The Truth About Kian

02. Seas would rise when I gave the word

:: C H A P T E R  T W O | SEAS WOULD RISE WHEN I GAVE THE WORD ::

"So Kian Daniels committed suicide this weekend. I think we have a story here!"

I choked on my own spit and glared at Meg Tuxford, student editor of the St. Benedict News. She was grinning, her school uniform looking irritatingly well fitted on her petite form. But of course it did. Her uniform was new while mine was the least-stained plaid skirt in the town's second-hand shop.

My fellow high school journalists gaped at her. We had all been half asleep, barely listening to St. Benedict's very own Stalin, until she dropped that bomb on us during our surprise lunch-hour meeting.

The room exploded in loud protests, and Meg pounded her gavel on the desk. I had no idea why she had one, seeing as she was a journalist and not a judge, but no one had the courage to wrestle it away from her.

"Listen up, people!" she bellowed over the commotion. "Rubes, I want you to get a quote from the police. Len, you're pretty pushy, right? I want you to take Mrs. Daniels. See if you can really get something interesting."

"Meg, wait!" I shouted. Everyone paused to look at me, and I swallowed, uncomfortable with the sudden attention. "We can't just go harassing Kian's mom about why her son committed suicide."

She smiled sweetly. "That's journalism, Reed. If you have a problem, the door is to your right."

"That's not journalism, that's trash," I snapped. Where was Ms. Brennan, our journalism teacher, when I needed back up?

Meg had always had a personal vendetta against me, most likely because I didn't have a trust fund that contained six figures.

"And your suggestion is?"

"Wait until Kian's funeral happens. Report on that."

Meg's eyebrows crept up her forehead. "What funeral?"

"The one that will happen in a few days," I said through gritted teeth. "We can expand the story and do a feature on teen suicide."

"Okay," said Meg, shuffling through her notes.

My eyes widened. Had Meg just agreed with me? I was still shocked when Ms. Brennan walked in with a coffee cup in one hand and an irritated look on her youthful face.

"Meg, I thought I told you no more meetings that go through lunch."

Meg looked up, feigning surprise. "We were just finishing up, Ms. Brennan. And Reed has offered to write a feature article on teen suicide, using Kian's death as the focus. She said she could get an exclusive."

"I never said ..." I protested.

It wasn't that I had hated Kian or didn't believe he deserved to be written about. Like everyone else at St. Benedict, I was charmed by him — the boy who had made a name for himself in a town where people pre-judged you by your street address. But the idea of writing about his death and turning it into a statistic was sickening. I wanted nothing to do with Meg's vulture style of reporting. If I had to write this piece, I would do it my way.

Meg turned to me, a serious look on her face. "I think you should take this article, Reed."

I braced myself, waiting for the punch line, and Meg didn't disappoint me. "After all, something like this might just get you into Yale for a semester. Or until the student aid runs out. Words don't pay the bills, you know."

"Meg," Ms. Brennan warned half-heartedly, glancing at me. I gave her a slight shrug. Our hands were tied; Brennan couldn't reprimand Meg without getting in trouble with Meg's daddy who just happened to be chair of St. Benedict's school board.