7

To be honest, for the next week, I was too busy to even think about Jethro Gersham. Martinez was working on his codes. And I had a bunch of “Pet of the Week” profiles to write for the Houmahatchee Herald. 

It was weird how the Herald column worked out. Miss Megg gave me the name and number of an editor to call about bringing the column back to life. Taleesa said it would be better to go in person and talk to someone.

“It’s always better to work for an editor who’s seen your face,” she said. “It’s not far. You should be able to take your bike.”

The newspaper office wasn’t what I expected. Even though I knew the Houmahatchee Herald was printed right here in town, I’d always imagined they worked in a tall building with rows and rows of desks on an open floor as big as Walmart. There would be phones that rang all the time and printers that made click-clacking sounds and some old guy mixing cocktails at his desk and a mean old editor who comes out of his office and shouts, “Peale, GET IN HERE!!” An awesome, cool madhouse. 

When I pulled up to the Herald I realized I’d passed the building a thousand times. It was in an old Burger Meister restaurant that closed before I was born. When I was little, you could still see the Burger Meister sign that someone had torn down and thrown out back. Now the sign was covered in kudzu. Only now did I notice the little black-and-white “Houmahatchee Herald” sign over the door, in that old-timey newspaper writing that nobody can read. 

A bell on the door dinged when I went in. There was nobody there. It still looked a lot like a Burger Meister. The counter was still there, but behind it, in the kitchen, there were filing cabinets and a bunch of bright studio lights on stands, like photographers use. There was still brown-and-orange tile on the floor, like at a Burger Meister, and all the yellow-topped Burger Meister tables were still there, only now they were piled with newspapers and boxes of paper and a couple of computers. In the corner, where the drink stand would normally be, there was a bulletproof vest sort of slumped against the wall, with a military helmet propped on top of it as if the Martians had vaporized a soldier right there. Next to that stood a five-foot statue of Meisterburger, the Burger Meister mascot, only instead of holding out a big plaster burger on a tray, he held a tray stacked with wooden plaques.

“I’ll be right there,” shouted a voice from what, at a Burger Meister, would have been a bathroom. 

I’m a snoop, so I picked up the plaques on Meisterburger’s tray. They were all awards, for “investigative reporting” and “deadline reporting.”

I heard a flush and then out came a white guy who looked a little younger than Dad, blond but already losing a lot of hair on top and wearing a button-up shirt with a ketchup stain on the front. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, extending a hand. “Ricky Braxton. Ricky with a Y.”

“Atticus Peale,” I said. “I’d like a Meister Burger, large, with fries please.”

He laughed. “Wouldn’t we all? You’re here for the Pet-of-the-Week thing, right?”

“That’s right,” I said. “I didn’t realize this building was the newspaper. I thought it was a place where druggies sleep at night.”

“Nope,” Braxton said. “We fired that guy.”

I dug into my backpack. “I’ve got a résumé here. And Taleesa, my stepmom, said I should bring writing samples, so here’s a fantasy novella I wr—”

“You’re hired,” he said. “Not that it’s a paying job. But you’ve got it.”

He headed back toward the tables with computers and motioned me to come along.

“That’s it?” I said. “I mean, you’ll just let a twelve-year-old write a column in your paper without an interview?”

“We’re a very small operation,” he said. “I’m the editor. My wife, Rickie with an I-E, is the only writer and the only photographer. If you read the paper regularly—I’m sure that’s what preteen girls just love to do—you’ll see that the entire front page is written by Rickie Braxton or Ricky Braxton. On the inside, world news from the Associated Press and then community news, written by the community.” He handed me a newspaper. “Just look. Here’s notes from the Daughters of the Confederacy meeting. A weekly column by a local preacher. Another column by the mayor, who never meets his deadline. All of them have to have a ton of edits before we can put them in print. What I really, desperately need is photos, photos of something other than the Daughters giving medals to old guys again and again. People love animal stories.”

“How many do you need per week?” I asked.

“As many as you can write,” he said. He squinted at the seventy-page manuscript in my hand. “I take it back. Four. No more than two hundred words each. The trick is making each one of them fresh when you’re writing the same thing again and again. Have them to us by 5 p.m. every Wednesday.”

“Do I get a—what do you call it—where you have your name at top of the story?” 

“A byline? Do you want a byline?”

I thought about the trouble I’d already gotten into with the Daily Royal Post. “I’d rather not.”

“Then you can’t have one. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” I said. “What’re the helmet and vest for?”

“To stop bullets,” he said. “They don’t really work. Turns out you have to know someone’s shooting at you beforehand, so you can put them on. Not as useful as you might think.”

He saw the shocked look on my face.

“We sent a reporter to Iraq, with the National Guard, a long time ago,” he said. “In better times, when the newspaper had more money.”

And that was it. I was a newspaper columnist. After a day of cleaning dog poop, washing dogs, and walking dogs, I’d sit at the table with dog pictures and my phone and I’d thumb-type little riffs about dogs and cats. It was hard, like writing poetry.

HANS AND FRANZ

These kitten brothers do everything together. Cuddle, chase bugs, play with yarn. They almost suffocated together, when someone dropped them off in a stapled-up paper bag. They could find a home together too. Will it be yours?

“The paper bag thing is a little edgy,” said Taleesa, looking over from her own writing. “But maybe it will grab somebody’s attention.”

JOY

This happy mutt is aptly named. She’s

“Happy is too plain,” I said. “Taleesa, what’s a better word for happy?”

“Joyful,” she said.

“The dog’s already named Joy.”

“Change the name. Joy is a fairly common name. People might ignore it. What if you just rename the dog Joyful?”

“I can do that?” I said. “Okay. Joyful it is.”

My phone double-beeped. A text message.

Princess_P: YOU THINK YOUR SO COOL BEING A DOG LAWYER BUT YOUR GOING TO JAIL

Ugh. Who was Princess P? Some girl from school, no doubt. I’m not super-popular, but I didn’t know of anybody who hated me. Strange.

atticustpeale: Learn punctuation.

I went back to writing, but it bothered me. Jail. Was that a real possibility after all?

Princess_P: EVEN IF YOU DON’T GET JAIL, YOUR LIFE WILL FEEL LIKE JAIL WHEN SCHOOL STARTS. NOBODY LIKES YOU.

atticustpeale: GO JUMP IN THE LAKE, MARTINEZ. THIS IS NOT FUNNY.

Princess_P: I’M NOT YOUR MONKEY BROTHER. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU’RE FAMILY? YOU DEFEND KILLERS, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED.

“What’s wrong, Atty?” Taleesa said. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“It’s nothing, I’m cool,” I said. Well, Princess P definitely wasn’t Martinez. Who uses slurs like that, really? I tried to think of a girl at school who would stoop that low. 

Another double-beep.

Princess_P: JUST LOOK AT THE COMMENTS OF THE ROYAL POST STORY. YOU DESERVE IT.

I went back to the Royal Post column. In the comments was this:

Attythedoglawyer: I’m Atticus T. Peale. Me and my monkey brother defend dogs that bite. My dad defends murderers. Someone should come to our house at 922 Burnt Corn Creek Road, Houmahatchee Alabama and give us what we deserve. 

I pushed away from the table.

“You’re right, Taleesa,” I said. “I don’t feel so good. I’m going to lie down in my room and play with McNutters.”

Even McNutters, in his hot tub with his martini, wasn’t safe. Every knock on the dollhouse door made him wet himself in fear. 

Half an hour later, I looked at the Royal Post story again.

Attythedoglawyer: <THIS COMMENTER HAS BEEN BLOCKED FOR VIOLATING THE ROYAL POST’S SOCIAL MEDIA POLICIES>

The door creaked open. It was Martinez.

“Are you okay, Atty?” He looked like he did as a baby, when he’d ask me to pick him up. “Dad worries all the time. But when you or Mom look worried, I get worried.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m totally fine, dude. Get out of here. McNutters is naked.”

My brother, at 922 Burnt Corn Creek Road. Just another troll on the Internet, I told myself. But I also thought about that Army helmet and vest at the Herald. Turns out you have to know beforehand that someone is shooting at you . . .