“Is that how your uncle got a new newspaper, by writing the stories somebody told him to write?” Amiq said.
Junior adjusted his glasses. “I guess,” he said.
Amiq grinned and shook his head, like he knew better.
“You write it down and I’ll help keep you honest,” he said.
Chickie looked at Junior and rolled her eyes.
“I can write my own story,” Junior said.
But his jaw was set so hard, it felt like he was going to have to grind the words out sideways.
When Father Flanagan read Junior’s story, all he did was frown and scratch his head.
“Th
is isn’t quite what I was expecting, Junior.”
Junior swallowed hard and nodded. Amiq, in the corner of the room, grinned.
“Th
is isn’t the kind of story we run in the Sacred Heart Guardian. And it’s not very uplifting, either, is it?” Father said.
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“A bunch of grown men, breaking the law—who wants to hear about that?”
Junior nodded again, his chest tightening.
“Th
e Guardian is for our students, Junior. Our students are interested in hearing about your uncle’s newspaper because he’s your uncle. Th
is other stuff ”—Father waved his arm like
he was shooing off mosquitoes—“this other stuff belongs in your uncle’s paper, not in ours.”
Junior looked down and nodded a third time, biting his cheeks to keep the tears away. He could feel Amiq, over there in the corner, watching. Th
ey were all watching. He lifted his
chin and adjusted his glasses.
“Write one about the paper, will you, Junior?” Father said.
Junior nodded and swallowed. Th
e lump in this throat
was sharp as ice.
“What about you, Chickie? What are you writing about?”
Father asked.
“I’m writing about the new desks Sister Mary Kate got, the ones that school in Anchorage donated.” She said it fast, watching Junior out of the corner of her eye as if writing about new desks made her feel guilty all of a sudden.
“Great idea,” Father said, shuffl
ing through a pile of papers
on his desk. “What’s the headline?”
Chickie looked at Junior. Junior, after all, was the editor.
“Providence Strikes Again,” Amiq said loudly. “Th
at’s the
headline.”
Chickie glared at Amiq, and Amiq winked.
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“Clever,” Father said without looking up. “Very catchy.
Sister Mary Kate and her acts of Providence . . . now there’s an uplifting story.”
Father scooped up his papers and slid out of the room.
“You kids keep at it,” he called back.
Amiq was hovering behind Chickie like a big crow, reading her story.
“Sister Mary Kate and her student volunteers are up to their elbows in sandpaper and varnish, and from out of the dust, shiny new desks are arising,” Amiq read.
Chickie frowned and swatted him away, but you could tell she was proud of her story. It was good.
“Sounds like all that dust is gonna get stuck to the varnish on their elbows,” Amiq said.
Junior grinned at the image, resisting a sudden urge to laugh out loud.
“Is not,” Chickie squeaked, pulling at the sleeve of her sweater and swatting, again, at Amiq. She reminded Junior of an indignant little squirrel.
“And those desks look just like new, too,” Chickie chit-tered.
Amiq smiled innocently. “Absolutely.”
Junior ducked his head, biting his cheeks to keep from laughing.
Amiq began pacing around the room like he was being propelled by some kind of creative energy, circling over Junior like a bird of prey. Swooping down so suddenly it made 205
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Junior fl inch. Th
en he landed on the chair next to Junior’s
and watched him impatiently, like he expected Junior to do something. Something he wanted done.
Junior bent his head over his paper and began scribbling furiously. He wasn’t really writing anything important; he was just trying to distract Amiq, trying to hear the words to his story. Th
ey still seemed to be rolling along in the back
of his mind, just out of earshot. If Amiq would just leave him alone, maybe he could hear them. But Amiq refused to be distracted. Every time Junior ducked his head lower, Amiq ducked his head, too, sticking his nose right up next to Junior’s paper until pretty soon it seemed like Junior was either going to have to stop writing or start writing on Amiq’s nose.
Junior put his pen down and looked at Amiq.
“It was a good story, the one you wrote,” Amiq said.
Junior shook his head. No, it wasn’t a good story. It hadn’t said what Junior had wanted it to say. Junior realized this with sudden clarity.
“You aren’t going to let them bully you around, are you, Junior?” Amiq said.
Junior sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and looked Amiq right square in the eye. “No one’s bullying me around,”
he said.
“You remember that story about the duck hunters?” Amiq said.
Junior nodded.
“Civil disobedience, just like you said.”
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“I never said that,” Junior pointed out.
“And it only works when writers do their job and write about it,” Amiq said.
Junior blinked with surprise. He was a writer! No one had ever called him that before. He liked the sound of it. He liked it a lot.
“Th
ose Barrow hunters weren’t trying to be disobedient,”
Junior said. It felt like he was speaking with a brand-new authority, the authority of a
