Famous Last Words (3 page)

Because the
Herald Tribune
still prints the paper on the premises, the newsroom is more like the front office of a warehouse than a corporate work environment. The ceiling is high, with exposed fluorescent lighting, like the kind in a school gym. The metal desks are clumped together in groups of four or five. There are no partitions of any kind, except for the ceilingless walls around Harry’s office, the conference room, and sports.

“This bites,” AJ says to no one in particular. “We’re just waiting around.”

He’s right. Despite the amped-up newsroom chatter—due to both the TV and the police scanner being louder than usual—it’s pretty much business as usual for everyone else. The last obit cleared the copy desk a while ago, and just when I’m thinking Harry is about to send us home, Rocco calls Grace with two names. There are still only three confirmed dead, but Rocco says firefighters from every surrounding town are struggling through the charred debris in a desperate search and rescue. The fire is just smoldering now.

Harry comes over to the obit desk with the victims’ information. One was an elderly man who lived alone; the other, a high school track star who went to Northside High School. He gives AJ the older man, Mitchell Dawson, and I get the teenager, Anton Richards.

“I don’t know what you’re gonna get right now on the old guy,” Harry says to AJ. “Meg is working the scene for react too. D’Angelo, see if you can find the high school track coach, and start with him.”

My first instinct is to Google the track team, but then I remember the stacks of local yearbooks dating back to the 1940s that we keep in our makeshift library behind the partition, where the sports department lives. I jump up from my seat and head off in that direction, but when I reach the door to sports, I realize an online search is probably faster. I reverse course, then spin around again, because I’d rather look through the yearbooks.

“What are you doing?” AJ asks. “You look like an indecisive squirrel trying to cross the street. Those are the ones that always wind up as roadkill, you know.”

“Shut up. I’m just trying to find the coach’s name.”

“Sit down, Squirrel Girl with Limited Search Engine Knowledge,” he says while looking at his computer screen. “I’ve got it right here. Let’s see if he’s listed.”

“Uh, thanks. Any leads on your old man?”

“Nope. I’m trying to figure out if he has relatives in the area or belonged to any local groups,” he says.

Lucky AJ. I’m dreading this phone call. At least the chill in my body made my red splotches fade fast. I wind up retrieving the Northside High School yearbook anyway. Yes, I’m stalling. But I’m also curious to see what Anton Richards looks like. Looked like.

I begin paging through the yearbook, and I’m surprised by my own sense of longing as I see the happy faces of the kids in French Club, Student Council, and marching band. I flip to the pages with all the sports. In the Varsity Track section there’s a close-up of Anton clearing a hurdle. A simple black-and-white pic, and yet I can feel his grace and speed. I turn the page to the team picture. A smiling Anton is kneeling in the front row. There will be an empty space there next spring. My mouth goes dry. Anton is now as still as these photographs. Was he burned badly? Did he die from smoke inhalation before he felt the flames? Will his parents be able to recognize him? My dark thoughts make me shiver.

I reach for my bottled water as I close the book. When I again feel capable of speech, I pick up the phone and dial. A woman answers.

“Hello. I’d like to speak with Coach Davis,” I say. “This is Samantha D’Angelo from the
Herald Tribune
. I’m working on a story about the Paterson fire.”

I hear muffled voices as the woman covers the mouthpiece. A man speaks next.

“This is Coach Davis,” says a deep voice.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I’m working on a story about the Paterson fire.”

“Fire?” he asks.

“Yes, sir. A five-story apartment building collapsed, and…” I trail off.

How am I supposed to tell this guy that one of the kids he coaches is dead? I don’t have much experience with this. I’m only sixteen. I don’t know many dead people. Books and TV hospital dramas are my sole sources in this area.

“Young lady, are you there?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t know how to say this, but we’ve learned, it seems, one of the guys on your track team didn’t make it out of the fire.”

“What? Who?” he asks.

“Anton Richards.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end. “Are you sure? Maybe it’s a different Anton Richards,” he says.

“My editor told me that this Anton ran track for Northside,” I say.

“Oh my God! No. My God,” Coach Davis says, his voice breaking.

“Sir?” I say quietly, not knowing which I fear more, pressing this poor, shocked man for a quote or telling Harry I just came up empty-handed. My heart thumps loud and fast in my ears.

And then the line goes dead.

“I guess he can’t talk right now,” I say. I put both hands on my forehead and then rub my eyes. I screwed it up. My first chance to do something real, and I screwed it up.

AJ looks at me sympathetically. “You want me to call him back in an hour?” he offers.

“Nah, that’s okay,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

My eyes are welling up both from my fear of Harry and disappointment in myself. My heart is breaking for Anton and his family. Someone my age just died. It feels so wrong. There will be no first day of school for him this year. No more track medals. No graduation tassel hanging from the rearview mirror. Obits are supposed to be for dead old people.

With the back of my hand, I swish away the tears threatening to escape my eyes before AJ notices. Then I go over to the city desk and tell Harry about the coach. Harry grimaces and gives me a sharp “okay.” I feel my neck turning red and retreat to my desk, where I torture myself for the next fifteen minutes. I’m considering looking through the yearbook for the names of Anton’s teammates when Harry cuts us a break and tells us we can go home. It’s like a trig test I forgot to study for just got postponed.

“Good job, you two,” he says. “Meg and Fishman are on the way back. They can take it from here.”

“Harry,” I say. “I’m sorry about the coach, I—”

“It’s all right, D’Angelo. We got it.”

I’m pretty sure he’s not mad. Or maybe I’m just being overly optimistic. AJ appears beyond unaffected by the evening’s drama. I don’t know how he does it. Without thinking, I start typing on a blank screen.

Anthony John Bartello
,
drummer for the local band Love Gas, died Friday. He was 19. A student at Rutgers University’s Newark campus, AJ, as he was known to his friends and bandmates, finally succumbed to the pressures of trying so hard not to care.

“You want a ride home?” AJ asks. “I’m on my way to band practice. I can drop you off.”

Select all. Delete.

“Huh? Oh, sure. Thanks,” I say. “I’ll call my parents and let them know they can put their jammies on.”

*   *   *

As we get into AJ’s Jeep Cherokee, my phone vibrates. It’s Shelby. I’m tired and don’t feel much like talking to her, but I answer.

“What?” I say softly.

“Don’t say no,” she says.

“You haven’t asked me anything.”

“Wanna go to a party at Ryan Mauriello’s tonight?”

“The football crowd? What are you trying to do to me?”

“Oh, come on. Even if Rob’s there, he’s not going to bring up what I said. Everyone was pretty lit that night.”

“Forget it,” I say, and hit end call. I switch my phone back to the ring setting (it needs to be on vibrate in the newsroom), only to hear it play “Don’t Talk to Strangers” less than thirty seconds later. I listen to the entire chorus before I answer.

“Rick Springfield? Could you have picked a
less
cool ringtone?” AJ asks.

“What?” I say, to both AJ and Shelby, who I know is on the other end. “My dad plays bass in an eighties cover band.”

“I know,” says confused Shelby.

AJ just nods. Shelby keeps going.

“Okay, Sam. How about this? If you’re not having fun after, like, half an hour, we can leave. Please. I promise.”

I’m about to hang up on her again, but then I picture Anton. And the way he was smiling in that team picture. Yesterday at this time, he was still here. He should be on his way to a party tonight with his best friend.

“Fifteen minutes,” I say.

Shelby pauses, slightly stunned. “Okay, fifteen minutes.”

“Deal,” I say. “I’ll go to the dumb party.” I surprise myself
and
AJ, who raises both eyebrows at me when I glance toward him. He has watched from the front row as I’ve avoided Shelby. But this isn’t about her, it’s about me. And Anton Richards. Tonight, I just want to be an ordinary teenager while I’ve still got the chance. It’s probably time to let Shelby off the hook. Anyway, who else do I have to hang out with? The other girls in our group are away this summer. Caitlin has a beach house, and Ashley went to California to stay with her dad.

“Cool. My mom can drive. We’ll pick you up in an hour. Oh, and Sam?”

“What?”

“Uh, never mind. See you soon.”

But if I know Shelby, and I do, she was going to tell me to wear makeup.

chapter three

Weekend Entertainment

At home, my mom all too quickly gives me permission to go to the party. I watch her pour veggies into a bowl and open the dip we were going to share. Maybe I’ll cancel on Shelby. Mom intuits my mood shift. She looks up at me and smiles.

“We’ll see
Sixteen Candles
some other time,” she says. “We can have a John Hughes film festival.”

Why am I getting flashbacks of her coaxing me through the door of Pixie Preschool? Even without makeup, her almond-shaped brown eyes look extra bright. Perhaps she’s glowing from within at the thought of me getting out and not sitting in front of the TV with her watching classic teen movies.

That’s the strange dichotomy of me. I love to watch idealized versions of kids my age, and yet, I don’t know how to live among them. It’s not high school I have the problem with; it’s me in high school. I’m like the ugly stepsister trying to jam her big nasty foot into that delicate glass slipper.

“Keep your phone on, sweetie.” She licks some dip off her finger and then twists her gorgeous auburn curls into a loose bun, just like I’m in the habit of doing. It looks better on her. “And call or text me if you’re going to be superlate.”

“I will,” I say. My mom and I are in touch constantly, something that might bug other girls my age, but I’ve always been fine with it.

*   *   *

At ten thirty, Shelby’s mom honks out front. With a September birthday, Shelby’s behind me in the driver’s license department. In all other areas, she’s eons ahead.

“Wake me when you get in so I know you got home,” Mom says as I kiss her cheek.

“And try to have
fun
,” Grandma yells from her plush blue recliner in front of the TV.

She’s watching the news. Like most older people, she’s obsessed with the weather, but she loves those cable talk shows too. Raging liberals, conservative stalwarts—it doesn’t matter to her. She watches them all and has a pretty open mind for a gal her age.

“Okay, Gram!” I reply, heading for the front door.

“She’s right. Enjoy yourself,” Mom says. Almost pleads.

My mom is happy Shelby gets me out of the house. Shelby’s mom is happy I keep Shelby from joining a cult or getting arrested. It’s an arrangement that has been working since Shelby and I both took the wrong bus home on the first day of kindergarten. Our frantic moms, who discovered that they both had five-year-old daughters and no other children, bonded that afternoon, and so did we. Back then, our families had a lot in common. It stayed that way until Shelby’s dad left when we were in third grade. She cried all the time that year, not about him exactly, just in general. I remember I used to carry extra tissues in my backpack, just for her. I’ve never shaken the feeling that, somehow, I’m responsible for Shelby.

I’m quiet on the drive over to the party. My palms are sweaty. Is it too late to bail? When we arrive at Ryan’s house, Shelby shouts at her mom to keep driving and makes her drop us around the corner.

Shelby’s mom frowns as she pulls up to the curb. “Embarrassed to be seen with me, huh?” she says.

“Oh, Ma. Don’t be so sensitive. You remember what it was like,” Shelby says as she puts a hand on her mom’s shoulder and kisses her cheek. “Meet you here later?”

“Better watch out. Maybe I’ll pull up in the driveway and honk the horn,” Shelby’s mom says with a laugh.

“Thank you, Diane,” I say. I’ve called Shelby’s mom by her first name for as long as I can remember.

“Why, you’re very welcome, Sam,” Diane says. Her hint isn’t lost on Shelby.

“
Thanks
, Ma. Sheesh.”

We walk around the corner and follow the music and noise emanating from Ryan Mauriello’s backyard. I bite my lower lip, no doubt removing any trace of cinnamon gloss. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this party,” I say to Shelby as we walk through the gate.

“You know me. I can talk you into anything. Like that afterparty at Ike’s? The deejay? You thought we’d get in trouble, but it was awesome.”

“We
did
get in trouble.”

“Oh, that’s right, we did. Drew was cute, though, right?”

Shelby took off with Ike and left me talking to this guy named Drew all night.

“He was, like, seven feet tall and had on a black T-shirt with skeletons in various sexual positions.”

“I don’t remember the T-shirt,” Shelby says.

“You don’t remember much.”

“You had a great time. Admit it.”

It’s true, I did, but I say nothing. Still, my face gives me away.

“See?” Shelby says, pointing to my suppressed smile. “Your life’s more interesting with me around.”

Even though Shelby leads me over to the dark side sometimes, part of me does enjoy it. Her confidence is contagious, and her laugh is infectious. When I’m with her, I forget my uptight Sam ways and tap into my inner Shelby. And most times, I manage to keep us both out of trouble.