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He stilled, and then turned his head away. He disappeared around the corner, his steps thumping through the apartment.
My opened document begged me to re-read it and get back in the zone—but by the beginning of the third paragraph, the hooded figure hijacked my concentration. Something about him nagged at me.
The journalist in me just had to know who he was.
Chapter 3
I gripped the brown folder containing my three best articles from last year, and carried it into Chief Benedict’s cozy corner-office overlooking the street that lined the Cathedral of Learning.
“I’d like to hand in my submission for the BCA competition,” I said, handing my folder to him over his desk.
He lowered what he was reading, scrubbed his hand over his beard and snagged the folder from my grip, eyeing me carefully. “You’re calling it close to the deadline, I told you about this a week ago.” He glanced at his silver clock that matched the desk and chairs. His gaze fell to the folder and he thumbed it open. “I remember these.”
I let out the breath I was holding. The chief remembered them. That was a good sign. A very good sign—
“But don’t get your hopes up. I don’t think they’ll do.”
“Sorry?”
The chief pulled the plastic spine off the folder and took out one of my articles. “These are perfectly solid reports, Liam.”
“Then what’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing wrong. But they fail to hit ‘just right’.” He waved the article. “Do you trust me to replace this with what I think is your best work?”
“I respect you, Chief Benedict, but I can’t lie. I’m not sure. What do you think is my best?” Which one had he removed? I leaned forward—
Dump!
Chief Benedict threw it into the large wastepaper basket beside the desk. He clapped his hands together once. “The Ghosts of College Past, Present, and Yet to Come. That’s your best. Such a creative defense of universities from capitalism.”
I balked. Yes, the story had been fun to write and I enjoyed giving my politics page a Christmas flair—but it was so . . . so . . . light. “That’s my best work?” I shook my head.
Chief Benedict pulled the hair at the tip of his beard. “It was wide-reaching, engaging, it hooked readers who rarely read the politics page. You were showing us the issue, not telling us—it’s one of the best I’ve read from any student in a long time. And if you’ll let me, I’d like to place that one in here.”
“Fine,” I said slowly. “But I disagree. I think the other two will rank higher.”
“Let’s see, shall we?”
My hand found its way to the pen in my pocket, and it was clicking the top with erratic rhythm. I gave the chief a nod and stepped back toward the door.
“Just a sec,” he said.
I paused.
“Do me a favor, would you?” He stood and lifted a stack of old Scribe magazines, then sauntered around the desk and handed them to me. “Take these back to the archives.”
I took the stack and looked him in the eye. “I wanted the features editor position. I thought I’d worked hard enough for it.”
“You work plenty hard, and it’s going to happen.”
“When?”
“Next year, perhaps.”
I breathed in deeply. A whole year away? That would be too late. I’d never get the chance to hold the position for two consecutive years! “What about next semester?”
“I’m not quite convinced you’ll be ready.”
“I will be. Let me prove it to you.”
Chief Benedict crossed his arms over his checkered shirt as he stared at me, calculating something. He lifted a hand to rub his beard again and then let out something between a sigh and a chuckle.
“Okay, Liam, how about this: at the end of the semester you’ll write a feature piece for the magazine. You can write it on any topic. If it stuns me, if it shows me you’ve grown as a writer, I will promote you to features editor next semester. You have my word.”
Resting the stack of old Scribe editions on his desk, I withdrew my notebook and pen. “When exactly?”
The chief glanced at his calendar. “In my inbox by Friday at midnight, December fifth. Sound fair?”
“Midnight?”
“For any last-minute changes I know you’ll want to make.” He reached out a hand, and I didn’t hesitate to lock him into a warm shake. With a nod, the chief let go.
I hugged the stack all the way down to the basement, to a room lined with filing cabinets sorted by year. A long table stretched down the middle, and I dropped the magazines onto it.
A sneer behind me jerked me around, knocking half the pile to the floor.
Jack and Jill stood in the doorway. Jill sauntered in and tossed a magazine at my face. I caught it and straightened my glasses. The most recent Scribe.
“Are you serious? What am I saying—of course you are. You can’t be anything but. University of Party, Lectures in Life? I knew chief made a mistake. Knew it. Students are sniggering at that piece of shit all over campus. Just go to the cafeterias and listen.”
