THE next morning, Lina and her father were dressed in their best clothes long before it was time to leave. Lina was in her green chiffon dress and her father had on his Sunday suit, his hair slicked back and his hands scrubbed clean. Even though he hadn’t slept all night, his eyes shone as brightly as those of a young boy. ‘I told everyone at the plant,’ he said proudly. ‘They all wish you the best of luck, Lina. They’ll all be looking out for your name in the newspaper next week!’

‘I hope so,’ Lina said, happily. ‘Just imagine!’

As they made for the front door she quickly ducked back into her room to check her reflection in her grandmother’s long, speckly mirror. Am I too dressed up? she worried. No. This will have to do. Unless I wear my school uniform I don’t have anything else as nice to wear. Oh, I do hope Stella will like me. And Pa. I can’t wait to tell her that he’s a journalist, too.

They took a tram to Collins Street and arrived with plenty of time to spare. Lina looked up at the grand old building of the Age as they approached, the row of Australian and British flags flipping jauntily in the wind. Olympic banners still hung from the second-floor balcony and at the very top was the famous statue of Mercury, messenger of the gods, balanced precariously on one foot.

Which floor is Stella Davis on? Lina wondered, looking up at the five levels of windows. Is she writing some important news story right this very moment? Lina felt a rush of anxious excitement, like a flood of icy water streaming through her veins, and she pulled at her gloves, which were sticking to her hands with sweat. She sensed her father was nervous, too. They had hardly spoken at all since they had left home, each of them lost in their own private thoughts.

They walked up the steep brass-railed steps and through the enormous double doors into the foyer. Even from there, Lina could hear the noisy chatter of typewriters, the shouting of the copyboys and the clanging of the press. A thrill passed through her. It was exactly as she had imagined it would be.

‘Good morning?’ said the woman at the reception desk to Lina’s father. ‘May I help you?’ She raised a finely plucked eyebrow and brushed a manicured hand over her stiffly set curls.

Her father shuffled backwards slightly, always uncomfortable when forced to speak English with strangers. He put his hand on Lina’s shoulder, gesturing for her to step forward with the letter. Lina had already pulled it from her handbag and she lay it on the desk in front of the woman.

‘We’re here to see Miss Stella Davis,’ she said nervously, pointing to the letter.

The receptionist glanced down at the paper, then looked up and said briskly, ‘Second floor. Do you know which room is hers?’

Lina shook her head and chewed her bottom lip. The woman’s face softened and she stood up, brushing down her skirt. ‘Follow me,’ she said, kindly. ‘My legs could do with a stretch anyway.’

They walked up a wide staircase to the next floor, which was carpeted and quieter now they were away from the noisy production rooms. The receptionist led them along a corridor to a dark wood door with a frosted glass window set into it. Written across the glass in elaborate gold lettering were the words: Stella J. Davis. Lina took a deep breath as the receptionist opened the door and announced their arrival.

Her father hovered in the doorway, but Lina whispered, ‘Please, Papa. Come in with me?’

‘You sure?’ her father mumbled. ‘There’s a seat out here in the corridor.’

Lina nodded and took his hand. They stepped into the room as Stella looked up from the papers she had in front of her.

Quickly, she stood up and strode around her desk, her hand stuck out in front of her. ‘Lina!’ she gushed, in a voice that was much deeper than Lina had expected. ‘And this must be your father?’ she said, shaking his hand firmly. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Gattuso. You have quite a writer in your family!’

Lina looked to her father to see if he had understood, then said, ‘My father is a journalist. Was, I mean. In Italy.’

‘Really?’ said Stella, nodding her head, impressed. ‘How fascinating. Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Mr Gattuso,’ she said. ‘Are you happy to wait for Lina outside? We won’t be long.’

Lina’s father looked at her, confused. ‘Sorry,’ Lina murmured in Italian. ‘She wants you to wait outside, after all. Is that okay?’

‘Of course,’ her father said, smiling, ‘I might catch a little shut-eye anyway.’ He squeezed Lina’s hand then walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

‘Well, you are quite the budding young reporter, aren’t you?’ Stella said, returning to her desk.

Lina felt herself blush. ‘Thank you!’

‘Please, sit down.’ Stella gestured to the straight-backed wooden chair in front of her desk. Then she sat down on her own leather-buttoned swivel chair, smoothing her fitted beige skirt underneath her, and pushing up the sleeves of her striped cotton skirt. She wore her trademark slash of red lipstick and tightly twisted French knot. She looked older than her photograph, Lina thought, and harder somehow, but this only made her seem all the more impressive. I can’t believe I’m actually sitting in front of the Stella Davis, she thought. Wait till I tell Julia!

‘So,’ Stella drawled, resting her elbows on the table and chin on her hands, like she had all the time in the world. ‘Tell me about this story you sent me.’ She glanced down and Lina noticed it was lying on the desk right in front of her. Stella put on her narrow reading glasses and read out Lina’s words: ‘The Story of the Mysterious Chinese Boy who Changed the Future of the Olympics.’

‘The title’s a little long . . .’ Lina mumbled but Stella didn’t seem to hear her.

‘It’s an incredible story, Lina. One I’m sure newspapers all around the world would be interested in.’

‘Really?’ Lina said, feeling thrilled. Oh my goodness! she thought. She’s going to publish it!

Stella nodded and peered over the top of her glasses. ‘You say you know this boy?’

‘I do!’ said Lina proudly. ‘We catch the bus together sometimes. He even showed me the letter before he sent it in.’

‘Extraordinary!’ said Stella smiling widely and leaning back into her chair. ‘What’s his name?’

Lina opened her mouth, then stopped herself just in time. ‘I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. He doesn’t want his parents to know. I think I told you that in my letter, didn’t I?’

Stella rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be silly, Lina. The story will be nothing without a name and a photograph. Just tell me his name and I’ll send someone over to sort it out with his parents. I’m sure they’ll be very proud of their son once he’s famous!’

Lina bit her lip. Stella was her hero. If Lina gave her John’s name, maybe she would publish her story and maybe even ask her to write more stories and maybe even train her as a journalist! I could become a famous writer, thought Lina. First published at twelve! It was everything she’d ever wanted.

Surely John would understand? But then his face came into Lina’s mind and she knew that really he would be devastated. She couldn’t break her promise to him. ‘Hmm. I don’t think I can. He’s  . . . he’s a friend.’

Stella took off her glasses and narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh, Lina, that’s disappointing,’ she sneered, her top lip curling. ‘I thought you may have had it in you to be a journalist. Like your father. If you really want to be a journalist, you have to be a little tougher than that, my dear. You can’t let a few friendships stand in the way of a career. Lord knows, I couldn’t count the number of friendships I’ve broken over a story,’ she huffed. ‘So, are you going to tell me his name or not? You know I’m really rather busy here. I wouldn’t normally find the time to see a schoolgirl, you know.’

There was something about the way Stella said ‘schoolgirl’ that made Lina’s skin crawl. Lina felt the anger bubble up inside her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, more firmly now. ‘I told him I wouldn’t tell anyone his name. If you don’t want to publish my story, I can understand that, but I can’t break my promise.’ Lina began to stand up to leave.

‘Well, I do have your address, Lina,’ Stella sighed, holding up Lina’s envelope with the little blue St Brigid’s logo on it. ‘And the name of the school you go to. It would be very easy for one of our investigative journalists to find this boy just by doing a little undercover work. We already know you catch the same bus as him. You might as well just tell me his name now and save us the trouble. If you cooperate, there might even be a little mention of you in the article. You’d like that now, wouldn’t you?’ She smiled.

Lina felt her blood run cold as it dawned on her: Stella wasn’t planning to publish her story at all! She just wanted all the information so that she could write it herself. And now, because of Lina’s stupidity, she had pulled John into this terrible mess. Lina felt dizzy. She wracked her brain to try to come up with a way out. A way that would protect John and keep his story safe.

And at that moment she knew what she had to do. She hung her head and forced out the lie, even though it made her feel sick to the stomach to do so.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t really know him,’ she mumbled, feeling her cheeks burn. ‘I was just pretending.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Stella said, her eyes glittering.

Lina sunk lower into her seat. ‘I made the story up. I didn’t even know he was Chinese until I read about him in the paper. I just pretended to know him so I could meet you. And I thought maybe you might publish my story in the newspaper . . .’ Her voice petered out.

Stella pushed back her chair abruptly and strode around the side of the desk. Lina cowered under her furious glare.

‘Of all the . . .’ she fumed, towering over Lina, her nostrils flaring. ‘I knew it! How dare you? I’ll bet you didn’t even write this article, did you? I should have known a twelve-year-old girl couldn’t write a story like this. Was it your father who put you up to it? Is that it? Your so-called journalist father?’

‘No!’ Lina shouted defensively. ‘It had nothing to do with him. It was all my idea. Honest!’

Stella raged on. ‘Pathetic! Truly pathetic. The both of you. Miss Gattuso,’ she spat, like the very word was distasteful, ‘I will ask you now to leave my office. And in case you were to ever consider pulling a stunt like that again, I will have you know that you, my dear, will be published in the Age over my dead body!’ She strode over to the door and wrenched it open.

Lina’s heart fell to the pit of her stomach. Her future career was over.

She pushed back her chair and solemnly walked out into the corridor where her father was waiting. He looked up at her with wide eyes as Stella’s office door slammed behind her.

‘She didn’t want the article,’ Lina said simply and strode down the hallway, holding her head as high as she was able.

Her father grabbed his hat from the bench beside him and dashed after his daughter.

Later, in a little city cafe, over coffee and lemonade, Lina finally told her father what had happened in a wobbly voice. Now that it was all over, Lina just felt shaken and drained.

Her father stroked her cheek as he listened, tears springing into his eyes. ‘You did the right thing,’ he said tenderly. ‘I am very proud of you. What Stella said is not true. No career is worth threatening the lives of the people you care about. You will be a fine writer without her help, mia cara. Even better than her. Because you have integrity where she has none.’

Lina nodded. ‘Thank you, Pa,’ she said. And at that moment she didn’t mind that her favourite writer had not turned out to be the hero she had hoped she would be. Lina’s true hero was sitting right in front of her.