Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Confused, I reluctantly follow him inside. Indeed, the three desks are empty. Even the editor’s office is dark. I absently look for a place to set down the box, but every surface is full of junk to the edge, even the coffeemaker table. “Is everyone already at—?”
“Yes,” Burton cuts me off with a sigh, then leans against the side of a nearby desk—my desk. That draws my attention at once, as his elbow happens to nudge a neatly-stacked tower of folders I just spent yesterday afternoon organizing. I stare with concern at the now-threatening-to-topple pile as he goes on carelessly. “They went straight there. Didn’t you get the group message?”
I blink, then fumble to get my phone out of my pocket, box still awkwardly balanced in my other hand. “Uh … message …?”
“Maybe I forgot to include you in that one. Anyway.” Burton shifts his weight. The stack is nudged even further. “I need you out there with them.”
“O-Okay,” I say to the leaning Tower of Pisa on my desk as I slowly re-pocket my phone. “I’ll grab my camera and—”
“I need you to do more than just snap photos today,” he adds. “You gotta dig for dirt, Noah. Find a story—a real story.”
I look at him. “Wait, what?”
“The crafts festival is always so boring every year. Who cares about what woodwork so-and-so’s cousin did? I’m already fallin’ asleep. We need something good, Noah. Step it up and actually talk to people. Make friends. Get a story. Capture some big moment.”
Talk to people? Make friends? … Did Burton forget who I am? “Aren’t … Aren’t Patrick and Tamika so much better at all the interviewing and people stuff?”
“Tamika is already there. And Patrick called in. Ate some bad Biggie’s or somethin’. Don’t tell anyone I said that, I’ll have the Tuckers and the Strongs on my ass for that comment.”
My brain is already buzzing out of control. “When you say … ‘talk to people’ … do you mean—”
“What’s the problem, Noah? Do you need more focus? More direction? Dad warned me ‘bout this,” he mumbles to himself as he shifts on the desk and causes my stack to tilt even more. I hold my breath. “Look at it this way: You’re on a mission. Special mission.”
“Special mission?”
“Go down to the festival, approach anything and anyone that catches your eye—and talk. Use that mouth you got. Be brave. You gotta conquer your fears, Noah, ain’t no one gonna do it for you.”
I stare at him, box of wiggly jello aliens still gazing up at me.
“And you still gotta take photos, so make sure to get a shot of Mayor Strong,” he goes on. “She’ll be there. Oh, and the reverend, too—Trey or his dad, don’t make a difference. I sing at the church, so they’ll love bein’ in the paper, and that makes me look good. Hey, that’s your mission!” he decides at once with a snap. “Make me look good, Noah! My dad has been a dick for over a week now, and somethin’ has to go right around here for me.”
I slowly reach for the stack, hoping to stop it from tipping.
“That’s the spirit!” he exclaims, taking hold of my outreached hand and mistaking the gesture for a handshake. I suffer having my skull jostled by the power in his mighty hand and arm. I nearly drop the box, forced to hug it against my chest. He lets go of my hand abruptly. “Oh, and, uh, work on that smile before you head out. Part of the job is not scarin’ away the people you’re tryin’ to get a story from, y’know. Even if you’re not that kinda guy, fake it ‘til you are … or however the saying goes.” He pushes away from my desk—and I watch the stack of folders at last meet their doom, falling over onto my keyboard and scattering to the floor. Burton obliviously saunters back to his office, whistling to himself.
The box, I’m sad to report, also got crushed when I squeezed it to my chest. The tiny monstrosities, formerly smiling, now appear misshapen and angry, one of them having fallen over onto its side.
I just realized that’s me. A squished, unidentifiable thing on its side, with a face that scares people.
I’m a Jiggle-Wiggle.
“Oh my goodness, Noah, sweetheart, you’re not a jello monster,” laughs Tamika an hour later when I find her at the festival. She is the bubbly intern I work with, a recent grad from Spruce High who now takes courses nearby at Fairview Community, as sweet as they come, sharp and quick-witted, with vibrant, attentive eyes, golden-brown skin, and cascading curls that hug her petite face. “I see you as more of a … hmm … cute marshmallow.”
I hug my camera to my chest, wincing as we push through the crowds on Main Street. I really, really hate crowds. “A cute what?”