Chapter Text
Cyrus sat on the hard floor, palms pressed against the cold tile. His legs were crossed as he arched his back against the cement block wall he was leaning against (he’d been there a while and his body was starting to hurt.) His lunch tray and books sat on either side of him, the only thing in his lap being a copy of The Grant Gazette . His fingers were stained with ink from turning the page.
Cyrus was currently selling the school newspaper the way he always did at the end of every month during his lunch period. He was the news editor (yes, the news editor; he was the only one at the moment since no one else wanted the job) for The Grant Gazette . He was supposed to be selling the paper with a bunch of other students from the class (all popular, all uncaring about anything except for how many likes they got on their most recent Instagram post), but they’d all either forgotten or hadn’t cared enough to follow through. “Buy a newspaper,” Cyrus said lamely to the passing students in the hallway, helplessly waving his copy in the air to get their attention. They scuttled past him without looking up, going to the restroom or the gym or wherever they were heading off to. Cyrus sighed—it came out more like a whine—as someone scooted his belongings out of the way and plopped down next to him.
He glanced over to see Andi, and though he’d only seen her twenty minutes ago when he’d gotten his lunch, she was a sight for sore eyes. “Hey, Cyrus,” she smiled, “how’s the newspaper selling coming along?”
Another person sat down next to him, dropping Cyrus’s lunch tray in his lap and making him grunt. Buffy. “Not good,” he sighed unhappily, looking between them both. “No one else showed up to sell with me like they were supposed to and no one’s buying the paper. I feel like a homeless man begging for coins,” he sighed again, chin resting in his palm.
Buffy laughed at that, snatching a copy of the newspaper from the stack on the floor. “It’s really going that badly?” she asked, eyes scanning the front page. That was one of Cyrus’s pages—the first four pages belonged to news.
“Yes,” he admitted. “ And it’s our first issue of the year. This blows.” It more than blew; the first issue was always one of the biggest of the entire year. It included everything—information about new teachers, back-to-school events, clubs and extracurriculars, sports, everything that happened over summer. It was always one of Cyrus’s favorite issues, too—it meant getting back into the rhythm of things. It meant he could breathe again.
See, Cyrus wasn’t good at a lot of things. Well, it was more that he was afraid to try new things, so he declared he was bad at them and gave up before he even started. But journalism—that was something he was good at, something that wasn’t too scary for him to give up on. He loved coming back to school and being reminded that he was good for something.
Buffy pulled something from her pocket—a couple of dollar bills. “Here,” she said, rolling her eyes as she dropped the money into his change cup. “Now me, Andi, Walker, and Jonah can all have our own copy.”
His eyes widened happily; his friends really were too good to him. “You didn’t have to do that, Buffy.”
She laughed again—almost a snort, really—before rolling her eyes for a second time.“Of course I did. If I hadn’t, you’d be moping around all day no matter how many baby taters we bought you. Besides, I’m sure this is your best one yet since you made a fourth of it.”
Cyrus smiled, and not just because he finally sold a few newspapers. “Thanks, Buffy. I’m glad someone cares since no one else seems to,” he said, moving his hand from his lap to the stack of newspapers. He counted them out—one, two, three—before giving two to Buffy for Jonah and Walker and one to Andi.
“Don’t worry, Cyrus,” Andi said, giving him a reassuring look and a comforting bump of the shoulder. “There’s always tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll sell more then.”
He pushed back the disappointment in his chest to give her a smile back. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said. At least, he hoped she was. He liked being on the newspaper staff; he liked it when people saw all of his hard work and appreciated the fact that he’d dug a little deeper to get the news. That hardly ever happened, though; most people didn’t give the paper more than a glance before shrugging and tossing it in the recycling bin, before tossing all his hard work down the drain to be repurposed into something else.
The bell rang a few seconds later, signalling the end of their lunch period. “Here, I’ll take your lunch tray,” Andi offered, taking it from his lap. “You clearly have enough on your hands.”
Cyrus looked at the clutter surrounding him. Somehow, he was expected to carry his books, the stack of newspapers he was selling, and the money he’d earned all in one trip. He filled with dread as he remembered he had to do so in the few minute passing period he had. “Thanks, Andi, you’re a lifesaver,” he said gratefully. He waved goodbye at them as he bent down to pick up his belongings, feeling like a human game of Jenga as he tried to balance everything in his arms without it all toppling to the ground.
Slowly but surely, Cyrus made his way to Mr. Spier’s room. Mr. Spier was somehow the math teacher and the journalism teacher at Grant High School—an odd combination that Cyrus had never dared to ask about in his three years of being on the newspaper staff. “Hey, Cyrus,” Mr. Spier greeted the boy as he stepped in the room, clumsily dumping the stack of newspapers and change cup on an empty desk. This detail didn’t seem to deter his teacher in the slightest, though—his eyes were gleaming the way they always did, like the center of his eyes were lightbulbs and not pupils. Cyrus appreciated that about him, his ability to somehow maintain constantly optimistic despite having to teach obnoxious high schoolers all day long. “Sell anything?” he questioned, lips tilting up in the slightest.
If Cyrus still didn’t have his arms full with books, he’d be wringing his hands nervously. He hated disappointing Mr. Spier, even after knowing him for three years. “Not great,” Cyrus admitted, lips dipping into a small frown. He didn’t bother telling him that his classmates ditched him last second—he really didn’t want to make enemies with any of them, especially in a class he loved as much as this one. “I swear, I tried to, but everyone just kept ignoring me!”
Mr. Spier nodded, face a mixture of understanding and sympathy. His eyes were still bright, though, which was always a good sign. It meant he wasn’t upset, that this wasn’t a big deal. “There’s always tomorrow,” he offered, giving Cyrus a pat on the shoulder. The gesture made relief warm in Cyrus’s chest, the worry that had resided there a few seconds ago vanishing completely. “Thanks so much for your help, Cyrus. Your work so far is already even more promising than last year’s. I guess the summer gave you some new ideas, huh?”
The sudden praise made Cyrus’s frown upturn in a crescent moon smile. “It must’ve,” he said in excitement, feeling a swell of pride bloom in his chest. The warning bell rang, making him snap out of his daze. “I better get to class, but I’ll see you seventh period, Mr. Spier!” Cyrus called after him. Mr. Spier gave him an appreciative nod as he made his way to class, a pleased smile on his face from the compliments on his news pages. He felt hopeful that maybe his hard work would finally pay off this year.
Cyrus loved being a news editor—he had ever since the end of freshman year when Mr. Spier asked him if he’d be interested in the position. To be on the newspaper staff, you had to fill out a form with two teacher recommendations after your first year of basic journalism. But Mr. Spier had approached him personally to ask him to be a news editor, which was an honor in itself. Most of the freshmen in the class were writers for different sections—none of them were editors except for Cyrus. He’d been so delighted when he was offered the position that he’d accepted it right on the spot. That was his first sign that this was something he was good at, something that stuck. Something he could really be proud of.
Sophomore year, he worked with the only other news editor on the staff—Sophie. She was a senior who was only taking the class to get her fine arts credits—Cyrus didn’t remember much about her besides the nasty habit she had for chewing on her fingernails and snapping her gum. (Not at the same time, of course. What a disturbing sight that would’ve been for young Cyrus Goodman.) She didn’t really care too much about the work—she spent more time popping bubbles with her gum than she did designing her pages or writing her stories. That was how Cyrus got the front pages and she’d been bumped to the back-half. He put more time and effort into everything he did—stories, designs, pictures—and it showed. That was when he knew for sure he was good, that it was more than just wishful thinking. So, towards the end of the year, he checkmarked the box that read “news editor” on his staff applications, and sure enough, he’d gotten the job for another year.
Unfortunately, it was junior year now, and Cyrus was the only news editor on the staff. Mr. Spier hadn’t found a replacement—the newspaper department at Grant was severely lacking and it wasn’t like people were begging to sign up for journalism when most information was now at the touch of the fingertips—so it was just him. Cyrus was fine with that, for the most part, anyway. He liked being in charge of this small thing, liked being the behind-the-scenes action. Sure, he didn’t have as much time to work on his pages now that his workload doubled—being responsible for four pages was a lot to juggle for one person, not to mention all the story assignments, pictures, editing, and writing that was involved...but he didn’t mind. Preferred it, even. It was easier than bothering someone else with his questions and problems. If he needed help, he always just asked Mr. Spier—he knew better than everyone else did, anyway, especially since he used to be the Editor-in-Chief at Grant when he’d gone to school.
Editor-in-chief. That was the word he kept coming back to. Because, yes , he loved his job as news editor—but he kept thinking beyond that. Beyond just being in charge of himself.
The editor-in-chief was basically the showrunner—the director. They supervised the entire publication, they were in charge of the whole operation. And it wasn’t that Cyrus was power hungry (if anything, it was the opposite—being responsible for an entire group of people was terrifying, so far out of his comfort zone that it was basically in a zone of its own) but he still wanted it. If only he wasn’t so scared, so worried of every possible risk or problem…
He shook his head. There was no use talking himself in circles like this—it was pointless. None of it would matter until he got those end-of-year staff applications, until he finally either checked the box that said “editor-in-chief” or didn’t. Or until he got a staff list back, stating his position for the following school year. None of it mattered until Mr. Spier closed the curtains on this year.
Cyrus’s eyes found the clock hanging in the middle of the hallway; if he didn’t keep moving he’d be late for fifth period Chemistry. And with that final, waning thought, he disappeared into the science classroom, trying and failing to check his thoughts at the door.
TJ stared down at his math quiz. Quiz wasn’t really the right word, though that’s exactly what Mr. Spier had called it when he’d passed the papers out. It was really more like a Rosetta Stone of math equations. It was almost like he was looking at a paper that was written in another language, one he knew vaguely but couldn’t quite grasp. Like it was almost on the tip of his tongue, but he could never quite figure it out.
Sighing, he let his eyes wander to the desk on his right. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this all year—and definitely not the first time he’d done it his entire high school career. The girl next to him had “x=4” written on her paper for the first question, so he flitted his eyes back to his own quiz and copied it down. The test wasn’t really that long—ten questions at the most—so it wasn’t that hard to quickly jot down the answers. Two, three, four, five, six questions he had completed (he counted the numbers on his fingers)—that meant he had four questions left to copy. TJ glanced back at the girl’s paper, shifting his head ever-so-slightly, but her elbow was up on the desk now (intentionally or not, he wasn’t sure) and it blocked his view. Silently, he grumbled—how was he supposed to get the answers now? It’s not like his brain could figure them out on its own…
In front of him was a shorter boy who seemed to be almost done with his test. If TJ leaned over his shoulder just enough…
Someone behind TJ cleared his throat, and he immediately froze. Luckily, he didn’t have to move—Mr. Spier moved into his line of sight without so much as a head turn from him. Strangely enough, he didn’t look angry—well, maybe a little. The brightness in his eyes made him look more manic than kind right then, which wasn’t a good sign. “TJ, your test, please?”
His face burned as his eyes scanned the room; almost the entire class had their eyes on him now. TJ handed over his quiz, at least expecting him to rip it up or draw a little red F in the corner (that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for TJ; he was used to F’s at this point) but he didn’t. Just gave him a tight expression and said, “See me after class.”
TJ’s face hardened into a glare, partially out of anger but mostly out of embarrassment, and he shot everyone that so much as dared to look in his direction a scowl. So much for trying to get his grades up…
The bell rang to dismiss fifth period some several minutes later, but TJ didn’t so much as get up from his seat. He stayed planted, digging his heels into the tile as he waited for all the other students to leave.
After a few seconds, he was finally alone with Mr. Spier, much to his own relief and dismay. He didn’t want him yelling at him for cheating or calling him lazy—because he wasn’t . Lazy, that is. He spent hours each night going over his math homework, trying to understand the problems, but it never stuck, never clicked. At this rate, he was too embarrassed to ask for help; he knew he needed a lot more help than the other students in his grade, and it would show if he asked. He’d rather Mr. Spier just assume he was stupid and let him off with the F.
Mr. Spier closed his door—apparently, he had prep sixth period—and stood in front of TJ. Neither of them said anything for the first few seconds, just staring at each other, until TJ finally spoke up. “I’m going to be late for my next class.” That much was true; his next class wasn’t really something he wanted to miss, anyway. He had US History next (something he tended to understand a lot more than whatever math equations Mr. Spier was so intent on throwing him.)
“I’m not sure that’s what you should be worried about,” Mr. Spier said. Not meanly, just matter-of-factly. TJ shrunk back in his seat, trying to act nonchalant about the whole thing even though he was nervously grinding his teeth into a pulp. He’d never been caught cheating before; that’s how good he’d gotten at it (which he wasn’t sure that was something to be proud of, but it was true, nevertheless.) He picked up the test he’d taken from TJ and set it back down on his desk. The paper was freshly scrubbed of answers, eraser marks still lingering on the material from where he’d failed to brush the squigglies away. “So, tell me why you cheated, TJ.” He sat on the desk in front of him, palms resting on his knees. His eyes were much too bright for comfort, the hint of a small smile teasing at his lips and his brown hair gleaming from the fluorescents. Mr. Spier was a younger guy, probably in his early thirties; TJ knew he was considered one of the “cool” teachers though he never saw him that way. He was a math teacher, so naturally, TJ associated him with bad feelings and resentment. It just worked out that way.
The question surprised him, making him tip his eyebrows up just the smallest bit. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting; he thought he’d get yelled at, called stupid and lazy, punished, but hadn’t anticipated him asking why . He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t know…,” he said. He did know, and Mr. Spier knew it, too. TJ could tell by the manic in his eyes.
“Yes, you do,” his teacher said, only confirming TJ’s fears. “Come on, just tell me. What, you didn’t study? Weren’t paying attention in class? Stayed up too late playing video games?” TJ gave him a hard shake of the head. “Then what is it?”
TJ snapped his eyes up, hard like glass. “I don’t know. I’m just not good at math, all right? Do I really need an explanation for why I cheated? I cheated because I’m stupid. That’s all there is to it.”
Mr. Spier clicked his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head. “TJ, you’re not stupid. I’ve seen your homework assignments. I see you doing the work but not getting the answers right.”
“That’s exactly what I’d call stupid,” TJ muttered under his breath.
He didn’t respond to that, just shaking his head. “Listen to me, you’re not stupid. I can tell you’re trying but just not grasping the concepts, and I can’t fault you for that. Have you tried a tutor?”
TJ almost scoffed. He’d had several tutors, ones his mom had set him up with over the years, but nothing ever stuck. Eventually, they’d all given up, decided that he was beyond their control. He couldn’t blame them; he’d given up on himself, too. The only way he got by anymore was by copying friends’ homework and cheating on tests, and clearly, even that wasn’t cutting it. “They don’t work,” he sighed impatiently. He couldn’t remember how many tables he’d sat at, pencil poised in his fingers as he leaned over a blank piece of paper that he’d erased at so much that the paper had worn thin and torn.
“How so?” Mr. Spier asked.
He glanced down at his test, using the flat of his hand to wipe the eraser marks off the paper. “It just doesn’t...I don’t know, click. It’s like there’s a switch in my brain that should be able to do math but it got switched off.” He didn’t tell him that it felt like he was grabbing at a handful of sand, watching the granules pour out of the sides of his fist like he was close to the answers but not close enough. He didn’t bother mention that it was like reading the same page of a textbook over and over again but not retaining any of the information. It wasn’t like it would matter, anyway; not like it would change anything. People would still think he was stupid, that he was a failure, no matter what he said.
Mr. Spier sighed, not in disappointment or frustration, but sadness. Concern. TJ certainly wasn’t used to that, either; his teachers usually just brushed him aside to be someone else’s problem. “I can’t ignore the fact that you cheated.”
TJ’s jaw tightened; he looked at everything that wasn’t Mr. Spier. He could get suspended from the basketball team for cheating, maybe even benched for the whole season. “I know,” he said, voice solid and cold. It didn’t waver the way it felt like it should’ve.
He let out a sigh again before focusing his eyes on TJ, fingertips drumming against the desk. “I have an idea, but you have to keep an open mind about it.”
TJ arched his eyebrows; open-mindedness definitely wasn’t his strong-suit, but he listened. “Okay.”
“You’re on the basketball team, right?” Spier asked. TJ gave him a simple nod, not sure he liked where this was going. “I’m friends with the coach. Good friends, in fact. I might even be able to convince him not to suspend you for the whole season.”
A ray of hope shot through TJ’s chest, but he shoved it down just as quickly as it appeared. This was a bargain; there was something he had to do in return. “What’s the catch?” he asked.
Mr. Spier gave him a half-smile, still tapping his fingernails against the desk. “Did you know I’m also the journalism teacher here?”
TJ frowned. He hadn’t, first of all, and it was also an odd question to ask. He’d noticed the row of computers in the back row of the classroom, but chalked them up to being for state testing or something. Maybe it was just for his journalism class. “No,” he said.
He shrugged, like this didn’t surprise him. “It’s not very common knowledge, plus the journalism department here is severely underfunded…” He inhaled deeply, like he was thinking. “I have an opening for one of the editor positions—for news, that’s always a difficult position to fill. Not as exciting as entertainment or opinion or feature.” He talked about this like TJ should understand what he was saying; he didn’t, and this whole conversation was only making him more confused than before. “Anyway, if you stand in as my editor, I’ll talk to your basketball coach about only suspending you for a few games. And in the meantime, I’ll talk to the guidance counselor about getting you a specialized tutor. One that knows how to deal with your problem.”
TJ felt dumbfounded. He probably looked that way, too; he was pretty sure his mouth fell open just a little bit, and he quickly closed it. “Why me?” TJ asked once he’d gathered his bearings. “I’m not a writer.”
“Oh, on the contrary,” Spier smiled. “Your English teacher—I’m good friends with her, too, you know—was just bragging to me about you. Told me you got an A plus on the last essay you did.”
TJ felt his cheeks warm. Since when was anything he did besides basketball worth talking about? This was all crazy; there was no way Spier was serious. “Yeah, well, I don’t know the first thing about journalism or being an editor or whatever.”
“Cyrus will teach you everything you need to know, I promise. He’s my other news editor—kind of shy, but he’s really smart. You’d be learning from the very best. All I need is for you to be willing to learn and to show up, okay?”
TJ didn’t speak; he wasn’t really sure what to say. How was he supposed to say no, anyway? He’d been backed into a corner and hadn’t even realized it until he was crouched on the floor. He had everything riding on this: his math grades, basketball. What if this was his only option?
Mr. Spier suddenly picked up the history textbook on TJ’s desk and glanced over it. “You like history?”
This time, TJ couldn’t resist the urge to snort. “Or I just have that class next.” When that earned him a raised eyebrow, he admitted, “It’s my favorite subject.”
He nodded at this, seeming to think. He began to click his fingernails against the hardcover, tap, tap, tapping away in thought. He must’ve been that annoying kid in school always tapping his pencil on the desk , TJ decided as he watched him silently. “You know, TJ, the news is just like our current history.” He said this with a vigor of confidence, like it was the most profound thought in the universe.
TJ rolled his eyes at the desk. “Somehow, I don’t think writing about whatever dance the school is putting on is really history.”
Mr. Spier shrugged, the tapping ceasing as he set TJ’s book back in its rightful place. “Suit yourself,” he said simply, raising his shoulders. Again, he didn’t do this unkindly, more like in an “oh, well” kind of way. “I’m afraid this is your only option, though, so I’d think it over if I were you. Unless you want to be benched for the rest of the season.”
TJ must’ve look conflicted because Mr. Spier added, “Look, it’d only be until I can find a replacement. This wouldn’t be a long-term thing unless you wanted it to be.”
He thought for a moment. About how crazy this whole thing was, about how he didn’t know a single thing about journalism or editing or whatever he would be doing, about how complicated it all sounded and that he’d have to get a specialized tutor for...whatever was wrong with him. But then he thought about all the little red F’s he’d received on previous math tests, the sense of shame he felt whenever copying off a homework assignment or test, the look of disappointment on his mom’s face whenever she saw his report cards. He thought about how he was letting...whatever this was win, and that he had a chance to do better. That he wouldn’t be benched for an entire season of basketball, the one thing he was good at, if he agreed to this. Then he leaned back in his seat, took a long look at Mr. Spier, and let out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Mr. Spier didn’t look very surprised, though he did allow his lips curve into a smile. Not a full-blown one, but it was still present. “You’ll do it,” he repeated.
TJ huffed in his seat; even though he was agreeing to do this, he definitely wasn’t happy about it. Not that he could really blame Mr. Spier; he’d been the one cheating, after all. “Yeah. But I promise you, this won’t be a long-term thing.”
This time, Mr. Spier beamed, clearly not able to hide it any longer. “We’ll see about that,” he joked, seemingly ecstatic about this whole ordeal. Great. He had enough happiness to make up for the lack that TJ had for this situation. “What do you have seventh period?”
He thought for a second. It wasn’t even a full month into the school year, after all, and he still hadn’t fully memorized his schedule. “Study hall,” he said after a moment, reciting the words from the mental timetable he had filed away in his brain.
“Great,” he grinned, and by the way he said it, you could tell he really meant it. “I’ll straighten it out with your study hall teacher that you’ll be coming here seventh period, okay?”
TJ nodded absent-mindedly, feeling like he was numb, like he was on auto-pilot. “Great,” Spier said again, eyes bright with excitement more than wildness now. He reached over and plucked a Post-It note off his desk—TJ was pretty close to the front of the room, after all, and how he hadn’t gotten caught cheating before really was a mystery—and wrote TJ a pass for US History.
He took the note and stuck it to the front of his textbook before getting up, turning on his heel to leave. As his hand was on the door knob, he heard Mr. Spier behind him again. “And TJ?” he asked. He glanced back, curious and bored all at the same time. “Thanks. I’m glad we could help each other out.”
“Me too,” was all TJ said as he exited the classroom, stomach turning with nerves. He thumbed the Post-It on his textbook as he made his way to class, wondering hopelessly just how he’d gotten himself into this mess and also wondering just how he’d get out of it.