This Is My Brain on Summer Vacation

WILL

It’s the last day before summer vacation, and I may be the only one at St. Agnes High School who’s apprehensive about it. The twenty-four-hour news cycle of my mind is on overload. Manny is practically bouncing off the walls, high-fiving all his buddies from the soccer team and yelling “T minus one, baby!” He’s got a sweet gig at Amazing Stories, the local comic book store, so he’s essentially going to get paid for sitting around reading manga all day. Javier’s floating through the hallway wearing his shades and noise-canceling headphones, with a particular spring to his lanky step, telling everyone who will listen about the internship our computer science teacher helped him get at ConMed. If our local Students Against Destructive Decisions chapter were to see them, they’d put Javier and Manny into an ad depicting people who are “high on life,” right next to their retro THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS posters where the subject’s neurons are eggs cooking in a pan—meant to represent the perils of substance abuse.

I’m the only one of my friends who doesn’t have a headline, and the worst thing about it is that I have only myself to blame.

My anxiety only ratchets up when Javier and I walk into the media studies studio, which feels strange because for the past ten months it’s been my favorite place at St. Agnes. When I enter the classroom, Mr. Evans grins up at us like we’re prodigal sons returning.

“Will! Javi! Grab your chairs. I’m getting ready to give out my superlatives.” About a decade ago, St. Agnes’s staff got rid of yearbook polls after a voting scandal led the administration to proclaim that “all our students are likely to succeed, so there is no value in suggesting that popularity can predict future achievement.” That didn’t stop Mr. Evans from making his own superlatives list as a way to announce next year’s editorial staff for the Spartan.

When I go to collect a chair from the bank of computers lining the room, it slips from my sweaty fingers, making an ungodly clatter. In my mind, I’m already making up my own superlative: William Obinna Domenici, Most Likely to Have Clammy Hands. No one seems to notice the racket, but my face still burns as I take my seat.

Mr. Evans perches himself on the edge of his desk, pushes up his horn-rimmed glasses, and thanks us all for a fantastic year. “You all should pat yourselves on the back. Online clicks were up ten percent, and we had an increase in ad revenue as well. Kudos to our business team.” He nods in my direction, and next to me, Sanjit Mehta (senior, business manager) puts out his hand to high-five me (sophomore, reporter) and Javier, (sophomore, photographer). The knot in my chest loosens up a fraction.

All day, I’ve been trying not to hope too much. A fair and impartial review of my prospects concludes that I’m too young to be one of the executive-level editors. When Mr. Evans sent around his end-of-the-year survey of staff, though, I figured it would be reasonable to throw my hat in the ring to be business manager since Sanjit is graduating. Barring that, I’m hoping to be a section editor at least. Opinion is my first choice—even though I hate arguing in person, I love being able to construct an argument on paper—then Features or News. Those are the high-profile sections that would get the attention of a school with a prestigious journalism program.

Mr. Evans starts off by acknowledging the graduating staff. Our editor in chief, Julia Brown (Most Likely to Be Incarcerated to Protect Her Sources), is going to Northwestern to study journalism; Sanjit (Most Likely to Retire at Forty) to Penn for business. Next, he announces the new editor in chief, executive editor, and managing editor, all juniors. I try to be a team player and look happy when three upperclasswomen snag the sections I wanted.

When Javier (Most Likely to Insta His Own Kompromat) is announced as business manager, though, I can’t completely hide my disappointment. Everyone else is laughing, because it’s true: Javier’s Instagram is filled with compromising pictures that would probably torpedo any future attempts to run for public office, but the best I can manage is a barely convincing smile.

“Congrats, Javi,” I say, slapping him on the back. “You’re going to be awesome.”

As I wait for my own assignment, I focus on slowing down my breathing and on stopping my knee from jiggling so much it causes another furniture malfunction. Finally, after it seems like Mr. Evans has acknowledged every other sophomore on staff, his gaze turns to me.

“To Will Domenici, I’m delighted to bestow the title of Most Likely to Respond to a Tech SOS Within Thirty Seconds.” A ripple of laughter goes through the classroom, and my face feels like it’s going to spontaneously combust. Does Mr. Evans realize that he’s implying that I have no life? Apparently not: “With his history of reliability, tech savvy, and eye for design, I think you guys will agree that the Spartan couldn’t have a better assistant online manager.”

My classmates burst into applause, but for the second time in less than an hour, I have to force a grimace into a smile, and when I say “force” I’m describing a Herculean effort of acting and facial control that is probably Oscar-worthy, or at least deserving of a Daytime Emmy.

Of all the positions at the Spartan, assistant online manager is the booby prize. You’re not a reporter. You’re not an editor. From what I’ve seen, you’re nothing more than a coding minion and social media gopher. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the fact that the web team is an integral part of the success of any paper, it’s just that I feel like I have more to contribute.

I try to explain as much to Mr. Evans after class.

“Just because you’re assistant online manager doesn’t mean that you won’t also be able to write,” he reassures me.

“I know, but…” My voice cracks, and I study the worn linoleum floor by Mr. Evans’s desk. I take a deep breath and try not to sound pathetic. “Is my writing not good enough? Do you not trust my editorial judgment?”

“Oh, Will.” Mr. Evans leans in toward me and looks straight into my eyes, like he knows I’m the type to be skeptical of any praise. “You’re an excellent writer. Your attention to word choice is phenomenal, and you are always clear and precise in your reasoning. Your fact-checking is top-notch.”

I wait for the caveat for five excruciating seconds.

Mr. Evans’s eyes flick away for a second, and when he speaks again his voice is gentler. “I’ve noticed, though, that you rely a lot on secondary sources and e-mail correspondence for your stories. Next year, I want you to focus on going behind the scenes to really dig deep. Make that extra call. Drill down and ask the hard questions that make sources squirm.”

He makes it sound so easy. How can I tell him that he might as well be asking me to fly to the moon?

As if to illustrate my failure, my smart watch buzzes. My parents got it for me a few years ago after my last panic attack, and it’s set to go off when my heart rate goes above one hundred beats per minute. It’s supposed to be a cue to do my mindful breathing and centering exercises.

I open my mouth, but it feels like I’m drawing in air from one of those tiny plastic-straw stirrers you get at coffee shops.

Five seconds in, five seconds out.

The slow breaths do nothing to quiet the heckling questions that fill my head like an out-of-control press conference: Mr. Domenici, why are you so afraid of making cold calls? Don’t you think that you’re constitutionally incapable of asking the tough questions? Do you really think that someone who can’t even order pizza over the phone without breaking out into a sweat is going to be the next Bob Woodward?

“Will, are you okay?” Mr. Evans’s round face is creased with concern. “I don’t want you to be discouraged. You’re only a sophomore, and you’ve already got the most important attributes of a good journalist. Integrity. Attention to detail. Work ethic. It’ll come.”

“Sure,” I manage to get out. “Thanks, Mr. Evans.”

“Did you end up applying to any of the summer programs on the list I sent out? That’s one way to start honing those investigative skills.”

It’s a struggle to keep the self-loathing out of my voice when I answer. “No, it didn’t work out. I couldn’t find the right writing sample.” The truth is, I’d started the applications to three programs but chickened out when it came time to ask for letters of recommendation.

Mr. Evans brightens. “Well, that’s something you can work on over the summer—some kind of long-form piece that’ll show them both your investigative skills and your analytic ability. Remember, there are lots of ways to learn leadership skills. I’d like to see you take on a bigger role on the staff next year, so look for a summer job where you can learn how to manage a team and start thinking of the newspaper as a business whose readership you can grow.”

Furiously, I scribble down my assignment: Write a long-form piece. Make the calls and ask the hard questions. Learn how to manage a team. Grow a business. They’re only sound bites for now, and developing the story is going to be my big summer challenge, but all I can do is try.