Truth by Tanya Kyi

concentrate on how I’m going to convince Scott to help.
    As soon as class is over, I make a quick stop in the media lab. Then I head for the hospital.
    â€œScott,” I say, starting to talk before I’m even through the door to his room, “I know you’re not going to like this, but…”
    â€œIt’s about time you got here,” he interrupts. “I need to talk to you because we’ve got to do something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI knew you wouldn’t want to, so I’ve been thinking all afternoon of how to convince you.”
    â€œHow to convince me to do what?”
    â€œAn exposé,” he says.
    â€œBut that’s my idea!”
    â€œWhat?”
    Obviously we’re having some communication problems. When we slow down long enough to listen to each other, it turns out that we’ve both made almost identical plans.
    â€œBut I thought you wanted to leave things alone,” I tell him.
    â€œI did. But the longer I lie here with nothing to do except think, the more angry I get. Who died and made Ross king? Who gives him the right to do something like this? It’s either the exposé or I go after him myself.”
    â€œWow. I mean, I always thought of you as a passive sort of guy,” I say.
    â€œYeah,” he nods, grinning. “It’s probably better that we choose the exposé option.”
    Ten minutes later I have the camera set upon a tripod, and I’m holding the microphone beside his hospital bed.
    â€œMr. Rich,” I begin, in my most professional reporter voice, “you say you were beaten by two students of Fairfield Secondary?”
    â€œRoss Reed and Nate Schultz.”
    â€œAnd the reason for this attack?”
    â€œI saw them intimidating another student — Ian Klassen.”
    â€œIn your mind, do these attacks relate to the recent murder of local banker Ted Granville?”
    We go on like this for another ten minutes. We probably could have filmed for longer, but someone else turned up at the door — Georgia.
    â€œWhat are you doing here? Are you okay?” For once, Georgia doesn’t look like she’s walked out of a fashion magazine. Her face is white and her eyes are red. She looks like she might throw up. Instead, she tosses a plastic bag she’s carrying onto the end of Scott’s bed.
    â€œWhat’s this?” he asks.
    â€œThe boots.”
    I’m shocked into silence. Scott merely looks confused, and I remember that I never told him Officer McBride’s secret about the boot print.
    â€œHow did you get these?” I ask her.
    â€œI was over at Nate’s last week and we were, well, fooling around in the basement. When I went to go to the washroom, I accidentally walked into the storage room. These were in a pile of junk. I only noticed them because I knew they were Ross’s. I thought he must have forgotten them there.”
    â€œSo how did you get them?”
    â€œAfter you told me what the cops said…”
    â€œWhat did the cops say?” Scott wonders. We ignore him.
    â€œI skipped class this afternoon and went to his house,” Georgia continues. “He’s got a key stashed in the carport for when he sneaks in at night. I just ducked in and grabbed them.”
    â€œThat took guts,” Scott says approvingly. “But what’s so important about the boots?”
    We fill him in, finally. Then I give Georgiaa hug and make her promise to be careful.
    That’s all the time I have to worry about her. Scott’s out of the hospital tomorrow, and he’ll edit our exposé tape. My job, meanwhile, is to film the boots and write some narrative to run over top, explaining their significance. I’m also supposed to interview a police representative about the progress of the investigation.
    By lunchtime on Thursday, we’re finished. Scott has done even better than he planned — he’s called Ian and managed to