Tito stuck it to me again today. He enjoys working with me and always holds me up to the rest of the reporters as some sort of paragon to emulate in filling out photo assignments. But I’m pretty sure he won’t be doing that anymore, unless it’s to use me as an example of what the photography department does not want the reporters doing.

On Wednesday I met with some kids from three different foster homes and interviewed them about their hopes and aspirations of being adopted into permanent families. They were so endearing and gave such great quotes that I knew the article would generate phone calls and inquiries from prospective mothers and fathers wanting to know more about these kids and others like them in foster care. And although money for these families is typically tight, as soon as the interview ended, the foster parents started chatting amongst themselves about how they planned to take the kids shopping for special clothes for the newspaper photos. I felt quite the heroine as I picked up my briefcase and told them when the story was scheduled to run and that the photographer would meet them Friday (today) for pictures.

Additionally, when I got back to the newsroom, Beck and I talked at length about the article and brainstormed about the layout and graphics we’d use in tandem with the heartwarming pictures taken by our crack photo staff.

So today I was sitting at my desk, working on a completely unrelated story, when the phone rang.

“Hi, Ms. McAllister? This is Melissa Jenkins. You came out and interviewed me and my foster kids on Wednesday.”

“Yes!” I beamed, settling back in my chair. I always love the after-interview phone call and mentally prepared myself to receive the verbal pats on the back that were sure to come in reference to my professionalism and the fine job I did the other day. Not to mention the ray of light and hope I was to her young charges.

“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the photographer’s not here. We’ve been waiting over half an hour.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. It wasn’t like Tito to miss a photo assignment. I politely asked Melissa to hold and glanced at my watch. Tito ran behind sometimes, sure, but he always called whenever that happened. My indignation escalated with each press of the digits corresponding to his mobile number. My mind filled with images of the disappointed, cherubic faces of the foster kids who had gotten all gussied up for no reason. Tito had not only made me out to be a liar by failing to show when I told these people he would, but he was also a poor reflection on the newspaper. In my book, unforgivable.

He answered on the third ring with the happy, singing salutation he uses whenever his caller ID indicates someone from the newsroom is on the line. “Hell-o-o-o!”

“Tito! Where are you?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Ellie. Where are you?” I could tell by the roar that he was in his car, windows down, driving somewhere in Peachtree County.

“Ellie? You don’t sound like yourself.”

I thought of a few choice words that would really sound unlike me, but I managed to keep them to myself. “Tito, you’re thirty minutes late. These foster kids are really counting on you.”

I heard papers rustle and imagined him in my mind's eye rifling through the photo assignments piled on the passenger seat. Organized disorganization, he called it. In my opinion it always looked like a mess, but it had always worked before. Until now.

“Nope, sorry, Ellie. I don’t have a photo assignment for foster kids.”

“Tito, check that rat’s nest again.”

“Ellie, I’m telling you—it’s not here.”

“Hang on.” I placed him on hold and pressed the blinking light on my phone.

“Melissa? Thanks for holding. We’re just trying to sort out what’s going on here. I’ll be right back.”

Spurred by raging pregnancy hormones, I jumped up and stormed into the photography office. Whenever we leave photo assignments on the photographers’ desks, we also note it in the assignment book, so there’s a fail-safe in place that lets the photogs know that they should always have an assignment to match what’s in the book. Yanking the assignment book off the desk, I ran my finger down the page and looked for my handwriting next to three o’clock. That would prove I had filled out the assignment and that the irresponsible dufus had lost it.

Except... the blank was empty.

Slinking back to my desk, I pulled open the drawer where I file all the information for the articles I’m working on and pulled out the manila folder for the foster families story. As I opened it, the missing photo assignment slid onto my desk.

It took quite a bit of sweet-talking to get Tito to forgive my assumption that he had messed up, but the kids got their pictures taken, which is what really counts—even though it means I’ll have to eat crow over the next two weeks whenever I see a certain photographer swaggering my way.

As I related the entire debacle to Chip, he struggled to keep the corners of his mouth straight.

“Don’t you dare call me Preggy Brains,” I warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, turning his head to smirk.

Literalist. I distinctly heard him mutter the initials “P.B.” as he strode from the room.