Stay Tuned (11 page)

“Melissa, what’s your e-mail address? The one here at the station?” Our graphics guy looked up at me expectantly. “For the show,” he prompted impatiently, looking at the clock, then back at me. “I have to load the info into the computer for your opening shot with Rick.”

By the time I rattled it off, it dawned on me we had only twenty minutes until airtime. I threw myself into high gear. I snatched up my copy of the script and grabbed my earpiece.

Around me, the station sizzled with energy. The scanner crackled with short bursts of police-speak. A new pot of coffee percolated—elixir of the gods to exhausted news people everywhere. I inhaled the roasted bean flavor, but decided my nerves didn’t need the extra caffeine jolt. I was plenty wired, all by myself.

“The live shot’s not up yet,” Joe called over from his desk without waiting for a reply. “There’s a problem with the signal because of the wind.”

That meant improvise if necessary, something that was less of a hassle the more you did it. No problem. I could handle it.

I glanced at our rundown and flipped through the pages beneath. I had reviewed it all earlier with Rick. Today was the usual barrage of robberies, car accidents, and verbal warfare between members of the city council.

In the midst of it all, my cell phone started to buzz, making tracks for the edge of my desk. I snatched it up before it plummeted to three feet and hit the floor.

“Hello?” My mother’s voice crackled at me.

“Hello, Mother. How are you?”

“Could you get my daughter please? There’ve been people in my room again. I’m sure someone has stolen the message from Frank.”

“Frank? Who’s Frank?”

“Frank Sinatra, of course.”

I sighed. My mother was back in celebrity author mode. This time it seemed Mr. Sinatra was her artist of choice. Despite her coldness toward my father and me, I really did miss her. The real her—the woman who went to Hollywood parties and mingled with important people, not the one whose memory played tricks on her.

It started a few years ago. She’d gotten lost on the way to meeting with a long-time friend. Not to mention her house suffered major water damage after she left the tub faucet running for hours, and Mother landed in the ER with a case of food poisoning.

The next week, neighbors found her in the backyard. She had fallen, broken her hip, and cracked three ribs, trying to pick peaches. That was when it struck me the hardest. She couldn’t be left alone.

Chris and I moved her to a nursing home several miles away after a doctor confirmed our suspicions. Dementia was slowly and methodically stealing tiny bits of her mind.

For Mother, an independent, self-made woman, this was more than difficult to accept. She admitted once, a long time ago, to complete bewilderment when she found out she was pregnant with me. My arrival was a mishap, a mistake, never part of the grand plan. With a flourishing career, at forty years old, a baby was the last thing on her mind.

So, as a child, I was left with nannies or my father. I pined for my mother’s attention. When she came back from a trip, if I was lucky, we would go to the theatre or listen to classical music. Instead of playgrounds and parks, we visited museums and galleries. I was expected to be grown-up, even at eight years old. At the time, I didn’t care. I wanted to be with Mother.

Joe’s voice boomed over the intercom. “Melissa Moore, you’re needed in the studio. Melissa.”

“Love you. Bye,” I whispered, hung up, and tossed the cell phone on my desk.

Okay. Deep breath. Get to the studio. Get ready to make a good impression on viewers with the “new me.”

Taking the steps two at a time in heels, I reached the studio door with five minutes to spare. A tiny rush of excitement bubbled up in my chest.

Behind the desk, I plugged in my earpiece and ran my hand along the shiny oak top. It was rounded and long enough for four adults to sit behind. For now, it was just two of us. Rick nodded at me as I adjusted my seat. I tried not to stare. His face was perfect, the curves and angles caressed by the lights. How was it possible to look better than you did a few hours ago?

“Hey,” I leaned over to get Rick’s attention. “How’s your first day going?”

“Fantastic,” he answered with a wry smile. “Feel right at home again. Like I never left. Too bad they didn’t update the set while I was gone. Same Nevada brothel appeal.”

I had to laugh. The studio did trend toward gaudy, with its gold trim and red backdrop. But somehow, across the airwaves, the space around us transcended into something much more important and impressive.

“Give me a level, Melissa,” I heard Joe through my earpiece. “Two minutes.”

“Mic check, mic check. Five, four, three, two,” I answered. The teleprompters on each of the three cameras came to life.

Our opening music filled the room. It was a cross between country and hip-hop and finished with an upbeat classical musak theme. Something to appeal to most audiences, Drew had explained when it debuted last year.

My director’s voice again. “Here we go…ready in three, two …”

I smoothed my jacket, took a sip of water, and waited for Rick.

“Good afternoon. Thanks for joining us for WSGA News at Six. I’m Rick Roberts.” He looked at me and smiled like a movie star.

My cue. “And I’m…M-Melissa Moore. Here are s-some of the stories we’re following for you tonight…”
What was the matter with me?
I made a fist under the desk. Flubbing my lines was not part of the plan.

Voiced-over video from one of the reporters rolled across the screen.

“Live shot’s up, Melissa,” came through my earpiece.

I was ready this time. “We have a live report tonight from the scene of a fatal accident on the north side of the city…”

Rick readied for his one-shot as I tossed to our reporter in the field. Story after story, the rest of the A-block ran without a hitch. I started to relax. We were getting into a decent rhythm.

It all fell apart during the first commercial break. As the two-shot faded to black, I could hear Joe cue what should have been the Boys and Girls Clubs of Central Georgia Gala promo. What came up was anything but.

An instrumental version of, “Let’s Talk about Sex,” blared as video of scantily dressed women and male models rolled across the screen. A Faith Hill twin rolled around on a sheet like something out of her “Breathe” video. Next, fireworks exploded, followed by the words, “Changing Yourself, Changing Your Life,” written across the screen. Drew’s voice followed.
Watch Melissa Moore’s series next week on WSGA News at Six. It’ll change your life.

I shut my eyes, somewhere between wanting to scream or hide, followed by what felt like a rush of heat from a nearby blast furnace.

Rick pushed back from the desk and shook his head in disbelief. “Guess I really made my point with Drew.”

“Melissa, you okay?” I heard from Joe. “Get her some water. Melissa, someone’s gonna bring you some water.”

I leaned over and grabbed my bottle, holding it up. “Thanks, got some,” I answered. I took a swig, feeling tipsy with anxiety, wiping off half my lipstick with the back of my hand.

Joe’s voice filled the studio. “Drew called. He forgot to pull the promo. It’s been killed.”

Not soon enough. My internal heat wave subsided some, leaving me in Sahara Desert state instead of Earth’s total annihilation from the sun. “Just a little shocked, that’s all.”

Rick chuckled. Suddenly, I felt the warmth of his hand on mine under the desk. A jolt of electricity shot up my arm. He squeezed my fingers and let go. It happened so quickly I wondered if I imagined it.

We were back on camera. It was my turn to read.

“G-Georgia’s State School Superintendent is applauding charter school educators and founders, calling their recent achievements an integral part of the education system.”

I swallowed hard and forced myself to focus.

“Charter schools receive public money, but are not held to public school rules and regulations. Instead, they must achieve specific results outlined in each school’s charter.”

Somehow, I made it through the rest of the news, sports, and weather. But I couldn’t shake a lingering feeling of curiosity. Rick’s gesture had completely thrown me.

Questions bounced around in my brain like ping pong balls. Was he just being friendly? Was it a silent show of support? Was he trying to tell me something?

I was so focused on figuring out Rick’s motive that I wasn’t even surprised when the kicker story was a complete disaster. The wrong video ran, Rick read my lines by mistake, and we had less than ten seconds to say a hurried goodnight.

As we went to commercial, relief rushed through me. We were done! We had made it! Okay, it
was
a little rough, but we could smooth it out.

As I tugged on my earpiece, lost in thought, Drew appeared in the doorway. “Melissa. Rick. Control room. Post-mortem.” He didn’t wait for us to follow.

As my heels clicked down the hallway after Rick, I talked myself into being calm. This was standard procedure, especially after the first few shows. Everyone lived through it. A critique of the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Hopefully, not too ugly.

I managed to smile as we joined everyone in the darkened control room.

“Overall, strong.” Drew began, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Rick, stellar performance. Smooth. Great to have you back.”

I winced at the
smooth
comment. My turn was next.

“Melissa, don’t rush the script. Relax and have a little fun with it. You’re over-thinking it,” Drew added. “Overall, though, the two of you look great on set. Viewers like the new team, right?” He looked around for verification.

The girl in master control spoke up. “That’s what one lady said.” She paused, blew a huge pink bubble, then popped it. “But, the sexy video. No one liked it,” she concluded, a wry look on her face. “We had a few calls about that, too.”

A few muffled snickers filtered through the room. I fanned my face with my script, suddenly warm all over again. Rick elbowed Joe and grinned in my direction.

Drew sighed and shrugged. “Can’t win ’em all.”

As Drew’s footsteps faded down the hallway, I made my way the opposite direction.

I pushed against the heavy steel door in the back of the building, juggling my purse in one hand and cell phone in the other. I needed quiet. Some fresh air.

Chris had left a voicemail. He left a lengthy message about Mother and Frank Sinatra. She’d evidently called the house after I’d hung up at the station. Sharice managed to get her calmed down. The nurses gave her something to sleep.

I was thankful Chris dealt with it, but I needed to talk to Sharice and the nursing home administrator soon. Mother’s memory was deteriorating and it scared me. I slid out of my suit jacket, and told myself to breathe. Candace’s number flashed up on the screen next.

“Hi there—”

“Melissa’s Secret,” she answered in a deep, throaty voice. “How may I help you?”

“Funny. Very funny.” I folded my jacket and laid it on a bench outside the building.

“Nice promo for the series. Will you be donning Frederick’s of Hollywood attire for next week?” Candace giggled. “I can let you borrow my best—”

“Hey, time out. Stop. Enough.”

“Fine, fine. What happened?”

“Wrong promo. Drew forgot to pull it,” I let out a giggle. “It was pretty awful, wasn’t it?”

“At least you still have your sense of humor. That’s my girl!” Candace exclaimed. “Anyway, I called to compliment you on the show…and you looked beautiful!

“You’re a gem. I owe it all to you.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Candace chided. “I helped, but I am not the person up there on camera. You are. And that takes guts. I’m proud of you.”

I started to add that WSGA would find another anchor soon, but then closed my mouth. It was time I learned to take a compliment gracefully.

“Thank you, that means a lot,” I said simply. And it did.

“You’re welcome,” Candace replied, followed by a thoughtful pause. “Melissa, all you have to do is believe in yourself. Then everyone else will, too.”

Chapter 25

The next morning, I found Sunshine the weather cat on my desk. She was sleeping, paws stretched across my keyboard, notebooks, and Sharpies. When I set down my bag, she opened one eye lazily. We stared at each other.

Her tail, flicking back and forth, brushed across three DVDs. They were rubber-banded together and topped with a Post-it from Drew. “No!” was scrawled across the yellow square.

Clearly, he didn’t like the anchor demos I’d chosen. I could get to the next stack of DVDs, if Sunshine would move away from my inbox.

“Nice kitty,” I cooed. “Can you go find Stanley? I’ll give you extra tuna…”

Sunshine refused to budge. I glanced around for our weatherman, the only person in the building the cat actually liked.

When I reached for the drawer, with the object of getting a spare can of Albacore, her claws shot out and missed my finger my a millimeter.