Free The Last Reporter by Michael Winerip

see that the Ameche brothers — once they understand the rules — are great salesmen.”
    They all marched up the back stairs, Adam last. As Mrs. Ameche disappeared into the house, he heard her say, “Jenny, honey, the boys tell me the
Slash
is doing a story on state test scores going up. It’s an outrage! I know why scores are up — they’re making that test easier! Do you believe Don got a four on the eighth-grade English? That’s the top score! Don? My Don?”
    Adam was pissed. He hated grown-ups who acted like everything was harder when they were kids. Mrs. Ameche was probably going to start telling them how she walked a hundred miles to school through the snow.
    He was about to say something when he stepped into the kitchen and smelled those warm churros, and then, nothing else really mattered.

Adam was excited. For their English assignment on writing about someone really different, Mrs. Stanky was letting them skip her class. They were supposed to spend the period with the person they were writing about. Mrs. Stanky said if they were really going to do a profile on someone, they needed to observe that person close up. “You want to breathe the air they breathe,” she told them, “walk a mile in their shoes. Spend a day in their life. Climb inside their heads. Look deep into their hearts. Discover what makes them tick.” She said biographers and historians did this, documentary filmmakers did it, magazine writers and newspaper reporters did it, even MTV, Nick, and Disney did it on some of their shows.
    “Is this like reality TV?” asked a girl.
    “Not exactly,” said Mrs. Stanky. “We’re not making up crazy stuff for people to do and then seeing how stupid they look. It’s more we’re being flies on the wall. Quietly observing.”
    “Ah, excuse me, Mrs. Stanky, but historians?” said another girl. “I don’t think so. Like, how can you spend a day with Abraham Lincoln? No offense, but he’s dead.”
    “True,” said Mrs. Stanky. “You can’t. But you can read accounts of people who did spend days with him. And then you can walk where he walked. You could visit Gettysburg; visit his house in Springfield, Illinois; visit the White House. In fact, if any of you would rather do a historical figure —”
    Adam didn’t care about the White House; he wanted to see Room 107A.
    Adam leaned on the door to 107A and peeked through the window. The moment he did, the door flew open and he lost his balance and staggered halfway into the room, practically knocking over a boy wearing a helmet and sitting in a wheelchair, who did a nifty 180-degree spin to avoid a crash. By the time Adam came to a full stop, everyone was staring at him.
    “You’re late,” said Shadow, who had yanked open the door the moment one of Adam’s molecules brushed against it. “Third period starts at 10:18, and it is now 10:22. It will be 10:23 in seventeen seconds. You said you’d come at the start of third period. This is not the start of third period.”
    “Good to see you, too,” said Adam.
    “I know,” said Shadow.
    The kid in the wheelchair grunted something that Adam couldn’t understand. “Huh? I didn’t get —”
    “That boy is Derek,” Shadow explained. “He said, ‘Good thing I’m wearing my helmet.’”
    Adam stared at the boy, who suddenly let out a squealing laugh.
    “Ahhh,” said Adam. “Very funny. Shadow, you didn’t tell me there’s a comedian in your class.”
    Shadow looked around the room. “There is no comedian in this class. Comedians are on Comedy Central, channel fifty. In this class is just Mr. Willy, the teacher; Miss Patty, the aide; and twelve kids including me. Eleven kids not including me. Thirteen kids including you, but you’re just visiting.”
    Derek grunted something else. Adam looked at Shadow, who translated: “Derek says, ‘If there is a comedian, it is definitely not Shadow, though he is funny.’” Then Shadow turned and said, “Shut up, Derek Screw-Up.”
    Derek