Page 21 of Easy Out

Without the competitions, the kids will suffer. We easily brought in five grand a month competing. Sure, we could still compete and maybe scrape in second or third place now that they are rigged. But is it worth the effort? It’s a lot of work practicing and learning new routines.

Ray’s isn’t guaranteed money either. I’ve heard some girls bring in five hundred dollars a weekend. That’s a lot of rice and beans. I don’t know if I can say no to that.

I skip a step, rushing into Wilson Hall, where most of my communication and journalism classes are located. I’m taking five classes this semester. One less than last year, but I doubt it will be any easier.

Morelli’s advanced reporting class is held in the largest lecture hall in the communication building. This class is so popular it’s reserved for seniors. He is some hot-shot investigative reporter who travels all over the country chasing high profile stories. He even did some war correspondent stuff fifteen years ago that made him notorious in the industry.

If he’s as good as everyone says, I need this class. I don’t have the connections to get a job. I’m determined to have the talent. It wouldn’t hurt to make a good impression on my professors and get a few letters of recommendation.

I scan the auditorium-style seating for an empty spot. The class is already pretty full. There are a few open seats between clusters of students. Last week I got here early enough to avoid this last-minute scramble for a chair.

I spot an open seat next to a mousy-looking brunette. Style-wise, we are opposites. She’s wearing a cardigan and plaid skirt, and I’m in a faded band tee and ripped jeans. She looks just as nervous as I feel on the inside, being surrounded by so many people.

My feet falter on the steps when I glance up a few rows and spot Hart. I haven’t seen him since he helped Syd last weekend. He’s sitting in the middle of a harem of beautiful girls. There is a frown on his face and a bend in his brow. I smile at him, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. I guess I should have expected that.

I thought maybe we were becoming friends or at least settled on a truce of sorts. I shake off the idea. You can’t become friends with a guy who is angry all the time. He is the opposite of friendly. But he was nice when it was just the two of us. Was that just an act?

“Hi,” I say to the brunette beside me as I take my seat. “I’m Lauren.” The girl stares at my extended hand like I have a disease.

“Hi, I’m Tess," she says, finally shaking my hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m nervous. I don’t really like being around this many people.” Tess smiles wryly.

“Me too.”

I pull a notebook, pencil, and pen out of my bag. My friend Wren, who lives across the hall, bought a few of us a set of, and I quote, ‘the best pens you have ever used in your life.’ They came in packs of ten different colors. She suggested using one color for notes, one for assignments, blah blah blah... I kind of zoned out. I don’t have the mental capacity to be as type A as Wren.

The class quiets when a pair of Italian loafers click across the linoleum floor at the front of the room. Professor Morelli is tall with dark wavy hair. He’s wearing an expensive looking navy suit with matching tie. This is the first time we’ve been graced by his presence. Last week his teaching assistant went over the syllabus. That was the extent of our class time.

A few students squirm in their seats when Morelli surveys the crowd. I sit up straighter and push my shoulders back. I’ve learned confidence, whether it’s all bravado or not, is the best way to avoid being called on in class.

“Welcome to Advanced Reporting. If you don’t know who I am, let me introduce myself. I’m Professor Morelli. This class won’t be easy, but I promise you will walk out of here a better reporter than when you walked in.”

Morelli moves to the front of his desk, leans against it, and crosses his arm. His eyes flit around the room, not really looking at anyone but also assessing us as if he could get a read on our capabilities without having seen any of our work.

“Besides your mid-term and final, this class has two assignments. There is no wiggle room. If you mess up, if you don’t put in the work, you will fail.

“In the lectures, I will teach you how to gather information, what questions to ask, and learn to differentiate between solid leads and dead ends. You will then take this knowledge and put it to the test.” Morelli clears his throat and then takes a sip of water.

“You and your partner.” A few groans echo around the room. “Yes. A partner. You need to be able to work with others. You also need to fight for your voice to be heard. It is too easy to be influenced by others and get lost.

“You and your partner will unearth a story. Your job is to investigate and report the truth. Or what you believe the truth to be. Because the truth is sometimes just an opinion. A conclusion you have come to based on the evidence presented to you.” He shrugs his shoulder casually. “Your story can be something happening on campus or off. I don’t want to limit you, but I do expect evidence of your investigation.”

I flip through the syllabus and find what ‘evidence of investigation’ means. Tape recordings, photos, and written interviews.

“You will also flip on your partner and investigate them. Whether you write a human-interest piece, or an exposé is up to you and how well you can extract a story from your partner.” Morelli grins sardonically.

I need the right partner. Someone who won’t dig into my past. That is a place I don’t want to go again. I need someone who will be okay with submitting a surface-level story.

I turn to Tess. She is just as scared as I am. “Hey,” I whisper. “You want to be partners?”

“Yes,” Tess says, blowing out a breath of relief. The rest of the class seems to have the same idea as whispers rise around the room.

Morelli holds up a hand. “You can stop corroborating. I’ve already picked your partner.” Damn it. Morelli has a stack of papers stapled together in his hand. He flips to the last page and scans the paper looking for something. His shoulders slump before flipping the pages to the front of the stack again. Weird.

“You will be partnered up alphabetically by last name. When I call your name, raise your hand, then find a seat next to your new partner. Exchange numbers, e-mails, whatever you need to do. I will leave the rest to you.”

I tune out Professor Morelli’s voice and start jotting down ideas for the investigative story. I want to report on something taboo. With so many people in the class, the story needs to grab his attention. It needs to be memorable.

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