Chapter Three: Bảo

CHAPTER THREE BẢO

I regret many things in life, and I know I’ll regret many more at the rate I’m going. But my number-one regret now is taking journalism as my elective. Astronomy, the easiest class any senior can take, was already filled up. Việt was lucky enough to get in. I thought journalism was the second easiest. Since freshman year, Hawkview’s been filled with crossword puzzles, sudoku games, and What’s the Difference? games, and always ended up stuffed in toilets or cafeteria trash cans.

Then Allison Dale became the editor in chief. I swear she’s tougher than any staff member at the Los Angeles Times. She’s not even in this class—she has study hall last period, which means she can technically leave school early, but doesn’t. Even though this is our first journalism class, Allison’s already expecting us to chase news stories from things like the chess team embezzling money from their joint fundraiser with the checkers team—how Allison sniffed that lead out, I’m not even sure.

The adviser, Ben Rowan, should step in more often, but he seems more like a glorified babysitter. Rowan lets Allison run everything on the newspaper. He’s the kind of guy who looks like he says “sorry” a lot.

We’re at the tail end of our editorial meeting about assignment statuses. I take the back seat at this meeting and try not to fall asleep, since it’s the end of the school day. But a part of me is still recovering from being accosted by theater nerds at the club fair during lunch period. Traumatic. They were demonstrating some circle game in the quad, but to me, it looked like they were trying to summon demons. Other clubs were less intimidating. Apparently there’s a new TikTok club? I even managed to dodge the Vietnamese Student Association.

The president, Kelly Tran, still hasn’t forgiven me for oversleeping and missing one Saturday service day during sophomore year. Actually, it was three.

The newspaper room used to be an art room, so the walls have posters about journalism ethics and one blow-up portrait of a younger Woodward and Bernstein posing together—not sure where that came from—but also a deep sink with an annoying drip and leftover jugs of neon green and yellow paint from last semester. Macs surround the perimeter of the room, all asleep. I’m basically silent because I don’t have anything to show. I forgot my article about upcoming school field trips.

Kind of.

The truth is, I started to write it. I really did. I’d talked to the people Allison told me to seek out: the bus drivers, the teachers, and some random students that she found somewhere, and I jotted down everything they had to say—nothing interesting, of course.

But the moment I started to type them out during the last class, my words stopped making sense. I remember thinking in that moment: What’s the point? Will anyone read this? Then my words and sentences froze onscreen until nothing was coming out, and I was stuck trying to find a way to string them together into something remotely reasonable.

Meanwhile, everyone around me was zoned in, typing without pause, putting their stories into those “pyramids” or whatever that Rowan had taught us when we first started classes.

So I say that I “forgot” my article, and Rowan just sighs—

Did he just writeLoser on his pad?

Honestly, I don’t know where Allison gets her energy from. What does she eat? What did her parents do to her? She stands at the center of the desks, which are flush against each other in a perfect square. She’s more like a lion at the zoo looking out at gawkers. Her hair is in a braid. I think of Katniss Everdeen.

She squints at me. Of course she knows that I lied, that I actually hate writing. Why isn’t she saying anything? I squirm. I see her at school with Linh in the hallways. What if Linh talks about me or my family—and what stories has she heard? Maybe she and the rest of the Mais throw darts at pictures of us. That could explain why Allison looks like she’s devising a way to meticulously murder me and stash my body.

“Fine. Since you don’t have anything to write about, I’m putting you on proofreading duty. Do you have an AP Stylebook?”

I shake my head.

Smack. Allison tosses me a tome that lands on my desk.

Fingerprints smear the glossy front cover. “Thanks,” I mumble. Awesome. All I’ve ever edited was our restaurant menu where the letter s mysteriously dropped from plural nouns. I just added them back in if I thought they looked weird.

Finally, Allison’s focus shifts to another kid named Ernie, who smells like wintergreen gum even though he never chews gum. He fiddles with his round glasses that are down to his nose. Looking at him makes me feel anxious.

“Ernie, you’re two days late with the article on the recycling scandal. Where is it?”

“Mr. Allen hasn’t gotten back to me.” From what I remember, Mr. Allen, the marine biology teacher, was caught putting trash into his recycling bin—by Allison herself. That’s a “scandal,” apparently.

Allison sighs. “Did you talk to him?”

“I e-mailed him.”

“I want you to chase him, okay?”

“O-okay,” he stutters.

“Wait for his class to let out. Show him that I have proof that he broke the rules.”

“Hang on, Allison, you saved the contents of a recycling bin?” Rowan interjects.

She looks confused. “Yes, why?”

Is she for real?

Rowan starts laughing but he hides it behind a cough. “Good. A journalist always needs to back up their claims.” He shakes his sleeve up to show his wristwatch. “Why don’t we finish the meeting now and get right into it? Bảo, here’s something for you to start proofreading. Try to finish it.” He offers me a manila folder, which I get up and take.

Try?

Asshole.

We still have more than a half hour left and Rowan doesn’t think I can get through a five-hundred-word article. Oblivious to the insult, he retreats into his office abutting the newsroom.

Allison pushes away a desk with her hip, creating an exit. She pulls aside Luigi, the managing editor, so she can come up with a way to fill what used to be the comics section. Apparently the comics artist showed up to one class, was given an assignment by Allison, and then switched over to graphic design class.

I dive into Allison’s article about bullying issues and how our statistics compare to nationwide statistics. She knows how to write, knows when she’s said enough, knows when to punch the details. She’s good. She quotes Hal, the janitor who’s one of the main advocates for stronger anti-bullying policies because he sees it happening all the time in the hallways, and Allison writes him so well that it’s like he’s right there in the room, leaning against his mop, a watchful eye on bullies.

I only fix a few commas and start a new paragraph when one of them looks too long. At the last sentence, though, I stop. I read the sentence over and over again and it just feels… weird to me. I can’t put my finger on it, so I let my pen linger there, a red dot bleeding through the page. But still, it’s one word. One word won’t ruin a piece. And Allison’s probably not going to like the fact that I’m questioning—even if it’s a small bit—her article.

The hallway bell dismisses us, thankfully. Allison is yelling out the next deadline for articles. When she walks past me, I hand back her article.

“It’s really good.” Then I’m free, but not really, since I have work.

“Wait.”

I turn.

“You’re lying.” She peers at the paper… at the red dot that I left. “You hesitated here. Why?”

It’s unnerving to see a girl my age use the same withering glance as my mom.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she demands.

Now she’s annoying me. I snatch the paper back and stab at the paper. “Maybe cut this word and replace it with an adjective. I just think you need a stronger one. Plus the word is repeated earlier in the article.”

A long pause falls between us. I swear I hear the clock ticking. Did I just say that? “Thank you,” Allison says. She looks like she’s trying not to grimace.

I grab my things. My adrenaline’s pumping, like I just finished a mile. I feel good—being right about something for once.

I’m the only one left in the room, so I leave… before running into someone.

“Sorry!” a girl says.

Linh.

“Uh, no that’s fine.” My mouth feels numb. I can’t find any other words to say because of the way she’s looking at me, wide-eyed, indecisive—everything that I’m probably feeling right now.

I do the only thing I can think of:

I run away.