LITMIR.BIZ

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his eyes—

      Stop thinking about him. Concentrate on the job….

      Pulling up a chair, I view the raw footage. The problem’s fairly obvious. There’s no focus. No angle into the story—and not a lot of time to get one. Part of that’s my fault. It was too big an assignment for someone new to the game. It also didn’t help that the boys got so into the skateboard story, neither of them cared about this one.

      “Run it again,” I mutter.

      The second time through, I see a way to make it work. “Mind if I do a little editing?”

      “Knock yourself out,” Jagger says.

      We switch chairs. “The interview with Mr. Sorren on his new European history club isn’t bad, but he goes on too long.” Jagger and Raul interrupted his class when they walked in. As the video camera pans the room, I see my sister sitting by herself. I’ll never hear the end of it if Bethany gets into the piece looking like a friendless twerp. The first thing I do is cut her out.

      See how I protect you? Bethany wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, so I won’t mention it. But somewhere, on a huge whiteboard in the sky, someone’s keeping track of my good deeds. At least I hope so.

      I fast-forward to a student interview. One of Jagger’s skater friends asks, “Why join anything?”

      “Might be able to use this kid as a segue….” I want to try an editing trick one of last year’s seniors used. Repeat a tiny section, in this case, “Why join anything?” between the interviews. It can give a piece momentum so it doesn’t feel all over the place.

      “Jagger, get the Weekly Bulletin and scan the Club Schedule into the computer. You know how to do that, right? Then blow it up, print it back out and we’ll shoot it….”

      The class ends before we’re close to finishing, but at least I have a plan. “I might be able to get a rough edit done during lunch.” I glance guiltily at Mr. Carleton. I’m not supposed to do Jagger’s work—but it’s crunch time. It’ll take too long to teach him the ins and outs of editing before the Friday broadcast.

      “You’re allowed to eat in here?” Jagger asks.

      “As long as we don’t spill anything on the equipment. You’re supposed to sit at one of the tables, but no on actually does.”

      “Should I meet you in the cafeteria?”

      No! No—

      “I brought a sandwich.”

      “Then I’ll come after I get through the line,” he tells me.

      Omigod, omigod, omigod…

      “Sure,” I mumble.

      “Val?” His touch is light but every fingertip tingles against my skin. “Thanks for helping.”

      He takes off. I walk to the B Team table for my backpack, trying to figure out his game. Did Jagger take the class because he thought it would be easy? That he’d be able to slack off while I do all his work? If so, he’s in for a very rude awakening.

      * * *

      At the lockers before lunch, Marci has to relay every detail about last night’s fight with her dad. Usually, I don’t mind listening, but right now there’s no time. Luckily, Phil shows up halfway through the replay. She turns to him for the kind of comfort I can’t give. A sloppy lip-lock.

      Released from best-friend duty, I burst into the Media Center. Mr. Carleton waves. Feet on desk, coffee in hand, he’s watching something on his computer.

      “Anyone from the team show up?”

      He shakes his head. “Not even Henry.”

      I glance at the clock. Jagger’s probably stuck in the lunch line. It’s why I bring a sandwich every day. Pulling up the piece, I continue editing where I left off, working quickly. It’s not until the bell rings that it occurs to me that Jagger stood me up.

      Unbelievable! How can I possibly fall for his B.S. again? Instead of being hurt, I’m furious—at both him and myself.

      At the end of the day, I head directly for the V row of lockers. Jagger always leaves school as soon as he can, and I want to catch him before he does. Laura Hernandez, she of the considerable rack and raven hair, hovers close to him, chatting a mile a minute. Instead of fighting for airspace, I shout from across the hall.

      “Yo! Voorham!” He glances over, waves. “Talk to you? Alone?”

      Jagger saunters over, probably so Laura and I are sure to notice how good he looks in his black jeans—front and back. I move to the gap in front of the band room. “What happened to lunch at the Media Center?”

      His eyes widen in surprise. “What do you mean? You blew me off.”

      “Are you kidding?” His crap might work on someone else but not me. Not anymore. “I might have been a little late, but I asked Carleton. He said no one from the team showed.”

      “I never talked to him,” Jagger tells me. “I peeked into the room, saw you weren’t there, so I waited in the hall. After a while I figured you forgot.”

      “I wouldn’t forget—”

      He puts up a hand to still my protest. “Let’s not fight! It’s just one of those crossed-wire situations. Not like it hasn’t happened before.” He waits for me to nod reluctantly before asking, “Did you work on the piece?”

      “Yes. But there’s still plenty to do.”

      “What about music?”

      “I was a little busy editing, Voorham. By myself.”

      He ignores the dig. “I don’t have anything that’ll work on the iPod, but there’s a couple thousand songs on my laptop.”

      From across the hall, Laura yells, “Jagger! Coming back today or what?”

      He looks annoyed and lifts a “one second” finger. “Don’t worry, Val. I’ll go home right now and find something good. How about I bring a bunch of choices tomorrow so you can pick what’s best?”

      Forget flowers or chocolate. Jagger knows the way into this girl’s heart. No matter how well it’s edited, a driving beat goes a long way toward disguising boring footage.

      “Okay.” I sigh. “It’ll run at least two and a half minutes, so make sure the music’s long enough.”

      He gives me the patented Jagger grin before going back across the hall. Laura immediately starts talking as if he never left. I know I should get to the Media Center, but I’m glued to the spot. Did Jagger tell the truth and lunch was just a missed connection? Is he really eager to create a sound track to brighten up the club segment? Or is listening to music a perfect excuse to make out with Laura Hernandez on that extremely comfortable bed he has?

      That thought is what finally gets me to move away.

      5

      I stay late again on Thursday to tweak a few things. The broadcast runs 15:30—a perfect time. Omar shot the anchor ins and outs, so it’s beautifully framed. Henry looks surprisingly comfortable behind the anchor desk. The edited flow, football to Spotlight, clubs to skateboarding, ends on a high note.

      Battered briefcase in hand, Mr. Carleton barks, “Shut it down, Val. We were supposed to be out of here five minutes ago.”

      I press Save one final time, scoop up my backpack and head for the door. “I had one last thing to check….”

      Mr. C. flips the light switch. “It’s fine. A good first broadcast.”

      Fine? A good first broadcast. Like it would be way better if the team was more experienced? As soon as I get home, I text Marci. Her reply is no comfort: Great! An easy A.

      All night long, I’m antsy. Bethany’s

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