That News-Reporting Kick
The air in the Orangeside cafeteria felt different. It was the first day back from winter break—the “Great Thaw,” as Elvis called it. The study group sat huddled around their usual table, nursing lukewarm coffees and trading stories of the hiatus.
“It was so dope,” Tyrone said, his hands animating a frantic steering wheel in the air. “Me and Elvis played this video game. It’s a whole city. You can drive anywhere, rent an apartment, do taxes…”
“But don’t get audited,” Elvis added solemnly. “Because that’s bad.”
“You could even enroll in community college,” Tyrone finished.
Christina leaned back, looking remarkably disheveled even for her. “Vacations are wasted on the young. You guys gotta get out there and see the world at some point, or you’re gonna miss your entire lives.”
“Where did you go, Christina?” Amelia asked.
“Amsterdam, I think. I’ll know more when I find my camera.”
The conversation drifted through Wilson’s claims of becoming “even cooler” via ironic T-shirts until a shadow fell over the table. Chase Wright arrived, but he wasn’t wearing his usual armor of cynicism. He looked… light.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Chase said, his voice dropping into a faux-gravelly serious tone. “I wish I was still a lawyer, I’m only here because I’m hot for Christina, and I don’t want to be anybody’s friend.” He paused, then broke into a wide, genuine grin. “Just kidding. Bring it in here, you knuckleheads.”
The group fell into a messy, collective hug. Chase squeezed them back, smelling of expensive soap and newfound optimism.
“I took a look back at the guy I was last semester,” Chase admitted as they untangled. “And I realized, that guy was a drag. This is a new semester. A new Chase. Orangeside is where I am, and I am gonna make the best of it.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Sharon cooed.
“You’re like Hawkeye on M*A*S*H,” Elvis observed, tilting his head. “He kept his upbeat humor and charm, even in the eleventh year of the Korean War.”
“Well, don’t go changing too much, Chase,” a new voice chirped.
The group jumped. A man with a soft, round face and an eager expression was suddenly sitting at the end of the table.
“Did you just teleport here?” Chase asked, blinking.
“No, I snuck in during the group hug,” the stranger said. “You guys don’t remember me? Roberto, from Computer Science class.”
Blank stares met him from every direction.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” Wilson said flatly.
“I’ve seen Roberto before,” Elvis corrected. “He sits in the corner, next to the dead plant.”
“Thank you, Elvis,” Roberto said, looking relieved. “Sometimes I have a tendency to melt into the background. It’s just my body type. But I definitely know you guys. I’ve been watching you all last semester grow together.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Like when Wilson and Chase had that ridiculous Computer Science demonstration. Wilson couldn’t hear Cabar clearly, and thought he said ‘S’.” Roberto continued “Ohhh, and remember when Christina cheated, I was shocked.” Roberto then turned to Chase and slyly said, “Who can forget the time Amelia and Christina got into an oil fight in class, I don’t think I cared who won.”
Christina leaned over, and muttered a horrified, “What?!?”
“I sleep a lot in class,” Roberto muttered, looking ashamed. “That last one might have been a dream.”
Roberto stood up, his hands clasped pleadingly. “I’m sure you guys have a natural rapport, and you’re scared that adding a new member might throw everything off… but let me in. Just tell me the rules, and I will follow.”
“Well, you already broke the only rule I have,” Chase said, his new ‘Hawkeye’ persona shining through. “The rule about worrying about rules.”
Roberto beamed. He broke into a sudden, rhythmic chant. “# CompSci studying is better / When you’re Buddy-ing around! Yeah! #”
Chase chuckled, but the rest of the group exchanged a look that suggested they weren’t quite ready for a musical accompaniment to their lives.
The new, “relaxed” Chase was quickly put to the test. Dean Starmer cornered him near the fountain, luring him with a ruse about free Sephora samples before revealing his true intent: the resurrection of the Orangeside Record Journal Register.
Dean Starmer showed him the area, explaining how he plans on resurrecting the journalism department as part of his plan to revitalize the school. Chase wasn’t convinced this was worth his time, but Starmer kept showing him the area stopping at a door with the words ‘editor’ on it.
“This would be your office,” the Dean said, throwing open a door to a small, dusty room.
Chase looked at the desk. “This is the first desk I’ve seen in six months that doesn’t have ‘Zeppelin Rules’ carved into it.”
“And you get an English credit.”
“I’m in.”
Almost instantly, Chase was behind the desk, leaning back with his feet up. Elvis was already snapping photos, and a handful of students were waiting for assignments.
“You’ve got chops, kid,” Chase told a student who handed him a draft about water heaters. “But we need your talent on a bigger story. Pizza wars. Who’s got the best slice in town? Start with Big Lunas. Bring us a large with sausage.”
To the next student Chase continued, “You, I heard rumor that J.Prescotts Drink Emporium is selling to under-age minor, I need you to go undercover and see how much they’ll sell you. Bring the evidence directly to me.” The student scurried off following Chase’s direction.
Amelia stood in the corner, her arms crossed. “You expect me to watch you do that without telling on you?”
“That’s a hard-hitting question, Amelia,” Chase said, not missing a beat. “Are you a reporter?”
“No. They’ve got me editing the crossword because I’m a girl. And because I love crosswords.”
Chase pointed a finger at her. “Well, now you love the streets. You’re my ace newshound.”
Amelia’s eyes lit up. “Ace? You can do that?”
“We can do anything we want,” Chase said, channelling his inner rogue hero. “It’s Orangeside. Now go find me that story.”
Amelia ran off with a victorious smile.
“This new refresh of you is really gelling for you Chase.” Elvis advised. “That was classic ‘Hawkeye’ from M.A.S.H.” Elvis continued pointing out how Chase side-steped all the previous obstacles with the students, and even the hyper inquisitive Amelia was satiated.
“I should get you stuff to make martinis” Elvis said as he left the room.
Chase leaned back in his editor’s chair, “Of all of you ancient references Elvis, this is my favorite.”
Computer Science 102 was hushed — too hushed, the sort of quiet that felt like someone had turned the laughter dial down just one notch too low.
At the front of the room stood Professor … well, not Professor exactly — a woman in smart flats and a borrowed cardigan, clutching a stack of note cards like sacred texts she wasn’t entirely sure belonged in this place. On a chalkboard behind her was scrawled in fading pastel: Remembering Pablo S. Cabar.
“Good morning, class,” she said, voice steady but tinged with something like an apology. “We’re gathered here to honor the life and inexplicable spirit of Pablo S. Cabar, who — as many of you have been informed — passed away over winter break.”
Tyrone shifted in his seat.
“Such a loss… BUT best semester ever” Sharon whispered.
Amelia’s eyes were already filling with that earnest sympathy she reserved for situations that might require sympathy. Even Chase looked mildly attentive — a feat in itself. For a moment, you could almost believe ‘Wolverine’ really was gone.
The substitute cleared her throat. “Pablo S. Cabar was well-known for his passionate, if unorthodox, approach to Computer Science instruction —”
Before she could elaborate on what made his methods unorthodox, the door to the classroom banged open.
And in swaggered Pablo S. Cabar.
Boisterous. Unapologetic. Very, very alive.
He wore the same ridiculous grin he always wore — like he’d just won at life but nobody had noticed yet — and in his hand was a boom box, held aloft like it completed him.
“Did someone say Pablo S. Cabar can die?” he shouted, voice rich with disbelief and theatrical indignation.
The classroom froze. A student halfway through eyebrow pencil application just… froze.
“Because I am Pablo S. Cabar,” he declared, stepping forward with unholy confidence, “and I am a man who can never die!”
Behind him the boom box crackled to life — blaring a beat so absurdly upbeat that even the solemn memorial felt instantly optional.
The substitute blinked twice, then turned and marched out, her dignity gathering behind her like a lost sock. And Cabar, triumphant, spun toward the class, grin widening.
“Welcome back to Computer Science One oh TWO!” he boomed, voice reverberating like a man who refused to accept answers that involved calmness, quiet reflection, or mortality.
As the group retreated to the study room, Roberto was practically vibrating in Chase’s wake. “See you in study group! Hoo-aah!”
“Chase, can he really just decide he’s one of us?” Sharon whispered, her brow furrowed.
Wilson added. “He throws off our balance. We’ve got three chicks, three dudes, and now, two weirdos. Sorry, Elvis.”
“Not all weirdos are bad,” Elvis said. “Roberto might be a puckish agent of change that could upgrade our lives via a musical montage.
Christina added, “Or he could have a row of jars waiting for our genitals.”
“Yo, I need my genitals,” Tyrone said firmly.
“You know who you guys sound like?” Chase asked, leaning against the doorframe. “Me, from last semester. Cynical. Elitist. Rakishly good-looking.”
“Thank you,” Elvis muttered.
Concerned Sharon asked, “Well, if we are accepting new members we should discuss policies and what not.”
“Don’t ask me to manage it” Chase said, raising his hands. “Dealing with problems ain’t my job no more. My new job is hanging out, having fun, and cracking wise.”
Christina stepped up, “Suppose I want to do that job too…I could have fun and crack wise.”
Hearing Christina’s delusion about herself drew laughter from the rest of the group.
Before he could elaborate on his new philosophy, Amelia burst into the room, clutching a notepad like a holy relic. “Chase! I hope you’ve an army of raisens, cuz I’ve got a major scoop.”
She explained a discovery regarding a Toni Braxton concert from the previous October. A last-minute time changge had occurred, and an anonymous text had gone out to notify students.
“The text message was sent exclusively to black students,” Amelia said, her voice trembling with indignation. “And one French kid named Lebron. That’s profiling, Chase. This is front-page juice.” Looking up for approval she continued. “I just gotta find out who sent the text.”
“Come on, nobody is THAT stupid.” Amelia retorted.
Meanwhile, in his locked office Dean Starmer is opening his fresh package from amazon. Inside is an adult-size costume of Jake the Dog from Adventure Time. While fitting the on himself he gets a call. “Hello!”
On the other end was Amelia with a barrage of questions.
“Uhhm…err…Uhh.” Starmer stammered until finished with a gruff voice “Wrong Number” and hung up the phone.
The group met again in the study room. Amelia explained her conundrum with calling the number. “Whoever it is keeps disconnecting, but he can’t keep hiding forever.”
The study group attempted to settle into their Computer Science notes, but Roberto was not a “melt into the background” kind of presence.
“Okay, so for the essay portion—” Amelia started.
“# Amelia got an essay portion! #” Roberto sang, his voice booming in the quiet room. “# Amelia gonna move her luscious fanny all day long! #”
The table went dead silent. Chase winced, his “relaxed” facade cracking as he felt the collective protective instinct of the group surge.
“Hey, Roberto can sing, you guys!” Roberto laughed, oblivious.
“Well, that’s great,” Chase said, his voice tight. “Amelia’s pretty young; we try not to sexualize her.”
“I’m sorry!” Roberto held up his hands, then leaned in over the table. “Look, it’s your study group, and I don’t know if you perceive it as something that could be improved, but I have some ideas. Boom! We could start saying, ‘You go, girl.’ Not like we think we’re cool, but like we’re winking at it.”
“Bottom line,” Roberto continued, standing up and performing a series of frantic shadow-boxing moves, “you guys need a chubby, agile guy. I’m like Beverly Hills Ninja. I’m fat, I’m physical, I’m strong, and I can kick!”
With a sudden, violent grunt, Roberto’s leg whipped upward in a high kick. His sneaker connected squarely with Chase’s face.
Thwack.
Chase’s head snapped back. A thin trickle of blood immediately began to leak from his nostril.
“Chase! Chase?” Roberto hovered over him, panicked.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Chase muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just a little… little nosebleed. I get them due to my allergies, one of which is getting kicked in the face.”
Roberto walked off defeated, “I’ll get some paper-towels.”
Once Roberto left the room, Chase addressed the group. “Who was it that wanted to institute a member policy?”
While Chase cleaned himself up, the rest of the group held a clandestine meeting in the hallway.
“I think it’s obvious to everyone that this Roberto fellow has a few fruit loops loose,” Christina whispered. “Whatever we do, we gotta be careful.”
“I say we keep Roberto in the group,” Wilson said suddenly.
“What?” Amelia said sharply.
“I’ve been sitting on this for a minute, and honestly I like his in-your-face style,” Wilson argued.
Tyrone added, “I can’t stop thinking about his high kick. His ratio of girth to hip flexibility is mesmerizing.”
I like his idea of ironically saying ‘You go, girl’,” Elvis added tentatively.
“You go, girl!” Tyrone and Elvis said simultaneously.
“If we’re adding people,” Sharon countered, “I really think we should consider my friend Hygus.”
“Your friend Hygus is so boring, Sharon!” Christina snapped.
“He was raised in Finland; he doesn’t get our humor.” Sharon responded defensively.
“If were going to add a chair for every pothead with a penchant for singing and kicking, I move we institute hazing.” Amelia suggested.
The debate spiraled into a mess of conflicting loyalties and aesthetic preferences until Chase returned, his nose plugged with a tissue. He looked at them, his “Hawkeye” optimism hanging by a thread.
“Guys, let’s take a vote,” Chase suggested.
“Secret vote. Everybody cover your eyes.” Elvis suggested.
“We’ll know each other’s voices,” Sharon pointed out.
“Tyrone has a point,” Wilson said.
Chase sighed, then looked down at a newspaper on the nearby bench. He did a double-take. “Holy crap. Wow. It says here some guy in San Francisco went nuts and killed his entire driver’s ed class with a jar of killer bees.”
“Oh, no,” Sharon gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “We have to be careful.”
“Okay,” Christina said, seizing the momentum. “On the count of three, everybody who wants to keep Roberto out, raise your hand.”
Hands flew into the air. The “puckish agent of change” was officially voted off the island.
In pursuit of his new easy going way, Chase decided to lay low in his new Editor office, joined by Elvis who already set up a complex series of equipment to make martinis.
“You totally made up that story about the killer bees.” Elvis advised. “You put your thumb on the scale, and you did it with a smile…so you could keep smiling.”
Chase, satisfied, “And with Roberto gone, that’s going to be a lot easier.”
Chase’s day didn’t get easier. Yelling outside his office caught his attention. He found Dean Starmer begging Amelia, looking like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“I am the least racist person in the world!” the Dean cried. “I had twenty minutes to let people know Toni Braxton was starting early and 273 text messages left before my rate tripled. Racial profiling may not be right, but it can be economical!”
Amelia asked, “So, Dean, when I refer to you in my story, do you prefer ‘incompetent’ or ‘imbecile’?
“I prefer incompetent,” Dean Starmer stuttered before being cut off.
“IT doesn’t matter what you want,” Amelia sharply bit back. “The people want the truth.”
Amelia saddled up closer to Dean Starmer, “And I’ll make sure noone stands in my way to deliver it.”
Seeing Chase and Elvis Dean Starmer approached them with desperation in his face.
“If she runs that story, I will lose this job,” the Dean pleaded, clutching Chase’s sleeve. “She listens to you.” He continued, “When I was 7 years old, my best friend was a black man.” Pleading, “Please Chase, she listens to you.”
“Well, next time I’m hanging out with her, I’ll give her a little talk and see where it goes.”
Dean Starmer, accepting this is the best he’s going to get, “You do what you can.”
Elvis, noticing Chases powerplay started humming the M.A.S.H. theme music.
He went to find Amelia.
“It’s not exactly Watergate, Amelia,” Chase said, leaning against a pillar. “You like the Dean. He’s trying to help you transfer.”
“And this time, he might succeed,” Amelia said, her eyes burning with ambition. “If this article breaks out, I can apply for journalism scholarships. Nobody will care about my time in rehab if they think I’m a writer.”
Chase’s “Hawkeye” smile faltered. “Amelia, as your upbeat friend, I gotta say… let this go.”
“This is Orangeside, Chase,” Amelia said, echoing his own words back at him with a sharp, journalistic edge. “We can do whatever we want.”
But the “upbeat friend” was about to meet the “unwanted member.”
The rhythmic tunes of a guitar echoed into the hallway, calling Amelia and Chase back to the study room. Chase asked Amelia, “Didn’t anybody tell Roberto he was out of the group?”
Amelia answered, “We all thought you would.”
Roberto was back. He was in the study room, singing a mournful apology song that involved a lot of soul-searching and even more lemon squares. Turning his attention to Amelia and Chase, “My lord, my lady. I’m sorry you missed my apology song.”
“Roberto,” Chase said, walking in. “Yesterday, the group took a vote.”
Roberto’s face fell. “Was it the high kick? Was it ‘You go, girl’?” The pitiful whimpering started, “Oh, you guys think you’re so cool! He slammed his fists onto the table. I laid my soul bare! I baked lemon squares that I backed with my own sweat and blood!”
“Maybe a little less sugar next time,” Wilson muttered, sampling a square.
“Well, I’m not leaving!” Roberto uttered.
“Roberto, be relaxed…like me,” Chase said, his voice losing its breezy quality. “Leave.”
“You’re not relaxed!” Roberto screamed. “You’re an uptight puppet master! And these are your little puppets!”
“I am no man’s puppet, sir!” Christina yelled, standing up.
“How dare you!” Amelia bit back.
The room descended into a shouting match until Chase waved his hand, silencing them instantly. “Roberto,” Chase said smoothly. “Be reasonable, and go.”
Roberto replied, “Make me…Hitler.”
Amelia and Sharon gasped.
Chase continued, “Well, since Roberto is not leaving. He’ll just be an annoyance that we’ll ignore.” He leaned towards Roberto, “Try getting that deal from Hitler.”
“I’m studying with you.” Roberto said triumphantly.
Chase, enraged, replied, “No you are not.” Then in frustration yelled out to the group, “Everybody STOP studying.”
Turning to Roberto, Chase continued, “You are NOT in the group.”
The “New Chase” died right then and there. Chase’s eyes went dark. He lunged forward, grabbed Roberto by the collar and the waist of his pants, and physically hoisted him toward the door. Roberto screamed, his feet kicking uselessly in the air as Chase dragged him out of the room.
Chase slammed the door and turned to Amelia. “And you are not running that story.”
“Why not?” Amelia asked, stunned.
“Because I said so!” Chase barked. He looked around at the terrified faces of his friends. “Does anybody have a problem with how that was handled?”
The room was silent.
“Exactly the way I would’ve done it,” Wilson whispered.
Chase retreated to the newspaper office, the silence of the room ringing in his ears. He slumped into his chair and stared at the martini glass Elvis had given him. He felt like a fraud. He had spent the last forty-eight hours trying to be a beacon of light, only to end the day as a bouncer who bullied his best friend.
Elvis stepped into the room, his footsteps quiet.
Chase muttered, gesturing to the martini glass. “Who are you kidding, Elvis? I just dragged a screaming, crying man out of a library with his pants down. Martinis are for Hawkeyes. I’m the same uptight jerk I was last semester.”
Elvis tilted his head. “Chase, what’s your favorite episode of M*A*S*H?”
“The one with, uh… the Army,” Chase sighed.
“That’s what I thought,” Elvis said. “If you had actually seen the show, you’d know that Hawkeye didn’t just bed nurses and drink martinis. He also had blood sprayed on his face and barked orders when the choppers came in. If he didn’t, people died. He was a leader, Chase. That’s your job.”
Chase looked up, the weight of the words sinking in. “Yeah? What’s in it for me?”
Before Elvis could answer, Amelia walked in. She looked small, her usual fire dampened. “Chase? I’m sorry that I yelled.”
“I’m glad you did,” Chase said, his voice softening. “It didn’t even really occur to me what I was doing until I saw how upset you were. I never want to be the reason you’re mad, because… you’re Chase Wright.”
“So thanks for getting mad,” she added with a small smile.
Chase exhaled, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. “It was nothing.”
Chase gave a satisfied huff as Amelia left the room, “I guess that’s the upside, isn’t it?” He looked at Elvis. “Thank you, Radar.”
Elvis’s eyes widened. “Ooh. You made me so happy I just peed a little.”
The group was making their way to the study room, but the atmosphere was still heavy with the ghost of Roberto’s rejection. As they entered, to their surprise Roberto sat there, looking hesitant. “Hi, guys.”
The reaction was immediate. “Hi, Roberto,” the group chorused, but their bodies tensed.
“Can you, um… excuse us?” Amelia squeeked out.
Tyrone added, “For one crazy stalker.”
Wilson stood up and pulled the group into a tight circle at the far end of the room. “Listen up,” he whispered. “We outnumber this guy six to one. Amelia, you flash your breasts as a decoy for the bum-rush—”
“WILSON!” Christina hissed.
“Christina, don’t be upset,” WIlson continued rapidly. “I didn’t pick you as a decoy because your breasts are so old.”
“Why is he even here?” Amelia asked, ignoring the insult.
“I invited him,” Chase admitted, turning back to look at Roberto, who was standing awkwardly by the table. “Roberto’s crime is thinking we’re cool. But I get it. I mean, if I were him, and I missed out on you guys, I’d be sitting in that classroom, watching, wondering. So how can I exclude someone from something that I’m so lucky to have?”
The group softened. Sharon smiled, and even Wilson looked moved. Chase walked over to Roberto. “Hey, Roberto. Welcome to the group.”
Roberto’s face lit up with a pure, blinding joy. “Oh, yes! You will not regret this!”
But just as Roberto went to pull out a chair, a new group appeared in the doorway. It was a collection of Orangeside’s “cool kids,” led by the man known as Pirate-Guy.
“Argh, there be he,” Pirate-Guy said, leaning against the doorframe. “Hey lad, Roberto. Me and my mates be considerin what ye bargained for. We took a vote. And ye be in me crew.”
Roberto froze. He looked at the study group, then back at the cool group. “No way! I’m in the cool group?”
A girl with them who looked like an Asian version of Amelia chimed in. “It’s like Christmas morning for the guy.”
“Welcome,” A man who looked like a bleach blonde version of Chase said, extending a hand to Roberto.
“This is… oh, this is awkward,” Roberto said, backing away from the study table. “You guys were my safety.”
“Pfft. Hey, hey, Roberto, you don’t have to worry about them,” Pirate-Guy said, putting an arm around him. “You’re with us now. Come on!”
They walked away, Roberto’s high-pitched laughter echoing down the hall. The Asian version of Amelia could be heard, ” It’s amazing! I love the kicks! The kicks are the best!”
The study group sat in stunned silence.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen,” Wilson said, leaning back and crossing his arms, “is why I voted to keep him.”
“Would have been nice to have another person in the group,” Amelia sighed, looking at the empty chair.
Sharon reached for her phone. “I’ll call Hygus.”