After my late-night texting session with Dylan, I’m jittery at the prospect of seeing him again. It’s different now. I’m not sure exactly where he falls on the Jenny-and-Dylan-may-be-a-thing spectrum, but now that I’ve acknowledged how I feel … well, I just don’t know how to act around him. Probably like an idiot, my cheeks flaming so that my freckles form a connect-the-dots picture across my nose.
Whatever. I have a purpose today. I’m the co–editor in chief of the Parkwood Press, and I have an idea to pitch. I’m actually grateful Mrs. Vega put me in charge of features and opinions because this will fit in perfectly. I spend lunch in the library, Googling popular movies and books from the past twenty-five years. I love the internet! It’s so much easier than dragging out a bunch of reference books.
At least this research was. I’m having a harder time tracking down clues about PATROL’s true motives. Short of trying to disguise myself and interviewing them directly—which Angie’s book has probably made impossible—I’m not sure about my next steps. Maybe a phone interview? I might be able to get away with that. With his science background, Art has a better chance of speaking intelligently with them, although I’m not so sure about his interviewing skills. Maybe I could go Clark Kent with some glasses and a suit, and show up at Dr. Greaves’s husband’s company for an intern interview or something. I might get away with it.
But first I need to get on a better footing here at school, and I feel like I have this. I stride into class with a confidence I’ve been lacking since I got thrown into this whole new version of the Press.
I spy the girl with the blue glasses at the far end of the table and move to sit beside her. I dump my backpack on the floor. “I’m so sorry. I know this is horrible, but I’m totally blanking on your name.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t appear offended as she says, “It’s Chloe.”
“Chloe. Nice to meet you. Officially.” I snap my fingers. “You emailed me about writing a feature on three of our orchestra members who made it into the youth symphony.”
“That’s me.” She smiles. “You’ve had a lot going on.”
“Yeah.” But I need to stop focusing on myself and pay attention to the rest of the world or I’ll never find my place in it. I point at a sticker on her notebook. “You thinking about NYU?”
She strokes the sticker with a wistful expression. “Yeah. But my parents are against it. They say Mizzou has one of the best programs in the country and it would cost so much less.”
I nod sympathetically. “I love New York.” The words pop out before I realize what sort of questions they might lead to, but Chloe doesn’t pry, and that makes me want to say more. “I used to want to go to Columbia, but that was when my grandparents lived there.” I swallow around a lump in my throat. “They … passed away a while ago.”
Chloe bites her lip. “I’m sorry.” She looks back at her notebook. “You know, the top-rated journalism school these days is Emerson College in Boston.”
I manage a smile. “Boston, huh? I’ve never been there.”
But I should consider it, since my original plan no longer makes sense. It’s more than the hole Grandma and Grandpa have left in New York. Maybe I’ll fly again someday—although I’m leaning more toward a train or driving to school—but I’m not sure I’ll ever take that New York to St. Louis flight. No matter how often people tell me that multiple planes have flown that route with no incident, I will remember that my plane took that path and I lost what equated to a quarter of a life.
Mrs. Vega sweeps into the room, Ashling sneaking in behind her as the teacher sets her messenger bag on her desk. She turns and strides over to me, leaning down. “Okay, Jenny?”
She let me spend yesterday’s class period in an empty classroom, calling advertisers, so this is the first time I’ve seen her since I left Friday. I search myself and find that I am, if not okay, getting there. “I will be.”
Mrs. Vega holds my gaze another second. “Good. But just in case, I sent you an email with my cell number. If you need to talk, anytime, you call me.”
It means a lot to have her looking out for me. “I got it. Thanks.”
Mrs. Vega nods, then moves back to her desk and leans against it with her ankles crossed. “Tell me how things are coming along for our first issue. We go live next Wednesday.”
Despite my learning curve, I feel like my sections are shaping up nicely. I report that most of the advertisers have signed on again, and I’ll be seeking out some additional opportunities. As I list the article ideas for features and opinion, I let the staff members who’ll be writing them explain what they’re about. Everyone’s supposed to turn in their drafts by Thursday so I can edit them and turn in final copy by Monday.
Ashling has a similar style for her half of the paper. Noticeably absent: her drug bust story.
Mrs. Vega claps. “Fantastic. What else do we have in the works after this first issue goes live? I want to keep a number of ideas in the pipeline.”
I raise my hand. “I’d like to do a column.”
She nods. “What’re you thinking?”
I explain my idea for a weekly “Blast from the Past” column as I catch up on what I missed.
Ashling opens her mouth in an exaggerated yawn. “Bo-ring.”
Mrs. Vega frowns. “Ashling.” She turns to the rest of the class. “Do you think our readers will be interested in Jenny’s column?”
“Well …,” Chloe begins, and I can already tell from her apologetic expression that she’s not about to cheer me on. “I mean, it’s fun for you to discover all those things, but it’s not new to us. So where’s the news value?”
Ouch. Not on the part about it not being new to them. I get that. But on the part about me not recognizing what’s news. I’ve always had a great sense for that. Apparently that’s something else I lost on the plane.
Chloe continues, “I’d be more interested in hearing what it’s like for you and the other people from Flight 237, coming back after missing so much. If they’d be willing to talk to you and we put it in the Press, you could use those stories for college applications or something.”
My breath hitches. She’s right, but it hits so close to home. “Technically we’re not supposed to give interviews.”
Although Agent Klein might be lifting that restriction soon, if the latest round of results confirms we’re exactly who we say we are.
“You gave an interview,” Ashling says with an annoying smirk.
I rub my neck. “Yeah, that was … unplanned.” Maybe I could get permission for these stories, especially if they aren’t focused on the plane. Some of the other passengers might be open to it, if I’m the one writing them. “What if it’s not just the people on the plane but their family and friends?”
Mrs. Vega nods. “You could build our readership beyond the school, maybe get us some new advertisers. Plus, if the stories are strong enough, I have a friend at the Post-Dispatch who might take a look.”
“Wow, that would be amazing.” To have a byline not only in the Parkwood Press but also a mention in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch—any college journalism program would love that on my application!
Others around the table murmur agreements and give me smiles and a thumbs-up. For the first time since I joined this class, I feel like more than Mrs. Vega’s nostalgia project.
I sit up straighter in my chair and smile at Chloe. I mean, I won’t do it unless Agent Klein gives the okay and the other passengers agree, but I think some of them will. Maybe I’ll start with myself to show them what the column can be. Ideas start scrolling through my mind.
“I have a tip for next week,” Ashling says, interrupting my brainstorm. I hope it’s not another imaginary drug deal.
“Yes, Ashling?” Mrs. Vega pushes off the desk.
“Since Jenny plans to explore the passenger side of the Flight 237 story, I think we should pursue the PATROL view as well. My godmother, Greta Barren, has an inside source there. She’s willing to let me tag along on her interview.”
I stiffen. “Greta Barren is your godmother?”
How has that not come up? Did everyone else already know that? I’m dying to try to signal Chloe to see if she knew, but it would be totally obvious.
Ashling smiles sweetly. “She was my mom’s little in Kappa Delta, and she’s my inspiration for becoming a journalist. How do you think I knew about the insurance companies being behind PATROL?”
“It hasn’t been positively confirmed yet,” I say. “And now that Greta’s put the allegation out there, I doubt her source is going to admit anything.”
Ashling cocks her head. “That’s exactly why they want to talk to us. To set the record straight. But you don’t know Greta. She always gets her story.”
I just bet she does. By any means necessary.
Mrs. Vega leans over the table. “Ashling, exactly what sort of story are you proposing? An investigation into whether insurance companies are backing PATROL or a human-interest piece finding out what the group is all about?”
I can understand Mrs. Vega’s confusion, considering how Ashling framed her initial comment. She made it sound like we’d be on opposite sides—passengers versus PATROL.
Ashling looks up at the ceiling. “I’m not completely sure. I want to go talk to them and really dig into the story, like any decent reporter would do. It wouldn’t be right for us—as an impartial news outlet—to only cover Jenny’s side.”
For a long moment, Mrs. Vega stares at Ashling, as if she can see into her brain and ferret out her true intentions.
“I’ll allow it,” she finally says, and I can’t hold in my gasp. Mrs. Vega turns to me, her expression calm. “Ashling can go interview PATROL. It’s good experience, and she has a point about exploring all sides of a story. However”—she holds up a hand in Ashling’s direction—“a journalist must also remain objective. And I expect both of you to remember that as you write your stories.”
Ouch again. And yet, it’s not an entirely unfounded reminder, considering it will be near impossible for me to be objective collecting stories from the other passengers. I want to portray them in a positive light. To tell the world what they’re going through. But it’s also not exactly the same sort of thing as what Ashling’s pursuing, trying to find a way to discredit me personally. Because I’m sure that’s what she’s after.
Especially when she smiles smugly at me after Mrs. Vega turns her back.
I wish I had the results of the FBI’s more extensive medical tests to throw in her face, but it wouldn’t be enough. We both know the damage is done. Ashling has been undermining me from the moment I stepped inside Parkwood High School, and she’s just declared outright war. Just when I started to fit in, Ashling pointed out that I’m a puzzle piece from an ocean scene when we’re working on a wildflower field. Now I have to prove all over again that I belong in their picture.