Payback Time Read Free Page B

I said. "In fact, it sounds fantastic."
    McNulty leaned back. "See. We're all part of one big family."
    I cleared my throat. "How about we get started? I've got some questions. First—"
    "No, no, no," McNulty said, pointing the pencil at me again. "No questions—not today not ever. This job takes forever and pays peanuts. Here's how it works. You write down or tape what I tell you. When I'm done, jazz it up however you want, but never make me, my coaches, or my players look bad. Understand?"
    Mr. Dewey had warned us about people like McNulty, but this was my first time dealing with one. "A reporter who lets himself be pushed around is a traitor to his profession." That's what Dewey had said.
    I could feel myself trying to say: "
Coach, I will ask the questions I want to ask, and I will write what I want to write.
"
    In the classroom, practicing with bald, bowtied Mr. Dewey, I had spit out similar words like a machine gun spits out bullets. But McNulty's eyes were scary. I squirmed as he stared at me, feeling like a snot-nosed preschooler who'd been caught marking a wall with crayons. "Understood?" he said again, a threat in his voice, as though he might force me to do cartwheels in front of the football team if I argued.
    "Yes, sir."
    From a drawer he took out three sheets of paper covered with black type and shoved them at me. "Here's the information for the football preview. Horst Diamond will be the focus, and you'll be leading every game story with his name, too. He's a lock for a D-I scholarship. UW is drooling over him, but he's got a shot at a bigger school—Notre Dame, or even USC. Your job is to get him publicity."
    I scanned the three sheets. "But what if somebody else has a better game?"
    "Nobody's going to have a better game. Run or pass—everything we do goes through Horst. I want a swarm of college coaches around here. They'll see him, and they'll see me and the program I run. I do not intend to spend my life coaching high school."
    McNulty stood. "Read those pages, prepare a few questions, and before practice tomorrow you can interview Horst. He'll be at the field fifteen minutes early. Have your photographer come along for that." He paused. "You've got a photographer, right?"
    "A photographer?"
    "Every sports story needs pictures. Either you've got to take them yourself, or you've got to get a photographer. Didn't you know that?"

9
    B ACK HOME, I washed down an almond pastry with a cup of hot chocolate. While I ate, my mind spun in circles. When Mr. Dewey had told us to be courageous, he'd been talking about journalists uncovering corruption. But Coach McNulty? Horst Diamond? They were just sports figures. Sports is—well—sports. So why make a big deal out of nothing?
    As I started on a second almond pastry I remembered what McNulty had said about the photographer. All I know about cameras is that I hate having my picture taken. I called Alyssa.
    "Relax, Mitch," she said. "I've got you a photographer."
    "You do? Who?"
    "Kimi Yon."
    "Kimi Yon?"
    "She's into sports photography, or at least that's what she says. Personally, I think she wants to get some photos published because that would look good on her college applications. Harvard, Yale, and Princeton are the only schools good enough for her."
    "You don't like Kimi?"
    "I like her okay. I'm just being bitchy. Don't tell her what I said, okay?"
    "I won't." I paused. "Does Kimi know she'll be working with me?"
    "Mitch, don't say it that way. Besides, it's not like she's going to the Winter Ball with you." Alyssa laughed at the thought, and I managed to laugh along.
    "Could you give me her number? I've got an interview tomorrow with Horst Diamond."
    "It's 789–9365. Mitch, I'm sorry. What I said was mean."
    "Forget it."
    "Look, I've got to get off. I told you about my dad and minutes. "
    Â 
    Kids who don't like Kimi joke that there are actually two Kimis: the one who gets an A on everything and the one who gets an A+. When I first