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THE REPORTER

The defeated look at the night sky and see their own insignificance. The dreamer sees their potential.

 WIZENARD PROVERB 

REGGIE WAS ALONE in his bedroom when Gran came in. It was around midnight, and she had a mug between her hands, a tendril of steam rising off it like that Fairwood fog. There was just enough moonlight seeping in for Reggie to see the worry on her face. There seemed to be a lot of that there lately.

Gran clicked on the bedside lamp and sat down, handing Reggie the mug. A sweet yet sharp aroma wafted up, and a memory stirred: his mother sitting by a window, staring out at the sunrise. She used to sit there and drink from a steaming mug every single day before she left for work, even while his father ran around getting ready. That was her—calm, collected, in control.

“Peppermint tea,” Gran said. “Drink.”

He felt a pang in his stomach. It had always been his mother’s favorite.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, taking a sip.

“You were as quiet as a mouse. But I can hear self-pity. One of my many talents.” She laid a hand on his arm, staring at him. “And I had a funny feeling you might be awake tonight.”

Reggie took another sip, closed his eyes, and breathed in the steam. His eyes nearly watered. If only his mother were here. If only, if only, if only . . .

He shook the thought away. Were there any words that caused him more pain than those two?

“You looked miserable the whole game.”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Why?”

He frowned. “Because I couldn’t play.”

“You looked miserable the week before. And the week before that too. Why?”

“Well . . . I mean . . . I wasn’t playing well for those games—”

“So which is it?”

“I don’t know. I want to play. I want to play well. I want to be good—”

Gran shrugged. “So do it.”

“What, did you and P have a seminar on this?” he grumbled.

“Your father was a good soccer player when he was a boy. Good . . . not great.”

Reggie frowned. “What does that have to do with—”

“But it wasn’t his passion. He liked to write. Always did. And he liked the news. He used to sit in front of the TV and watch the news every single evening. How many kids do that?”

“I’m still not really getting it—”

“He wanted to be a reporter. Of course, we’re from Swain Street. I didn’t have money for college, and we both knew it, and I suppose at some point he might have just stopped trying to get there.” She smiled. “But not your father. He studied harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. In high school, he took every class he could, and asked for more homework, more research, more anything. He was insatiable. And, by the end, he had the best grades in the school. He got to go to college on a scholarship—a boy from Swain Street—and he got his journalism degree. Ah, Reggie, you should have seen him the day he graduated. The smile on that boy’s face. He was proud, more than anyone else there that day, I think. Because it had been really hard, and he’d earned it.”

Reggie pictured his father in his black cap and robe, and he smiled with him.

“He met your mother there. She was more than his match, let me tell you. His life was coming along beautifully. It ended too soon, of course. But for me, remembering him in his cap and gown always gives me joy. He had already earned his dream.”

She squeezed his fingers.

“I don’t care if you become a professional ball player. You have chosen that path. But I do care that you are happy. That you left nothing behind. You told me you love ball more than anything. You said you wanted to be a professional. You claimed that you would do anything to reach that dream. Have you?”

He thought about her story. About his father working day and night.

“No,” he said softly.

“Well,” she said. “Then I guess you know what to do.”

Gran squeezed his hand and shut the bedroom door, leaving him with the silence and his steaming peppermint tea. He took a big sip, picturing his mother sitting by the window, and his father standing proudly in his graduation cap. Reggie fell asleep smiling with the empty mug perched against his pillow, giving off the last faint whiffs of peppermint.

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The next morning, Reggie woke early. When Gran came out of her room, he already had breakfast going, and the smell of bacon tempted P out of bed as well. It was Saturday, and not technically family breakfast day, but he had wanted to surprise Gran before she left for work.

Of course, he had managed to burn the bacon again. He always seemed to be hitting imagined jumpers when he should have been flipping. He laid the plates out, forcing a smile.

“A little overcooked,” he murmured.

P snorted. “It looks like a piece of coal.”

“It will do,” Gran said. “That said, it’s a Saturday, dear. It’s seven in the morning. You are aware of this, yes?”

Reggie shrugged. “I wanted an early start today.”

“On a Saturday?” P asked, yawning and shoveling down some bacon at the same time.

“Well, it’s a good thing,” Gran said. “P, you can spend a full day on your homework.”

“Homework—” P started.

“Yes,” Gran said. “And then you can explain the B you got on your last math test.”

Reggie glanced at P, surprised. P had been getting straight As for as long as he could remember, and judging by her scowl, she had been just as surprised. She dug into her potatoes.

“I don’t care about math,” she said through a mouthful.

“And I don’t care about bills, yet they seem to care about me,” Gran said.

“What are you talking about, P?” Reggie said. “You were always good at math—”

“And now I’m not,” she snapped. “I thought we were talking about you.”

Reggie exchanged a look with Gran. P was rarely moody, and never about schoolwork. She had always had an easy time with it. Reggie got good grades, but he had to work for them.

“What’s going on?” Reggie asked quietly.

P dug into her food. “I don’t need math. It’s a waste of time.”

“Soccer players should still be well-rounded in all subjects—” Gran started.

“I’m not going to be a soccer player!” P cut in, dropping her fork. “You know that. There’s only one girls’ team in the Bottom, and they’re three years older than me. And they still stink. There are no good soccer players in the Bottom, including me. Why do you keep bringing it up?”

“Patricia Lynn Mathers,” Gran said. “What has gotten into you?”

“Nothing—”

“Tell me,” Gran said softly.

There was a tense moment of silence, and then P started to push her food around.

“It was Hagatha,” P muttered.

“Not again,” Gran said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Her name is Agatha.”

“You’ve clearly never met her,” P said.

Reggie frowned. “What did Haga . . . she say?”

P chewed on her bacon for a moment. “Well, you know Hagatha. She always has to say something. She was making fun of me because I had my soccer ball out in the cafeteria and—”

“I told you to leave the ball at home,” Gran muttered.

“And she started going on like ‘Where do you think you’re going with that ratty old ball tied to your feet, anyway? You think you’re going somewhere special? That thing belongs in the trash.’ And obviously that’s not what I think, but she is just so annoying—”

“What does this have to do with your math test?” Gran asked.

“Oh, well, I shoved Hagatha, got in trouble, and then I was distracted for my test. So, you know, now I hate math. And obviously Hagatha was a given.”

Gran dabbed the side of her mouth, expressionless. “So we allow the opinions of others to dictate our interests now?” she asked.

“No,” P muttered. “It was dumb to get angry. I already know I’m not going anywhere—”

Reggie’s heart ached at the tone of her voice. At the defeat.

Gran leaned across the table, pointing a wrinkled finger. “Patricia, you can do anything—”

“I set my mind to?” P finished sharply. “Really? I keep hearing people say that. We can all do anything. So how come nobody does? How come everyone is in the Bottom?”

“It’s a hard road from here, yes—” Gran said.

“It’s impossible.”

P pushed her plate away and stormed off to her room. Reggie stared at her empty chair.

“Do you want me to talk to her?” he asked.

“Give her some time. I’ll talk to her when I get home. Now eat your breakfast.”

Reggie sighed and put his fork down. “The bacon really is terrible.”

She laughed. “Yes, it is. Before you become a star, you have got to learn how to focus.”

“One thing at a time,” Reggie said ruefully.

“If I have to eat one more meal of yours, I won’t live to see you become a star anyway.”

Reggie started clearing the plates, thinking about Gran’s story about his father.

“I’m going to be at Fairwood a lot this week,” Reggie said quietly.

Gran was headed for the bathroom, but from the corner of his eye, he caught her smiling.

“Good,” she said.