The Whirlwind Reporter

A sharp knock at the open door of her small office prompted Khadija to look up from her desk. It was Dylan, the quiet teenager who distributed the incoming mail for the employees at the Faribault Press. The name of the newspaper was a little laughable; it sounded so formal and prestigious for a company with perhaps sixty employees.

“Dylan, come in,” Dija smiled warmly. “Do I have much coming in today?”

“Not much,” Dylan said as he approached her desk. He pulled a few envelopes from his satchel, his sandy blond hair falling forward as he looked down to check that the mail was addressed to her. “I’d say it’s the usual.” He glanced warily at her desk, which was littered with paper files and reports. “Where…do you want me to put this?”

“Oh,” Dija winced in embarrassment. “Um, I’ll take it. Thank you.” She took the mail from his hands, nodding gratefully as she did. Dylan liked the way her high ponytail made the dark curls of her hair bounce as she nodded. It somehow reminded him of the Saturday morning cartoons he had watched as a kid.

“Looks like you’re busy,” Dylan noted.

“Well, yeah,” Dija admitted, gesturing to the mess of sheets on her desk as she leaned back into her chair. “I know this looks bad, but trust me, it’s organized chaos.” She shuffled through the envelopes in her hands. It really was the usual: the court documents she had requested from the town archive, a few budget reports from accounting, a complaint about how the Press refused to follow up on the prize-winning twenty-pound zucchini that a local had grown.

“Sounds contradictory, but okay,” Dylan laughed. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Mhm. What’s this?” Tucked behind the complaint was a plain envelope, the name Khadija Mansoor written neatly on one side. Dylan paused and turned back to face her. “No return address, and it’s not addressed to the Press, either,” Dija murmured.

“Someone may have dropped it off by themselves earlier, then,” Dylan suggested. “It could be—”

“—An anonymous tip,” Dija breathed. “Dylan, do you know what this means?”

“Uh, no? What does this mean, Ms. Mansoor?” He said her name with uncertainty. Foreign names had always made him hesitate. This one, especially; the way he pronounced it sounded like man-sewer, and he just knew that couldn’t be right.

“It means that I finally have the chance to be an independent reporter!” Dija kicked the ground and pushed herself back in her rolling chair as she raised her arms in a cheer. “One of the first things that Mr. Fujioka told me when I got this job is that tips addressed to me are mine to pursue; they’re under my jurisdiction. This means I’ve finally got my own case, and I won’t have to answer to anyone. My name will be the first in the byline.” Her grin was infectious, and Dylan found himself smiling, too. He didn’t know much about the world of journalism; he had just snagged this part-time job with the Press that summer.

“But you haven’t even opened it yet,” he said hesitantly. “What if it’s not—”

The sound of Dija excited ripping open the envelope with a letter opener interrupted Dylan’s words. She brought the letter up to her eyes and scanned the words on the page with haste. Dylan watched as her eyes narrowed. Then her shoulders sagged, and her smile faded.

“W-What’s wrong? Is it not a tip?” Dylan asked.

“It is,” Dija responded distractedly as she finished reading. “But…this request isn’t exactly small fry.” She stood from her chair, her disposition now one of sternness. “Sorry, but I have to speak to Mr. Fujioka about this tip. Thanks again, Dylan,” Dija dismissed him as she walked out of the door of her office, pocketing the letter into her navy suit jacket.

The scene that greeted her was a familiar one: two rows of gray cubicles centered along a hallway, each housing exhausted, caffeine-addicted journalists and interns. Dija thought she was fortunate to have scored an office at the Faribault Press, since Mr. Fujioka had insisted that a reporter of her caliber “ought not to be staring at such uninspiring gray walls,” as he put it. The employees were discussing the things that could make the next headlines, both significant and mundane: recent business acquisitions, ongoing criminal investigations, a new locally-owned café.

The flat heels of her two-inch pumps tapped against the hardwood floor as Dija rushed up the staircase to the head office. When she passed the secretary’s desk and made a beeline for the door, she asked, “Mr. Fujioka is in, right, Christian?”

“He’s on a call, you can’t just go in!” Christian stood from his chair and blocked the door to Mr. Fujioka’s office, an indignant expression on his freckled face as he crossed his arms.

Dija huffed. “This is important, it’s about an anonymous tip.”

“Don’t care,” he said curtly. “It’ll have to wait. The boss should be wrapping it up in about ten minutes.”

“Ugh, come on,” Dija grumbled as she dropped onto one of the armchairs in the waiting area. “Can’t you, I don’t know, tell him to hurry up?”

Satisfied that Dija had given up on barging into his superior’s office like the Kool-Aid Man, Christian returned to his desk. “No, I can’t, Dija.”

“Who’s he on the phone with, anyway?” Dija pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. She opened a news app, scrolling through it aimlessly.

“Not that it’s your business, but it’s the chief investigator of our PD on the other end. All the more reason I can’t let you go in right now.”

Dija stopped scrolling and leaned forward in her seat, squinting at Christian. It looked to him as if she were running mathematical calculations in her head. “…What?” he asked, a little unnerved. His eyes widened in realization when Dija cracked a smirk. “Wait—”

Without warning, Dija shot out of her chair, bolted for the office door, and had her hand on the doorknob in under two seconds. “I’ll make it up to you later!” She called out as the door swung closed behind her. All Christian could do was stand there, frozen, his arm outstretched in a gesture that was far too late to stop the whirlwind reporter.

“She’s lucky that she’s his favorite,” Christian sighed defeatedly.