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February 11-February 17, 2007

February 11, 2007

“You're kidding me, right?” Sam asks. “You're not going straight to the cops with this.”

“No, I'm not kidding,” I say, picking up my slice of pizza and curling it.

I called Sam to get his opinion, figuring he might be able to offer some perspective, as someone who's been wrapped up in the news for as long as he has. Sam promptly invited me out to lunch with him, and so here we sit at Luigi's on Main Street .

“Presto, as the news editor for The Window, this whole thing is a gift to you. Violent attack. Hostage situation. Hero emerges. Turns out hero isn't who he was made out to be, and has ties to Larry—a guy involved in one of the biggest scandals in the history of the school—and all of it fell right in your lap.”

“It fell into my lap because it happened to me. I didn't ask to be put in a coma, or to fall face first into a siege at Vanderberry.”

“And sometimes the best gifts are the ones you don't ask for,” Sam says, ripping off a piece of garlic knot. “I'm not trying to downplay what's going on in your own life. That all sucks—no two ways about it. But as a reporter, these are the kind of opportunities you dream about.”

“But in reality, the guy who I—or, really, we got kicked out of Taylor last year is trying to get back in, and has this friend of his, or this guy he's hired, is speaking on his behalf. He had him jump me. And then who knows how far this thing goes—did he send him to break up the hostage situation or did Rod do that on his own? Or did Schmidt set up the whole hostage thing from the start, to give Rod a chance to save the day?”

Sam smiles. “And every question you asked right there is going to be a question the student body will have—or at least should have. And that's what makes it a great story.” He takes a sip from his soda. “You go to the police now, and they're gonna shut this whole thing down. They'll take over the investigation, and all of a sudden, it's not our story—it belongs to the local, maybe even the regional news.”

“But Sam, this is my life. And maybe yours too. If Schmidt sent this guy after me, there's no reason to think he's not going to send him after you too.”

Sam shakes his head. “Schmidt's too smart for that. He made a mistake going after you. It was revenge, plain and simple. Maybe it was before he hatched the rest of his plan—before he was trying to get back into Taylor . But he's not going to make another mistake like that—create another loose end.” Sam scratches his chin, then takes a bite from his knot. “But we have the advantage now. He doesn't know that you know, which means you have a chance to piece this all together before he catches on. And that is going to make one hell of a story.”

February 12, 2007

“Presto, check out this letter to the editor,” Sam says, tossing a sheet of paper across the center table of the office to me.

I scan the page.

 

To the Editor and the Taylor College Community,

 

My name is Lawrence Schmidt. Not long ago, I was a second semester senior at Taylor College , and headed up one of the finest student organizations at Taylor , The Window student newspaper.

I regrettably became involved in a situation that not only ruined my reputation at the college, but also my academic career. I am sure many of you are familiar with my mistake, but in summary, I used poor judgment in helping a friend get away with a heinous crime, and helping him misuse the money of you, the students of Taylor .

I admit to these errors and offer my most sincere apologies. I stand before you now, not seeking to regain the power I once had. Rather, I am only asking for a second chance. I ask that I be allowed to return to Taylor next fall in order to complete my studies, finishing an academic journey that I began five years ago.

The Taylor College administration is considering my case. I call on you to help me, writing letters to President Lambert, advocating my bid to be readmitted to this fine college. As my good friend Rod Estrada has said, everyone is deserving of a second chance. I hope that you will help me get and make the most of mine.

 

Sincerely,

Lawrence Schmidt

 

“He's really trying to make this work,” I say. “You're not gonna run this, right?”

Sam shrugs. “It'll make for news. Of course, the story might be more complete if you could get an interview with the guy.”

February 13, 2007

“So you're going to interview the guy who had you put in the hospital?” Matt asks over the phone.

“I set up a meeting for Friday,” I say, tossing the foam basketball at the hoop in our common room. “We'll see what he has to say for himself.”

“Are you going to have some back up there? Police on call or something?”

“Na, I'm not looking to tip anyone off yet. Right now, I want to get the story as completely as I can. I'll get the cops in on it after that.”

“Sounds a little sketchy.”

I know that he's right, and I'm putting a lot of faith in Sam's advice. I've picked my path, though. I'm not going to back out now. “I'll make it work.”

“All right,” Matt doesn't sound too sure. “So hey, switching gears, you given any thought to Spring Break?”

“Huh?”

“Remember—we talked about you coming down to the City for your break? Maybe bringing Teri?”

“Not gonna lie, it kind of slipped my mind.” I say, sitting down on one of the couches. “But I haven't made any plans for the break—and I don't think Teri has either.”

“Well, not trying to put any pressure on you here, but I think it'd be fun.”

“Definitely.”

“All right, well if you survive this nonsense, and don't get put in another coma or held hostage, let's start planning this out.”

“Thanks for the faith.”

“What can I say? I know you.”

“All right, I'll run it by Teri soon and let you know.”

February 14, 2007

“So, some Valentine's Day, huh?” I ask, watching my breath take shape in the cold night air, walking Teri home.

“We got out before midnight —I'd say that's something.”

It was one of the earliest Wednesday nights I've had since I became an editor at the paper. Everything came together pretty well for once, and Sam sent Teri and I home as he finished polishing some pieces of the paper, I think in recognition of the holiday. Of course, he didn't say that outright.

“Still, a night in the office—not exactly as romantic of a night as I would have planned out otherwise.”

“What would you have planned for us?” she asks, looking at me from under the cover of a maroon ski cap, her hair bulging at the back of it.

I shrug. “Dinner. Maybe a movie afterward, or a show if there was something going on nearby.”

Teri takes my hand in hers. “You know that I don't care about all that, right?”

“Is that right?”

She shakes her head. “As long as we're together—that's all that really matters. I say we grab dinner after the meeting tomorrow night, and call it even.”

“Not quite as romantic as what I was envisioning,” I say, looking at her, smiling as we make eye contact. “But I guess you're right. This is what matters.”

Before long, we're at her door, where we usually say goodbye. “Want to come inside for a minute?” she asks.

I nod. “I'd like that.”

We head in. I'm kind of glad not to see either of her roommates around. I take her in my arms, hugging her, lifting her off her feet and kissing her hard. She kisses me back then pulls away. “Easy,” she whispers. “I have something to show you.”

I follow her back to her room. She doesn't flick the light switch on as we walk in, and puts up a hand to stop me as I'm about to. She walks through the darkness, flicking on her desk lamp, spreading a soft, warm light around the room.

That's when I can see the walls. Stretching all across the room are pictures of us—from the office, from Bower Hall around Halloween time, from the New Year's party. There are a few that it takes me a minute to place, or that don't remember having been taken. I guess that's a natural consequence of having a photographer for a girlfriend.

“Wow,” I say, still looking all around me.

“It doesn't freak you out, does it?” Teri looks a little sheepish. “I know, with all the pictures, it could kind of freak somebody out.”

“No,” I take her hand, “I love it.”

“I just wanted to do something for today. I wanted to have it to look at for myself—and I was hoping you would like it too.”

“This is amazing,” I say, looking from her, at the pictures again. I turn back to her. “You're amazing.”

She smiles, and I think she's blushing a little, but it's hard to tell in the dim light. I tip my head down, kissing her softly.

A scream comes from the next room. It's followed by a soft moan.

“Phoebe,” Teri says, biting her lower lip.

I nod and we both laugh.

February 15, 2007

As I walk Teri back to my suite, I can't help but think of a year before, when Emma and I had our Valentine's dinner in my dorm room. My room's not the destination this year, though—just a stop on the way.

“So why are we stopping here again?”

“I told you, I just forgot my wallet. Hold on for a second,” I say.

“All right,” Teri says, a little confused, a little skeptical, but still smiling.

I duck into the suite, where Chang and Mike are playing X-Box. “You're home early,” Chang says, not looking away from the screen. “No dinner with the crew tonight?”

“Just stopping in. Dinner with Teri tonight—sort of a late Valentine's thing.”

“Ah,” Mike says, “like the one I have coming when Pepper comes next weekend.”

I pop my head in mine and Chang's room, grabbing the roses I bought this afternoon.

“I thought those were for me,” Chang says, as I take one last look in the common room mirror.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Knock ‘em dead, tiger,” Mike says, with a click of the tongue. I roll my eyes and head back out to the hallway.

“Funny looking wallet,” Teri says.

“Well, these aren't my wallet—I just forgot these too.”

“And they're for me?”

“Mm hmm,” I say, kissing her on the cheek, handing them off. “Broke Chang's heart when he found out they weren't his.”

“I'll bet.”

“So where are we off to?”

“You ever heard of The Red Plate?”

“Don't think so.”

“Perfect.” I got the tip on this place from Sam, and was worried he might have taken her there when they were dating. It's a little Italian restaurant, about fifteen minutes outside Butterton—casual, but nice. Not too expensive, but a real sit down place.

I take her hand and lead the way to my car.

February 16, 2007

“You see, Preston , it can be a great thing to take on leadership roles early on in college,” Larry Schmidt says, as we sit in a booth at the Student Center café. We agreed upon the location, a neutral spot and a public space, to take care of the doubts lingering in my mind about my own safety. “But there is also such a thing as too much, too soon. While I was rising to the top of The Window, Alan Chilling was rising to the top of student government. We felt like we were invincible. And so, we did some really stupid things.” He looks away for a second, before looking right back into my eyes. “I don't want to act as though I'm not responsible for my own decisions, but Alan definitely led me in a particular direction.”

I think of exactly what he's talking about—not only sitting on the information that the SA president was a rapist, but having been the photographer for it. That, and I think of how he may have been responsible for what happened to me this winter. “So you're saying that Chilling was a bad influence on you?”

“Exactly. And before I knew it, I was wrapped up in the bribery thing—it all just spun out of control. It was like I woke up one day, and I didn't even know who I was anymore.”

“And now you want to come back to Taylor ,” I say.

“I know that I made some huge mistakes. Now, I just want a chance to get my life back. I'm not asking to have anything to do with the newspaper again—you, and Sam, and the rest are doing a phenomenal job with that as is,” he says, still looking at me in this piercing sort of way. I remember why I didn't like him when I first started to see him in the office last year. I remember him being a prick, never interested in giving me the time of day in the office. “I just want the chance to come back and finish my bachelor's so I can get on with the rest of my life.”

“All right.” I say, jotting down what he said, as the tape recorder on the table whirs between us. “So switching gears a little bit, Rod Estrada spoke out on your behalf, supporting your return to the school and trying to get others to join him. Could you tell me a little about your relationship with Rod?”

Schmidt nods. “Like Rod, I came to Butterton to go to school, and when our academic careers got cut a little short, we both stuck around. I suppose that we met at the bottom—both looking to make the best of our circumstances. And now, we're both hoping to make another step.”

Something about hearing Schmidt talk just makes my blood boil beneath the surface. He's politicking, and putting on this act like he's reformed. I know him for who he is—what he is. “So has Rod done you any favors before?”

“Excuse me?”

“It just seems as though the two of you would be good business partners. Brains and brawn. Two guys trying to make names for yourselves, get your second chances.”

“And what exactly are you getting at?”

It's my turn to stare him down. “I guess what I'm asking is if you sent Rod to jump me in December, or was that something he did on his own?

Scmidt's eyes shift from the tape recorder to me. “I was sorry to hear about what happened to you this winter, Preston . I really was. But I think that you're a little confused now.”

“It took me a little while to remember, but I know it was Rod who came after me. The question is how involved you were this time—or if Rod was just being a bad influence on you.”

Schmidt reaches to the tape recorder and presses the stop button. “ Preston , I would be very careful about what you say, or do from this point forward.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It's a statement,” Schmidt says. He stands, putting his coat back on. “Now, I thank you very much for taking the time to conduct this interview. And I hope you'll find it in your best interest to report only the facts as you know them, and not to go searching for a story that isn't there.”

I nod. Schmidt turns and walks away.

February 17, 2006

“So you did go to the cops?” Chang asks.

“Yep,” I nod, clicking my mouse, checking my e-mail for maybe the tenth time in the last hour.

“And they were responsive?”

“Yeah—more so than I thought. They've got warrants out on Rod for the assault and Schmidt for conspiracy, or something like that.”

“So game over,” Chang says, clapping his hands. “Probably picked them up by now.”

I shake my head. “They haven't found them yet. They're supposed to let me know when they do.”

“So shouldn't they have somebody protecting you now.”

I wave a hand. “They offered me protective custody—so basically, I would get to spend a night in jail. Otherwise, they're just going to call me when they get them.”

“Gotcha. So now you're worried about running into one of them before the cops do.”

“Bingo.” I say, signing out of my e-mail again, and heading over to Facebook.

“Well, I wish I could invite you out with me tonight, but my plans are kind of—exclusive.” I turn to Chang as he sits down on the corner of his desk. “But, you know, let's forget about that. I'll cancel my plans. Let's do something.”

“Chang, no offense, but I'm not so confident you'll be able to protect from these guys. And I don't want to get you caught in the crossfire.”

“So I'll stay in with you, then. We'll watch some TV, or play X-Box or something.”

“Na.” I look back to the computer, then back at him. “I appreciate the thought, but I don't want to mess up your night. And I think I would just as soon stick to myself.”

Chang nods, and I'm glad it's him I'm talking to. Of anyone, I'm pretty confident he would understand. “All right. If you change your mind, give me a call.”

I turn back to my computer. “You've got it.”