Agent Klein promises to call both me and Art once she confirms our information and orders us not to go anywhere near there ourselves so we don’t get caught in the fallout. As much as I really want to see her stop them, if I don’t go home, I’ll be grounded indefinitely. I already disappeared once today; I don’t need to worry my parents again.
When I get home, it’s only eight thirty—ninety minutes until the plane is scheduled to take off. I wonder how long I’ll have to wait. They’re sure to arrive at the airport early for preflight stuff, right? It can’t take that long for the FBI to apprehend them.
I call a quick hello to my parents and run up to my room. That’s when the what-ifs start to bombard me. What if Walter lied to me about where they were meeting? What if they take off from somewhere else? What if the FBI or the FAA or whoever else gets involved can’t stop them in time and they crash into that tower and kill everyone inside? Did we make the wrong choice letting Walter go? Should I have followed him?
To distract myself from the worry, I retrieve my phone from where I stuffed it under the mattress and power it up. It seems so long ago that I put it there, so angry over the pain it caused me. But now I realize it isn’t the phone’s fault. It was Ashling and Greta who treated my personal life like it was open for public consumption. Yes, a phone was likely used to take the picture, and online news outlets spread the story to a wide audience and allowed people to comment on it. But I’m just as much to blame in the whole situation, kissing Dylan in a public place. I knew better. I knew Greta was out there, even if I didn’t anticipate she’d have eyes on me that night. I should’ve been more careful, and I shouldn’t have put so much of it on Dylan. After facing the possibility of a world without Dylan, I can’t believe I shut him out. Who cares what people say about us? It’s rare to find someone who really gets you the way he gets me.
I unblock his number. I wonder if he could tell? My last text to him is still sitting there, telling him we can’t be together. Even worse, that it was a mistake to give him my first kiss. News flash, Jenny: don’t hit Send in the middle of a meltdown. I open a new text window, but my thumbs hover over the keypad, unmoving. I don’t know what to say to him, how to apologize. I don’t think I can apologize in a text. That’s how I messed things up in the first place. I have to fix it in person.
My phone dings with an incoming message. I switch over. It’s from Art—the audio file. Yes! Wait, that’s not audio. It’s an image. I zoom in. It’s Agent Klein guiding Dr. Greaves into the back of a dark sedan. Thank God they got there in time! Also, so much for keeping Art away from the airport. He must have been just as worried as me and decided to go anyway, just to be sure they didn’t take off. The picture is solid gold.
Me: How did you get this??!! I owe you!
Oops. That was supposed to be a smiley emoji. I start typing a retraction, but Art’s reply comes before I can send it.
Art: Whoa, Nellie. Thought you were into that Dylan guy?
At least it’s obvious he didn’t think I meant anything by the emoji. I clearly can’t be trusted with texting.
Me: Don’t worry, I am. Thumb slip. Gotta go write!
I grab my laptop and start the audio file playing, typing and listening as I go. Shortly after I start, Agent Klein calls to confirm what Art’s picture already told me—that she’s taken Walter, Dr. Rozanov, and Dr. Greaves in for questioning. She doesn’t have time to answer any clarifying questions; she just wanted to reassure me she’d taken care of it. But it’s enough. An hour later, I have a solid story. The first issue of the Parkwood Press goes live Wednesday. I think there’s still time to get this in there. But I have to clear it with Mrs. Vega, and I don’t want to wait until school tomorrow.
I scroll through my contacts and find her number, then hit Call. She answers after three rings. “Hello?” she says in a groggy voice.
Only then do I realize it’s ten o’clock. Oops. Guess she’s one of those early-to-bed kind of people.
“Um, hi, Mrs. Vega, it’s Jenny Waters.”
“Jenny?” She clears her throat. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
I guess that’s the logical question when a student calls late at night.
“I’m better than okay. I just uncovered the most amazing story.” And I spill it all to her. “So can we get it in this week’s issue of the Parkwood Press?”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone. “Hold on, Jenny. I’m going to get my laptop, but go ahead and email it to me.”
“Okay.” Was that a yes? Or an I need to read it and make sure it’s good enough before I say yes?
I won’t know if I continue to sit here, staring at my laptop. I log into my email and send the file to Mrs. Vega, switching the phone to speaker so I’ll hear her when she comes back on.
“I’m back,” she says. “Just give me a minute to read through this.”
I sit there, biting my thumbnail, listening to her reading it, humming and saying “oh my” and “wow.”
“You can back this all up?”
“I have an audio file of the conversation,” I confirm.
“Good.” There’s an interminable silence while she continues reading, then finally, “This is fantastic, Jenny!”
“Really?” I mean, I felt like it was good, but the affirmation from Mrs. Vega means everything.
“Yes, but I don’t think it belongs in the Parkwood Press.”
My heart drops all the way down into my stomach. “What? Why not?”
“Because this is breaking news. Do you mind if I send this to my friend at the Post-Dispatch?”
“Do I mind?”
Mrs. Vega’s laughter bubbles out of the phone. “I assume that means I can forward it on.”
“Yes! Now! Yesterday!”
“I’ll let you know what he says. I don’t know that he’ll just run your story verbatim, but I could see him using parts of it. Try to get some sleep, all right?”
Sleep? Like that’s happening, when my words could be in the Post-Dispatch! But, sure, whatever. “Okay, Mrs. Vega.”
I hang up the phone and stare from my laptop to my phone, these magical pieces of technology that allowed me to write and file a story so quickly. And now it’s winging its way to an editor at the Post-Dispatch via email, where he could be reading it, right now.
Um, no, I’m not sleeping anytime soon.
I run out and tell Mom and Dad about the possible Post-Dispatch story, forgetting that in my eagerness to get to work, I didn’t fill them in on Walter and PATROL when I came home. They’re a bit stunned Walter tried to get me to join him on the plane, and I can tell they’re worried about me wanting to do anything to go back to the past. It takes a few minutes to calm them down, along with many reminders I didn’t join his ill-fated mission. Once we get past all that, they’re appropriately excited and give me the same advice as Mrs. Vega—go to bed and see what happens in the morning. How am I supposed to sleep? This is the biggest story of my life!
Well, actually, I guess the biggest story of my life was skipping twenty-five years, but that just happened to me. This is a story I’m breaking.
I return to my room and stare at my email window, willing a new message to pop up from Mrs. Vega, letting me know whether her friend plans to use my story, but nothing comes at ten thirty, or ten forty-five, or eleven. Maybe she went to sleep. After all, I woke her up.
I want to talk to someone about this whole thing. Dylan immediately pops into my mind. He’d be excited for me, but I can’t exactly call him up and be like, “Hey, sorry I was such a jerk earlier, but here’s some good news on my end!” I’ve already been way too selfish in this barely off-the-ground relationship.
Chloe would be all over it, but what if it doesn’t happen? That would be embarrassing, to tell her I’m getting a story in the Post-Dispatch and have it not pan out.
I flop onto my bed, the laptop open beside me. I guess I could tell Art, but I actually am sort of exhausted.
After checking my email one last time, I close the laptop and curl onto my side, willing sleep to find me. Surprisingly, it does.