was going on?

  The auditorium was full of students milling around. One man in a suit stood on the stage, watching us file in; two more leaned against the walls with their arms folded. One was in consultation with Mr. Harper. My heart sank. This could not be anything good.

  “Everyone line up! We want you sitting by class groups.” Mr. Perry ushered us toward a row of seats. I ducked under Taylor’s arm and inserted myself between Fern and Lily. “What is going on? Do you know?”

  Fern shook her head. “No one knows anything. The staff is being weirdly quiet, and we had a uniform spot-check before school. It’s really weird.”

  A uniform spot-check? Maybe this was beyond Taylor? I looked back to see that he had already been surrounded by the Feministas. He returned my frown with a bland smirk, revealing nothing.

  I folded my arms, facing front. I might not know what was going on, but I wasn’t going to let him get to me.

  As the last freshmen were finally ushered into their seats, the principal walked out onto the stage, followed by a short man with silvery-gray hair and a broad navy jacket.

  “There’s no way.”

  “What? Milo, do you know that man?” Lily glanced at me.

  “He’s familiar.” Fern frowned. “I know I’ve seen him.”

  There was a similar murmur going through the auditorium, kids turning to each other for confirmation.

  “Good morning, scholars.” The principal beamed. “We’ve called you out of class for a very special reason. A very special guest has asked to come and spend the day with us. I’m sure you all know that Sir Alan Carmichael has produced many wonderful films, many of them award-winning.” The principal waited a moment for the excited buzz to die down. “But I was surprised to discover that he is also a passio
nate supporter of youth endeavors in the arts and has offered to share his experiences with you. This is incredibly generous of such a busy man, so I hope you’ll show your thanks with a round of applause—”

  Anything else the principal said was drowned out in enthusiastic clapping.

  My hands shook. I watched Sir Alan shake hands with the principal and then step up to the podium. He detached the microphone from its stand, placing a hand on the podium as he stood beside it. “Thank you very much for the warm welcome, Bernhardt. I’ve heard a lot about the school, and I’m delighted you could make time for me today.”

  Hearing the clipped British accent I heard in so many documentaries and commentaries in real life was eerie. A burst of goose pimples traveled through me like a shock.

  “As Mr. Kim said, I’ve come here today to talk to you about my experiences as a student in the U.K. and how I got to where I am today—”

  Lily leaned over. “Who’s Mr. Kim?”

  “Maybe he means the principal—”

  I gripped both of their arms. “No talking. No breathing!” Sir Alan Carmichael— Sir Alan Carmichael! —was in our school, talking to us.

  ****

  Sir Alan Carmichael’s talk was followed by the chance to ask questions and lasted until the end of third period. As the final applause ended, the principal took the stage once more. “Sir Alan will be spending the rest of the day at school, observing our classes. There will be other chances to talk to him and answer questions, but please remember that there are a lot of you and only one of him, and he may not have the chance to talk to all of you.”

  He led Sir Alan and his dark-suited companion from the stage.

  “Holy crap! I cannot believe this— can you believe this? I can’t believe this!” Alexis turned to talk to her friends. As if that had been a signal, the entire auditorium erupted.

  “We’ve got Drama next. Do you think he’ll come? God, if he watches our rehearsal, I think I’ll die—”

  “I literally cannot believe this!”

  “What is someone like Sir Alan Carmichael doing here? I mean— it’s crazy! He’s not even from Tarrytown!”

  I swallowed. I’d been so overwhelmed by the fact that Sir Alan was here— here! At my school! —and had answered my question, that it hadn’t occurred to me to wonder why. Now that it had, I glanced at Taylor.

  His expression was as blank as it had been before, only now there seemed to be a decidedly smug edge to it.

  I fought my way past three cheerleaders to catch up with him as we filed back to class. “You! You did this!”

  Taylor shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re implying, Milo.”

  “But you knew this would happen. You had to.”

  “I found out about it,” Taylor agreed. “And I knew you couldn’t miss it. Less talking, more walking, Milo. You know what Ms. Cox is like about people being late to class.”

  Halfway through drawing, the door opened and the principal peeked in. “I hope we’re not interrupting?”

  There was an excited rustle of paper as Sir Alan and his security team followed him in. “Please don’t let me interrupt,” Sir Alan said. “Go on as usual.”

  He went from group to group, pausing to look at every student’s work, giving some advice or asking questions.

  “Lily,” he said, reading her name from her sketchbook. “You wouldn’t happen to be the photographer?”

  Ms. Cox carried over a file. “I have some of Lily’s work here.”

  Sir Alan flipped through her work. “You’re already working on a portfolio? Tell me about this photo here. What’s the story behind it?”

  Lily tucked her hair out of her face. Her voice was so quiet that the students at the surrounding tables strained to hear. “It’s a reaction to all the airbrushing and photo shopping of models. I wanted to show that a camera can lie.”

  “That is why you’ve got the mirror here? Very nicely done. You know, there’s a man in New York you should talk to. He’s in film, but he is working on similar lines—” Sir Alan beckoned to one of the men in dark suits. “My card case.” He gave Lily a business card. “I’ll let him know to expect your call.”

  We were all startled when the bell rang.

  “Already?” Sir Alan stood. “I can see there are some very talented students in this class. Keep up the good work, and I look forward to meeting you again at a gala or gallery opening in a few years.”

  I joined in the hasty chorus of thanks with the rest of my classmates, but I couldn’t help but notice that throughout the visit, Taylor had been hanging back, out of the way. Even now, as Sir Alan’s eyes fell on him, Taylor’s only response to his attention was a quick nod. Behind him, Mr. Harper looked politely bored.

  Mr. Harper? I blinked.

  As Sir Alan walked down the hall, the dark-suited men drifted behind in an apparently casual manner, but he was never out of their sight. It reminded me very strongly of the way that Mr. Harper followed Taylor.

  Taking a breath, I turned to look behind, to see if my suspicions were right.

  Taylor was in the middle of the flock of people congratulating Lily. “You’ve worked hard. You deserve this.”

  “Are you going to call this guy?” Madison demanded.

  Lily tucked her hair out of her face. “What do you think? If Sir Alan Carmichael tells you to call someone—” She shook her head. “This is unbelievable.”

  I swallowed. And Lily didn’t know half of it.

  I didn’t remember walking to the cafeteria, but I must have because I wound up sitting in my usual seat with a tray of food that I didn’t even like. Taylor sat beside Lily, listening as Fern and Declan speculated wildly about what might have brought Sir Alan to Tarrytown.

  “If he saw Lily’s work in the gallery, maybe—”

  “He’s a famous director! He’s in New York for a press conference— he doesn’t have time to go to galleries! Maybe one of the crew he works with is a graduate,” Declan suggested. “He was really interested in our performances, he asked about them in music. Mr. Saltberg—”

  “Mr. Saltberg.” The rest of the table nodded, considering the question answered. The conversation drifted onto Sir Alan’s directing accomplishments.

  Taylor joined in the conversation casually. He did “interested” so well that I started to wonder if maybe I was wrong. I mean, it was too incredible. Jet Carmichael, at our school? In my class? Hauling me out of bed in my boxers?

  I buried my hands in my face. Taylor had said he’d never attended school! The scandal he’d mentioned in the park, his desire for an ordinary school experience, his unusual maturity— it all added up! It was the most incredible story I’d ever uncovered— and if I said anything, Taylor’s normal high school experience was ruined!

  “There, there, Milo.” Had I groaned out loud? “There’s still two more classes. Maybe Sir Alan will come to one of those and you can talk to him.” Fern patted my shoulder.

  “What have you got? Spanish and Musical Theory?” Declan grimaced. “Hard luck. Still, he did answer your question at the assembly. So that’s kind of like talking to him.” He leaned across the table. “He told me—”

  This was going to be the longest lunch of my life.

  ****

  The fact that I made my way through Spanish and Musical Theory without blurting out what I knew was a minor miracle, made possible only by the fact that Taylor was in neither class. I made my way toward the door. Only a few more meters and then I’d be out the door, away from anyone I could tell—

  “Sam! Finally! Get to the AP English room!” Stacey dashed down the hall.

  Sam paused, putting her books into her locker. “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s there! Carmichael— he said he wants to meet the newspaper club!”

  “Oh my god!” Sam slammed her locker shut and ran for it.

  I hurried after them. Sir Alan Carmichael wanted to meet the newspaper club!

  I felt a rush of triumph. Vindicated at last
! Forget the isolation, the jibes, the disinterest— Sir Alan Carmichael wanted to meet us. Not the jocks, not the cheerleaders— us, the newspaper club!

  I stumbled. I was no longer part of the newspaper club.

  I swallowed, looking at the AP English door. No one would blame me. No one would possibly blame me. I had done more for the newspaper than anyone except Candice, suffered for it more than anyone except Candice. I’d been deputy editor for the entire school year!

  “And then I quit.”

  I couldn’t make myself turn around. Instead, I stepped backward, until I backed into the opposite wall. Using the row of lockers as a guide, I tore myself away from the AP English classroom.

  This was Candice’s triumph. Her big moment. I trudged down the stairs. She wouldn’t even miss me. No one would miss me—

  “Milo Markopoulos, you stop right there!”

  I stumbled, almost taking the remaining stairs face-first. When had Candice been replaced by a loudspeaker? “What have I done?”

  Candice stood at the top of the stairs, her hands on her hips. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come on— Sir Alan’s waiting.”

  “But—” I stood stock-still, trying to absorb this. “Candice, I quit! I’m not part of the newspaper anymore! You said—”

  Candice grabbed my hand and hauled me after her. “Don’t be stupid, Milo. I told you, didn’t I? You’re my deputy editor, and I decided that you’re not quitting.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Of course. How could I forget?”

  “Beats me.” Candice squeezed my hand. “I think your break from the newspaper has been bad for your memory. So let me remind you— as editor, I get first pick of articles, which means the report about Sir Alan is mine. But if you promise not to drool on him and embarrass us, I might let you write a feature article about one of his movies.”

  “Really?”

  “I said ‘might.’ It’s contingent on you not embarrassing us— Milo! No, I said not embarrassing— Milo!” With an exasperated sigh, Candice returned my hug. “I really don’t know why I put myself through this,” she grumbled. “Come on, you sap. Let’s meet Sir Alan.”

  ****

  I didn’t walk home. I floated.

  It had been, without a doubt, the best day of my life. Sir Alan sat on a desk, chatting with the others while he waited for us, sharing anecdotes about starting out in the film industry. He spoke of holding down jobs as a technical writer and then a baker, writing scripts in odd moments before realizing that he wanted to be behind the camera instead of writing for it. We were fascinated by his unlikely job experiences and how they’d fed into his later career, felt indignant on his behalf at his early critical reception and were encouraged by his account of his numerous failures and difficulties. He’d read the last few issues of the paper while eating lunch with the principal and had something to say for everyone on the paper— especially Candice.