Diplomatic Immunity by Brodi Ashton Page B

breach. Josh, give me a two-minute package and some B-roll for a voice-over—”
    â€œWait, what?” I interrupted.
    â€œWhat’s the problem?” Jesse asked.
    â€œIt’s my story. I got the scoop.”
    â€œYes, but it’s Josh’s beat. He has the contacts.”
    I glanced at the professor, but he didn’t say anything. “But—”
    â€œLet’s finish the rundown,” Jesse said.
    He continued, and I ended up with a story about new security protocols for the national parks. I walked over to Jesse’s desk. “I know we’re both going for the Bennington—”
    â€œEveryone here is going for the Bennington,” he said.
    â€œOkay, but that’s no reason to give me the dreck.”
    He sighed. “The principal requested that you be taken off the story. I’m sorry.”
    I sank into a chair. “Is this paper going to kowtow to every demand from higher up?”
    â€œWhen it’s from the principal, yes. We don’t have much of a choice.”
    Mack caught my eye from across the room and shrugged. I suspected that was her way of showing sympathy.
    I sat down at my desk and wrote up a quick summary of the lunchroom flamenco incident. Then I researched the new protocols at the national parks. Maybe there would be a story to crack wide open.
    There wasn’t.
    I went over to Professor Ferguson’s desk and plopped down in the chair opposite him.
    â€œYes, Miss Baird?”
    â€œI need help.”
    He put down the book he’d been reading, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and produced a folder. He spread the contents on his desk. I recognized the papers inside.
    â€œThose are my stories,” I said.
    He nodded. “I never got the chance to tell you how impressive your portfolio was. But I’m assuming you’re here to talk about your latest work.”
    â€œPlease don’t judge me by that. I’m not used to covering small stuff.”
    He waved a hand. “Your work is solid. So what do you need?”
    I took in a deep breath. “I need some insight. This school, and the potential for a scholarship to a journalism program, is very important to me. And I feel like I’m not grasping what it is you’re looking for.”
    He closed the folder and put his finger on it. “You have a good feel for writing like a journalist, Piper. I would even go so far as to say it’s textbook.”
    I smiled, feeling proud of myself for the first time since I’d gotten here.
    â€œBut every student in this class could’ve written the same articles.”
    I frowned. Back home, Mr. Peters had made me editor in chief after I’d been on staff for three months. I was the youngest editor in chief the school had ever had. And now Professor Ferguson was basically saying I was ordinary.
    â€œAs you approach your writing assignments, I want you to keep something in mind. Three questions.”
    â€œWhat are those?” I said.
    â€œWhy am I the right person to write about this? What’s the story that I can get that no one else can? Why am I not only a good person for the job, but the only person? That’s what’s going to set you apart here at Chiswick.”
    I nodded. “I understand, Professor Ferguson. It’s just hard to ask myself why I am the only person who can write about the new rules for flushing the toilets in the third-floor bathrooms. I mean, maybe I could’ve done what you say if I’d been allowed to stay on the security system update story.”
    â€œBut that’s exactly my point,” he said. “Josh was able to take over seamlessly. I want you to find a story that would be impossible for Jesse to give away. So that if the principal comes to him, he has to say, ‘I’m sorry. There’s no one else who can write that story but Piper.’”
    I nodded. “I guess I understand. But that’s not how the national