When Dreams meet duty

Chapter 2:TheText

Sarah's pov

It was a Tuesday morning, the presentation day for all final-year journalism students. We had been divided into two groups, and I was the leader of Group One, the first to present. As the leading group, the pressure was ours to set the tone for the day.

I noticed my phone ringing just as I stepped onto the stage. I brought it out to see screen notifications seven missed calls from Dad.

My chest tightened, but the auditorium lights were already on me. No time to panic not yet. I slid the phone back into my pocket, forcing my heartbeat to steady. When I stepped onto the stage, a wave of applause greeted me. I straightened my posture, steadied my breath, and walked to the lectern, ready to begin.

“Investigative journalism is not just about breaking news it's about breaking silence.” My voice carried across the packed auditorium, steady and assured. A sea of final-year students and prominent lecturers, professors looked on, some nodding, others scribbling notes, all attentive.

I stood confidently behind the lectern, the glow of the projector casting shifting shadows as I clicked to my next slide: an image of the Watergate building alongside a quote from Carl Bernstein. I continued, the presentation I'd spent weeks perfecting flowed naturally now.

Professor Martins sitting in the front row beside guest lecturers from national outlets and nonprofit watchdogs, observed me with interest. His fingers tapped silently on his notebook neither praise nor criticism, just evaluation..

The projector cast a soft blue glow across my face as I moved through my carefully curated examples. “My thesis is that investigative journalism is essential to a functioning democracy,” I said, straightening my shoulders.

From the corner of her eye, I caught Tara's discreet thumbs-up. My best friend since freshman year had endured countless late-night practice sessions of this presentation, offering feedback and encouragement in equal measure.

When I clicked to my final slide, a stark black background with white text reading “Questions?” the room erupted in applause. Not the polite, obligatory kind that followed most student presentations, but genuine enthusiasm.

Professor Martins rose from his seat, leading the applause. “That, ladies and gentlemen,” he said when the clapping subsided, “ This is how you deliver a thesis presentation. Ms. Sarah has demonstrated a good presentation on Investigative journalism.

I felt my cheeks flush with pleased embarrassment as I gathered my notes. Students filed out after the second group were done with their presentation, some students paused to compliment me on their way.

“Sarah,” Professor Martins called, approaching me, “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course, Professor.”

He removed his glasses, cleaning them with the edge of his tweed jacket. “That was exceptional work. One of the best presentations I've seen in twenty years of teaching”.

“Thank you, Sir, that means a lot.”

“I don't give praise lightly, as you know.”He replaced his glasses, fixing me with a direct gaze. “I've been watching your progress since your first semester. You have not only talent but the work ethic to match it, a rare combination.”

I shifted, uncertain on how to respond to such praise. “I just try to give everything my best shot Sir.”

“Well, your best shot is remarkable.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Which is why I want to give you a heads-up. The Times is opening applications for a prestigious internship opportunity, their summer program next month and only three spots nationwide. Your father's media company might be available, but this could be a viable alternative”.

My breath caught, heart racing with excitement, I basked in the glow of my peers’ admiration. The Times internship was one of the legendary fast tracks to a career in journalism. Many established reporters I admired had started there.

“I'm not supposed to show favoritism,” Martins continued, a slight smile softening his usually stern features, “but I'd be disappointed if I didn't see your application. I sit on the selection committee this year.”

“I'm grateful, thank you,” I managed, my mind already racing with possibilities. “I'll definitely apply.”

“Good.” He nodded, already turning to leave. “Finish strong this final semester. Your final grade in my class will be part of what they consider.”

As the professor walked away, Tara appeared at my side. “What was that about? Professor Martins actually smiled at you. I've never seen him do that with anyone.”

I gathered my laptop, trying to contain my excitement. “He wants me to apply for the Times internship program.”

“Holy s**t!” Tara's voice rose, earning them disapproving glances from students settling back into their seats. “Sorry,” she whispered. “But seriously, that's huge.

I laughed, but the sound died in my throat as I pulled out my ringing phone but before I could pick it, it hung up. The screen glowed with notifications, eight missed calls from “Dad.”

“Is everything okay?” Tara asked, noticing my expression.

I frowned, shoving the phone back into my bag. “It’s my father, he probably wants to know how the presentation went.”

But something about the number of calls, seven in under an hour sent a wave of unease through me. My father understood boundaries; he wouldn't call repeatedly unless it was important.

“I'll call him after the next class,” I decided aloud.

“I shouldn’t have.”

All through the next lecture, I couldn't focus. Every word the professor said faded under the hum of my anxious thoughts. By the time class ended, my earlier elation had been replaced by a gnawing anxiety.

I stepped outside into the fading sunlight, phone clutched tightly in my hand. I called him.

Tara squeezed her shoulder. “I've got to run to my shift at the library. Text me later?”

I nodded absently. “Sure. Have a good one.”

Alone now, I found a quiet bench beneath a sprawling oak tree and finally pressed call. It rang once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.

“You've reached Simon Rick. Leave a message.”

I hung up without speaking, irritation replacing worry. Seven urgent calls, and now he wasn't answering? Typical for all his lectures about responsibility and communication, my father could be frustratingly inconsistent.

I tucked my phone away and pulled out my planner. The rest of my week was mapped out in color-coded blocks: study session for tomorrow's class, shift at the café Thursday and Friday, article draft due for the campus magazine...

Suddenly my phone vibrated in my bag, it was not a call this time, but a text.

I expected my father's name on the screen. Instead, it was a number I didn't recognize.

The message was simple, direct, and sent a chill down my spine despite the warm afternoon.

“Come home, Sarah. It's urgent.”