Free Behind the Curtain by Peter Abrahams Page B

Ingrid? I’m talking about the budget cuts that wiped out the student newspaper.”
    “Oh, that,” said Ingrid.
    “What other outrage could there be?”
    “None,” said Ingrid.
    Mr. Samuels made a curt nod, the kind that said they were on the same page, kindred spirits. She and Mr. Samuels? At that moment, Ingrid had a very weird thought: I’ll have to leave this town one day.
    Mr. Samuels turned to his screen, stuck reading glasses on the end of his nose. “How’s this for an opening graf?” he said. “‘Question: What kind of town is too cheap even to put up the measly funding for a middle school student newspaper? Answer:Echo Falls. Yes, readers, this picture-perfect little town of ours, or so those good folks over at the Chamber of Commerce would have us believe. Very quietly—some might even say on the sly’”—Mr. Samuels glanced up at Ingrid, gave her a significant look—“‘the School Committee cut The Clarion , voice of Ferrand Middle School, out of the budget three years ago. My question to you, school committee: What the heck were you thinking?’” He swiveled around in her direction, an aggressive look on his face, like he’d just challenged someone to a fistfight. “Well?” he said.
    “Um,” said Ingrid. The truth was she couldn’t have cared less about The Clarion . Teachers always supervised student newspapers, meaning the fun got squeezed out. But Mr. Samuels didn’t want to hear that, so Ingrid said, “Pretty hard-hitting, Mr. Samuels.”
    “They’ll have to lump it,” said Mr. Samuels. “I’m not changing a syllable. Some of the powers that be in this town could use a good smack upside the head.”
    “Does that include the board of assessors?” Ingrid said.
    He took off his glasses, peered at her. “Don’t tellme you’ve got something on them?”
    “Oh, no,” said Ingrid, “it’s nothing like that.”
    “Too much to hope for,” said Mr. Samuels. “Let me guess—this is about your grandfather.”
    “Yes.”
    “Now he’s locking horns with the board of assessors.”
    “Not exactly,” said Ingrid. She told him the whole story.
    “So he plans to get some pigs and file an appeal?” said Mr. Samuels.
    “Yes,” said Ingrid. “Without a lawyer.”
    “Goes without saying,” said Mr. Samuels. He put his hands together like a church steeple, poked his nose over the top. Ingrid assumed he was considering the lawyer question, but she was wrong. “I wonder how this got started,” he said.
    “How what got started?” said Ingrid.
    “The whole reassessment,” said Mr. Samuels.
    “It’s true,” Ingrid said. “Grampy hasn’t done any farming for years.”
    “Exactly,” said Mr. Samuels. “Then, after all that time—boom, reassessment.”
    “Maybe one of the assessors happened to drive by,” Ingrid said, “saw how bare everything was.”
    Mr. Samuels shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way,” he said. “Not in Echo Falls.” He picked up the phone, dialed a number, covered the mouthpiece, whispered to Ingrid, “Polly Porterhouse. Just the clerk, but she runs the show.”
    “Porterhouse?” said Ingrid. “Any relation to the gym teacher?”
    “Wife,” said Mr. Samuels. He uncovered the mouthpiece. “Polly,” he said, “Red Samuels, over at The Echo .”
    Red? Ingrid looked at him closely. What he had for hair were a few wisps on his head and eyebrows, all white. Polly Porterhouse said something that made him laugh. He said something about mill rates that made her laugh. Then he started talking about farms in general and soon Grampy in particular. All of a sudden he straightened up.
    “Really, Polly?” he said. “And who would that be?” He wrote something on a pad and said good-bye. Turning to Ingrid, he said, “Always a neighbor in cases like this.”
    “What cases?”
    “Where someone gets reassessed out of the blue,” said Mr. Samuels. “Some neighbor with a grudge makes a call to the board of assessors.” He rotatedthe notepad