body copy (a.g.)

= Chapter Two =

= Chapter Two =

The problem with organizing emergency meetings is this: it's fucking difficult to get most anybody to show up, especially when you schedule the thing for the asscrack of dawn. The problem with emergency meetings themselves it that people are usually very scared when they show up, because they know that all that's waiting is stress, scary decisions, and (most likely) a pissed-off authority figure, adult or otherwise. Nobody likes any of those things... especially at the asscrack of dawn.

But I'm determined to make this thing work, so I brought along donuts and orange juice to ply my audience on this fine morning. I'm hoping this will help to keep threats of mutiny or any sort of hysterical outbursts to a minimum, but I don't know if it's going to work.

Everything is so quiet at school this early in the morning. I kind of dig it. Half of the hall lights are turned off, so everything is dim and soft. It reminds me of how everything looks when you're half asleep; no harsh edges on the pewter-colored lockers, no glare on the waxy gray floor tiles. The media centre is nice and quiet at a time like this. There's no constant whir of printers or tapping on computer keys, and no one's bustling around trying to finish this or that or get someone's attention. It's kind of lonely, almost, but I don't mind. When you have the sense of impending chaos sitting heavy on your shoulders, you start appreciating this kind of serenity.

After I finish setting out the snacks and pouring the juice into little styrofoam cups, I finally start sifting through the box of half-finished articles, layouts, and supplies Mallory's left for me to work with, along with a dogeared composition notebook full of what I guess is supposed to be helpful notes and tips. Mostly, it's just gibberish, though, nothing but half-assed sentences and strange patterns doodled in all the margins. The most coherent piece of writing in the whole book isn't even really part of the book itself- it's the bright orange sticky-note with "do the damn thing, rubes." written on it in Mallory's strangely loopy handwriting, just like that, all lowercase letters with proper punctuation. By Mallory's standards, this message is supposed to be a huge dose of encouragement. Mostly, thought, it doesn't make any sense.

The contents of the collapsing cardboard box are pieces that others have already turned in for Monday's edition (Ryan Ross's reviews of the school production of Mary Poppins and the fall choir concert, Dallon Weekes' review of the new movie Everest, and about half of this week's school sports reviews, minus tonight's football games), a few jumbled design plans, and one... napkin from Chipotle...?

I let out a deep breath, but it does little to help my calm down. The newspaper itself needs to be arranged by the end of the day today so it can be sent off to the printer's this afternoon. This way, it's ready to be delivered bright and early Monday morning (yet another thing I now have to oversee) so we can sell them throughout the week. Mallory's left me with nothing decent to even build on, and only a few people have turned in their articles/comics/whatever other part of the paper they're responsible for yet. I mean, sure, I have a basic layout of where the page numbers and everything should be, but that's the easy part; I need substance.

This is going to be nearly impossible to pull off.

=---=

Brendon Urie, our most enthusiastic freshman and the dutiful arranger of the informatory page, is the first to arrive to the impromptu meeting, already a vibrating ball of kinetic energy adorned in a red hoodie. He bounces in on black Chucks with books clutched tightly to his chest, eyes everywhere.

"Hey, Bren," I say to him, smiling a little. Brendon pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and shoots a bright smile back at me, seemingly excited for no reason. Or maybe he's nervous. I don't know, I can never really tell with this kid.