Ace
“Hey Arin, have you had a chance to look at that story I did on the Kwanza Culture Festival?”
Ace pressed his lips together at the use of his first name. They would have to address that at some point. He looked up to find one of the interns—Risai—standing beside his desk, waiting for his assessment.
“I just finished up,” he said. “Come take a seat. Let’s talk about it.”
Her mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “That bad?”
“Not at all.” Ace shook his head. “No, you did really well for your first article. I just wanted to go over a few things in depth.”
Risai took the only other seat in his cubicle and clasped her hands together, as though preparing for the worst. Pulling up the article, Ace skimmed through it again. The festival had taken place the day before, and the article was set to appear in the weekend issue.
“This seems like a subject that’s close to your heart,” he said, looking back up at Risai.
She nodded. “My family immigrated from Zimbabwe before I was born. We celebrate Kwanza every year, and so do many of our friends.”
Her eyes lit up as she spoke of the traditions. She seemed so full of promise. And it was going to fall to him to crush her.
“It isn’t a bad thing to be invested in your stories. But you have to maintain a professional distance when you’re writing for a newspaper.”
At least, for a newspaper like the Chronicle. Bud would have loved the article. He would have found it refreshing, and an amazing account of what had gone on at the festival. But Ace had learned almost immediately that Nicholas had a different idea of how journalism should be.
“Of course,” Risai said, ducking her head. “I’ll do better next time.”
She started to stand, but Ace held up a hand to stop her. Something about her interested him. Her enthusiasm for the people she wrote about.
“Why did you decide to go into journalism?” he asked.
Risai took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I love the people,” she said. “Every story I’ve done, I’ve met people with stories of their own. I see what they’re going through, and I want to tell their stories.”
God, that answer was so similar to his reasons it was spooky. Unfortunately, that would get her nowhere. Sure, she would have to learn how to write a good feature, but getting too involved would only hold her back in the long run, as it had him.
“That’s not a bad thing,” he said carefully. “And in some places, telling those stories is appropriate. But—”
“But I can’t let myself get too close. I understand that. I do. But I also think journalists are afraid of getting too close anymore. If we’re not passionate about the people we’re writing about, what’s the point?”
“You say that now, but when you’re still a field reporter in ten years—”
“Then I’ll be a field reporter who loves her job.” She crossed her arms and stared at him, determined. “You said yourself, there are places where telling those stories is appropriate. Where do I find those?”
In a small town, with a single newspaper everyone read. Where the editor-in-chief was also the little league baseball coach, and the residents of the nursing home knew him by name. His chest ached as he thought of Wilmingson. Of the life he’d left behind. And of Phoenix.
Ace cleared his throat. “My honest answer? Smaller towns. Or, at the very least, smaller publications.”
Risai shrugged. “So be it. I don’t mind working for a smaller publication.”
“Really?”
“Really. If that’s what it takes to be appreciated for the stories I tell, that’s where I’ll go.”
“Then you’re leaps and bounds ahead of where I was at your age. When I was an intern, the thing that interested me most was being the next Bob Woodward.” As he said the words, he thought of Constance Whitaker and smiled.
“I don’t want to be the next Bob Woodward. I’d rather be the first Risai Mapara.”
“That’s a good way to think.” He smiled and looked back to his screen. “I’ll send my notes back over in a bit. You’re a great writer, Risai.”
“Thank you.”
She stood, and this time, Ace didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he stared back at the article in front of him. In his eyes, it was perfect. Each sentence portrayed just how much the festival meant both to the community, and to Risai. Sighing, he highlighted a section and went to work.
***
For the next two hours, Ace worked steadily, finishing first Risai’s article, then two others. By the time lunch rolled around, his stomach felt as though it were going to cave in on itself. Pushing away from the desk, he stood and walked into the kitchen, over to the fridge. He grabbed his box from inside, then closed the door.
“Anything good, Sherry?”
Ace jumped as Ross Graham laughed. Ross was by far the worst part of the job. Senior editor of the travel section, he had taken to calling Ace ‘Sherry’ immediately after learning his surname. If he thought himself funny, he was sorely mistaken.
“Nothing special. Just some leftover taco meat.”
“Taco?” Ross’s grin grew even wider, and Ace braced himself. “Would have thought you more a sausage man, myself.”
And there it was. Though Ace knew, logically, that homophobia was everywhere, hearing it in one of the most diverse cities in the world was something like a slap to the face. Even if it wasn’t threatening, the jokes were tiring, especially since he’d come from a much smaller town where everyone had been so accepting.
“Do you want something, or are you just stretching your legs?” Ace asked, not once looking at him.
Ross stared at him for several seconds. Ace could feel him, even though he refused to look. “You know, I find it interesting that you’re working over in the Community section.”
Ace knew better than to take the bait, but he did it anyway. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
Leaning against the counter, Ross crossed his arms. “I looked at your resume. You did an internship with National Geographic. Then you went to Boston, where you worked on their travel section. You clearly liked that side of reporting, did you not?”
Once upon a time, Ross would have been right. He had preferred stories about the world at large, rather than the community. He wanted to tell the stories of the people he met. But then he’d gone home and realized communities had their own stories. Their own voices. And they deserved to have those stories told.
Sitting at the small table in the kitchen, Ace took a bite of his food. It had gone cold during their conversation, but he wasn’t going to try and heat it again. Ross wasn’t going away any time soon, so he might as well eat while he could.
“I did,” he said, in between bites. “It was interesting, being able to report on different cultures. Different people.”
“You’re right. It is interesting. It’s probably for the best that you’re in the Community section, though. Your people aren’t always accepted wherever they go.”
There was no question what Ross meant, but Ace wasn’t going to play along. “What do you mean, my people? Connecticotians? Gingers? Aikido enthusiasts?”
Ross didn’t smile. “I think we both know what I meant.”
“Do we?” Ace looked up at him for the first time. “If you have a problem with me being gay, then just say so. But I think we both know it’s more than that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.”
He’d met Ross’s type before. The editors who thought highly of themselves, even though they had no reason to. They knew how fragile their position was, so they belittled and tormented those who posed the biggest threat. In a way, it was a compliment. A sign that Ace was indeed a good reporter.
“You’re worried about your job, aren’t you?” he pressed. He was probably playing with fire, but Ace didn’t care. “Performance reviews not like you hoped? Catherine’s probably mentioned a time or two how your section could be improved. And now I come along. A guy with travel experience working on the Community section? Looks out of place, doesn’t it? You have to ask yourself. What does Catherine have planned?”
He knew for a fact she didn’t have anything planned, but Ross deserved to wonder, just for a minute.
“She’s not going to replace me,” Ross said. But he didn’t sound so certain. “I’ve been with the Chronicle for eight years.”
Ace shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Do you really want to test that theory, though?”
A muscle twitched in Ross’s jaw, and Ace knew he had won this round. There was something satisfying about that. He’d been itching to take Ross down a notch since he’d met him, and now it seemed he had done just that.
“You may think you’re Catherine’s golden boy, but I’d watch your back if I were you,” Ross said.
Ace couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Oh no, what are you going to do? Come up with some other lame-ass nickname?”
“Go to hell.” The words came through clenched teeth.
“Honestly? I can’t imagine it would be any worse than being in the same room as you.”
Ross’s face flushed, and Ace’s smile faltered for a moment. There was a very real possibility he was going to be punched. But instead of doing that, Ross turned on his heel and fled the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
Ace let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing. And to think, he’d thought Makenna was bad.