“I don’t have anything new to add,” I pointed out. “I’m not going to talk about my personal life to a reporter. And the first reporter already printed everything I told her.”
“That’s not how it works,” Bob argued. “She didn’t print your conversation verbatim. So even if you say exactly the same things, the next reporter puts his own spin on it.”
But I didn’t want to be spun. “Sir, here’s the problem. Since I gave that interview, all my teammates were called ‘faggots’ to their faces by the Saint B’s team. And then I was ejected from a home game for punching one of my ex-teammates. How do think the press will spin that?”
There was a silence on the line. “Who saw this happen?”
“Like, a few hundred spectators.”
He actually cursed under his breath. “All right. Maybe we should wait on the interviews. We can do a personal statement instead. We’ve got to give them something, though. The beast is hungry, and it wants you.”
How encouraging. “What’s a personal statement?”
“A letter, basically. ‘Dear journalists, I am humbled and overwhelmed by your interest in the story of my transfer. While I need to keep my focus on my game and my schoolwork at this time, I’d like to thank Coach James for his faith in me, and my teammates for their patience with their new teammate.’”
I stifled a snort.
“…Then you just recount what you told theConnecticut Standard. Just the facts. ‘The coach let me go. My uncle pointed out that it was against ACAA regulations. Coach James offered me a spot. The end.’”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Great. Put some words on a page, and send me what you’ve got in an hour. We’ll help you work the kinks out of it, and then we’ll get this puppy out to all your new fans.”
I wrote down his email address and got the hell off that call. It was only after we hung up that I realized I’d let Bob from the press office assign me homework. Over Christmas break.
Shoot me.
By mid afternoon, it was all done. My new BFF Bob had edited my original two-pager to make it sound like it had been written by a happy-go-lucky boy scout. It had an “aw, shucks” quality to it that didn’t sound like me. But I wanted to be done with it, so I’d approved all but the stupidest of his changes and shut down my computer.
Downstairs, I found Gran rolling out Christmas cookies at the kitchen table. “When you’re famous, you’ll still remember the little people, won’t you John?” She peered over her glasses at me.
“If there are cookies, I think I can fit you into my busy schedule.” I helped myself to another cup of coffee. “You know, a cookie would go really well with this.”
“Check that batch in the oven, would you? I always burn at least one batch. If the phone keeps ringing, it could get ugly.”
“I’m sorry about this,” I said quickly. “I have a feeling that it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Maybe we should just let every call go to the machine. I just can’t answer the phone today.”
She waved a floury hand, dismissing the idea. “It’s mostly my friends who call on this line. It’s very exciting, really. Gertie saw it on Facebook already.”
“Gertie is on Facebook?” I opened the oven door. With Gran’s oven mitt, I slid the tray of cookies out of the oven and set them on the cooling rack. They looked done to me. So I scraped one off the sheet with the spatula, and then flipped the blazing hot thing into my mouth.
That was a mistake.
“Owrrh,” I yelped as my tongue got singed.
Gran watched this foolishness with one eyebrow cocked. “Should I be worried how you’re doing at that school for geniuses?”
And that made me laugh, which made me choke a little bit. I had to set down my coffee mug to get a grip on myself.
“It’s a good thing you’re handsome,” Gran said, turning back to her rolling pin. “At least you have that going for you.”
The phone rang again. Gran adjusted her glasses and peered at the caller ID. With a little sigh, she picked it up. “Good afternoon, Rebekkah.”
Uh oh. My mother. I’d seen her name on my cell phone earlier, too. But I didn’t check to see if she’d left a voicemail. I couldn’t handle her today.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Gran said to her. “Why? Because I can hear in your voice that you’re not in the proper frame of mind to speak to him right now. It would be best if you could calm down first.” As I watched, Gran winced. “Why would you assume that the press coverage was his idea in the first place?” she asked. “You do not sound entirely sensible right now, my dear. I’m going to hang up now, and perhaps we can talk later, when you’re feeling more relaxed.” At that, Gran set the phone back into its cradle.
Her tone had been remarkably composed while she spoke to my mother. But now she was glaring at the phone as if hoping that lasers might shoot from her eyes and incinerate it.
