Whistleblower ✓

20 | miss congeniality

Ellison Michaels was an incredibly bright young woman. She'd started reading The New York Times religiously at the age of eleven, and by middle school, she'd demonstrated a prodigious talent for ripping stories apart and piecing them back together again. She was the first female editor-in-chief of the Daily had ever had, the recipient of a full-ride tuition to Garland University, and had the height and shampoo-commercial-shiny hair of a Victoria's Secret Angel.

She was also out of her fucking mind.

"I want you to cover Gamedays."

I tried to hold back a laugh and ended up snorting like a baby elephant.

Ellison turned from the windowsill, where she'd been watering a potted purple orchid that did little to brighten up the dingy and outdated room, and regarded me with a frown. It was Wednesday afternoon. The student union was pretty quiet, save for the incessant laughter of a group of boys who were trying to play hacky sack with one of the bean bag chairs out on the floor of the media center.

"I'm serious," Ellison said. "I want you on the field."

"Pfft—why would—I mean," I sputtered, then laughed a bit disbelievingly. "Aren't there already people covering football? I wouldn't want to, like, step on anybody's toes—"

I fidgeted with the button on the sleeve of my denim jacket.

She didn't honestly think that sticking me on a glorified lawn with eighty-five very large, adrenaline-drunk boys who hated my guts could end well, did she?

"Joey Aldridge is the lead reporter," Ellison said, naming the blonde kid I'd had so many of my journalism classes but had only learned my name during our celebratory pizza party. "He's been hounding me about switching to student performance art groups. And if I have the two of you on the field together doing post-game interviews, Joey can just do photography and you can handle the writing."

"I really don't think—" I trailed off.

Ellison sighed and plopped down into her university-issued desk chair. She'd pimped it out with a white faux-sheepskin cover, but I could tell it was old and sort of janky by the way it creaked under her weight.

"Laurel," she said, "you can handle this."

"But they're not going to talk to me," I argued. "How am I supposed to do a post-game report when the team won't answer any of my questions?"

"You're a chameleon, Cates. Once you're out there on the field, the players aren't going to recognize you. They'll see Joey's camera in their faces and they'll go on autopilot. They're used to answering questions. And if your interview with St. James is anything to go by, you're pretty damn good at asking them."

"That was—"

Ellison beat me to the punch. "It was not luck. You have good instincts. You knew the right questions to ask, and you went off-script when you needed to."

I narrowed my eyes.

"This is because my name's attached to the Vaughn article," I accused. "If I get enough material to write something, it'll get a ton of hits on the website. If I get decked by a linebacker, then Joey takes a picture of my lifeless body and you still get a ton of hits on the website."

"You're not going to—" Ellison began, then huffed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh my god, Cates. Worst case scenario, you get snubbed and you have to write a recap of the game without any quotes. But whatever you write next is going to get attention—whether it's about Vaughn or not. People are interested in what you have to say. And I know you don't like attention, but what are you going to do? Just stop writing?"