Just One of the Guys. Kristan Higgins

grandmother’s-bedroom smell that floats around him in a geriatric cloud, the Donald Trumpian comb-over…but lording over them all, yes, The Tooth.

      “No, no, not a date. Just two fellow journalists having a few drinks.” His words are lost as I again find myself gazing into his mouth, swallowing sickly as the sinister power of The Tooth oozes toward me. Perhaps I can fake impending stomach distress. If I don’t look away soon, I won’t have to fake anything.

      “So. That works for you, then?” The Tooth asks.

      “You know, Alan, I think I ate something that was off this morning,” I begin.

      “I have some Imodium on me,” he offers immediately, groping behind the pocket guard on his breast pocket.

      Luckily (or not), Lucia bursts through the door balancing a box of doughnuts in one hand, several newspapers and coffees in the other. “Good morning!” she trills, then lurches to a halt in front of my desk. “Oh. Chastity. That’s right. It’s your first day.” Her nose twitches. “We have a meeting every Monday and Wednesday. Ten minutes. Have your ideas ready.”

      “Nice to see you again,” I say, raising an eyebrow. Lucia is the receptionist here at the Eaton Falls Gazette and has worked here since she was eighteen—that is, about half her life. Penelope, the owner and publisher of the EFG confided that Lucia applied for my job and was deeply wounded when she didn’t get it.

      Speaking of Penelope, she wobbles through the door. “Morning,” she sighs. “Chastity, can I see you in my office first thing?”

      “Sure, Penelope,” I say, rising. Lucia shoots me a glare and sniffs loudly, her eyes running contemptuously up and down my form. Doing my best to ignore her, I go into Penelope’s office and close the door.

      “So, welcome, of course. It’s great to have you here. Listen, Chastity, do you know anything about skin cancer?” She yanks down the collar of her sweater. “Look at this mole. Is it changing color? I think it looks cancerous.”

      “Well, I really don’t…”

      “Do you? Think it looks cancerous?”

      I squint at her neck. “I don’t really know what it looked like before, so…”

      “Doesn’t it look cancerous, though?”

      “I wouldn’t know. Maybe you’d feel better if your doctor took a look,” I suggest.

      She sits with a thud in her chair. “You’re right. You’re right. Sorry. I was up all night, looking at pictures on the Internet,” she says. “Melanoma.com. Very ugly.”

      “Sorry.”

      “It’s okay. Welcome! Welcome to the Eaton Falls Gazette. Did Lucia give you a hard time?” She smiles and sits up straight.

      “Not really.” I smile back.

      “All ready for the meeting?” she asks brightly.

      “Absolutely. I’m really glad to be here, Pen,” I say.

      “We’re glad to have you.” She smiles.

      I really am relieved to be away from the urban heartbreak of Newark. Here, I’ll cover soft news and features: new stores opening, the principal retiring, the daffodils in Memorial Park. Alan will continue to cover the harder stuff: city hall politics, regional affairs, etcetera.

      Ten minutes later, we’re all assembled in the small conference room. The staff consists of Penelope, Alan, Lucia, Carl, our head photographer, and Angela Davies, the food editor. Suki, a part-time reporter, covers the stories that Alan and I won’t be able to get to. Pete handles advertising, and Danielle does the layout. That’s it. It’s such a change from the legions who worked in Newark, so cozy, almost.

      “So!” Penelope chirps, fingering her mole. “What have you got for me?”

      Alan goes first, outlining the stories he believes will be top news this week, ruling out fires, murders and terrorist attacks. He’s tied into a few national stories and will try to put a local spin on them—a former resident has been connected with the Mob in Florida, the effect of gas prices on summer rentals in the Adirondacks. He talks about the endless construction to replace the water lines all along Main Street. Then there’s the ongoing investigation of our state representative, who seems to have (gasp!) taken illegal campaign contributions. Aside from his tooth and his inability to take a hint, he seems quite competent.

      Then it’s my turn. “Okay,” I begin. “I’d just like to say how happy I am to be h—”

      “I had a great idea for a story,” Lucia interrupts, turning a treacle gaze on Penelope. “A woman in Pottersville knitted the fourth-largest scarf in the world. I thought it could be a wonderful story, about what kind of yarn she used, her pattern, her plans for the scarf, her inspiration! Our readers would love it!” She glares at me, hoping I’ll disagree.

      “I disagree,” I say. Penelope covers a smile. “I’d like to see the Gazette concentrate on stories with a little more substance.”

      My shot across the bow is received with venom.

      “Well, maybe you need to understand what our readers like, Chastity!” Lucia snipes. “You just got here—”

      “I grew up here,” I interject.

      “—and you might be surprised at how down-homey people here are. Right, Penelope?”

      Penelope’s smile drops, and she rubs her mole harder. “Um…well, you have a point, Lu, but I think we’ll see how Chastity does. It’s why we hired her. Lots of experience.”

      “But not in Features!” Lucia protests. “Features is—”

      “Master’s in journalism from Columbia. Very impressive,” Pen smiles. I acknowledge my stellar education with a modest nod. Where I went to school doesn’t matter. Lucia will hate me regardless. Penelope warned me about Lucia at my interview lunch. She said that I was by far the most qualified candidate they’d had, and that Lucia would be fighting mad. Pen went on to confide over her third glass of wine that she’d once made the mistake of letting Lucia write a features article. This was well before my time, and it never actually ran but Penelope showed me the piece…ten thousand words, a novella, really, on Mrs. Kent, who won first prize at the county fair for her German chocolate cake.

      “Features with substance. I like that.” Alan lifts an eyebrow suggestively, his lip raising enough for me to get a glimpse of The Tooth. I look away.

      “What else have you got?” Penelope asks.

      Lucia’s ruby-red lower lip sticks out obstinately as I continue. “We need to focus on hyperlocal stories,” I say. “Papers all across America are watching subscriptions fall. People can get news anywhere—CNN, Internet, even on their phones—so we have to offer Eaton Falls readers stories they can’t get anywhere else. I think people want to read more than cutesy features or stuff pulled off the AP wire. And of course, all of this will be on the Web site, too, which I’ll be beefing up considerably.”

      Lucia snorts.

      I smile at her, which makes her scowl even more. “I know, Lucia,” I say, hoping to placate her. “It’s a paper first and foremost. But if people aren’t reading it, then let’s get them to go to our Web site, which is sponsored by our advertisers. It only makes fiscal sense.”

      “Great, Chastity,” Penelope says. “This is why we hired you.”

      “Obviously, we have to do a piece on the Resurrection for Easter,” Lucia announces, not placated.

      “Maybe a piece on the town egg hunt and some local traditions, but no, we’re not doing a story on the Resurrection. That’s not news, Lucia,” I state firmly. “That happened almost two thousand years ago.”

      Lucia’s mouth drops open. “Penelope!” she protests. “She can’t—”