Ravi had light brown skin and wavy hair a shade or two darker than hers, though the summer sun had painted it with copper streaks. He’d let it grow longer. Actually, all of him had grown longer. His legs, torso, arms, which cradled his sketchbook as his graphite pencil flicked back and forth.
“Special? I’d consider it pretty darn special if everything kept functioning.” She gingerly set her hand on the iMac. “No funds to replace anything this year since I couldn’t land any new advertisers.”
“So just the bowling alley? I swear Mr. Murphy relies on us and people hearing clunk, thud, thud, thud while shopping for screwdrivers to let the world knows it even exists.”
“It is bizarre that the bowling alley’s above the hardware store.”
“Like a bowling speakeasy.”
Cat hesitated. “Right.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Wait, you haven’t been? Not possible. It’s like a birthday party ritual!”
Cat shrugged. “I’m not really into sports.”
“Me neither. But my friends and I bowl. Total throwback, but thankfully retro’s in.”
“I’ll have to try it then.”
“Cool. Text me.”
Cat smiled politely and continued her examination of the equipment in the newsroom. As she bent to check the printer, she tugged on the hem of her khaki skirt—a duplicate of the one from the first day of school. Her wardrobe was a clone of itself. Rotating the same basic three outfits saved time and brainpower.
And irked her sister.
She was counting how many sheets of paper they had left when Ravi approached. He carefully detached a page from his sketchbook and handed it to her.
In the drawing, a girl with a blunt bob and bangs wore a cape, a Clark Kent–style fedora, and a press badge on a lanyard around her neck. Except it wasn’t a girl. It was her.
In the background, skyscrapers, including the Empire State Building, rose up around her. She balanced on a mountain of broken e-cigarettes, about to enter through an arched doorway labeled The New York Times.
“This is . . .” Words, her trusty sidekick, failed her. Cartoons had a tendency to exaggerate features, using humor to mock, but this was all about highlighting the best, not the worst. She was still on the shorter side but stood tall in her surroundings, thanks partly to the platform boots he’d sketched on her feet; her long eyelashes accentuated her otherwise average eyes; her life’s dream, which she was surprised Ravi knew, was on the verge of becoming a reality.
“You did this just now?” she asked.
“Hence the bare bones,” he said. “Though the concept’s been in my head for a while.”
The concept. Her?
“Um, thanks?” Her tone unintentionally conveyed the awkwardness she felt.
“So you like it?”
Like? She wanted to have it framed. But she simply nodded.
He rubbed his palms together. “Excellent. Because, and hear me out: How can a proper newspaper not have editorial cartoons?”
Oh, right . . . that was the concept that’d been in his head.
“Especially during an election year. There’d be no elephants for Republicans or donkeys for Democrats without a cartoonist: Thomas Nash back in 1874. Think of what The Red and Blue could do—what we could do, because you’d have total approval. I’m cool with that. And . . .” He tapped a drumroll on the paper still in Cat’s hand. “To sweeten the deal, I’ll get you an introduction to the owners of the bookstore where I work. I’m thinking they may be good for a half-page ad in the first issue.”
“You’re bribing me?”
“Negotiating. Do we have a deal?”
Whatever Cat thought of editorial cartoons, she didn’t have a choice. She needed the ad as much as she needed Ravi. “Deal.”
“Cool,” he said.
But the decision being hers and hers alone suddenly made the absence of Stavros and Jen and the paper’s existence now squarely on her shoulders seem especially pronounced.
“Excuse me.” A lanky kid with a fading pimple on the end of his nose appeared in the doorway. “I’m looking for Cathleen Quinn.”
“Editor in Chief Cathleen Quinn.” Ravi rolled his hand toward Cat and bowed.
“You’re such a suck-up,” she whispered, but her heart beat a bit faster. No one had referred to her as editor in chief out loud before. She liked it. A lot.
The boy bounced into the room, ran his hand through his dark curly hair, and then dropped it into his pocket. “Grady Booker, ma’am.”
“Yeah . . . don’t call me ma’am.”
“Grady Booker, Chief.”
Better. “Can I help you? Do you need directions or . . .”
“Freshman, nailed it! Course you did, Chief. But what I need is a job.”
“The newspaper doesn’t pay.”
“The sorry state of journalism today, amirite?”
Cat and Ravi exchanged a look, the same way she and Stavros or Jen would have.
“But I worked over the summer, so I don’t need money,” he continued, barely pausing to take a breath. “Well, I’d like money, but what I need is to learn. To do this. From the best.” He grinned, showing a mouth full of retainers. “I need to learn from you.”
Sucking up, just like Ravi.
Didn’t mean it wasn’t effective.
Was this how Angeline felt all the time?
6
When Angeline Battles Vegan Bacon
25 DAYS TO THE ELECTION
Star-spangled overload. Ms. Lute’s red, white, and blue ensemble matched her classroom, which looked like a clearance aisle after the Fourth of July. Angeline pushed her sunglasses tight against her face to block out the patriotic explosion as she slipped into a seat beside Sonya in her first government class of the year.
The weekend had passed in a blur of filming, splicing, and refining. She’d tackled questions on everything from whether to ombre at home, to the fairness of a ruling from a peer jury system at school, to how to tell your mom she was too old to be wearing a jumpsuit. All carefully crafted responses to enlighten but not offend.
This morning, Angeline’s tote bag brimmed with freebies from current and prospective advertisers for use throughout the day. So far, no face mask or eye cream could conquer her puffy lids or the dark circles under her eyes. No energy pill or tonic could stop the yawns that kept creeping up. Not even the free codes to the meditation app she’d been punching in one after another to “find her center,” as Sonya liked to say, had helped.