like she was seeing back into the past. "There was a contest. Hundreds of kids entered this contest. One kid sent in the name Toby the Turtle and a cute drawing of a turtle. That kid won the contest. End of story."
I sat up. "No, that's not the end of the story. And that's not the real story."
My dad came in with two Danish pastries. He walked around behind the desk and handed one to Suzie.
I told them both, "Ten years ago this area was a big turtle habitat. Hundreds of alligator snapping turtles lived here. An environmental group from Brevard County called Save the Turtles got an injunction against the Lyons Group and stopped
the bulldozers from rolling and from plowing them all under. It was a big news story."
Dad said, "I never knew about that."
At that moment I realized that Dad hadn't read my feature after all. I answered, "Mr. Lyons agreed to donate another parcel he owned as a wildlife sanctuary. The environmental group rejected the offer, but an Atlantic County judge overruled them. One day later the bulldozers started to roll. They entombed all those turtles."
Dad said, "That's awful."
Suzie slammed her pastry down on the desk, scattering crumbs. She rounded on Dad. "Will you help me out here, please? I have to explain to Mr. Lyons why we're digging up some ten-year-old dead turtles in his newsletter when we're supposed to be spreading positive news about the West End Mall!"
Dad looked from Suzie to me. He finally said, "Well, Roberta, I guess what Suzie is saying is that this turtle business is really water under the bridge. You know? Part of the past. The newsletter is strictly for good stuff."
Suzie interrupted. "Strictly for good stuff, from now on. And from now on, Roberta, I need to see every word that you write before it goes into the newsletter. Do you understand?"
I meekly said, "Yes."
Suzie wiped up the crumbs on her desk and dumped them into the wastebasket. Then she took a deep breath, stretched her lips around to her ears, and smiled. She said, "Good. I appreciate your help on the newsletter. You know that. But Mr. Lyons is very sensitive about this turtle stuff. Especially since he's running for the state senate. He could read this at the wrong time, on the wrong day, and I'd be fired on the spot."
Something outside the glass caught Suzie's attention. She said quickly to Dad and me, "Oh no! I forgot about the steering committee meeting."
The door opened behind us, and I turned to see Sam and Mr. Lombardo. Mr. Lombardo is a real old guy, about seventy-five, and he looks it. He owns the drugstore in Slots #44 through 46. He, Sam, and Suzie make up the steering committee of the West End Retailers Association.
Sam said, "This is going to be a quick one. Right, Suzie?"
Suzie smiled. "Right. It should take about five minutes."
Mr. Lombardo demanded, "Is this about the fall slogan?"
Suzie tensed up. "No, Mr. Lombardo, as I told you on the phone, this is about capital improvements. We need to approve the funds for the new fountain."
"What fountain?"
"In the rotunda."
"There's no fountain in the rotunda. There's just a bunch of loose tiles lying out there, waiting to trip somebody."
"There is a fountain under the tiles, Mr. Lombardo. There always has been. You've been here long enough to remember it. They say it was a very beautiful fountain, and we now want to bring it back to life."
Mr. Lombardo held up his newsletter. "I want to talk about this slogan." He pointed a long finger at the banner headline above and to the left of my turtle feature.
Sam protested, "I'm here to talk about capital improvements."
But Mr. Lombardo ignored him. "'Fall in the Mall.' What kind of cockamamy slogan is that? 'Fall in the Mall.' Like, 'Come in here and pretend to slip on a floor tile and sue us'? 'Take what little money we have left'?"
Sam rolled his eyes.
Suzie explained, as if to a child, "Mr. Lombardo, I think you know that the slogan means it's
fall
in the mall. Like
autumn.
Except