Read Online A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life by Dana Reinhardt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dana Reinhardt
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neck, because he finally just looks at me and says, “What’s with you today, you freak?”
And I go to bed in my attic, under my fading glow-in-the-dark stars, with my fingers still stinging from the November cold and my eyes still stinging from this morning’s Big Cry, and I sleep a sleep without dreaming.
EIGHT
Did I mention that Amy Flannigan is also on staff at the
Oaks Gazette
? This makes it all but impossible ever to have a conversation with Zack Meyers alone. I know everyone says that they’re just best friends, but if that’s true, you’d think she could spread the wealth a little bit and let Zack talk to another member of the female species unsupervised. But no. When Zack and I are finally assigned to the same story, we make a plan to meet at the
Gazette
office after school. And guess who’s hanging out with him when I arrive? You got it.
It’s a pretty unusual assignment for the
Gazette
and for me too. I’m writing a story about my mother. I just realized how that sounds. Let me clarify: I’m writing a story about my mother, not about Rivka. The idea came up at a staff meeting, and Marcel, the editor, suggested that we do a profile on the lawyer who is bringing the town seal case. He didn’t know that she’s my mother. You can probably imagine how fast my heart raced when Zack interrupted and said, “The lawyer’s name is Elsie Turner, and she’s Simone’s mom.”
Everyone agreed that it would be a pretty cool piece for the paper, especially if I wrote it. Then Zack volunteered to take the pictures.
We’re meeting today so that he can go over a draft of my story and brainstorm some ideas of how to take an interesting companion photograph.
We stand around talking for a little bit, all three of us. But when I dig my draft out of my backpack and hand it to Zack, he takes a seat at one of the tables and says goodbye to Amy. She’s dismissed. Zack puts his elbows on the table, holds his head in both hands, and starts reading my article. He’s gripping a red pen. I’m biting my cuticles. I think I may be sweating, and I pray to the God whom I forsake that my deodorant does what the label guarantees it will do for its full twelve hours of long-lasting protection.
He looks up. “This is pretty good.”
Let me translate for you. What Zack just said is:
This is the worst piece of crap I’ve ever read. You are an illiterate moron.
“Thanks,” I say lamely.
“I mean it’s pretty good.”
“Thanks,” I say again.
Oh, Jesus
.
“Well, what I mean to say is, I think you can do better.”
Ouch.
“Yeah? How so?”
“Well…you can go deeper than just the facts of this case and how it came to the ACLU and why your mom decided to take it.” He pauses. “Look, I love your writing.”
Did he just say he loved me? No. Get a grip. He said he loved my writing.
“But this piece is a little flat, which is surprising considering your access and your relationship to the subject. Or maybe that’s the problem…. I think you need to try to forget that she’s your mom when you do the interview.”
I guess maybe he’s right. I did throw this together pretty quickly based on a series of short conversations I’ve had with Mom over the past few days. I guess I thought I could kind of sit back and let the whole mother-daughter aspect of it work on its own. Clearly I was wrong. I have delivered a piece of crap. A “little flat” piece of crap.
Zack readjusts his glasses and kind of tugs at his earring. “Start with what inspires her. Not just about this case. Maybe you should start by asking her about her first big case as a young lawyer and what she learned from that experience. Make this more of a personal journey for her.”
And that is how Zack Meyers, without knowing it, and without knowing nearly anything about me or my family, became responsible for my finally learning how Rivka came into my parents’ lives, and how I then came into theirs.
His name was Mordechai Levin. But
And I go to bed in my attic, under my fading glow-in-the-dark stars, with my fingers still stinging from the November cold and my eyes still stinging from this morning’s Big Cry, and I sleep a sleep without dreaming.
EIGHT
Did I mention that Amy Flannigan is also on staff at the
Oaks Gazette
? This makes it all but impossible ever to have a conversation with Zack Meyers alone. I know everyone says that they’re just best friends, but if that’s true, you’d think she could spread the wealth a little bit and let Zack talk to another member of the female species unsupervised. But no. When Zack and I are finally assigned to the same story, we make a plan to meet at the
Gazette
office after school. And guess who’s hanging out with him when I arrive? You got it.
It’s a pretty unusual assignment for the
Gazette
and for me too. I’m writing a story about my mother. I just realized how that sounds. Let me clarify: I’m writing a story about my mother, not about Rivka. The idea came up at a staff meeting, and Marcel, the editor, suggested that we do a profile on the lawyer who is bringing the town seal case. He didn’t know that she’s my mother. You can probably imagine how fast my heart raced when Zack interrupted and said, “The lawyer’s name is Elsie Turner, and she’s Simone’s mom.”
Everyone agreed that it would be a pretty cool piece for the paper, especially if I wrote it. Then Zack volunteered to take the pictures.
We’re meeting today so that he can go over a draft of my story and brainstorm some ideas of how to take an interesting companion photograph.
We stand around talking for a little bit, all three of us. But when I dig my draft out of my backpack and hand it to Zack, he takes a seat at one of the tables and says goodbye to Amy. She’s dismissed. Zack puts his elbows on the table, holds his head in both hands, and starts reading my article. He’s gripping a red pen. I’m biting my cuticles. I think I may be sweating, and I pray to the God whom I forsake that my deodorant does what the label guarantees it will do for its full twelve hours of long-lasting protection.
He looks up. “This is pretty good.”
Let me translate for you. What Zack just said is:
This is the worst piece of crap I’ve ever read. You are an illiterate moron.
“Thanks,” I say lamely.
“I mean it’s pretty good.”
“Thanks,” I say again.
Oh, Jesus
.
“Well, what I mean to say is, I think you can do better.”
Ouch.
“Yeah? How so?”
“Well…you can go deeper than just the facts of this case and how it came to the ACLU and why your mom decided to take it.” He pauses. “Look, I love your writing.”
Did he just say he loved me? No. Get a grip. He said he loved my writing.
“But this piece is a little flat, which is surprising considering your access and your relationship to the subject. Or maybe that’s the problem…. I think you need to try to forget that she’s your mom when you do the interview.”
I guess maybe he’s right. I did throw this together pretty quickly based on a series of short conversations I’ve had with Mom over the past few days. I guess I thought I could kind of sit back and let the whole mother-daughter aspect of it work on its own. Clearly I was wrong. I have delivered a piece of crap. A “little flat” piece of crap.
Zack readjusts his glasses and kind of tugs at his earring. “Start with what inspires her. Not just about this case. Maybe you should start by asking her about her first big case as a young lawyer and what she learned from that experience. Make this more of a personal journey for her.”
And that is how Zack Meyers, without knowing it, and without knowing nearly anything about me or my family, became responsible for my finally learning how Rivka came into my parents’ lives, and how I then came into theirs.
His name was Mordechai Levin. But
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