The Last Reporter Read Online Free Page A

and Adam bustled around, crawling beneath the table, reaching up on shelves and in the far corners, pulling out a bag of lime, garden gloves, hand rakes, spades, a pitchfork.
    “I think that’s it,” said Don.
    “Let’s do it,” said Alan.
    “What about the bird doo?” said Adam. “Where do we get that?”
    “Very funny,” said Don.
    “Joking makes time go fast,” said Alan.
    “I don’t think I was,” said Adam. “I didn’t see any. Where do you get it?”
    “Birds,” said Don.
    “Definitely birds,” said Alan.

They were all back in room 306 for the first time since the newspaper had been shut down in April.
    Things, however, were far from perfect.
    The vital links that made it a newspaper were gone.
    The phones had been disconnected.
    The computer terminals had been removed.
    The fax machine had been confiscated.
    Still, it felt like theirs. Eddie the janitor had been so kind — he hadn’t cleaned up a thing. Old stories, old photos, and old notebooks were strewn everywhere. Sammy’s conversion tables for calculating his groundbreaking yummy-yummy rating system for the bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches were right where he’d left them, spread all over the floor in a back corner of the room. The survey sheets for Adam’s legendary science-fair investigation were on the desk where he and Shadow had spent so much time plotting the graphs. The Iceberger Crossing sign was on the same couch where Phoebe, world’s greatest third-grade reporter, had fallen asleep in the midst of researching her landmark story that saved the three-hundred-year-old climbing tree.
    All in all, it was every bit as messy and dusty and gross as it had been on that now-famous afternoon when Mrs. Boland had made her surprise visit and announced she’d never seen such a pigsty.
    “It looks great,” said Phoebe.
    “I know how much you missed it,” said Jennifer. “Me, too.”
    Jennifer had told the acting principal, Mrs. Quigley, that
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staff members were determined to keep the paper going on their own. And immediately, Mrs. Quigley had said that as far as she was concerned, they could use room 306 for their meetings until the end of the year. She told Jennifer that if school officials found out, they might fire her on the spot. But Mrs. Quigley didn’t care; she was only a fill-in principal and was leaving at the end of June anyway. “Let them sack me early,” she said. “It would be good for my golf game.”
    Adam and Jennifer knew that Mrs. Quigley had done everything possible to save the
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but too many powerful people were against them.
    “There’s no way I can get your phones and computers back,” she said. “But I can provide you with a little sustenance now and then.”
    “Any support would be great,” Jennifer said.
    Before Adam and Jennifer could tell everyone their plans for saving the
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Phoebe spotted a big box under the old picnic table they used for story conferences.
    “Jennifer, call 911!” yelled Phoebe. “We had a lockdown drill today. If we see any suspicious packages, we’re supposed to tell a grown-up immediately and run for cover.”
    “I think it’s OK,” said Jennifer.
    “The
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has ticked off so many powerful grown-ups,” said Phoebe, “a million people would love to blow us up. Call 911!”
    “Stay calm, Phoebe,” said Jennifer. She took a pen and carefully cut a slit along the top of the carton. She pushed her hand through the incision and felt around. There was a crinkling sound.
    “Don’t!” Phoebe yelled. “Did you hear that?
Ticking!
It could be a roadside bomb! Take cover, everyone!” She rolled under a nearby desk and tucked herself into a tight ball, the way they’d practiced at the lockdown drill.
    The rest of them stared at Phoebe but did not budge, looking back to Jennifer.
    Jennifer reached in, pulled out a flat, round object, examined it carefully, removed the cellophane, then went over to the nearby desk, leaned down, and handed Phoebe a Mrs.