Famous Last Words (22 page)

Well? Happy Bday. Miss u!

“Hmm. Nice of her to finally remember,” I say.

“Shelby?” Gram asks.

I nod.

“What’s going on with you two?” Gram asks.

“We’re not talking,” I say.

“Why?”

“I’m not exactly sure. It’s not like we got in a fight. More like we got on each other’s nerves, big time, the night she came out with my newsroom friends.”

“I see. Is a boy involved?”

“Sort of.”

“Is he worth losing a friend over?”

I guess that would depend on which boy we’re talking about.

“I guess not,” I begin. “It’s hard to put into words. First she was talking to Tony, then AJ, then Tony again. She was being …
Shelby
.”

“And you were probably being
Sam
.”

“What?”

“Look, I don’t know exactly what happened, but you should still talk to her. Don’t let twelve years of friendship end because of one bad night.”

“Okay, but let’s say your best friend flirted with Gramps.”

“Your grandfather was a handsome man. Women flirted with him all the time.”

“And?”

“And maybe it was my fault for not making a move sooner.”

“It took you ten years!”

“Exactly! Learn from my mistake. Come on,” she says. “You mentioned your grandfather, and that gave me an idea. Let’s go pay him a visit.”

She grabs the check and slides out of the booth. Gram’s right. I’ve already taken care of the first part—making a move (at least I hope AJ perceives it that way)—now it’s time to take care of the rest. Before we leave, I text Shelby.

Thx! Got it! TTYL.

*   *   *

When we get to the Glendale Cemetery, Gram and I walk down a small, grassy hill before we reach Gramps’s grave. I notice Gram’s name is already on the headstone, alongside her date of birth. It would freak me out to stare at that blank space, where my date of death would someday be engraved. It doesn’t seem to bother Gram, though. Neither does the fact that my grandfather is not actually
here
. Gram talks to my grandfather as if he’s standing in front of us, leaning against his headstone with his hat in his hand.

“James!” she yells, as if he’s merely on the other side of some bad cell-phone reception. Gramps’s name is Vincenzo, but she uses “James” because when he started school, it’s what his teacher called him. “I brought Sam here to see you. It’s her birthday! She’s seventeen now—can you believe it? She got her driver’s license today. She’s so smart and beautiful. You would be very proud.”

“Gram,” I say, embarrassed, but not sure why.

“I miss you, you know. I still reach for you at night sometimes, but you’re not there. But don’t be sad about that or anything. I’m no spring chicken. I’ll see you soon enough.” Gram pauses, and I’m not sure where she is going with any of this.

“Maybe Sam wants to talk to you now. Do you? I shouldn’t put her on the spot. Let’s give her a minute,” Gram says. “Go ahead,” she whispers.

I’m not sure I can talk aloud to my grandfather with my grandmother standing right there. I don’t know what I’m going to say or if I’m going to say anything, and then, much to my own surprise, I just start talking.

“Hi, Gramps. It’s Sam. Sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner. I’ll visit more now that I’ve got my driver’s license. And I don’t know if you know this, but I’ve been working at the
Herald Tribune
all summer, writing obits. I’m starting my senior year soon. I’m going to be yearbook editor, and I’m excited about that, but nervous about all the rest. Shelby and I have been drifting apart. Shelby’s the same old Shelby, I guess. But these past few months … I’m different. It’s like, in the newsroom, I matter. That’s why I’m so upset with Shelby. It was never about some boy. It’s like she tried to ruin my place. Can friends be jealous of each other and still be friends? That’s probably what I need to figure out.”

Phew. Well, who needs therapy when you’ve got a granite headstone? Gram stands beside me and takes my hand. Without speaking, we stare straight ahead at Gramps’s grave like we’re watching the credits roll at the end of a movie. It feels like Gramps is staring back.

“I love you, Gram,” I say.

“Oh, you’re just saying that because now you’re afraid
I’m
going to die.” Then she says, “I love you, too.”

“You’re just saying that because you want me to drive you around now,” I say.

“Maybe,” she says, and winks.

Before we leave, Gram bends down near the headstone. She makes the sign of the cross and then gently runs her hand along the smooth surface next to her name.

“Are you afraid?” I ask.

“Of course not. I know your Gramps is on the front porch.”

I imagine heaven, for Gram, is a house. Inside the house are her brothers and sisters, her mother, and the father she lost when she was just a little girl. It’s always Sunday there, fried meatballs bubbling in tomato sauce on the stove, Italian music on the radio. Inside the house, there is lots of talking and laughter. Outside, Gramps is waiting for her to come home.

*   *   *

Before we leave for the restaurant, my parents give me my birthday cards and presents. (No car, but I didn’t expect one.) I got an amazing sapphire-and-diamond ring in white gold. “It’s beautiful,” I say when I open it.

“So are you, Sam. We thought so on the day you were born, and have every day since,” Mom says, all teary.

“Seventeen is a special birthday,” Dad says.

“For me, too,” Gram says. “Sam’s my new ride.”

In addition to a check, Gram gave me a gift card to Pit Stop gas.

We have dinner at Amici’s, my favorite restaurant. Mostly, it’s been a nice birthday. I feel guilty, though, because even though my family is great, part of me longs for what I imagine to be the typical birthday for a seventeen-year-old girl—roses from a gorgeous boyfriend, dinner at some romantic restaurant, hearing the words “I love you” for the first time—and not from a blood relative. I’ve been waiting all day to hear from AJ. I thought after our phone call last night, things were fixed between us. More than fixed. Progressing.

When we turn onto our street, Mom says, “Looks like you have company.”

AJ’s Jeep is parked in front of our house. My hand is already on the door handle. It’s all I can do to not leap out of the moving car.

Standing in the driveway, I make the introductions, and AJ shakes everyone’s hand. I wonder if Gram gives him an extra squeeze. I can tell by her sly smile, she’s already got a crush on him.

“I came by to see if you want to go for a ride,” AJ says. “But I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

“Go ahead,” Dad says.

Mom just nods and smiles.

Gram gives me a thumbs-up when AJ turns the other way.

I’m getting into the passenger door when AJ hands me the keys.

“Here, Miss Daisy. Why don’t you drive me for a change?”

I take the keys and smirk.

“You did get your license, didn’t you?” he asks once we’re inside.

“I suggest you buckle your seat belt,” I say as I turn the key.

“Wait,” AJ says, when I’m about to shift into drive.

“You’re not having second thoughts are you?” I kid.

“Funny.” He plugs his tunes into the car stereo. “I didn’t have a chance to get you a birthday present with Ohio and all. I considered a Buckeye travel mug, then I thought, What
is
a Buckeye, anyway? So I made you this instead.” He holds the screen in front of me.

“‘Sam-I-am’?” I read.

“Hit play,” he says.

We drive along with all four windows down. It’s already dark, and there’s the faint scent of fall in the mid-August air. The songs AJ picked for me range from college radio to classic rock, and I try to discern if there’s a common thread, some message behind his choice of music for me.

“I love this,” I say. “Thank you.”

I’m smiling so big, my cheeks hurt. His eyes cut toward me, and he looks uncomfortable as the next song cues up. Acoustic guitar. Male vocalist. I’m trying to place the mellow, baritone voice.

“Is this Jack Johnson?”

My remark invokes AJ’s incredulous face. “Where’d ya get Jack Johnson?”

I listen to the words, about a girl who’s shy but strong, hasn’t yet figured out where she’s going, and doesn’t know the power of her words. The boy in the song says he’s known from the start she’s something special. At first I think the chorus is “
Everything she says
.” But then I listen more closely and realize he’s saying “
Everything Sam says
.”

“Oh my God! This is you!” My mouth is so dry, my lips stick to my teeth. “I didn’t know you could sing and play guitar.”

AJ grins. “Don’t forget ‘writes songs.’”

“You wrote me a song? This song is about me?” My vision blurs. I take the next right turn too sharply, roll over the curb, and nearly hit a mailbox.

“Steady, Sam-I-am,” AJ says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I’ve got a death grip on the steering wheel, but what I want more than anything is to throw my arms around him.

“Uh, how ’bout we switch places?” AJ suggests.

“Done,” I say.

I pull to the curb and park. Our doors swing open simultaneously, and we both walk in front of the Jeep. Our paths are about to crisscross as we head to opposite sides, but then I grab AJ’s hand. We are standing face-to-face in the headlights’ glow. I move to give him a hug. He moves, I think, to kiss me. I tilt my head toward him. Can this finally be happening? Suddenly, the Jeep starts rolling backward.

“Crap,” AJ says, running toward the open door and leaping into the driver’s seat.

*   *   *

A few hours later, around midnight, I call AJ from the house phone. I left mine with him so he can upload my playlist and my song.

“So, your car’s all right?”

“It’s fine. I forgot to tell you to use the emergency brake.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“
I’m
sorry.”

“For what?”

“Not letting the Jeep go.”

My cheeks and neck are on fire, and my heart is pumping in double time. My body is obviously telling me how much I like him, so why aren’t the words coming out of my mouth?
Say it, Sam
,
just say it!
My mind screams.

“AJ?”

“Yeah?” he says, lowering his voice.

“I know how we can help Michael get his mayor story.”

“Of course you do. And here I thought you were going to talk dirty to me.”

Me too.

chapter twenty-five

Police Log

On Wednesday, I pull into the bank parking lot, keeping a safe distance from the mayor’s car. AJ and Michael are in the back seat. A photographer named Lane sits up front with me.

“Okay, this is it,” AJ says when the mayor exits his car. “Just like we planned.”

“Should I go with Sam and AJ?” Lane asks.

“No,” Michael says. “You and I will go in the back door now and try to get some audio and photos.”

“Got it,” Lane says.

We all exit the car at the same time, a slightly nerdy vice squad, and head for the bank. Inside, the mayor is standing at the counter where the blank deposit and withdrawal slips are, filling something out. AJ and I pretend to do the same on the opposite side of the bank. Michael and Lane stand near the entrance, looking at bank brochures. We all close in when the mayor approaches the teller’s window. “Hello, Mr. Goldberg,” says the friendly teller I spoke with last time.

Michael and Lane stand in line behind the mayor, within earshot. It’s time for me and AJ to do our thing.

“Mr. Goldberg, Mr. Goldberg,” I yell.

The mayor whips his head around. “Do I know you?” he says.

I go with the excuse I used the first time.

“We just started working at Bargain Books & Beans. Your daughter said you’d be able to cash our paychecks for us since we don’t have accounts yet.”

“What? How did you two know where to find me?”

Michael speaks up from behind him. “Because we followed you, Mr. Goldberg.”

The mayor spins around at the sound of Michael’s voice. Lane snaps photos as Michael continues talking. “Care to tell us why the mayor of East Passaic banks here as Sy Goldberg?”

Michael whips out a photocopy of Sy Goldberg’s yearbook picture. “Look familiar? Remember your old,
deceased
classmate?” Lane keeps clicking.

The mayor doesn’t answer. Instead, he pushes past Michael and Lane and hustles toward the back door. AJ, Lane, and I go after him while Michael stays inside and starts asking questions. Once the mayor’s through the back doors, he starts running. The three of us stand on the sidewalk and watch as he jumps into his luxury car and speeds away.

*   *   *

Five days later, Michael’s story takes up the entire front page of
MONDAY
’s paper:

WHO IS THE REAL SY GOLDBERG?

That’s how the headline with a point size of around seventy-two reads. Underneath are two photos: one of the mayor at the bank, the other of Sy Goldberg, taken from the 1964 East Passaic High yearbook I found.

Michael worked for more than a week, conducting interviews and writing the main story. He also did a piece on identity theft.

“Bless my tabloid heart,” Harry says, holding the paper at arm’s length and gazing at the front page like it’s a newborn baby. “This is a fine start to my Monday morning.”

“Yeah, the tellers and bank manager gave me some great quotes about how they knew the mayor as Mr. Goldberg,” Michael says.

“I like the interviews you did with Sy’s old classmates who remembered the day he died in the car crash,” I say.

“Good job, all,” Harry says. “Now get me my follow-up story on Kiki Ramirez.”

Most identity thieves use stolen Social Security numbers to open credit card accounts, take out loans, and steal cell phone service. The mayor’s scheme to put dead people on the payroll and collect their salaries was slightly more ambitious.

We’re sharing all our information with federal authorities, and hopefully, on the day the mayor walks out of city hall in handcuffs, the
Herald Tribune
will still be in business and Michael will be there to cover it.