The Cubs Get the Scoop

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Beth Vrabel

  Interior and cover illustrations copyright © 2020 by Paula Franco

  Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  Running Press Kids

  Hachette Book Group

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  @RP_Kids

  First Edition: September 2020

  Published by Running Press Kids, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Running Press Kids name and logo is a trademark of the Hachette Book Group.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019953740

  ISBNs: 978-0-7624-9688-4 (hardcover), 978-0-7624-9691-4 (ebook)

  E3-20200724-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  TO MOM AND DAD, WHO MODELED READING A NEWSPAPER EVERY NIGHT

  I CLAPPED TO GET the attention of the news staff. They were too busy chatting with each other or feeding Stuff (the goat) to pay attention to their editor (me).

  “All right, guys. We have three weeks until school starts. Just enough time to release another issue. What’s on the budget?”

  “Budget?” Thom was sitting on a hay bale next to Stuff. Technically speaking, this newsroom was Thom’s barn.

  “Newspaper budgets don’t have anything to do with money,” I explained. “It’s a breakdown of the stories that we’re planning—or budgeting for—in the next issue.”

  “But what about the other kind of budget? Are walkie talkies in that budget?” Min asked as she pulled the ruffles of her dress out of Stuff’s mouth. Min lived next to me and across the street from Thom, wore ruffles on every outfit, and was prone to dotting the i in her name with a heart.

  “I do not have money for this,” Gloria said. She crossed her thin arms and narrowed her eyes. Gloria was wearing the blue jersey-style uniform shirt from her shift at Wells Diner, the restaurant downtown her dad owned. “No one said we needed money to be on the newspaper.”

  “None of us have money,” I pointed out. We lived in Bear Creek, Maine. Think of a super-hip neighborhood in a city and then make everything the total opposite. That’s Bear Creek. No one is rich, but Min’s family comes close. Her whole family—grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins—goes to Disney World every summer. This year, her aunties from Korea joined them, too. (Even her dad had been wearing mouse ears when they got back from the airport last week. My dad would never do that. It’s called dignity, I heard his voice in my mind. But I knew that I was just expressing my thoughts in his voice. The truth is, Dad totally would’ve worn mouse ears. But he would’ve also pointed out that commercial vacations were an indulgence that shouldn’t be repeated.)

  I cleared my throat. “We don’t have a budget about money, just articles we’re planning. Besides, we don’t need walkie talkies, Min. We all have cell phones.”

  “Walkie talkies are more fun.” Min crossed her arms.

  “Oh,” Gloria said. “I’m okay with story budgets.” Her long brown hair was braided in cornrows except for her bangs, which she blew off her forehead with a puff. The purple and silver beads at the ends of her braids clicked when she shrugged.

  Gordon pushed off the hay bale next to Gloria and leaned against the side of the barn, looking out the door over Thom’s yard. His mom, Dr. Burke, was the superintendent of Bear Creek School District. Dr. Burke and Gordon were a lot alike, and not just because of their looks (both had wide smiles, brown skin, and freckles). They also had something about them that made people around them sit up and take notice. Dad would call them charismatic. I bet Gordon’s family didn’t worry about going on vacation, either. They had a red brick house in Foxcroft Estates, the part of town where people hired landscapers to mow their lawn into long stripes. Mrs. Kim-Franklin told Mom they’d live there but the homes “lacked character.” (I think she just wanted to let people know that the Kim-Franklins could afford fancy grass.)

  “I have money,” Min said, as though she had read my thoughts. At ten, Min is younger than the rest of us, which might explain her affinity for ruffles and pastel colors. I am almost twelve. I wear black and gray as a matter of principle.

  Right then Min was wearing a lavender sundress with a ruffle across the chest. She also wore white sneakers with, you guessed it, white ruffled socks. Even her purple headband was ruffled where it lay against her dark hair. Min opened the small mouse-eared backpack resting by her feet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. Waving it in the air, she said, “I got allowance last night. Why don’t we go to the creamery?”

  “You got back from vacation a couple days ago,” I said. “How could you’ve possibly earned an allowance?”

  Min shrugged. “I get paid every Monday.”

  “For what?”

  “For being a kid.”

  I once pulled every weed in the flower gardens surrounding our old farmhouse—even got scraped on the huge yellow rosebush by the front door—and all I got was a ten-dollar bill from Mom.

  “Do you want ice cream or not?” Min asked.

  “Of course I want ice cream,” I snarled. Everyone jumped to their feet, even Charlotte, who had been sitting in a shadowy corner of the barn reading the AP Stylebook like the dream copy editor she was.

  “Wait!” I held up my hand to stop them. “We don’t have time for ice cream right now. We have to figure out the next issue.”

  “Well, we have the Annabelle story,” Thom pointed out. He must’ve noticed Gloria blowing on her forehead because he turned on an old metal fan in the corner of the barn. Stuff rammed forward and stood directly in front of the breeze, emitting goat-scented air throughout the barn. Charlotte leaned over and unplugged the fan, making everyone laugh. Soon Charlotte’s face was as red as her hair. She was super quiet; even after weeks of hanging out in the barn—I mean newsroom—I still didn’t know her well.

  I sighed. Annabelle lived a couple blocks from the newsroom in a little Cape Cod house where everything looked even neater and cleaner than at Min’s house—and Mrs. Kim-Franklin vacuums every afternoon at three o’clock. Of course, Annabelle tended to be pretty dirty and covered in food. That’s because she’s a pig.

  Annabelle had a habit of rummaging through neighbors’ gardens. In fact, on the day that The Cub Report became a real newspaper, with issues given to everyone in Bear Creek, all police were called to the scene of a break-in… which ended up being Annabelle pushing through the front door of a neighbor’s house to get to a freshly baked pie.

  “No one’s going to take The Cub Report seriously if our top-of-the-fold story is a pig pie theft.”

  “But we don’t fold our newspaper. We roll it.” Min was still waving her twenty-dollar bill.

  I sighed again.

  “The Wrinkler family was at the diner last night,” Gloria said. “They told me Annabelle helped herself to their garden carrots last night. And then the Thompsonses said she ate all their lettuce. But the Thompsonses aren’t all that reliable. When they went to pay their bill, Mr. Thompsons couldn’t find his wallet and Mrs. Thompsons forgot her purse, so Dad had to put their meal on a tab. Again.”

  “All right,” I said. “We’ve got to follow the news, even if it’s boring. Thom, how about you cover the Annabelle story? Remember, keep it to the big five.”

  Every news story had to cover who, what, where, when, and why.

  Thom nodded and walked toward the barn doors.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To interview Annabelle,” he said.

  “You can’t interview Annabelle.”

  “Why not?” Thom asked.

  “Well, for starters, because she’s a pig. Besides, you don’t even have a notebook!” I always have a reporter’s notebook and two pens in my back pocket. Thom’s cut-off jean shorts had a huge hole in the back pocket. I handed him a notebook from my backp
ack and a blue and a red pen. He tucked a pen behind each ear, pulling back the sides of his shaggy blond hair, and headed out.

  Thom’s different from anyone I have ever met. I was pretty sure he would’ve interviewed a pig. He was a careful writer and he noticed things a lot of people overlooked. I’d make a journalist out of him yet.

  Gordon pushed off the side of the barn. He kicked on the edge of his skateboard, popping it up so he could grab it with his outstretched hand. With the other, he shifted the camera hanging around his neck. “I’ll catch up to Thom—maybe get a shot of Annabelle in action.”

  I looked down at the budget list. So far, it had only Annabelle on it.

  My heart hammered as I thought about the Bear Creek Gazette, the town newspaper that had closed for good earlier this month. Now The Cub Report was the only independent press in town; if we couldn’t make this newspaper work, no one would have access to local news.

  “Did you hear what happened in Burlington Meadows?” Gloria asked.

  Burlington Meadows was a town about two hours south of us. Mom and I had spent the night there when we moved from the city. I remember thinking it was a teeny tiny town, only to discover it is twice the size of Bear Creek. But surely even exciting things happen in teeny tiny towns, right? Things other than pie-stealing pigs?

  “What happened?” Min asked, bouncing on her toes. She had a tendency to bounce. Sometimes she even skipped. Despite this, she was a good friend, even if she did argue with me way more than necessary.

  “Well, you know how there’s a prison in Windham?”

  “Yes!” Min and I said at the same time, though I was pretty sure neither of us knew that.

  Gloria leaned forward, her elbow on her knee. Her eyebrows peaked and her mouth twitched. Gloria always knew everything going on in town, thanks to the diner, and she loved dishing it out. Her writing would benefit from fewer exclamation points, though; I could even hear them when she talked, too. “Well, some prisoners were being transferred to another location, right? And the van stopped in Burlington Meadows for gas. Somehow a prisoner escaped! He’s been loose ever since! There are, like, a million police officers in Burlington Meadows. They even have hound dogs searching for the guy’s scent!”

  “Wow,” Charlotte whispered.

  The four of us looked at each other, all thinking the same thing: Why couldn’t anything like that happen here in Bear Creek?

  An escaped prisoner? That was a top-of-the-fold news story for sure.

  There’s never a shortage of news, just a lack of insight. This was one of my dad’s favorite sayings. He’d tell it to any reporter who complained about not having a story. Go out and find one. Everyone has a story.

  “Everyone has a story,” I said aloud. “There are lots of interesting stories right here in Bear Creek, I’m sure. We just have to leave the newsroom, meet people, and scout out their stories.”

  “I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” Min said. She waved her money again. “I am allowed to get ice cream.”

  Gloria tilted her head toward Min and nodded. “Same.”

  “Min, it’s not talking with strangers if you’re a reporter. It’s literally the job,” I said.

  “It’s literally going to get me in trouble,” Min said and crossed her arms. She looked a lot like her mom when she did that.

  Gloria fanned herself with the back of her hand and blew air up on her bangs again. “As someone who works with the Bear Creek public on the regular, I can tell you that some people’s stories are that they’re boring and need to get a life. Kind of like we need to get ice cream.”

  I stood and put my hands on my hips. “I could go anywhere in Bear Creek, meet anyone, and have a story by tonight. It’s all in the questions.”

  “Prove it,” Charlotte suddenly said. She strolled over to the map of Bear Creek on the barn wall and studied it for a second. “If everyone has a story, like you say, go here”—she pointed to an intersection at the far western edge of Bear Creek—“and find the person who lives there. Get their story.”

  Quiet Charlotte suddenly looked fierce. “Prove it,” she said again.

  WHEN I LIVED IN the city, I had my own subway pass. And that was when I was only ten.

  Now I’m nearly twelve and live in a town whose whole population is less than my previous school district’s, but when Charlotte pointed to a random intersection on the west side of town, I wasn’t exactly sure it’d be okay for me to go there by myself.

  In the city, I never felt alone because there were moms and dads pushing strollers, shops with Open signs in the windows, and police officers on nearly every block. Bear Creek had actual bears. It also had long stretches of lonely woods where there was no cell phone reception.

  I reminded myself that I was named after Nellie Bly, the founder of investigative journalism. That Nellie traveled the whole world by herself; she wouldn’t be nervous about going a couple miles outside of town. Not that I was scared. However, today did seem like a nice day for a walk with a friend. “So, who’s coming with me?” I asked the Cubs.

  “Sorry.” Min tucked her allowance into her mouse bag. “I have plans.”

  “Me, too,” Gloria said.

  Charlotte, her cheeks still pink from speaking so loudly, lowered her head.

  “Do your plans happen to be getting ice cream?” I asked.

  Min smiled.

  I straightened my back. “Okay. I’ll do the lead feature this issue. And you guys maybe won’t even have an article. That’s fine.”

  Gloria turned to Min. “I heard Miss Juliet added a new flavor—Bittersweet Mint—at the creamery. I think that’s what I’m going to get.”

  I growled. Neither Min nor Gloria looked my way. Charlotte continued to study her dirty canvas sneakers. “Charlotte?”

  She shook her head. “I think I have some copy editing to do.”

  “We don’t have any stories yet. How could you edit stories that haven’t been written?”

  Charlotte’s birdlike shoulders peaked and fell.

  “Fine.” I paused to study the map.

  “Corner of Appleyard and Morgan Roads,” Charlotte whispered.

  “I know.” I snapped a picture of the map with my cell phone. I marched toward the barn doors, but slowly, in case any of them felt the immense guilt that should’ve accompanied calling out their editor and then leaving her to write a story on her own. The three continued discussing Bittersweet Mint.

  Know what I love? Mint ice cream.

  Everyone has a story, I heard in Dad’s voice. With a heavy sigh that no one seemed to notice, I trudged across the street to my house so I could tell Mom I was heading out for a story.

  This is what my life had come to: skipping ice cream and checking in with my mom. The price for quality journalism in a small town is high.

  Mom wasn’t home.

  Fact: Mom was always home.

  Since we had moved from the city, she spent all day every day in the attic. Not because she had turned into a bat or anything; she was working on a book, or at least that was what she told me. I was pretty sure she was working on not missing Dad so much.

  My dad had been an incredible journalist. I know how to be the Cub Report news editor because he had been the news editor of a major newspaper. People listened to Dad. Not because he was loud—he almost never raised his voice (except when someone forgot to fill the coffeepot). People cared what he had to say because he was smart and he was careful, especially with other people’s stories. That made him important.

  I wanted to be like that. I was going to be like that, starting with this story, the one I was going to scout out in the middle of Nowhere, Bear Creek.

  I texted Mom. Hey, where are you?

  The three dots danced on my screen instantly. I’m at the creamery getting coffee with Juliet. All ok?

  For a moment, everything turned black. What kind of Bittersweet Mint misery was this? Everyone getting ice cream but me? I growled so loudly the sound echoed in the empty attic. Something scurried in a corner. I tried not to think about what it could be.

  Fine. I texted back. I took a deep breath. Tell Miss Juliet I say hi. It was a good thing Mom and Miss Juliet were hanging out. The Cub Report kind of brought them together, I guess. Our first issue had profiled the ice cream maker. Thom’s reporting shared that Miss Juliet’s mother had died a few years earlier. So, she and Mom had something in common; both were mourning. Something squished in my heart. I missed Dad so much that I didn’t have words for it. (And as the daughter of two journalists, I always had words.)