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I nod my head in agreement. I know this. It is the reason why I am repeating a semester after the disaster of my failed final project in the spring.
“And some are more prestigious than others,” he explains, tapping his pen. “Some are looking to hire after six to twelve months of stellar performance. And I think that your piece last semester on the water treatment facility and their faulty testing would have put you ahead of your peers if—”
“I hadn’t been naive enough to believe that my story couldn’t be hijacked,” I finish. I focus my eyes on the little tray of sand on the wooden desk in front of me. The sun is shining through the tiny stained-glass window, casting colorful shadows on the grains. Plaques and diplomas and photos of awards ceremonies line the wall. Dr. Williams did an amazing job aging with grace. The legacy he will leave here at River Valley when he eventually retires will be marked with his reputation of expecting excellence among his students and enforcing it by never allowing anyone to coast through their college career by being mediocre. Or in my case, overly trusting.
“It would have been a game changer for you, and I’m sorry that you were duped.”
I clear my throat and swallow. “Thank you, Dr. Williams. Lesson learned.”
“Channel 10 has been known to use shady antics to masquerade as concerned civilians just to hijack already developing stories. You were not the first, and you will not be the last. The industry can be very nasty and competitive. Always note your surroundings and never let anyone know that you are really doing an investigation. Appearing friendly and welcoming allows others to trust you enough to provide potentially valuable information.”
I nod, soaking in everything he has to say.
The fabrication of water testing data by a facility forcing workers to “retest until results are within normal range” was discovered last year after I witnessed an influx in unexplained bacterial infections at a daycare. Finding a worker willing to confess was the type of story that would have launched my career and most likely earned me a paying internship at a prestigious news outlet.
Unfortunately, me sniffing around the facility to take pictures was the same day some reporters were out doing a segment on working-class rights. I must have sent some red flags that there might be a better story to be told. I do not blame them for further investigating and talking to parents like I did. They had the resources to do so, but I just cannot have my work swallowed up by the big players again. I need to keep my cards close to my chest and not make the same mistakes next time.
I focus my attention back on Dr. Williams, as he clears his throat. “Think about why you chose this particular career avenue in the first place.”
James. This has always been about the lack of justice for James. When the driver who hit us fled the scene, only leaving a few broken parts behind, I immersed myself into my own investigation. It helped my mind cope with the tragedy of losing my twin by channeling my obsession into research. While I was unsuccessful in providing the police with any additional information, my love for investigative journalism was sparked, helping me switch from my previous major of general education.
“Use that desire as your motivation,” Dr. Williams encourages, “to keep you in your lane at all times.”
I nod my head in agreement. He is right. I need to stay focused.
He stares thoughtfully at me, studying me. “Your writing is very well done, Miss McFee. But you are toeing the line too much. Playing it safe. My advice to you is that if you want to have a breakthrough article, you need to absorb yourself. Investigative journalism isn’t about following a story per se. It is about how you view your world. Your surroundings. You need to train your brain to see in color versus black and white. Sometimes it is the gray area between right and wrong where you find the best details. And there you might find a case.”
He fixes his glasses on his nose and relaxes back in his chair. His hand makes a sweeping motion cutting through the air. “The world is your canvas.”
“So no parameters? No requirements? Boundaries?”
“None. This is your make-or-break moment. You’ll be graded in segments on what you have accomplished. You cannot just wait until the end to share your ideas. I’m your advisor, after all. Without my recommendation, there won’t be an internship in your future.”
I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Okay.”
“You have the tools that make for compelling storytelling. And you know the criteria and guidelines for being thorough. Now it is your job to find something worth investigating. And when you find it, Miss McFee, dive in. All in. And maybe, your story will be good enough to award you with the internship of your dreams. Or you can convert your degree to just English as a backup.”
I frown at that realization. I worked my ass off after high school to get my life back in order. And now, I’m at a similar crossroad yet again—continue to work my butt off or settle for being mediocre.
“I have confidence in you, Miss McFee,” Dr. Williams says. “You’re ambitious, and I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”
“Thank you. I’ll try my best,” I promise.
“Here is the syllabus for this practicum course. I expect to see some progress and a sample draft by the date listed. A third of your grade is dependent on it. All dates on which we should meet for advisory discussions are listed as well. Do you have any more credits on your workload?”
“I decided to pursue a minor since I am just a handful of credits away.”
“Well, good luck to you.”
“Thank you.” I hope my skill outweighs the need for luck.
I leave Dr. Williams’s office feeling less than ideal. How in the world am I going to magically find something amazing to write about that has not been done before or done better?
* * *
I finish wiping down the counters at the Sugar Butter Bakery, bored with the lack of customers that usually fuel my entertainment on the job. If it’s completely dead—like it is today—I pull open the campus blog I created calledBad Advice. What started as a project for a creative writing class sophomore year turned into a fun way for me to utilize my sarcasm to advise others.
Each week students submit questions via my special email address, [email protected], and I respond to a selected few using humor. I sit behind the counter and pull open my laptop to log into the email account. With the start of school back in session, I imagine that the blog will pick up again. I open the first email.
