The Cubs Get the Scoop by Beth Vrabel

Author:Beth Vrabel [Vrabel, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Running Press
Published: 2020-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

I DANCED A LITTLE as I skipped up to the back door, practicing how I would make my entrance on the show. A little shuffle, shuffle, wiggle, wiggle. The audience would love that.

Woodward, stashed inside my T-shirt, did not. She yowed again and I felt either tiny teeth or tiny claws swipe at my belly. I cradled the little kitten lump with my hand and refocused. Get upstairs, hide Woodward, back to Mom.

Mom and Dr. Burke were talking in the living room, which was convenient because it gave me ample time to sneak up the stairs but also strange because Mom never sat in the living room. We spent almost all our time in the kitchen. Every time anyone had come over (which was usually just Mrs. Kim-Franklin, since she and Mom were best friends since college), Mom served mugs of tea in the kitchen. Except now, the teapot was on the kitchen table and they were in the living room.

Dr. Burke and Mom were talking in the super-polite way two adults who don’t know each other well talk. “I’m confident all of your concerns are unfounded,” Mom said. Huh. I guessed maybe Dr. Burke had some reservations about Ellen.

Next to the teapot was a copy of the Journal. It was folded back to show the editorial Min had partially memorized. I paused to scan before sneaking over to the stairway.

The editorial, or opinion piece, was titled, Leave the reporting to the pros. I rolled my eyes. I had tried to give the Bear Creek stories to the professionals; the local newspaper had shuttered. Under the editorial was a column, an opinion piece written by a newspaper staff member. I recognized the mugshot as Randolph Yellow, the snotty reporter who had acted like we weren’t real reporters the day Gordon busted the criminal. The headline read: Children should be playing, not reporting. The paragraph Min had recited from memory was pulled out and in large italics. Swallowing down another growl, I shoved the paper under my T-shirt next to Woodward.

I tiptoed through the kitchen toward the staircase with one hand cradling Woodward through my T-shirt.

“I will do what I have to do to keep my son safe,” Dr. Burke said. “Our parenting styles are clearly not in sync.”

I paused, a foot on the bottom stair. Part of me screamed to stick to the plan. Most of me was glued in place, pondering what Dr. Burke was saying.

Mom cleared her throat. Uh-oh. She only made that noise when she was about to launch into a what-were-you-thinking conversation. “Our styles might differ—I, for example, respect my child’s autonomy and independence, whereas you appear to be more interested in controlling your son’s behavior—but I promise you, the Newspaper Club is a safe pastime.”

“Safe?” Dr. Burke said, her voice still polite. She laughed once. “How long did you study journalism?”

“I studied for four years at Penn State and interned for a year after that.”

“Yet you think a bunch of ten- to twelve-year-olds can take

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