building had a heavy glamour, with its black and gold walls and floor, the massive murals of planes flying and people building, the army of NBC pages scurrying around. Marlene had already latched on to a few of her Powerkids friends, and Scarlett was more or less forgotten.
One thing about disease: It didn’t care how much money your family had, or what neighborhood you came from. The Powerkids were a mix of Connecticut and New Jersey suburbanites; residents of Harlem, Chinatown, the East and West Villages, and theUpper East and West Sides; Staten and Long Islanders; people from every corner of Brooklyn and the Bronx. These were the people Marlene had lived with for her hospital stay. This was her element.
The studio of Good Morning, New York was much smaller than it appeared on TV. To watch the show, you would think they had hundreds of people in the audience. In reality, there were some risers and room for maybe two or three dozen. It was only half full. It was also completely freezing. There were countless cables dangling from the ceiling, and shockingly bright lights.
The famous chef was also shorter than he looked on TV, and he was wearing a lot of makeup. It seemed to take the crew forever to set up the kitchen. Bowls of vegetables were being set out on the counter. The Powerkids were not particularly impressed. They were used to better entertainment than this. To entertain herself, Scarlett started playing with her phone, plugging in every number in the little book she kept in her purse, even really irrelevant ones, like people at school she barely knew outside of Biology study group and Dakota’s housekeeper.
A stage wrangler with a headset came out and addressed the group.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re going to film the cooking segment now. We’re going to need one or two of you to help in the demonstration and chop up some vegetables.”
The bored Powerkids suddenly came to life, and every hand went up. Scarlett was barely aware of it, and didn’t even notice when the woman said, “And how about you, in the back?”
Someone elbowed Scarlett softly in the neck and she looked up.
“Me?” she asked.
“Yes. Let’s get a bunch of different ages down here and mix it up a little.”
“But I’m…”
The woman couldn’t hear her, and was waving her down impatiently.
“Don’t worry!” said the chef. “I only bite my food!”
An obligatory laugh.
Marlene was not happy about this at all. She gazed at Scarlett in deadly reproach as she made her way down. She tried to throw Marlene a “I didn’t mean to do this” look, but the wrangler was already positioning her by a chopping board and a massive knife.
“You’re the oldest,” the chef said. “So we’ll have you do the more serious chopping, okay? What’s your name?”
Scarlett said her name was Scarlett.
The chef’s makeup was touched up, and there was a general scrambling and shifting around of dishes. They seemed more important than the two Powerkids and Scarlett, who were shoved into a few different positions before the whole thing was settled.
“We go live in one minute,” the wrangler said. “Don’t worry. You’ll be told what to do. Just be natural and have fun.”
She barked this out in the least fun-sounding way possible.
“Live?” Scarlett said, looking at the cameras and the lights.
The word live had never been mentioned before this. There was a lightness in her head, like all of her ability to think floating off of her brain like steam. The wrangler began counting down the minute as the cameras were shifted foward.
And then, there was a loud, horrible noise. Scarlett looked down and saw, to her horror, that her tiny phone clutched in her hand was ringing. The number was an extension of the Hopewell.
“Maybe you should answer that,” the chef said, good-naturedly.
In the shadows, behind the lights, Scarlett could see the wrangler shaking her head and raising her hands in frustration. Scarlett glanced down at
One thing about disease: It didn’t care how much money your family had, or what neighborhood you came from. The Powerkids were a mix of Connecticut and New Jersey suburbanites; residents of Harlem, Chinatown, the East and West Villages, and theUpper East and West Sides; Staten and Long Islanders; people from every corner of Brooklyn and the Bronx. These were the people Marlene had lived with for her hospital stay. This was her element.
The studio of Good Morning, New York was much smaller than it appeared on TV. To watch the show, you would think they had hundreds of people in the audience. In reality, there were some risers and room for maybe two or three dozen. It was only half full. It was also completely freezing. There were countless cables dangling from the ceiling, and shockingly bright lights.
The famous chef was also shorter than he looked on TV, and he was wearing a lot of makeup. It seemed to take the crew forever to set up the kitchen. Bowls of vegetables were being set out on the counter. The Powerkids were not particularly impressed. They were used to better entertainment than this. To entertain herself, Scarlett started playing with her phone, plugging in every number in the little book she kept in her purse, even really irrelevant ones, like people at school she barely knew outside of Biology study group and Dakota’s housekeeper.
A stage wrangler with a headset came out and addressed the group.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re going to film the cooking segment now. We’re going to need one or two of you to help in the demonstration and chop up some vegetables.”
The bored Powerkids suddenly came to life, and every hand went up. Scarlett was barely aware of it, and didn’t even notice when the woman said, “And how about you, in the back?”
Someone elbowed Scarlett softly in the neck and she looked up.
“Me?” she asked.
“Yes. Let’s get a bunch of different ages down here and mix it up a little.”
“But I’m…”
The woman couldn’t hear her, and was waving her down impatiently.
“Don’t worry!” said the chef. “I only bite my food!”
An obligatory laugh.
Marlene was not happy about this at all. She gazed at Scarlett in deadly reproach as she made her way down. She tried to throw Marlene a “I didn’t mean to do this” look, but the wrangler was already positioning her by a chopping board and a massive knife.
“You’re the oldest,” the chef said. “So we’ll have you do the more serious chopping, okay? What’s your name?”
Scarlett said her name was Scarlett.
The chef’s makeup was touched up, and there was a general scrambling and shifting around of dishes. They seemed more important than the two Powerkids and Scarlett, who were shoved into a few different positions before the whole thing was settled.
“We go live in one minute,” the wrangler said. “Don’t worry. You’ll be told what to do. Just be natural and have fun.”
She barked this out in the least fun-sounding way possible.
“Live?” Scarlett said, looking at the cameras and the lights.
The word live had never been mentioned before this. There was a lightness in her head, like all of her ability to think floating off of her brain like steam. The wrangler began counting down the minute as the cameras were shifted foward.
And then, there was a loud, horrible noise. Scarlett looked down and saw, to her horror, that her tiny phone clutched in her hand was ringing. The number was an extension of the Hopewell.
“Maybe you should answer that,” the chef said, good-naturedly.
In the shadows, behind the lights, Scarlett could see the wrangler shaking her head and raising her hands in frustration. Scarlett glanced down at
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