The Weekenders (51 page)

“Don't you dare tell her that,” Riley said. “I should be off the air at two. Call me and tell me how it went.”

*   *   *

Riley looked at herself in the full-length mirror of the communal dressing room at WDHM and recoiled in horror. “I am
not
wearing this,” she muttered.

The sleeveless top was made of a clingy reptile-print fabric with a high stovepipe collar and a diagonal mesh-covered cutout across her breasts to her waist, which was accented by a three-inch-wide black leather belt. The skintight leggings were made of black pleather, and a shoebox on the counter held a pair of gold peep-toe suede booties with a four-inch acrylic stacked heel.

Her ensemble had been hanging in her cubicle at the station when she'd arrived—thirty minutes late. The commute from North Hills to Durham had taken much longer than she'd expected.

Jacy, her producer, had made a big show of looking at the huge clock in the newsroom, and then back at Riley. “Your outfit is right there. A six, right? Our sponsor, Floozys, wants you to mention on air that viewers can go to our Web site and click the link to order it.”

“Uh, I'm actually an eight,” Riley said. “Floozys? That's really the name of the shop?”

“Cute, right?” Jacy said. “Why don't you get dressed and made up, then we'll do a quick run-through on the set.”

Riley did a slow turn in front of the mirror and wanted to weep. The combination of the too-small cinched belt and clingy fabric made her butt look huge, and she'd never been a fan of reptile prints. To make matters worse, the booties were nearly impossible to walk in. As she tottered out of the dressing room, she looked and felt like an overage stripper.

The set had been built in the far corner of the cavernous studio, and featured a mod-looking neon-orange sofa and a cobalt-blue swivel “host's chair.” The backdrop was a blown-up color photo of the Durham skyline.

“Adorbs, right?” Jacy said, showing her where to sit.

Riley collapsed into the chair, and Jacy handed her a sheaf of notes.

“Okay, here's today's lineup. First, you'll have Bob the Bugman from Triangle Pest Terminators. You're gonna talk about powderpost beetles, Formosan termites, German cockroaches, and um…” She looked over Riley's shoulder at the printout. “Oh yeah, voles.”

“What's a vole?” Riley asked.

“Something disgusting,” Jacy said. “Like a guinea pig, I think, but they live in basements. Whatever. Bob's an old pro at this. All you do is say that our community is, um, infested with pests. Just read what's on the teleprompter.”

“Got it,” Riley said.

“This part is very important. Crucial. You mention the link on our Web site at the beginning of the spot and at the end for their viewers' special coupon. It's important, because if they don't get a minimum number of clicks on that coupon, we don't get paid.”

“We get paid for clicks?”

“Of course. Right? Next you've got Dr. Armand Amonghadang from Better You Cosmetic Surgery.”

Riley studied the script. “How do you pronounce that name again? Can they give me a phonetic spelling on the teleprompter so I don't mess it up?”

Jacy rolled her eyes. “Ah. Mong. Ha. Dang. We usually just call him Dr. Dang. He's pretty cool. You'll lead in to him with this new study that shows young teens' self-esteem can be radically improved with properly done breast augmentation. He'll take it from there. His clinic is offering a back-to-school special. Again, you'll promo the link on our Web site.”

Riley scanned her notes. “Jacy, are you telling me I'm supposed to say it's a good idea for young teens to have breast augmentation? That there's an actual clinical study making that claim? Who did the study?”

“Who cares?” Jacy studied Riley. “Your job is to make your viewers believe they need whatever you're talking about. To make them want to shop where you shop and wear what you wear and do what you say. Right?”

“I don't know,” Riley said uneasily. “Pest-control coupons are one thing, but I'm not really comfortable advocating boob jobs for young girls. It seems unethical.”

“How is that unethical? My mom got me a boob job when I was sixteen, and it was, like, life changing. So don't judge, okay? Also? I don't know if your agent mentioned it, but this is not
Sixty Minutes
here.”

“But…”

“Okay, the last spot is our community calendar thing. It's National Honey Bee Awareness Day on the twentieth, so Seth, the bee guy, will demonstrate how you smoke a hive, and he's bringing a bee helmet for you, too. This demographic loves it when the hosts participate. Then you'll mention that you'll be at the mall Thursday night, judging the North Carolina Beekeeper's Association's honey competition. And one lucky viewer who clicks the link on our Web site will get to have dinner with you before. Right?”

“What? Bees? No, Jacy. I can't wrangle bees. I'm terrified of stinging insects. Literally. I break out in hives.”

“Hives! That's adorbs, right? Use that in the intro. They didn't tell me you were funny.” The producer checked her watch. “Okay, I need to go make some phone calls and then we've got a meeting with the sales staff—”

“Jacy! Did you just hear what I said? I am not getting anywhere near bees. And while we're on the subject, nobody said anything to me about an event on Thursday night. I can't be at the mall. It's back-to-school night at my daughter's school.”

Jacy stood with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed. “You know, Riley, we were a little, um, hesitant when your name came up in our talent search. But our focus groups showed us that our demographic wants a host with some maturity and a high believability factor. Plus, your people told us you were a pro. A real team player. So I don't think it's good for you to go all prima donna right off the bat on your first day, do you?”

“This is not being a prima donna,” Riley said quietly. “I'm happy to interview the beekeeper, and he can smoke the hive all by himself while I stand well off-camera. But the Thursday night thing is not happening.”

“You know you get paid a hundred bucks for a personal appearance, right?”

“Still not happening,” Riley said. She turned and hobbled back to her cubicle to wait for her first guest to arrive.

*   *   *

It was nearly five o'clock by the time Riley made it back to the hotel. She found Maggy sitting on the pullout sofa in their suite, watching television. The room smelled like scorched microwave popcorn.

“Hey, Mom,” Maggy said, not looking up.

“Hi!” Riley had been giving herself a nonstop pep talk during the hour-and-a-half-long commute from Durham. So her first day hadn't gone well. Okay, it was the worst first day ever. So she hated the job, and the pay was crap, and her boss was a nitwit, and her show was doomed to be a ratings bomb. She and Maggy had each other, and tomorrow would be better. It
had
to be better, because she really didn't see how it could be worse.

“How was your day?” Riley asked. “Do you like the new school?”

“It's okay.” Maggy shoved a handful of popcorn in her mouth.

“Are the teachers nice?”

“They're okay.”

“Do you have any homework?”

Maggy aimed the remote at the television and turned up the volume. “
Mom
. I'm trying to watch this.”

Riley took off her shoes and sank down onto the bed. She couldn't ever remember feeling as tired and defeated as she did right now.

“What would you like for dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Pizza!”

“Pizza and salad,” Riley said firmly. She reached across the bed, found the notebook with all the takeout menus of nearby restaurants, and placed her order.

“Dinner by six,” Riley said, yawning. Then she promptly dozed off.

By eight, they'd eaten, and Maggy had taken her insulin, and Riley started to pull out the sofabed.

“Can I just sleep with you tonight?” Maggy asked, curling up on the side of the queen-size bed.

“Sure,” Riley said, trying not to act surprised. She pulled down the covers and plumped the pillow next to hers. Maggy climbed in bed, and Riley clicked off the light.

“Mom?”

“Yes, baby.”

“You never said how your day was.”

“It was … okay.”

“Was your new boss nice?”

“She was okay.”

“Do you have any homework?”

Riley chuckled and gave her daughter's fanny a whack. “Very cute.”

“Seriously, Mom. Tell me the truth. I'm not a little kid.”

“Umm, it really isn't very okay. It kinda sucks. Nothing is like I thought it would be.”

“Wow,” Maggy said. Riley felt her daughter's slight frame mold up against her side, and her thin arm snaked around her waist. She felt Maggy's warm breath on the back of her neck.

“You know what?”

“What?” Riley said.

“My day wasn't that hot either.”

“Do you want to tell me about it? Maybe there's something I can do to help.”

“No,” Maggy said. “It'll be okay.”

 

60

The Woodlawn School's Sanford W. Mangrum Performing Arts Center was a far cry from the school auditorium at Edenton Elementary School, where Riley had spent her formative years.

The biggest difference was that this space did not double as the school cafeteria, and thus did not carry the unforgettable scent of steam table chili-roni and soured milk. No. This space was a state-of-the-art masterpiece, with tiered stadium seating, plush upholstered seating, and surround-sound acoustics.

The lights were already flickering as Riley hurried to her seat at back-to-school night, tardy again, because no matter what time of day she left the Durham studio she always got stuck in traffic on Interstate 40.

She drew annoyed glares as she bumped knees and elbows trying to get to a mid-row vacant seat. “Sorry,” she whispered.

The headmistress, Dr. Ksionzyk, was a pleasant, freckle-faced woman with a tangle of silver hair and just the slightest hint of an upstate New York accent. She gave a warm welcome to new and old parents of middle school students … and that was the last thing Riley was aware of, because she dozed off shortly after the lights were dimmed, awakening only when the parents applauded and the lights went back up, signaling a stampede of parents rushing to beat the fifteen-minute warning bell.

Thankfully, Maggy had delivered a folder to her mother with explicit instructions for back-to-school night. Riley knew she was to report to room twelve at the Dunstan Building at 6:45 p.m. to meet Miss Barlow, Maggy's homeroom teacher.

She found the room and the desk with Maggy's name masking-taped to it, but before she could sit, the teacher approached with barely concealed excitement. “You're Riley from Raleigh! My gosh! What are you doing here?”

“My daughter is in your homeroom. This is where she sits. Maggy Griggs?”

Blank look.

“She has medium brown hair, wears it in a braid? Blue-gray eyes? Thin build? She sits in this chair?” Riley gestured to the desk she was about to sit in.

“Oh, Maggy,” the teacher said, deliberately vague. “Yes, such a sweet girl. I'm looking forward to getting to know her as the school year progresses.”

The teacher stood at the front of the room and delivered a well-rehearsed spiel on school rules, expectations, and what she called “fun facts about the Woodlawn Woodchucks,” which turned out to be the school mascot. Riley surveyed the room as she spoke, counting the desks and the number of parents occupying them. Fourteen desks with fourteen parents. And this teacher had no idea who Maggy was?

After five minutes, the parents were invited to look around and meet the parents of their children's classmates.

Riley felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around. “Excuse me. Did I hear you say you're Maggy's mom?” The speaker was a tall woman with a curtain of waist-length frizzy red hair. “We meet at last! I'm Chantelle Roberts.”

Now it was Riley's turn to look blank.

“Annabelle's mom? From Belle Isle?”

“Oh, yes,” Riley said. She'd wondered if the woman would ever bother to call to explain why she'd allowed Maggy to ride her bike home in the dark, alone. “I didn't know Annabelle was enrolled here.”

Now she wondered why Maggy hadn't mentioned that her sworn frenemy not only went to her new school, but sat in front of her in homeroom.

“Yes,” Chantelle was saying. “It was a very last-minute thing. Micki started a new job in Raleigh, so here we are.” She paused and lowered her voice. “Listen. About that night on the island. I am so sorry about what happened with Maggy. And I feel terrible that they're still feuding. I've spoken to Annabelle about being mean, but you know how girls are at this age…”

The bell rang. Riley nodded curtly and joined the mad rush in the hallway to make it to Maggy's first-period class.

An hour later, Riley dragged herself to the last stop of the evening, the Woodlawn School's Susan B. Foster Dining Pavilion. Here, she knew, parents were supposed to visit booths staffed by club advisors and sports coaches, in order to encourage their children to participate in extracurricular events.

What she really longed to do was go back to her sad hotel room and hug her sad child and forget about her day, about the endless arguments with Jacy about the truly awful Floozys outfits she was expected to wear on-air, about the shameless pay-for-play guests she was supposed to “interview,” and about her adamant refusal to participate in after-hours personal appearances.

Part of her weariness tonight, Riley knew, was her nagging, uneasy impression that the Woodchuck Nation was largely indifferent to the existence of Maggy Griggs.

Still, she dutifully strolled around the room, pausing to chat for a moment with the tennis coach, who stood behind a table blazing with trophies, plaques, and awards testifying to the school's reputation as a tennis powerhouse.