Page 11 of Mr. Picture Perfect
“Huh? What? No,” he blurts out, confused. “Who cares about a stupid camera? Sit back down, you goof.”
I return his stare, equally confused.
He puts a hand on my shoulder, pushes me back down to my seat, then leans in closer. “Noah … I told you to get us a story. The last damned thing I expected is for you tobecomethe story.”
I lift my eyebrows, taken aback.
Tamika too, appearing as puzzled as I am.
Become the story?
“It … is …perfect,” he hisses at me excitedly. “How’d you know somethin’ like this isexactlywhat the Spruce Press needs? Maybe I should take the credit, huh? This is basically what I’d told you to find. ‘Local hero saves unaware cameraman from certain doom’,” he recites with a dramatic spread of his hands. “Or, uh, however you guys would word it. I’m a shit writer. Hey, how did you get those picture frames to fall? Were the vendors in on the act?”
“Wait, wait,” I stop him. “I … I don’t want to be the story. I—”
“Of course you do,” he cuts me off. “Wasn’t that the point? Besides, who doesn’t want to be the story? I just want to know if we gotta compensate them for the broken picture frames or not.”
While I sputter, unable to respond, Tamika speaks up for me. “Burton, none of that was an act. That was real. Noah was almost seriously hurt.”
“In any case, we’ll worry about the details later,” he decides, dismissing her. “You made me proud today, Noah. My dad’s gonna eat this up. Don’t even need a pic of the reverend or mayor.You’llbe the story, you and this … what’s-his-name.”
My face? On the front page? My Martian face? “B-But sir—”
“‘Picture perfect nightmare turned into a dream’,” says Burton, still trying out titles. “Hmm, wasn’t the mayor nearby? Maybe we can still incorporate the Strongs somehow. I think we would get a lot more readers that way.”
I’m still caught in the moment with Cole, barely able to hear whatever Burton’s saying. I don’t think the moment ever ended, in fact. When Cole fainted, I held him in my arms for half a second before realizing I lacked the strength to hold him up. Then I sat by his collapsed side, dazed, staring down at his face.
He looked so peaceful, as if the task of saving my life was so exhausting, he just fell asleep right there.
Tamika clears her throat. “Burton, I’m not so sure Noah feels comfortablebeingthe headlining story. Other interesting things happened, too. The mayor bought a huge piece of art at the other end of the street, a big sculpture made out of recycled car parts. Everyone was talking about it.”
“So? You want us to run something aboutart? No.Thisis what everyone will be talkin’ about. ‘Is he okay?’ ‘Why did he jump in front of him like that?’ ‘Is there a secretthingbetween them?’”
I gape at him. “S-Secret thing …?”
Burton shrugs. “Whatever gets people talking. We’ll find the best angle. Look, you have to see thegoldin this, Noah. You gotta be the story. Take one for the team, alright? For the paper?”
I glance at Tamika. She’s always standing up for me. I think she understands I’m not the best at speaking when it counts.
But the Spruce Press is in a state of decline. People don’t read it as much anymore. Despite how I might feel about Burton, I know he’s desperate to do something good for the paper. Of course he has his own more selfish reasons, including wanting to impress his dad, and maybe win the respect of this Cindy person he thinks no one knows is his crush, but if the Spruce Press does well, isn’t that good for all of us involved?
Even my grandpa would be happy.
Isn’t this also for him, too?
I look at Tamika. “What do you think?”
She parts her lips, appearing surprised for a moment that I’m tossing the ball into her court—my own ball. She gazes back and forth from me to Burton. Finally her voice breaks. “I … I guess it …wouldmake sense to write about this. Peoplearestill out there talking about it … a little.” She fidgets. “But if you aren’t—”
“Then it’s settled!” exclaims Burton with a clap of his hands, startling both me and Tamika. “As soon as you’re done sippin’ on your water, get back to the building and type somethin’ up fast. Your timepeoplinghere at the festival is over. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”
I turn to him. “You want me to write up my own story, too?”
“Of course. Isn’t it a great idea? Make itrealpersonal, Noah. ‘My life flashed before my eyes,’ blah, blah, somethin’, somethin’. ‘My savior saw me and ran as fast as he could, time was against us, the crowd was in the way, but he came to my rescue! If it wasn’t for him, I’d be a …’ Whatever, you get the point, I’m not the writer. I bet this’ll be a story even Fairview will catch wind of.”
“But … won’t it make Martha and her family look bad?” I ask.
“Martha who? Oh. The picture frame vendors? I thought they were in on the whole thing.”
