The Last Reporter by Michael Winerip

times twelve is seven hundred and twenty. Ten white times seventy-two is seven hundred and twenty. One carton times seven hundred and twenty is seven hundred and twenty.”
    Ronald clapped again. “That was a good speech,” he said. “I love speeches.”
    The bell rang. The period was over. The kids in 107A stayed in the room, but Adam had to get to his next class. As he put his reporter’s notebook in his back pocket and headed toward the door, Derek grunted to him.
    Shadow started to translate, but Adam interrupted.
    “I will come back, Derek,” said Adam. “Thanks. It was nice meeting you, too. And I’m sorry I almost knocked you over.”
    Shadow looked at Derek, looked at Adam, and said, “It was nice meeting me, too.”
    Adam nodded. “Always. See you at the
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meeting.”
    As Adam walked out, Mr. Willy caught up to him. “You know,” he said, “if you really want to write a complete story about Shadow, you need to meet Mr. Johnny Stack.”
    “I know,” said Adam. “Shadow talks about him all the time. His boss at the Rec.”
    “Oh, he’s a lot more than that,” said Mr. Willy.

Adam did not see the bike again. He did see the chubby kid, several days later, in the hallway. This time, Adam had the serial number with him — he carried it everywhere now — but the kid said the bike was gone. “I told you I just borrowed it,” he said.
    Adam had been checking the bike rack daily; the kid might be telling the truth.
    “Who’d you borrow it from?” Adam asked.
    “Don’t know his whole name,” said the boy.
    Adam said he’d take half a name.
    “Well, it’s James,” said the boy. “But it wasn’t his bike. He told me he borrowed it from another kid.”
    Adam felt like a jerk; he should have grabbed the bike when he had the chance.
    The newspaper staff looked forward to
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meetings. To be at school in a room full of kids with no teacher always felt great — even when Jennifer was bugging them about getting in their overdue stories. To be able to flop on those dirty, iced-tea–stained couches again and sit on top of desks and tables and throw their backpacks anyplace and make loud burping noises and other gassy sounds that weren’t burps without having to say “excuse me”— that was about as grown-up as any middle-school kid could get.
    Since Mrs. Quigley had secretly allowed them to use 306 again, everything was ratcheted up another level. They felt positively tingly, as if they were on this underground mission to change the world against all odds.
    For all they knew, Tremble school security might come crashing through the door at any second and raid the place.
    Everything seemed way braver and riskier than usual.
    Unfortunately for Adam and Jennifer, this made meetings harder to control. They were all so psyched, especially Ask Phoebe.
    Adam was ready to kill her. She was raising her hand every second, and while he kept shading his eyes as though the light coming through the windows was blinding him from seeing her wiggly hand, Jennifer was a far better human being and called on her.
    Big mistake. “I may need three pages for my first Ask Phoebe column,” said Ask Phoebe. “So many people need advice. It’s unbelievable how confused everyone is. I’ve had to come up with ten tips on how to stay out of dramas. For the September issue, I’m going to have to do a special column for the new sixth graders on five ways to decide where to sit in the middle-school cafeteria —”
    “Phoebe,” said Jennifer, “slow down. We’re just trying to get the June issue out. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves —”
    “Christmas will have to be an extra-long column on gift advice. I already have seventy-three websites that can turn your holiday season around. And I never had a clue what a big issue hair is. Everyone’s being let down by their volumizing shampoos and fortifying conditioners. And Valentine’s Day, oh my gosh, you have to listen to these love letters. Until Ask Phoebe, I