Whistleblower ✓

11 | free pizza

The morning the article broke on the homepage of the Daily website, I woke to a string of texts from Ellison asking me to meet her at the media center that afternoon.

Conference room A.

Very important!!!

Don't be late.

Of course, I took this series of exceedingly vague and slightly ominous messages to mean that something had gone horribly wrong.

Hanna had slipped out of bed sometime earlier that morning to head to the gym (for once, I actually regretted turning down the offer to go with her), so she wasn't around to be my voice of reason. Which meant that, as I scuttled about the apartment tugging on my sandals and a jean jacket and then shoving granola bars into the zippered outer pocket of my backpack, my anxious little brain worked overtime to dream up worst case scenarios.

A huge factual error had slipped past the editors. Someone behind one of the tips the Daily had received had come forward to say it was all a joke. Josefina Rodriguez had been located and had just decided to take a vacation with the huge cash tip Vaughn gave her for delivering towels to his room.

I was a miserable wreck.

And, to make matters worse, I had to sit through two hours of Writing 301, a general education requirement I really should've gotten a free pass for considering I already spent the bulk of my academic life writing.

When class finally let out, I trudged to the student union like a member of the French aristocracy on her way to the guillotine.

The media center was no more or less crowded than usual—a handful of people were parked in the bean bag chairs, sipping coffee and frowning at their laptops, and there was a group of guys gathered around one of the computer monitors laughing at some gaming video on YouTube.

I'd been half expecting everyone in the place to turn and stare at me the second the elevator doors tugged open, but no one did.

This was a small comfort.

See, I told myself. You're fine. You're good.

I hurried around the corner, into the hall the led to Ellison's office, and shouldered open the first door to my left.

Then I stopped short—because there were no fewer than thirty people crammed into the conference room, sitting in swivel chairs and leaning against the wall, all of them chattering and drinking out of white paper cups and munching on pizza from the mountain of cardboard boxes piled up on the table.

"There she is!" Ellison cheered from somewhere in the crowd.

Half the room turned to look at me. I shrunk a little under the weight of all the eyes, but plastered on a smile and waved. A couple people clapped. I stood there and let it happen, wishing desperately that they'd stop.

Ellison came around the conference table, a can of Diet Coke in one hand, to save me from the embarrassment of it all. She looked casual, for Ellison Michaels—hair in an artfully "messy" bun, oversized sweater and leggings, a pair of incredibly cute thick-framed glasses perched on her nose.

"Come on, Cates," she said, hand on my shoulder to steer me away from the door and into the room, like she thought I might turn and make a break for it. "Cheese or pepperoni?"

"You could've told me we were having a party," I mumbled.

I'd wasted the morning knee-deep in my own pessimism when I could've skipped my shitty granola bar breakfast to prepare my body for the onslaught of free food.