Mischa Thrace - Bury the Lead

Editor: Chelsea Cambeis

Proofreader: Jamie Rich

Bury the Lead

Copyright 2021 Mischa Thrace

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authors imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937564

ISBN: 978-1-64397-219-0 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-220-6 (Softcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-221-3 (Ebook)

For information, write:

BHC Press

885 Penniman #5505

Plymouth, MI 48170

Visit the publisher:

www.bhcpress.com

To all the Sherlockians who

dream of having their own mystery to solve

I nterview clothes are the devil.

The starched white collar of my button-down squeezes at my throat like a noose, doing exactly nothing to assuage my nerves.

Remind me why Im doing this, I say, waving a leather folder at Ravi, who has spent the past ten minutes waiting for me to remove myself from his passenger seat. This isnt even the kind of story we tell. Were better than this.

Well, yeah. Im better than most things. He offers me a goofy grin. But dont you bring me into it. This is your grand plan, Captain Overachiever.

This was a stupid plan. ThisI slap the dashboard with the folderis stupid. Its just human interest.

Its what they asked for, Ravi says. And its good. You know that.

Its boring. Sweat pools beneath my equally boring black blazer.

Its a requirement. Youre the one who wanted this internship, remember?

Hes right. He usually is, although even under the pain of torture, I wouldnt admit it, because Id absolutely never hear the end of it.

I just dont want to be pigeonholed. I dont want to report feel-good stories about cute kids overcoming obstacles. Anyone can do that. I want the stories that matter, that mean something, that are more interesting than my sister and her horses. Theres no mystery thereno scandal. Its all rainbows and fluffy bunnies.

He pins me with a stare over the rims of his black glasses and holds it until I squirm.

I sigh. Its the outfit. It has me out of sorts. Okay, fine. Obviously her life isnt all fluffy bunnies, but you know what I mean. I want to be taken seriously, and this doesnt exactly scream serious.

This is your foot in the door. Stop trying to find a reason it wont work. You did what was expected. You told a story. A complete story, a unique story. This isnt some half-assed interview with an uncle who wants to relive his glory days of getting paid to shoot brown folk in other countries.

The assignment for the senior internship application was to find a community member to feature in a Profile in Courage. Submissions could be written or filmed, depending on which department the applicant hopes to be placed in. I did both, even though I know my chances of getting an on-air position are slim. Which is fine by me. On no planet do I want to read canned stories other people got to investigate. I want to find my own stories, write my own exposs, and present my own findings on my own terms.

This internship could be my ticket to those stories, and those stories could pay for my ticket out of Maplefield. Mine and Ravis both.

BayStateNews covers everything from local charity events to national politics, and somewhere in there is the story that will help me win the Excellence in Emerging Journalism Award, a contest sponsored by the New England Journalism Association that awards $10,000 to a student journalistmoney I desperately need if Im ever going to get out of Maplefield.

Im dying here, Ravi says. The air conditioner in his car is on the fritz, and unless were going over fifty, it only hisses vaguely warm air from the vents. Sweat plasters black curls to his forehead, and Im glad my pixie cut is short enough to avoid that particular look. The clocks ticking. You doing this or what?

All right, yes. Im going. I gather up my stuff. He turns the car off and leaps out, running to open my door for me. I roll my eyes, even though its cute. Youre such a dork.

He bows, offering me a hand. Just reminding you that chivalrys not dead.

No, but you might be if you keep acting like this, I say, but I let him pull me up out of the car.

You wouldnt. Youd be lost without your cameraman. He trots back to the drivers side to retrieve his messenger bag and camera. Plus, youd never find a replacement as pretty.

Hes right on both counts, though I care far more about the first point than his relative prettiness, even if it is objectively quite high. When were on a story together, Ravis like an extension of my own body, my own brain even. He knows just what to shoot and exactly how to frame it to convey the feeling I want, even when I cant put it into words. Its one of the many factors that makes him my favorite human.

I double-check that everything is in the folder: the memory stick, the story, a resume, and a stack of printouts from the online news site I started three years ago. I set my phone to silent, then drop it in my jacket pocket. Im morally opposed to purses, and my backpack, with its myriad of pins and patches, isnt professional enough to bring in. The faux leather folder I nicked from Dads study will have to do.

Noodz in forty-five? I ask.

Noodz in forty-five, Ravi confirms.

Noodz, the citys best ramen restaurant, is the reason Ravi volunteered to drive the forty-five minutes to the interview in the first place. Well, that and to avoid the herd of friends his sister currently had visiting.

Then here goes nothing. I turn to cross the street. The BayStateNews building is intimidatingly modernall glass and metal angles, a world away from my cozy bedroom and homemade website.

Wait, wait! Ravi fumbles through his bag and curses to himself. Ah, here it is. He has a wild grin on his face that I cant quite read. He grabs the edge of my blazer and fastens a small enamel pin beneath the lapel. Its a black silhouette of a hawk-nosed man with a pipe and deerstalker hat overlaid with the words Weapon of Mass Deduction in silver script. I burst out laughing.

For luck, he explains, a flush creeping up his olive cheeks that I choose to attribute to the heat of the August sun. He flips the lapel to reveal a flash of the pin, then lays it back in place. You still look all professional-like on the outside, but heysecret Sherlock.

Its a perfect gift for someone who worships at the altar of Sherlock Holmes.