Oct 4, 2016 5 min read

The story so far: It’s Election Day, and Robyn and the reporters are covering the story for their neighborhood newspaper. Robyn is trying to find the identity of the skateboarding “streaker” when suddenly she sees a group of skaters coming right at her.

It’s like the skaters are in slow motion. They fly through the air like planes taking off from a runway. I pull my backpack over my head and duck. This is not going to be pretty. I feel a breeze rush past my head. Wheels bang hard on the pavement. I open my eyes.

The skaters are waiting at the top of the stairs. It seems like they flew right over my head!

“Come on,” J.P. says.

He’s holding onto a scooter.

I can’t think of anything to say. My heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest. I stand up and climb the steps.

“Get on,” J.P. says.

This time, I don’t ask questions. I hop on the back of the scooter.

“Here!” Mike says. He hands me a helmet.

“Better put this on,” he says. “J.P. says you like to follow rules.”

The skaters laugh. I think about the rules of reporting. I wonder what Grandpa would say about this? I don’t have time to think about it. As soon as I get my helmet on, the skaters take off. J.P and I ride close behind.

“I’m sorry,” J.P. shouts through the wind as we speed along. “This was the only way.”

“You sure about that?” I yell.

“Just wait,” J.P. says. You’ll thank me later.”

We speed through the neighborhood. The sidewalks in the area aren’t very big. We have to go one at a time. Right then and there, I decide to vote for Mrs. Palooso. I think she’s right. These kids need a place to skate. I could use some practice on my rollerblades, too.

I have to be fair when I report the election. But I don’t have to be fair when I vote. I want her to win!

We go past the park. I can see the Ws and Es still protesting at the Robin statue. I have no idea how I’ll vote on that. At the corner of the park, Mike stops at the playground.

We all screech to a stop behind him.

“Why are we stopping?” I ask. “I thought we were going to find the streaker.”

Mike gets off his skateboard and walks over to us.

“She’s gotta learn to relax,” he says to J.P. while pointing at me.

“She’s cool,” J.P. says.

Mike flashes his sneaky grin. “If you say so, dude.”

Mike takes off his backpack and reaches inside. He pulls out a wad of clothes.

“What’s that?” I ask.

Mike walks over to the tube slide on the playground. He throws the clothes inside. Soon, a boy pops out of the slide, holding a skateboard.

“Alex!”

Alex Martinez is my next-door neighbor. He’s also one of the quietest and shiest kids in school. Alex’s face is red.

“Hi, Robyn,” he squeaks. “How’s it going?”

I look at J.P. and wonder if he knew. He looks just as surprised as me. This is not who I was expecting. A streaker is someone who is brave and loud. It is not Alex Martinez.

At least, I didn’t think so. This story is going to be better than I thought.

“I want to write a story for The Robyn Report,” I say. “Can we interview you?”

Alex looks down at the ground. He mumbles something that I can’t hear. Now this is the Alex I know. I get my notebook ready.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I said I’ll talk, but you can’t use my name,” he says.

I close my notebook. This is not what a reporter wants to hear. An anonymous source is not bad. But it’s not good.

Reporters always want their sources to be on the record. This means, when you talk to someone, you want to use that person’s name. It makes your report more credible.

“No way,” I say.

“Wait a minute,” J.P. says.

“I don’t want to use an anonymous source,” I say.

“Just think about it,” J.P. says. “It could be really fun to do it this way.”

J.P. usually knows what he’s talking about, but I’m not sure. I remember what my grandpa told me when I first started The Robyn Report.

“Sometimes you just have to trust your reporters,” he says. “You can’t do everything yourself.”

“Come on,” J.P. says. “Let me do the interview.”

J.P. is a good reporter. He has never let me down.

“Okay,” I say. “It’s all yours.”

J.P. stays to interview Alex. I take the scooter back to the library. I have to get back to Election Day. As I roll up to the library, I see a crowd of people arguing. I walk up to Corinna.

“Are they still fighting about the streaker?”

“No way,” she says. “That’s old news.”

“What’s the big deal then?” I ask.

“It’s the ballot box,” she says. “It’s gone!”