one said anything about endorsing.”
Melissa sighed. Ella was truly a creative genius when it came to rationalization. “I see your point. I just worry about the little children.” Ella claimed to be deeply concerned with the next generation, although Melissa had never seen any concrete proof of this.
“But honey, there won’t be any little children at this party. It’s strictly twenty-one and over.”
Melissa gave up the fight—for now. “When is it?”
“This Friday, like I said on my message,” replied Ella impatiently. She expected every word she spoke to be remembered like gospel. “That’s why you have to get me off the news.”
Friday. So she had a few days to figure out a solution. She could always threaten to put an intern on the air in her place. Ella had a mortal fear of interns—all young, all gorgeous, all single-mindedly after her job. “We’ll figure something out. I have to check my e-mail now.”
Chang popped his head into Melissa’s cubicle. “What’s crack-a-lackin’, babe?” He spotted Ella. “Great numbers last night.”
“Why thanks. The numbers always pop when I wear my fuchsia silk.”
“Nothing to do with the black market dog-breeding story, I suppose,” interjected Melissa, looking up from her computer.
Ella and Chang ignored that absurdity, and Melissa went back to her e-mail. The usual corporate memos, lectures from the news director, viewer comments, and forwarded dirty jokes. She deleted most of it and nearly deleted the misspelled e-mail with the subject line, “Pleas help cawl soon.” But since Ella and Chang were now arguing over whether Starbucks would deliver, she decided even a wacko e-mail would be preferable. She opened it, and right away saw the misspellings were those of a child.
Pleas help. Our foster mother beets us and gives mony to the soshul worker not to tell. Call 557–9268 onley between 9 and 10. My name is Rodrigo. I got yore card from Juan.
Melissa felt the little hairs rise on her arms. A child abuser bribing a social worker to look the other way. If it was true, it was disgusting. It needed to be exposed. This was exactly why she’d gotten into the news business. This was why she frequently went into the worst neighborhoods and left her card with key people. The pastor at the church. The drug counselor. The barber. People who could let her know if something wrong was happening.
Brody’s words came back to her, the ones about sticking cameras in people’s faces and making sure her lipstick looked good. How she’d love to prove him wrong. She’d love to see Mr. Big Shot Fire Captain eat his words.
She checked her watch. Nine-forty. She’d better call the boy, Rodrigo, right away. But first she had to get rid of her bickering coworkers. “Chang, if you struck out with the governor, try Dana in the press office, and tell her I told you to call. And Ella, you really should do something about that nail, I can tell it’s driving you crazy. You don’t want it to distract you when you’re on the air.”
When Ella and Chang were gone, Melissa picked up the phone and dialed.
Before anyone could answer, the number of the news director’s office flashed on the screen. She sighed. How did she ever get any work done in this place? The window to call Rodrigo was disappearing. But news directors, as a species, didn’t like being ignored. She punched the button.
“My office, two seconds.”
Even though Melissa dawdled out of sheer rebellion, it didn’t take long to make her way to Bill Loudon’s dimly lit office. The news director was a watery-eyed, hunched little man whose salary was rumored to be seventy-five percent devoted to alimony payments. The news business was hard on marriages. Loudon had gone from market to market, Cedar Springs to Fargo to Las Vegas and on and on, strewing a trail of ex-wives behind him. The years of staring at TV screens had taken a toll on his eyesight. He kept his office so dim it felt almost
Melissa sighed. Ella was truly a creative genius when it came to rationalization. “I see your point. I just worry about the little children.” Ella claimed to be deeply concerned with the next generation, although Melissa had never seen any concrete proof of this.
“But honey, there won’t be any little children at this party. It’s strictly twenty-one and over.”
Melissa gave up the fight—for now. “When is it?”
“This Friday, like I said on my message,” replied Ella impatiently. She expected every word she spoke to be remembered like gospel. “That’s why you have to get me off the news.”
Friday. So she had a few days to figure out a solution. She could always threaten to put an intern on the air in her place. Ella had a mortal fear of interns—all young, all gorgeous, all single-mindedly after her job. “We’ll figure something out. I have to check my e-mail now.”
Chang popped his head into Melissa’s cubicle. “What’s crack-a-lackin’, babe?” He spotted Ella. “Great numbers last night.”
“Why thanks. The numbers always pop when I wear my fuchsia silk.”
“Nothing to do with the black market dog-breeding story, I suppose,” interjected Melissa, looking up from her computer.
Ella and Chang ignored that absurdity, and Melissa went back to her e-mail. The usual corporate memos, lectures from the news director, viewer comments, and forwarded dirty jokes. She deleted most of it and nearly deleted the misspelled e-mail with the subject line, “Pleas help cawl soon.” But since Ella and Chang were now arguing over whether Starbucks would deliver, she decided even a wacko e-mail would be preferable. She opened it, and right away saw the misspellings were those of a child.
Pleas help. Our foster mother beets us and gives mony to the soshul worker not to tell. Call 557–9268 onley between 9 and 10. My name is Rodrigo. I got yore card from Juan.
Melissa felt the little hairs rise on her arms. A child abuser bribing a social worker to look the other way. If it was true, it was disgusting. It needed to be exposed. This was exactly why she’d gotten into the news business. This was why she frequently went into the worst neighborhoods and left her card with key people. The pastor at the church. The drug counselor. The barber. People who could let her know if something wrong was happening.
Brody’s words came back to her, the ones about sticking cameras in people’s faces and making sure her lipstick looked good. How she’d love to prove him wrong. She’d love to see Mr. Big Shot Fire Captain eat his words.
She checked her watch. Nine-forty. She’d better call the boy, Rodrigo, right away. But first she had to get rid of her bickering coworkers. “Chang, if you struck out with the governor, try Dana in the press office, and tell her I told you to call. And Ella, you really should do something about that nail, I can tell it’s driving you crazy. You don’t want it to distract you when you’re on the air.”
When Ella and Chang were gone, Melissa picked up the phone and dialed.
Before anyone could answer, the number of the news director’s office flashed on the screen. She sighed. How did she ever get any work done in this place? The window to call Rodrigo was disappearing. But news directors, as a species, didn’t like being ignored. She punched the button.
“My office, two seconds.”
Even though Melissa dawdled out of sheer rebellion, it didn’t take long to make her way to Bill Loudon’s dimly lit office. The news director was a watery-eyed, hunched little man whose salary was rumored to be seventy-five percent devoted to alimony payments. The news business was hard on marriages. Loudon had gone from market to market, Cedar Springs to Fargo to Las Vegas and on and on, strewing a trail of ex-wives behind him. The years of staring at TV screens had taken a toll on his eyesight. He kept his office so dim it felt almost
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