Chapter One
Clara
WCBS may not be the most magnificent rendition of big-TV-skyscraper-glory in the Chicago Loop, but it’s home. It’s the home I dreamed of ever since I could hold a hairbrush as a mic and think up interesting stories to tell anyone who’d listen.
Five years of exhausting internships, saying yes to every demeaning PA gig, settling for a two-minute segment on someone else’s show, and pretty much giving up life outside of these walls have all led to today. Today I get to tell the little girl practicing fake news reports in her bedroom mirror every morning that she’s made it. Because today is Rhonda’s last day.
The gloom is palpable in the foyer. Rhonda’s an institution here. I consciously dull the bounce in my step as I swipe my key card at reception. Talk Back with Rhonda put the studio on the map, so of course everyone else is bummed to see her go. The last thing my pending promotion needs is the impression that I’m happy about the fresh vacancy. Even if I am happy. Even if I’m just about bursting out of my skin at the idea that I finally get to host my very own talk show.
“D’you sign the card?” Brian, one of the sound guys, asks as I join him in the elevator. He’s another one of the studio’s originals, and almost as old as the cables taking us up to the eighth floor.
“It found its way across my desk before I left last night.” My smile is a million watts thanks to years of practice. My prime time exterior keeps whatever’s happening on the inside well hidden.
The elevator dings not a moment too soon, and the doors sigh open to a buzz of activity. Brian steps off first with a cursory nod, mumbling a faint good luck before shuffling away. But I don’t need it.
As I cut my usual path to the break room for my breakfast granola, my well-rehearsed speech to Anne-Marie plays on a loop in my head. I have reams of ideas that’ll elevate Talk Back to Oprah status.
WCBS may be on the map thanks to good old Rhonda, but Rhonda’s exactly that - old. Old taste, old news, as stale as her yawn worthy segments. What I have planned for the show is going to burn the map and launch us into outer space.
“The machine stole my dollar.”
I’m so lost in my head that I don’t realize I’m not alone in the break room. I make a sound somewhere between a yelp and a choked whimper, spinning around, ready to face death in the eye. Granola flies everywhere.
Catching my breath, clutching my heart, I’m relieved to find that ‘death’ is just a little kid in a dinosaur t-shirt. This is no place for kids. And if it were up to me, no place would be a place for kids.
“What are you doing in here?”
“The machine stole my dollar,” he says again, this time pointing at the vending machine in the corner.
His wide green eyes almost distract me from the tousled mess of sandy hair on his head that looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in days. It’s cute how the hair matches the wild splash of freckles over his nose.
I gather myself, heels crunching on the scattered granola as I approach the feral beast.
“You shouldn’t be in here. Go- go find your mom or dad or- or something.” In my head, I’m using my best no-nonsense tone. “You should be in school. How old are you? Five? Eleven?”
He blinks. Doesn’t move. I blink. Can’t move. I’m not sure what happens next. Should I pick it up? Call security?
“Do you have a dollar?” he asks with absolutely no shame.
Oh my god, are you kidding me right now? I have minutes to go before my life-changing meeting with Anne-Marie, and I’m in a standoff with a five-or-fifteen-year-old.
“This is why I hate kids,” I mutter under my breath, as I rifle my wallet out of my purse and hand him a crisp dollar note.
“That one,” he says, not taking the money but tapping on the glass.
It’s the first time he’s broken eye contact with me, and it’s to beam up at the Hershey’s bar with his name on it, apparently.
I give a sigh of irritation, but agree because I remember that feeling only too well.
“Good choice, kid,” I say, feeding the vending machine and selecting the chocolate.
When was the last time I had one of those? I stifle a snigger as I think of Cadie, my make-up artist. If she were here to see this she’d be all, At your age, in this business, a moment on the lips…
The Hershey’s drops effortlessly from its rack with a dull clunk, and Dinosaur Kid makes a mad scramble for it.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” I say. “In a few years, the joy of sugar will be greatly overshadowed by an immovable fat belt and extra chin, making you obsolete in the world of daytime television.”
“You’re weird,” he mumbles through a mouthful of chocolate, and sprints out of the room.
“Oh yeah? Well, you’re- you’re welcome!” But he’s already gone, so when I add, “You little twerp,” it’s under my breath as I take in the surrounding mess.
“What the hell happened here?” Bobby, a camera guy, asks.
His super-flared jeans sweep my spilled granola along as he makes his way to the coffee machine.
“Get someone to clean this up, will you? I have a meeting with Anne-Marie.”
I make my way out when he calls after me, “Did you sign the card?”
But I dismiss him with a wave and leave. I swear to God, if one more person asks me that…
“Clara!” Anne-Marie’s million watt smile is on full blast as I enter her office. “You know Adam, right?”
I stop short of taking a chair at her desk, because seated in the one right beside it, turning to smile at me with his perfect teeth and drop-dead-gorgeous eyes of forest green, made even more brilliant by a shock of jet black hair, is Adam Smith.
I know him well. I make it my business to know everyone taking up space in this industry. Hot as the devil himself, chronically single, and known in these parts for his two big hits - an award-winning stint on Little Einsteins and some above average writing on Johnny Test.
“Uh- what’s going on?” The question falls out of my mouth to cover up my real question: What is a writer for kids’ TV doing in my Oprah moment?
There’s another question burning right under that one, something like how it’s biologically possible for a human to even be that goddamn good looking in the first place, but I pay little attention to that one. That one will have to wait.
“Have a seat.” Anne-Marie gestures to the empty chair beside Adam.
I don’t move. “I thought this was my 8am,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and easy-breezy. Because just look at how totally fine I am.
Anne-Marie leans back in her seat, hands steepled to her chin. “It is. Please sit.”
But I’m still standing, because I’m suddenly sure that if I move an inch, this bitch is going to pull the rug right out under me. And I am not fine.
“I’m not sure I understand.” My smile falters, the tremor in my voice giving away the effort it’s taking for me to remain calm.
Anne-Marie loses the nice, supportive boss act, and takes a firm tone. “Well, if you sit down and give me a chance to explain it to you, then you’ll understand exactly what’s going on.”
My stomach grumbles. It’s because my breakfast is all over the floor in the break room, but also thanks to the spike of anxiety that’s just balled my insides into a knot. Whatever I’m about to hear, I’m not expecting anything good.
So far, this moment is unfolding pretty much opposite to how I imagined. In my head, my promotion to talk show host involved champagne and general applause. Sometimes there were giant helium balloons filled with shiny sparkles, and Talk Back with Clara scrawled on them in gold lettering.
There was at the very least always a humongous lemon cream cake. But I remind myself that I still technically have to bag this promotion, so like a good little future talk show host, I take my seat.
--
“This is the biggest load of absolute bullshit I’ve ever heard!”
Cadie’s eyes are saucers in her head as she watches me pace the length of the make-up room.
“Prove myself, she said.” I wave a fistful of script pages at her. “Prove myself!”
“Clara, let’s just-”
“Oh, I’m sorry Anne-Marie. I thought that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for oh, I don’t know, only the past five years!”
Cadie gets hold of my shoulders to stop me pacing, looking straight into my eyes. “Take a breath,” she says, her voice unnervingly calm and collected. Beside myself, I try to follow her instruction. “Okay good. That’s good.”
“Who in their right mind would want me working with- with-” I can’t even say the word.
Cadie shakes her head briskly. “No, no. You listen to me.” Her eyes are hypnotic. They’re actually helping to calm me down. “You said it yourself - you’ve been working for this for half a decade. Right?”
The truth is, I’ve been working for this my whole life, but I give a feeble nod.
“And you’ve overcome many hurdles to get you to this point,” she continues. “Right?”
I nod again.
“So this is just another one of those. You were built for this, Clara. Adding a kids’ segment to the show is really nothing in the scheme of things. You’ve got this.” She seems really pleased with her little pep talk, but she has no idea.
Nobody does.
“Two Christmases ago, my sister asked me to keep an eye on her six-month-old while she went to the bathroom and he crawled off the bed. Just- para-sailed his way right down.”
“Uh… what?”
“He still has a scar above his right eye.”
“Clara-”
“The scar of an aunt who shouldn’t be anywhere near any human who can’t fend for themselves.”
There’s a knock on the door, and a muffled voice announces Cadie’s needed elsewhere. My panic rises again. I’m not ready to let go of my security blanket just yet.
“I can’t work with kids, Cadie. I don’t do kids,” I say, my words barreling out of my mouth like a freight train on desperation tracks.
“You’re gonna do great,” she says, making her way toward the door with me still clinging to her for dear life.
“What if they get hurt? What if they hate me? What if they die?”
She gives me a sardonic side-eye as she wrenches free from my grip. “You’re gonna do great,” she says again one last time, before leaving the room.
And me, standing in the middle of it, holding onto whatever dignity I have left, and the crumpled first draft of Adam Smith’s plan to weasel his way onto what’s supposed to be my goddamn show.
“Ready to go over the pages?”
I didn’t even see him standing there - appearing in the doorway like some talk show stealing thief in the night. Looking like a Greek god, maybe, but still a thief.
“Oh look, if it isn’t the Lord of Worst Ideas in the History of Ever.”
I toss my copy of the script in his general direction and watch the battered pages scatter at his feet before turning my back on him. He might’ve been able to charm Anne-Marie to coming on board with this crazy idea. And she might be justified in her Boss Lady power to demand I put together a practice run if I want to be considered for the promotion. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to make this easy for either of them.
