JACQUARIOUS

"Everyone loved it," Mrs. Cabot said as I strapped a seatbelt across my body, eyes staring toward the bricked wall of the teachers' parking lot. "And I do mean everyone."

I nodded once. "Um...thanks," I managed. "It wasn't...I mean, I guess I didn't feel like it was anything magical. Just trying to keep it real."

"Well, let me assure you, real is exactly what we're looking for."

I lowered my head, felt a small smile glimmering at my lips. "So is it really okay? Skipping class like this? I mean, teachers did stuff like this at my old school, but I gotta say—I didn't think it'd be the same here."

Mrs. Cabot chuckled. "Actually, no. If I'm being honest, this is pretty illegal." She turned to me as the engine started, winking mischievously. "But I won't tell anyone if you don't."

I smiled wider. "Deal."

We backed out of the parking lot, and Mrs. Cabot inhaled a deep and gracious breath of air as the sunlight rained down on us through the glass.

"I wasn't exaggerating, you know," she said. "I was in disbelief the first few times I read it. I mean, for goodness sake, half the people at the paper have been running around like chickens with their heads chopped off, fielding anyone they can interview for the upcoming issue."

"W-why?" I asked. "What's the next issue?"

"Come now, Jacquarious—surely you must know. MLK Day's right around the corner."

"Oh," I hesitated. "...Right."

"My husband just greenlit the latest proposal, a six-week alternating spread about black history, present and past. It's ambitious; I'll not deny that. And kicking it off with MLK Day makes the timeline even trickier—less than two weeks to prep for it all, and it's slated through the end of February." She paused and turned to me as we came to a stop light. "So you can imagine how far over the moon I was when your paper quite literally fell into my lap."

The light flicked to green again, Mrs. Cabot easing off the gas to roll the car forward.

"But I have to ask," she mused, her voice lowering. "What you wrote...just how much of that was true?"

I gulped. "All of it."

She gasped. "Then that means...that news story. The kids the police mentioned—you must've been one of them."

"...That's right."

"I see." She paused, eyes still forward and narrowed at the road before us. "And how much of it have you told your parents?"

I gulped again. "I, um..."

"Relax, dear. I'm a teacher, not a cop." A knowing smirk pulled at the corner of her jaw. "But I also work at a newspaper. And that means I'm an observationalist." Her right eye darted briefly to me before returning to the road. "Cops interview two kids, no mention of their parents, and don't give any names." She shook her head. "You and your friend were sneaking out, weren't you? Last night before school and all that."

I lowered my head. "Yeah."

"And you still haven't told your mom and dad. Have you?"

"...No," I grumbled out the words, glancing off to stare through the window—anywhere but into her eyes.

"Well, don't act so terrified," she said after taking another deep breath. "I'm grateful that you saw fit to trust me with such a personal story. And don't worry; it's not like I'm going to ring your parents and spill the beans." She paused. "That goes for the paper too, alright?"

I hesitated. "W-what do you mean?"

"Your identity, the story you wrote—it stays between us." She hesitated. "Well, my husband knows as well; but I promise he can keep a secret." She nodded once, a resolute stare in her eyes. "When we get there, I'll just tell the staff you're a high-schooler I met at one of my recruitment events, someone interested in having a look at the way the paper works."

I sighed.

"Something wrong?"

The blur of the highway passing as I stared out onto the road, I turned back in my seat to face Mrs. Cabot. "I mean...do you really think it's a good idea to just lie to everyone like that?"

She tilted her head. "Well, dear, it's not exactly lying. I did recruit you this morning, didn't I? And I'd say calling you out of class to drive to a newspaper's headquarters is quite the event." That knowing smirk returned to her face.

"I—I guess," I hesitated. "But how can you be so sure nobody'll figure it out that I'm the one who wrote the paper?"

"Oh, trust me. You needn't worry about that." She cleared her throat once. "I might've let the cat out of the bag last night that the piece came from one of my students; and, well, their imaginations will do the rest."

"Their imaginations?" I puzzled. "But why would—?" The question caught in my throat, overtaken with pause the moment I realized. "Oh...I see."

"Precisely," she nodded, lips drawn firmly into a thin line. "But enough about that. We'll be arriving at the paper soon, and that building is massive. What's the first thing you'd like to see?"

"Well, um...I've never been in one of those printing rooms they always show on the news."

Mrs. Cabot smiled. "Sounds like as good a beginning as any."

****

When we parked in the ticketed lot closest to the newspaper's front entrance, Mrs. Cabot was the first to unbuckle her seatbelt and step out of the car. The rocky snap of her high heels clicked against the asphalt as I followed her lead and climbed from the passenger seat.

"Wow," I breathed, taking in the gigantic edifice of brick and mortar that towered ahead of me.

"It's really something, isn't it?" Mrs. Cabot mused, shoes clattering as she strode around the car's hood to stand next to me. "This office is one of forty-six printing sites nationwide, and we distribute to all fifty states." She twisted on the asphalt and strode ahead, hair rustling with the sunswept wind as I paced briskly after her.

"All the offices are big," she carried on as we made it to the set of glass double doors leading into the building. "But ours is particularly large since we also house the printing and distribution staff here, in addition to the sixty-two journalists who call this building home."

Mrs. Cabot pushed the doors wide, and I followed as she strutted across the sleekly polished tiles of pearly porcelain—past a reception desk that jutted into the air beneath the bulk of pages topping it, past a collection of cushioned chairs hued somewhere between charcoal and gypsum, past twin floor vases marbled in silver with flower-beaded stems sprouting from inside, past high-walled windows that seemed to wink down at me through eyes bordered in gray.

Mrs. Cabot brushed ahead, beelining for another set of double doors, this one a peppery pair of glossed wooden rectangles, and I sidled in wavering pursuit.

Just as she reached forward to push her way through, a tall and imposing figure stepped from behind the doors and stared down at her, smiling as he did.

She lunged out and threw her arms around him instantly, stroked her hand through the curls of silvery blond falling behind his ears. "Warren," she breathed, warmth flitting through her words. "Just the man I was looking for."

He nuzzled against the side of her head, his cheek pressing against her temple.

That guy must be her—

"Jacquarious," Mrs. Cabot piped up, twisting spryly to face me with upturned hands. "Meet my husband, Warren Cabot, editor-in-chief of US & The World."

I'd barely even registered what she said before Mr. Cabot was extending a hand and smiling eagerly in my direction. "Great to meet you, kid. Regina tells me you've got quite the gift, and that piece you penned was off the charts. If you wait here, I can get my copyeditor and op-ed specialist out to—"

Mrs. Cabot cleared her throat, cutting him off midsentence. "Not here, love," she mused, then stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

His eyes grew wide. "I see." Broad smile furrowing to a thin scowl, his darkened gaze returned to me with far less cheer dancing across his face. "Well, don't worry; your secret's safe with me." He paused, lowering his voice. "Still...if you're interested, I'd like it if the three of us could get lunch sometime soon—somewhere far away from here. That article was spectacular."

I glanced off. "Um...thanks, sir."

"Hey now," he grunted. "You're gonna have to cut out all that sir crap. Like my wife said, the name's Warren. Not sir or mister anything."

"Oh...okay."

He hesitated. "I know this is sudden, but you seriously don't know how much you're helping us out here." He leaned in closer, lightening his voice to just above a murmur. "Between you and me, how fast do you think you could write another? We could pay you just like a regular—"

"Warren!" Mrs. Cabot whisper-shrieked. "Pump the breaks, alright?"

He sighed, shaking his head "Right. Of Course. I'm getting ahead of myself." His eyes returned to me. "Just...think about it."

I nodded once. "Y-yeah, I will. Thanks a lot. Really, I—"

"THAT LITTLE PRICK!"

I jumped the moment I heard the words, turning in unison with Mr. and Mrs. Cabot to spot a tall guy in a golden button-up shirt and matching Sperry's as he stormed through the building's front doors. Searing red hair swept back in a pompadour, he held a set of matte-finished photos in his right hand while his left gripped a smartphone so tightly I thought it might snap in two.

The skittering of tiny feet on low-heeled flats sounded from behind me, and I turned again—this time spotting a dainty woman who barely stood as tall as Mrs. Cabot's shoulders. "Warren, Regina," the woman began. "This is bad."

Regina turned to her. "What's the problem, Kyla—"

"I'M GONNA KILL HIM!"

"Well..." Kyla began, motioning ahead of us. "That's the problem."

"KYLA!" The guy screamed as he approached us. "WHERE IS HE!?"

"August," Mrs. Cabot cut in. "Slow down. Who are you looking f—?"

"Who do you think I'm looking for!? That ditz Henry still hasn't uploaded the principal photography shots, and the distributor's already called twice about sending over the final copy!" His livid eyes snapped back toward Kyla. "Where is he!?"

She looked away as she spoke. "He...texted me a few minutes ago. He said he's still running behind but should have them all ready soon—"

"SOON!?" Another surge of red exploded across his face. "Tomorrow is soon. Next week is soon. We need those shots freaking yesterday!"

Mr. Cabot sighed. "August...just take a breath, alright? Henry'll get the photos in, like he always does. Maybe he's just having a tough morning."

August growled. "That's bullcrap, and you know it! It takes five seconds to upload photos to the Cloud. The only reason he hasn't done it yet's 'cause he's a brain-dead frat rat with zero ambition." He pointed a finger right in Mr. Cabot's face, angry breaths seething out. "And the only reason he still has a job's 'cause cucks like you don't have the balls to cut him loose."

I shook my head. "Come on, man," I said, scarcely even realizing I'd spoken. "Give the guy a break."

August twisted his head toward me, flaming eyebrows arched wide. "And just who are you supposed to be!?"

Mrs. Cabot stepped immediately in front of me. "His name is Jacquarious, and he's a high schooler interested in seeing how the paper works." She placed a hand on her hip. "Though with co-workers like you, it seems he won't have much to look forward to if he ever tries applying here."

"Whatever," August huffed. "I'm trying Henry again." He lifted his phone, then pushed past us for the gray double doors.

Mr. and Mrs. Cabot turned to me in unison, Kyla following their lead.

"I'm sorry about that," Mr. Cabot said.

I shook my head. "No big deal. Guy really must care about his job."

"That's an understatement," Kyla said, sighing before twisting to Mrs. Cabot. "Anyway, I should probably get going too. Even without Henry's final shots, I should be able to set the rest of the layout for tomorrow's issue. That piece with the NBLSA was giving me trouble all morning, but I think I finally got it to fit."

Mrs. Cabot smiled, placed a single hand on Kyla's shoulder. "Great work, Kyla. Thanks for being such a trooper."

"Oh!" Mr. Cabot piped up. "That reminds me—I got six new quotes from headquarters today that they wanted us to include in the article. Mind heading to my office, Kyla? It'll only take a sec to offload."

She nodded, extending a hand. "Of course. Lead the way."

As the two of them strode off, crossing to a set of sabled argent elevators, Mrs. Cabot shot an uncertain glance at me. "Introductions are always the hardest part," she said, managing a nervous giggle. "I know you wanted to see printing, but how about I show you the break room first? I hear Desirée brought donuts."

I grinned. "Sounds great."