Runner by Carl Deuker

was Melissa. She was drinking a latte and picking at a biscotti. When she spotted me, her face broke into a smile.
    I ordered a mocha and a croissant, paid, and then carried my tray to her table. "Where is everyone?" I asked as I sat down across from her.
    She frowned. "I don't think anyone else is coming."
    She fingered a stack of file folders in front of her that I guessed were for stories. I broke off a piece of the croissant and ate it.
    "Did you write anything?" she asked.
    I shook my head. "I tried, Melissa. I really did. I started something on salmon. But what I wrote sounded like an eighth-grade report. A bad one."
    She looked away. "It doesn't matter. Thomas is the only one who submitted anything, and all his stuff is sports. Annie hasn't written a word—I'm sure that's why she's not here. Natasha spends all her time studying for the SAT. I'll never get an issue out before Christmas. Mr. Bresnan is my faculty advisor, and he doesn't care. He gets paid the same if there's one newspaper or if there's ten. I thought if it was a great newspaper it might help me get into Stanford, but the whole thing is going to be a total failure."
    "You'll get in anyway. You've got good grades."
    She managed a weak smile. "You need more than good grades for Stanford. You have to show something special for them. And there's nothing special about me."
    "That's not true," I said, and right away I felt stupid.
    She reached over and put her hand on mine. "That's sweet, Chance."
    After that we sipped our drinks and talked about Arnold's class. I was in no hurry to finish, and she wasn't either. Finally, around ten, she stretched. "It's so warm in here, I'm getting sleepy. Do you want to go for a walk? Sunset Hill Park isn't too far."

    We took Thirty-fourth Avenue, a quiet, dark street on the bluff above the marina. The night was clear and cold, with more stars in the sky than usual. When we reached the park, she stopped, leaned against the chainlink fence, and pointed down to the marina. "Can you see your boat?" she said.
    "I can pick out the pier," I said. "But that's it. Our boat is small."
    A barge, probably carrying sand headed for Salmon Bay Gravel, was gliding across Puget Sound. A couple of big freighters were anchored offshore.
    "Those ships are ugly when you see them up close," she said, "yet they're beautiful at night from a distance."
    A chill wind came up, and she leaned into me for warmth. I put my arm around her, and she leaned in closer. For a long time, neither of us said anything. Finally, a foghorn broke the silence. "I've got to get home," she said, looking at her watch.
    For the first few blocks walking back, it was as if we were alone in the world. That she was headed for Stanford and I was headed nowhere didn't seem to matter. But when we reached streets with more traffic, we pulled apart. By the time we'd reached her car, the mood that had brought us together was gone.
    "I've been thinking about the newspaper," she said.
    "What about it?"
    "Natasha's idea was good. I talked to my dad. He says he doesn't think there's much danger from terrorists, but that there always is smuggling on a waterfront. He says that if you kept your eyes open, you might see something. Now that would really make a great story."
    I tried to keep my voice level. "Melissa, if the cops can't find smugglers, how can I?"
    "It's just an idea," she said. "It can't hurt to keep your eyes open."

CHAPTER TWELVE
    It was early Saturday morning, not even eight o'clock. The sky was wet and gray. I was headed to Little Coney for breakfast. That was something I'd started doing every Saturday now that I had a little money. As I walked along the marina, I pulled my coat tightly around me and buried my hands in my pockets.
    I stopped at the newspaper rack in front of Pier M to buy a newspaper for my dad. I stuck a quarter into the slot and opened the rack. The top newspaper was wrinkled, so I took one from further down in the stack. "Two Soldiers Killed" the