I joined The Liberator because I legitimately believed I could become Carl Bernstein. I imagined myself sneaking around in too-luxurious hotels dressed in all black with a camera around my neck. But when I walked into the newspaper room, my fantasy was quickly dispelled. The ceiling of the dark portable was stained with water damage. The mold in the walls was the only form of insulation other than the century-old asbestos. 

I legitimately believed I was allergic to The Liberator. Every time I walked into portable 5A, my nose ceased its duties as a source of oxygen, my throat closed, and my eyes began to water. Sneezes emanated from the chair I had chosen as my own in the corner of the room. I got told “bless you” so many times that I probably have automatic admission to heaven. 

I wasn’t allergic to The Liberator. I was allergic to the mold. Despite my unfortunate affliction, I remained intent on saving my Carl Bernstein dreams. The raccoons became my anonymous sources and the principal became my Nixon. I was a woman on a mission. 

While I briskly roamed the halls of the school and sat hunched at my school-issued chromebook, the other members of The Liberator became my Bob Woodward. The girl in the corner drawing a scarily realistic shoe taught me how to keep a steady hand while I drew. The tall boy in the soccer jersey laughed at my jokes even when the only laughable thing about them was how bad they were. The girl with glasses as thick as the ice at a skating rink taught me that it is okay to want to throw your computer across the room and type 300 words a minute at the same time. 

And that’s why my favorite parts about The Liberator are the simple ones. Thermoses that won’t open, pizza bagels only warm enough for Grace, Thursday night delirium and eyes watering from eyes too close to dusty, million-year-old desktop computers. I am my own Carl Bernstein, and the newspaper room is my Watergate Hotel. It’s nice here.