The Fixer: New Wave Newsroom by Jenny Holiday Page A

night. “No siblings?”
    She shook her head, wiping her eyes with her fingers.
    â€œHas your father always…had problems?”
    She cleared her throat. “I think so. When my mom was alive, I didn’t pay too much attention, to be honest. He definitely had down periods where he slept a lot, and my mom always told me not to bother him. But then my mom got sick—breast cancer—and I sort of…”
    â€œTook over.”
    I could see it. Functionally speaking, she was her dad’s parent. Just like she went around trying to look after everyone and everything at Allenhurst.
    â€œThe worst part is that if anything does happen to him, it will be my fault.”
    Geez. Who knew that sunny Rainbow Brite had been carrying such a burden around all this time? “How do you figure that?”
    â€œI knew my dad was sick. So why did I decide to come to a school that was three thousand miles away? What kind of sense does that make?”
    â€œYou deserve to have a life, Jenny. Your own life. You can’t be responsible for him. Maybe some subconscious part of you understood that and ran away.” It wasn’t that different from what I’d done, really, though my escape to Allenhurst College had been fully premeditated. It was what I’d been working toward every minute of every day from the time I was old enough to understand that college could be my ticket out of my town. My ticket out of my family. My ticket to becoming an artist, something I wanted so badly I could scarcely allow myself to think about it.
    She smiled through her tears. “It still sounds so weird when you call me Jenny.”
    Jenny
    Matthew worked on the drawing for a good three hours. It was a strange feeling to have someone looking at me so intensely. And of course it wasn’t just that he was looking at my body, but that he’d somehow, with a simple series of questions, unearthed an elemental truth about me that I had never confronted before—that I was always running around trying to fix things because I couldn’t fix my dad. That much scrutiny was strange, but I’d agreed to be his model, so all I could do was sit and try not to fidget under his appraisal.
    But he put me at ease, which was kind of incredible when you considered that a couple weeks ago, he was basically a snarling mute. After the heaviness of our initial conversation, we talked easily. He told me a little about the town he was from, but I noticed he avoided any details relating to his parents—though I had learned that he had a much older sister who left home when she was sixteen and he was eight. But mostly we just talked about mundane things. I had a million questions about his family, his plans after graduation, and all that, but it didn’t seem appropriate to ask them while he was working.
    I had just started to wonder how I could delicately ask him if we could pause for a bathroom break when he stood and stretched.
    â€œA break?” I asked, hopping up from my stool.
    â€œNope. All done.”
    â€œOh!” I had no idea how long these things were supposed to take. “Can I see?” I started toward him, but he froze and his eyes darted around like he was a caged animal. “It’s okay,” I said, taking a step back. “You don’t have to show me.” But damn, I wished he would.
    â€œNo. It’s okay. Come take a look.” He pressed his lips together and beckoned me over. “It’s just that it’s always kind of weird to show your stuff to someone, and I’ve never actually done a portrait like this before.”
    â€œYou’ve never done a portrait?” It was hard to believe.
    â€œWell, sure, we’ve had models in class and stuff. But this is the first time I’ve drawn someone I actually…”
    â€œKnow?” I supplied.
    â€œLike,” he corrected, just as I stepped around to the front of the easel and caught my first