Adam Canfield: Watch Your Back!

Jennifer’s mom drove them to the Tremble Zoning Board. Technically, Jennifer had not lied. She explained that they needed to interview Mrs. Boland about beautification.

Her mom was delighted. Being a garden club member plus a PTA leader, she was pro-beautification and in fact, was on the PTA committee making recommendations for beautifying Harris. “Amazing,” her mom said, when Jennifer explained why they needed a ride. “The Slash is writing some positive news?”

Somehow, Jennifer had forgotten to mention that their interview was about the Bolands’ beautification plan to flatten the Willows. Jennifer’s philosophy on this could be summed up in seven words: “Why upset Mom for no good reason?”

The coeditors had plenty of time to talk without worrying about Jennifer’s mom. She had her headset on and was making calls. It was what Jennifer and Adam loved about cell phones; your parents could be right there supervising you and still had no idea what you were up to.

“Never fear,” said Adam. He opened his backpack, pulled out a bag of pistachio nuts, and handed her a fistful. “Throw the shells in my backpack when you’re done,” he said.

“I’ve never seen you so calm in the face of certain doom,” she said. “Usually you’re the one falling apart. You do know that we’ve never been so doomed? If we don’t pull this off, we’re dead. And if we do, we’re dead. Mrs. Boland said herself — she’ll shut down the Slash or bring in her goons to mind us.”

Adam nodded. Jennifer was definitely right. “Want to hear something terrible?” he said. “I’m not sure I care. I am so worn out. Writing the truth about people is too hard. Everyone hates you.”

“I don’t hate you,” said Jennifer, handing him an opened pistachio nut as proof of their enduring friendship.

He’d already told Jennifer about his disastrous “interview” with Tish. “Me and Tish should be friends,” said Adam. “He’s a good guy, we both love hoops, but I’ve pissed him off so bad, he’ll never talk to me again. When you’re a reporter, you’re always keeping your distance from people because you might have to write something bad about them. You’re always the outsider.”

“Being a reporter doesn’t make you an outsider,” said Jennifer. “You become a reporter because you’re an outsider; it suits you.”

Adam didn’t know if she was right; he just felt a need to get way inside. At that moment, he would have loved being in the middle of a conga line.

He took out his handkerchief, blew his nose, stared out the window, and shelled some nuts. “Maybe you should’ve talked to Tish,” Adam said. “Maybe me being white made it worse. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get through.”

“I doubt I’d be better,” said Jennifer. “It probably’s a little bit about race stuff, but more rich-poor stuff.”

“Compared to Tish we are,” Jennifer said. “Look, don’t worry so much. Tish might feel different if we pull off this Willows story.”

The van pulled into the circular drive leading to the Tremble offices. “How are you so calm?” Jennifer asked.

“It’s better you don’t know,” he said. “Just don’t worry about her cornering us, like in 306. We can leave anytime we want.”

“You mean your hair’s combed, your shirt’s tucked in, and you appear to have bathed within the last month?”

“Right,” said Adam. “You said yourself, clean hands and a clean county.”

“Your cold’s driving me crazy,” she said. “You’ve had it forever. Are you taking something?”

From the front of the van they could hear Jennifer’s mom hanging up. “It’s amazing how you can keep on top of everything with these phones,” her mom said.

“Now, remember,” said Jennifer’s mom. “It’s an honor having an interview with someone as important as Mrs. Boland. If you make a good impression, someday it could lead to a summer internship at the Citizen-Gazette or Boland News 12.”

The office was on the top floor of the county building. It was nothing like the shabby, cramped Code Enforcement room in the subbasement where they’d interviewed Herb and Herb the previous fall.

When the attendant opened the elevator gate, Jennifer and Adam stepped onto wall-to-wall carpeting done in a tasteful muted brown. The doors leading to each department were glass, and the desks where the receptionists sat were made of mahogony with large county seals in the middle.

“They’re expecting you,” said the receptionist. “Clarence will be out shortly.”

Clarence was short, thin, and dressed stylishly in a black three-button suit with a black turtleneck and thick, black-rimmed glasses. He had shaggy hair that was a mix of blond and black, like Mrs. Boland’s. Adam had the weirdest thought: Clarence had been dressed by Mrs. Boland.

The coeditors followed Clarence down a hallway and into a magnificent boardroom that was dominated by a glass table so long that a dozen stuffed chairs fit on each side. It was a corner office, and two of the walls were windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Looking out, they could see for miles. Adam thought it would be fun working so high up, like having an office in the climbing tree.

Along the other two walls were several maps. The largest had a banner that read TREMBLE PLANS FOR THE NEXT CENTURY.

Inspirational slogans bordered the maps. One said PERSONAL NEATNESS AND COUNTY BEAUTIFICATION GO HAND IN HAND. Another said, EVERYTHING IN ITS PLACE — NOW!! There were two doors, and behind one, Adam guessed, in her private office, lurked Mrs. Boland.

“MRS. BOLAND,” Clarence said — and the coeditors snapped to attention —“will be out soon.” Clarence walked over to one of the doors and opened it. Adam and Jennifer tensed; they were expecting Mrs. Boland to leap out, like a circus tiger.

“The washroom. Would you mind cleaning your hands?” said Clarence, gesturing to the PERSONAL NEATNESS sign. “It’s one of Mrs. Boland’s eccentricities.”

Adam and Jennifer looked at each other, but said nothing. While Adam was inside, he gave his nose one final blow to freshen up his handkerchief.

Clarence put place mats in front of them so they wouldn’t get marks on the glass table. He hurried to the sideboard, where a silver coffeepot along with white, flowered china cups were set up, and poured a spot of coffee into a cup. He tasted it, then hurried to the washroom and returned with the cup, clean and dry.

“You’ve met Mrs. Boland,” said Clarence, “so you know she’ll be in a much better mood if everything proceeds in an orderly fashion. Sit up straight. I must say, I’m very pleased. Based on what I heard, I thought you”— he pointed at Adam —“would be problematic. But you look sooo handsome today. Do you play sports? . . . I knew it! And you,” he said to Jennifer. “Your outfit is sensational. Is that a Klarey Konner micromini? . . . I knew it! As they say on Broadway, you’ve got the figure for it, toots.”

“Now, I’d be the first to admit,” Clarence continued, “Mrs. Boland isn’t the easiest person. But she is such a good woman. She really cares about people and making the world better. You probably don’t know, but she is the number-one supporter of the Tremble Symphony Orchestra, the Tremble Opera, and the county libraries. It’s a lot of work. And sometimes, she just feels she has to do it all herself or it won’t be done right. Maybe she’s too much that way, but only because she cares. Now she has something to show you. She’s very excited. She really hopes you’ll like it. We’ve worked so hard on this. It would mean so much if you could reach a compromise with her. She doesn’t want to have to . . . you know . . .”

Clarence vanished behind door number two, and in seconds Mrs. Boland appeared, also dressed in black. She was carrying three glossy folders. Keeping one, she handed the others to Clarence, who placed them on the mats in front of Adam and Jennifer.

“Read these carefully,” said Clarence as he poured Mrs. Boland a cup of coffee.

“Not now, Clarence,” Mrs. Boland said in a loud whisper. “It’s too soon,” and Clarence scooped up the cup and hurried to the washroom again.

The coeditors looked over the statement from Mrs. Boland. It was hard for Adam to sit up straight and read at the same time, but the more he went over it, the more impressed he was. The press release had been prepared especially for the Slash. It began:

Just as students at Harris must plan and order their busy days to get all their work done, the great county of Tremble must plan and order where homes are built so all our residents can live peacefully and prosperously side by side. That is precisely the work of the zoning board.

The release went on to say that it was the board’s job to give people of all races and backgrounds the opportunity to buy larger and more beautiful homes, and the bigger the homes, the more tax dollars the county receives, and that means more money for Harris Elementary/Middle School.

The release said that through several zoning reforms, Mrs. Boland hoped to encourage construction of million-dollar mini-mansions that would beautify Tremble and wipe out the final pockets of blight.

There was a quote from Mrs. Boland saying, “I must emphasize that every one of these new homes could be purchased by people of all races and backgrounds who work hard and make the sacrifices to afford the Tremble way of life.” And then there was a final paragraph about how the county and the Bolands had a long history of cooperation, working together to support the Special Olympics.

When Jennifer finished, she pulled out a notebook. “It’s very well written,” she said. Clarence was back, and for some reason, this made him beam. “But I have a few things not covered in your response to our questions,” Jennifer continued.

“You are confused,” said Mrs. Boland. “This is not a response to your questions. This is your article. This,” she said, wiggling the paper at Jennifer, “is what you’re going to print. We’ve written the story for you to make sure it’s accurate.”

The coeditors looked like a mini-mansion had been dropped on their heads. They did not know what to say.

“But . . . but . . .” Jennifer stammered, “we write our own stories. We’ll be glad to include your response. But this isn’t the whole story. This doesn’t say anything about the boarded-up houses or where families in the Willows will go. They can’t afford million-dollar mini-mansions.”

“Children,” said Mrs. Boland, “I’m not some dictator. I don’t tell people where to live. Anyone who has the money can buy a house anywhere in Tremble. The last time we were together, I got very upset. And when I received your questions this week and saw that you were doing ANOTHER WILLOWS STORY!! . . .”

Clarence cleared his throat and Mrs. Boland lowered her voice. “I mean . . . another Willows story, well, my first inclination was . . .”

“But Clarence urged compromise,” she went on. “As usual, he was right. We worked very hard doing this article for you.” She looked at her watch. “Clarence, dear, it’s the right time for my coffee.”

Mrs. Boland picked up the folder. “This is all your readers need,” she said. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m sure they teach you in school that compromise is the essence of democracy. Today, we’re going to be like our Founding Fathers at Independence Hall in Philadelphia when they drew up the Constitution. We’re not going to leave this room until we’ve worked out a compromise. I understand you may want to switch a word or two — they always do at the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser when we give them stories to print. Or maybe you want to break a long paragraph into two shorter ones. I have no problem with that. I’m always willing to compromise. I’ve cleared my schedule. I will stay until midnight if need be. No one leaves until we’re done.”

As he yanked it out, pistachio shells flew everywhere, arcing upward, then making distinct plinks as they landed on the glass table.

Adam grabbed his handkerchief and began wiping the pistachio shells off the table. To Adam, the silence seemed to last forever, though it was just a few seconds. No one except Adam moved.

Jennifer would later say she was amazed at how clearly Adam’s thick streaks of phlegmy snot showed up on that clean glass table.

“FILTH!” bellowed Mrs. Boland, whose face went from pink to purple without pausing at red. “HOW COULD YOU? GET OUT!”

Jennifer was frozen in her seat, but Adam’s backpack was zipped and he was on the move. To reach Jennifer quickly, he ran around the near end of the table, behind Clarence and Mrs. Boland. As Adam passed, Mrs. Boland crossed her arms in front of her face, as if Adam was a toxic germ. Rounding the end of the table and heading toward Jennifer, he glimpsed Clarence.

Adam grabbed Jennifer’s hand and yanked her up. The two ran through the boardroom door, along the hallway, and out the zoning department glass doors. Adam looked frantically side to side. The elevator would take too long. He spotted a red exit sign, and they bolted through that door.

It was the stairs. They raced down six flights, burst into the building lobby, and shot out the front entrance.

Adam looked toward the road, panicked that they were being followed, and as he did, he spotted the prettiest sight ever: Jennifer’s blessed mother, turning the Astro van into the driveway.

“I bet,” said Jennifer. “You did that to Mrs. Boland on purpose, didn’t you?”

They climbed into the van and felt such relief when it moved. For a long time, both were quiet.

“You know,” Jennifer finally said. “Mrs. Boland is going to destroy us. We’re through.”

“I know,” said Adam. “But sometimes, when you’re doomed, it’s nice to go out in style.”