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Authors: Jennifer Salvato Doktorski
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fool my dad. He understands my supreme indifference is my way of not letting the universe know how badly I want something for fear of jinxing it. Unlike a lot of sixteen-year-olds, in addition to loving my parents, I like them. They get me. Most of the time, though, I worry that I’m disappointing them. I picture Mom and Dad talking about me in bed at night, discussing, in hushed whispers, how the cool gene managed to skip a generation and wondering aloud if I’ll turn out okay.
“Obit or not, I’ll be looking forward to seeing that story tomorrow,” Dad says, kissing the top of my head. We’re one of the few families on the block who still get the paper delivered. Gram likes to work the crossword puzzle at breakfast.
“Good night, Dad.”
Gram shuffles along, and I steer her toward the steps.
“Come on, Gram,” I say. “Show a little hustle, will you? I’m exhausted.”
Gram and I snipe at each other a lot. We both appreciate caustic humor.
“You’ll be happy if you have half my hustle when you’re my age.”
When we finally reach Gram’s room, my eyes settle on a picture of Gramps she keeps on her nightstand. He’s wearing his glasses and a sweater vest. He’s also smiling and waving. Whenever I look at the photo, it always feels like he’s waving to me from where he is now, not where he was when the photo was taken, which was beside my grandmother at their dining room table on Christmas.
“So, Dateline did a thing on identity theft?” I ask as I bend down to kiss my Gram on the cheek.
“Did you know 2.5 million dead people are victims of identity theft every year? It’s modern-day grave robbing,” she says, clearly quoting the show. “The program was edifying.”
Gram has an amazing vocabulary, and English isn’t even her first language. Her parents emigrated from Italy, and they spoke Italian at home. Gram didn’t go to college, but she’s well read, curious, and probably the smartest person I know. She uses a pen for even the most complex crossword puzzles and keeps a dictionary and thesaurus by her bed, next to Gramps’s photo.
“I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if someone steals my identity when I die.”
“Gram! Why would you say that?”
“I won’t need it anymore. It will be like I’m living forever.”
As I walk to my room, as much as I wish Gram will live forever, I can’t stop myself from imagining a day when Gram, too, is smiling and waving at me in a photograph from a place that isn’t here. My brain is ear-to-ear morbid tonight. Add the five Diet Cokes I drank today to worries about Gram and lingering dead-police-chief excitement, and it’s like the perfect storm for insomnia.
I’m also beginning to see the newsroom in my dreams. It reminds me of when I was younger and we’d spend an entire day at the beach. I always dove into the water as soon as we got there and rode the waves for hours with my green Boogie board. After those marathon beach days, I’d lie in bed still feeling the ocean lifting me up, suspending me atop a wave and dropping me down again. It’s the kind of tired I love, then and now.
Before I finally drift off, I think about helping Meg with the police-chief story and how quickly things get done when time is running out. If teams can win national championships with less than ten seconds on the clock, surely I can run six miles outside, help Michael figure out what’s going on with the mysterious Sy Goldberg, and get a guy like Tony to notice me before school starts in September. Deadlines. They make things happen. I officially set mine for the last day of summer.
chapter seven
Front Page
My ringing cell phone wakes me. I crack one eye and look at the screen, Shelby. “Wha?” I mumble.
“Your name is on the front page of the paper!” she yells. She sounds excited. I can’t believe she’s (a) awake and (b) reading. Shelby seeking information or knowledge is not something I’m used to. “It’s not the first name listed—it’s
“Obit or not, I’ll be looking forward to seeing that story tomorrow,” Dad says, kissing the top of my head. We’re one of the few families on the block who still get the paper delivered. Gram likes to work the crossword puzzle at breakfast.
“Good night, Dad.”
Gram shuffles along, and I steer her toward the steps.
“Come on, Gram,” I say. “Show a little hustle, will you? I’m exhausted.”
Gram and I snipe at each other a lot. We both appreciate caustic humor.
“You’ll be happy if you have half my hustle when you’re my age.”
When we finally reach Gram’s room, my eyes settle on a picture of Gramps she keeps on her nightstand. He’s wearing his glasses and a sweater vest. He’s also smiling and waving. Whenever I look at the photo, it always feels like he’s waving to me from where he is now, not where he was when the photo was taken, which was beside my grandmother at their dining room table on Christmas.
“So, Dateline did a thing on identity theft?” I ask as I bend down to kiss my Gram on the cheek.
“Did you know 2.5 million dead people are victims of identity theft every year? It’s modern-day grave robbing,” she says, clearly quoting the show. “The program was edifying.”
Gram has an amazing vocabulary, and English isn’t even her first language. Her parents emigrated from Italy, and they spoke Italian at home. Gram didn’t go to college, but she’s well read, curious, and probably the smartest person I know. She uses a pen for even the most complex crossword puzzles and keeps a dictionary and thesaurus by her bed, next to Gramps’s photo.
“I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if someone steals my identity when I die.”
“Gram! Why would you say that?”
“I won’t need it anymore. It will be like I’m living forever.”
As I walk to my room, as much as I wish Gram will live forever, I can’t stop myself from imagining a day when Gram, too, is smiling and waving at me in a photograph from a place that isn’t here. My brain is ear-to-ear morbid tonight. Add the five Diet Cokes I drank today to worries about Gram and lingering dead-police-chief excitement, and it’s like the perfect storm for insomnia.
I’m also beginning to see the newsroom in my dreams. It reminds me of when I was younger and we’d spend an entire day at the beach. I always dove into the water as soon as we got there and rode the waves for hours with my green Boogie board. After those marathon beach days, I’d lie in bed still feeling the ocean lifting me up, suspending me atop a wave and dropping me down again. It’s the kind of tired I love, then and now.
Before I finally drift off, I think about helping Meg with the police-chief story and how quickly things get done when time is running out. If teams can win national championships with less than ten seconds on the clock, surely I can run six miles outside, help Michael figure out what’s going on with the mysterious Sy Goldberg, and get a guy like Tony to notice me before school starts in September. Deadlines. They make things happen. I officially set mine for the last day of summer.
chapter seven
Front Page
My ringing cell phone wakes me. I crack one eye and look at the screen, Shelby. “Wha?” I mumble.
“Your name is on the front page of the paper!” she yells. She sounds excited. I can’t believe she’s (a) awake and (b) reading. Shelby seeking information or knowledge is not something I’m used to. “It’s not the first name listed—it’s
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