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Authors: Jennifer Salvato Doktorski
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under Megan O’Shea’s name—but it’s still there,” she says. “I guess it’s more like half a byline?” I love her, but Shelby’s never going to be on Jeopardy!
“If it were half a byline, it would just say ‘Samantha’ or ‘D’Angelo,’” I clarify for her. I’m already jogging down the steps to the kitchen. “I’m gonna go check it out. Call you back.”
I’d only been expecting a tag line—my name in small print at the end of the story. It was very cool of Meg to share her byline. When I get downstairs, Gram, the consummate obit reader, could not be prouder.
“Well, if it isn’t Scoop D’Angelo!” she booms as she reaches for the coffeepot. She’s wearing pale blue capri pants, white Keds, and a cotton top with a glittery floral print—Gram likes some bling. Her youthful getup erases the nagging image from the previous night.
“Oh, Gram,” I say, giving her a hug.
“Nice job on that obituary,” she says. “I already called Aunt Jo and Aunt Connie. They read it too.”
I pick up the paper and take in the image of my name. Samantha D’Angelo. Meg’s right. It feels better to hold it in my hands.
“Cool,” I say. But inside, I’m turning cartwheels and clicking my heels. (Not that I’ve ever actually clicked my heels. Does anyone who’s three-dimensional and not on the Cartoon Network?)
How could I not know I’ve always wanted this? Seeing my name on the front page is so much better than seeing it on the obit page. I imagine this is how it would have felt to see my name on a callback list for all the things I tried out for but never made—the school play (twice), girls’ choir, the softball and bowling teams, and the cheerleading squad (I never had a chance at that last one; it was Mom’s idea). Could it be I’m better on paper?
“Is Dad working from home today?” I ask Gram.
Lucky for me, my dad telecommutes most days.
“Yep. He’s been on a conference call for an hour,” Gram says.
“Good. I need a ride to work,” I say.
“Aunt Connie is picking me up. We’re getting our hair done. We can give you a lift if you want.”
I picture myself adrift in the back seat of Aunt Connie’s 1999 Lincoln Town Car, coming in for a landing, complete with screeching wheels, in front of the Herald Tribune .
“I’ll stick with Dad,” I say. “But you be careful driving around with that Aunt Connie. She drives like she’s in London, only she’s not. Remember, stay to the right. It’s the first rule of the road in the state of New Jersey. You keep telling her that.”
“I know, I know. I wish I’d learned to drive years ago. Now I’m stuck,” she says. “Come to think of it, if she gets any more points on her license, I’ll be stuck again—for good!”
“Not if I get my license in August.”
Gram raises her eyebrows. I leave her to imagine the possibilities, and carry the paper up to my room to read the story again. Every quote is heartfelt and genuine. “ He became a police officer because he believed in changing people’s lives for the better. ” “ You couldn’t ask for a more dedicated chief. He was a leader, but more than that, he really cared. ” The article concludes with Mr. Stein’s quote. “ He exuded confidence. The kind of guy who could do anything he set his mind to. ”
The chief was loved, that’s for sure. A lifelong Totowa resident, in high school he was student council president and an all-state pitcher. After graduating magna cum laude from Rutgers, he entered the police academy and eventually joined the Totowa force. As he worked his way up the ranks, he earned a law degree at night.
In addition to a recent photo, the Herald Tribune ran an old picture of him on the pitcher’s mound, high-fiving the catcher after a big win. Was the chief confident because he was successful, or successful because he was confident? It’s like some people just know how to hit the switch and turn their lives on faster than others.
I mull this
“If it were half a byline, it would just say ‘Samantha’ or ‘D’Angelo,’” I clarify for her. I’m already jogging down the steps to the kitchen. “I’m gonna go check it out. Call you back.”
I’d only been expecting a tag line—my name in small print at the end of the story. It was very cool of Meg to share her byline. When I get downstairs, Gram, the consummate obit reader, could not be prouder.
“Well, if it isn’t Scoop D’Angelo!” she booms as she reaches for the coffeepot. She’s wearing pale blue capri pants, white Keds, and a cotton top with a glittery floral print—Gram likes some bling. Her youthful getup erases the nagging image from the previous night.
“Oh, Gram,” I say, giving her a hug.
“Nice job on that obituary,” she says. “I already called Aunt Jo and Aunt Connie. They read it too.”
I pick up the paper and take in the image of my name. Samantha D’Angelo. Meg’s right. It feels better to hold it in my hands.
“Cool,” I say. But inside, I’m turning cartwheels and clicking my heels. (Not that I’ve ever actually clicked my heels. Does anyone who’s three-dimensional and not on the Cartoon Network?)
How could I not know I’ve always wanted this? Seeing my name on the front page is so much better than seeing it on the obit page. I imagine this is how it would have felt to see my name on a callback list for all the things I tried out for but never made—the school play (twice), girls’ choir, the softball and bowling teams, and the cheerleading squad (I never had a chance at that last one; it was Mom’s idea). Could it be I’m better on paper?
“Is Dad working from home today?” I ask Gram.
Lucky for me, my dad telecommutes most days.
“Yep. He’s been on a conference call for an hour,” Gram says.
“Good. I need a ride to work,” I say.
“Aunt Connie is picking me up. We’re getting our hair done. We can give you a lift if you want.”
I picture myself adrift in the back seat of Aunt Connie’s 1999 Lincoln Town Car, coming in for a landing, complete with screeching wheels, in front of the Herald Tribune .
“I’ll stick with Dad,” I say. “But you be careful driving around with that Aunt Connie. She drives like she’s in London, only she’s not. Remember, stay to the right. It’s the first rule of the road in the state of New Jersey. You keep telling her that.”
“I know, I know. I wish I’d learned to drive years ago. Now I’m stuck,” she says. “Come to think of it, if she gets any more points on her license, I’ll be stuck again—for good!”
“Not if I get my license in August.”
Gram raises her eyebrows. I leave her to imagine the possibilities, and carry the paper up to my room to read the story again. Every quote is heartfelt and genuine. “ He became a police officer because he believed in changing people’s lives for the better. ” “ You couldn’t ask for a more dedicated chief. He was a leader, but more than that, he really cared. ” The article concludes with Mr. Stein’s quote. “ He exuded confidence. The kind of guy who could do anything he set his mind to. ”
The chief was loved, that’s for sure. A lifelong Totowa resident, in high school he was student council president and an all-state pitcher. After graduating magna cum laude from Rutgers, he entered the police academy and eventually joined the Totowa force. As he worked his way up the ranks, he earned a law degree at night.
In addition to a recent photo, the Herald Tribune ran an old picture of him on the pitcher’s mound, high-fiving the catcher after a big win. Was the chief confident because he was successful, or successful because he was confident? It’s like some people just know how to hit the switch and turn their lives on faster than others.
I mull this
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