Page 1 of Bro Smooth
Chapter One
I do up the top button on my blouse and pull down the sun-visor mirror to check my lipstick. The reflection staring back, with buttons up to my chin and my tortoiseshell glasses, looks stuffy. Like I’m trying too hard to be professional. I undo the button again.
A quick swipe of lipstick and a check that there's none on my teeth, and I step out of the beat-up red car my roommate Ronnie borrowed for me off another girl in our dorm, adjusting my top to show only the barest hint of cleavage before pulling my coat tight against the frigid January air. I toss the key into my bag and take a steadying breath. I can do this. Journalists do this all the time, and that’s what I'm going to be—a journalist.
At least I don't falter in my kitten heels as I cross the parking lot to the high school entrance. The lot isn’t full—there are only maybe twenty or so cars here—but it's still early. I wanted enough time with the competitors beforehand to ask all my questions and find a good seat to see the whole event from beginning to end.
This is my first write-up for theSunshine Tribuneafter having been there for almost five months, and I'm determined to make my mark even though technically I'm just a work-studyintern and not an actual writer for the paper. I have been trying to get the editor to take notice of me and have been suggesting story ideas to him. I figure if he uses one of my ideas, even if he assigns the story to someone else the fact that he liked it means he might remember me the next time and eventually he'll let me report one of the stories myself. And yesterday, that plan finally paid off.
I had seen a flyer for a “cube puzzling club” on the notice board at the library a few times over the past few weeks, and curiosity finally got the better of me. My research showed that it's solving Rubik's Cubes, and it just so happens that there's an all-ages regional competition at a nearby high school this weekend.
And when I suggested the story in our staff meeting yesterday, my editor begrudgingly admitted that the “fucking higher ups wanted more fluffy local interest stories.” It was the first time he didn't shoot me down.
I mean, he wasn't exactlyexcitedabout it, and neither was anyone else when he asked if anyone had any interest in covering the story, but when I said I did, he didn't say no. He said, “Fine, whatever,” which is the closest I've ever gotten to a yes from him about anything.
So here I am, ready to take on the world of cube puzzling competitions and show my editor that I'm an amazing reporter. Otherwise, they'll have me doing nothing but fetching coffee the entire semester, which is hardly the sort of on-the-job training I want from this internship. I know I can do so much more if they'll give me the chance.
My glasses fog up as soon as I walk through the door into the heated indoor air, and I pause for a moment to let them clear. There's a small table in the middle of the hallway, and I nearly walk right into it. They should really move it back a few feet.When people start showing up, the narrow space between the doors and the table is going to get really crowded.
But it's not my job to figure out where to put the table, it's my job to cover the competition for the newspaper. So I pretend I didn't just whack the table with my bag, plaster on my most professional smile, and greet the kind-looking woman behind the table.
“Hi, I'm Rebecca Flynn. There should be a press badge for me.” I'm not sure how big this competition will be, and I wanted to ensure I have the full access I'll need to speak to all of the competitors, so as soon I got the go-ahead (or, okay, the “fine, whatever”) from Carl, I called the number listed on the cubing club's website and requested a press pass for the event.
“Welcome, Rebecca!” The woman's smile grows even bigger, if that's possible. “We’re so excited to have you here today, writing this article about us. It'll be good for more people to learn about our little competitions.”
Everything she's saying sounds good, but it's making me nervous. The fact that she called the event “little” doesn't bode well for its importance. And if they need me to write about it for anyone to know it's happening, maybe it's not as big a deal as I had thought it was. Which means anything I write up about it will be that much less impressive to my editor.
I look back out at the mostly empty parking lot. Maybe this is really it, those twenty cars are all that are coming. My stomach sinks. No wonder none of the other reporters wanted to cover this event for the paper.
“Here's your badge.” She hands me a sticker name tag with the word “Press” handwritten in Sharpie. I'd been imagining an actual badge with a lanyard, something professional-looking that I could take home as a memento of my first real newspaper assignment. I try to keep my disappointment off my face. “Karenis straight back through those double doors, and she'll show you around.”
“Thank you.” I head toward the double doors labeled “Competitor Entrance”.
Just past the table is the door to the auditorium, next to which is a handwritten sign reading “International Cubing Federation Regional Competition” taped to a music stand.If I can't write about the crowd size in my article, at least I can mention that the signage is clear, I think. I sidestep towards the door to take a peek at what kind of crowd has already arrived to watch the competition.
The space is a standard school auditorium with stadium seating, absolutely nothing special about it. There aren't even any decorations to mark the occasion. If the parking lot looked sad, this is downright depressing. There are maybe a dozen or so people scattered around—mostly families, probably of the competitors, although there look to be one or two friend groups who've come out to lend support.
I'd only had a night to cram in all my research about the world of competitive cube puzzling, but from what I could tell, most of these competitions are geographically rather spread out. This is the only one happening within a three-hour radius. Traveling so far would be a challenge to any friends coming to support someone and would force families to all come together.
But this isn't something I need to be worrying about right now. I have an article to research and write, and an editor to impress. Even if this event is the most lackluster thing I've ever seen, I'm going to do my best work and make it exciting for our readers.
Stepping back into the hallway, I head through the double doors to the backstage area of the competition. There are more families here than were in the auditorium, and there are kids everywhere. Some of them are running around playing tag andbeing generally disruptive, some are pacing as they solve Rubik's Cubes, and others are standing in a corner, talking themselves through tough pattern solutions.
I suppose this is one way to tell the competitors from the siblings.
In the midst of this havoc is a woman in a purple polo and matching visor carrying a clipboard and trying to direct people as kids run in circles around her. She must be the one in charge. Or at least she's trying to be.
“Are you Karen?” I paste another smile on my face. If I start out friendly, people are usually friendly back, and I need her on my side if I'm going to get full access to write my article.
“Can I help you?” Karen glances quickly between me, her clipboard, and the swirling chaos.
“Hi, I'm Rebecca Flynn.” I hold out my hand, but she just stares for a moment before looking back to what's going on around us.
“Sammy! Tommy!” yells Karen. “What did I tell you two about sword fighting? It's not for hallways! If you want to do that, find an adult to go outside with you.”
Dropping my hand, I clarify, “I'm the reporter sent by theSunshine Tribuneto cover today's competition.”
“Fine, that's fine.” She does not sound as excited for me to be here as the woman out front did. “You can watch the competition from the auditorium or backstage. Don't get in the way, and don't talk to any of the competitors without their parents' permission.”
