News Blues (9 page)

“What?” demanded my sister, coming out from the kitchen. She had a bottle of beer in one hand and a lollipop in the other.

“Outside. Now, ” I said, pointing to the front door. She grudgingly complied.

“Who are these people?” I asked as I shut the door behind us. I could hear someone inside requesting the music get turned
back on, now that the “wicked witch has left the building.”

“Just some friends, ” Lulu said sulkily. She popped the lollipop in her mouth and sucked. “We were at this rave and, like,
the cops came and busted it up. So I figured you wouldn’t mind if I had some people come by for a little after-hours . . .”

“I wouldn’t mind?” I asked. “Since when did you think I wouldn’t mind?”

“Well, you had a date. I figured maybe you’d get lucky and not come home.” Her rationality was truly amazing. “What’s the
big deal anyway?”

“The big deal is that I’ve had a long night and all I want to do is go to sleep, but there are fifty freaks sprawled around
my living room.”

Oh, man, I sounded like my father. I, Maddy Madison, was officially a party pooper.

“They’re not freaks. They’re my friends.”

“And you’re drinking! Is anyone here even of age?”

Lulu shrugged. “I think Bill is. He bought the beer. Though I guess he could have a fake ID. . . .”

I couldn’t believe this. I had to stop the party. Now. The cops could come and bust me for allowing underage kids to drink
in my home. And they probably wouldn’t believe me when I told them I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

“What’s your problem?” Lulu whined. “I always thought you were cool.”

Oh, man. She was actually pulling out the “cool” card? Her words hit me hard.
I am cool
, I wanted to protest.
Really!

I swallowed hard. I didn’t want Lulu to hate me, but at the same time I couldn’t allow this type of thing to go on. It was
for her own good, after all. I had to be the adult, as much as it pained me. She’d thank me someday. Maybe.

“Lulu, if you’re going to live in my house, you need to follow some rules. You can’t walk all over me, trash my house and
completely disrespect me and then tell me I shouldn’t mind because of some warped sense of coolness you think I have. It’s
not acceptable.”

“Fine. What-EVER. I’ll stop the party. Geez!” Lulu opened the front door, then turned back to shoot me an evil glare. “You
know, I was
totally
wrong about you.”

“Sucks to be you then, doesn’t it?” I snarled back. As soon as the words came out, I regretted them. As a rule, responsible
adult types should not say phrases like “sucks to be you.” But hey, I was parenting on the fly here.

To her credit, it took her less than ten minutes to clear everyone out. Of course, she wanted to go with them to the next
party, but I, the loser adult, told her to go to bed. Actually, I told her if she went to bed I wouldn’t tell Dad about the
party, but hey, whatever worked.

After giving her a blanket and pillow and settling her on the couch, I headed to my bedroom, which unfortunately hadn’t been
spared from the party mess. Worried about potential teenage hormone-induced action between the sheets, I stripped the bed
and made it again.

When had my life spun so out of control? It used to be so deliciously boring. Not that I was uncool as Lulu said or anything.
Was I? I mean, coolness shouldn’t be judged by one’s acceptance of an underage rave at her apartment, should it?

I crawled into my newly made bed and blocked the troubling thoughts from my mind. A good night’s sleep and everything would
be okay.

I hoped.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FROM:
“Laura Smith”

TO:
“Special Projects Group”

SUBJECT:
Sweeps Story List

Hi Guys!

After much planning, Richard and I have finally finalized the story list for May. I think we’ve got some good ones this time!
Please review the following stories:

•
Spray-on Nylons
- A new spray makes wearing pantyhose passé.

•
Cellulite Sneakers
- Special sneakers help you lose weight while you walk.

•
Pudgy Pets -
Now it’s Fido and Fifi’s turn to go low-carb.

•
The Fast Food Diet -
Big Mac can mean BIG weight loss.

•
Nocturnal Positions -
The positions you sleep in can predict the future of your marriage.

•
Nail Salon Nightmare -
How acrylic nails can lead to amputated fingers.

We will also be kicking off our latest
Household
Products That Kill
series. Maddy has been working on our first segment—“Cosmetics That Kill” which edits tomorrow. We’ll also be assigning Deadly
Doorknobs, Kitty Killer, Bad Beanie Babies, and Suspicious Sinks. And we’re looking for additional ideas, so if you come across
something that can kill, please pitch it to me ASAP.

When working on these stories, please keep in mind that we are not to name any brand names unless we are saying something
GOOD about the product. And please make sure if you’re writing about an experimental new diet product that may or may not
work, you add a quick sound bite at the end from some grumpy, old physician who doesn’t believe anything but old-fashioned
diet and exercise will lose weight. (As if people have time for that!
)

Your Boss,

Laura

Monday morning. Back at work. I had to write the “Cosmetics That Kill” story and get Terrance to record it. It amazed me sometimes
to think how little I got paid to shoot, write, and edit a story and how much he got paid to read it. When I first started,
my family always harassed me about when
I’d
be on air. Uh, that would be never.

It bugged me that most non-news people thought producers were all wannabe reporters. That we were all just sitting back, waiting
for our big break. I had no interest in going live on the air. I liked working behind the scenes and never having to worry
about getting fired because the latest surveys found that viewers trusted five-foot-two brunettes more than five-foot-six
blondes. As a producer you got to do all the fun stuff and never had to worry about your hair and makeup or getting old and
fired. The only downside was the pay. But I’d heard top
Newsline
producers made a good six figures, so at least I had a goal.

The mail icon popped up on my computer screen. I knew I should have closed the program before starting my script; it was too
tempting to click over to see who had written, even though usually it was either spam, e-mail forwards, or pesky viewers who
wanted to complain about a story I’d produced. Not that I minded viewer feedback, but nine times out of ten the viewer in
question hadn’t actually viewed my story—just the promo—and were condemning me on the fifteen-second tease I didn’t even write.

This time there were two e-mails in my box. One from my dad and one from the promotions department. Both were bound to be
equally upsetting.

I clicked open my dad’s first.

Hi Maddy,

How’s my little girl? How’s work? When are they going to let you on TV?

Anyway, Cindi and I were wondering if you’d like to come to her ultrasound appointment tomorrow at noon. I bet you’re just
DYING to see your little unborn sister or brother. (Don’t tell anyone, but I’m hoping for a boy!)

Let me know if you want to come. It’d mean a lot to Cindi. She really wants to meet you! Oh, and she wanted me to ask you
if you knew her older brother. She thinks he might have went to high school with you. Does the name Tad ring a bell?

Love, Dad

P.S. Is Lulu eating right? The girl is too skinny.

Ewh.
All I could say was
ewh.

Why on earth would I want to go see photographic evidence of Dad cheating on Mom? To me, the ultrasound would be a live video
starring the evil seed that broke up my parents’ marriage. Sure, technically the fetus would be my half brother or sister,
but just because we shared a sperm donor didn’t mean I had to have anything to do with this unborn creature.

And how dare he ask about Lulu as if it were no big thing? He should be the one making sure she ate, not me! He or Mom, who
was now equally pissing me off with her globe-trotting adventures. One of them needed to climb the hell back on the parental
wagon and start acting like the adults they were supposed to be.

Lulu still wasn’t talking to me after Saturday night’s incident. She’d left the house before I woke up Sunday morning and
for part of the day I’d sustained the hope that she’d gone back home. But late Sunday night she showed up again, drunk off
her ass, and passed out on my couch. Like a good sister, I left her a glass of water and some Advil on the coffee table. I
wanted to lecture her about underage drinking but didn’t want to set her off again. Besides, it wasn’t that big of a deal,
was it? I mean, I drank when I was sixteen. Maybe not on Sunday afternoons, but still . . .

I guess I didn’t blame her for wanting to check out of reality. My parents’ marriage had broken up, and besides passing P.S.
e-mails inquiring about her weight and school attendance, neither seemed interested in how she felt about the matter. I’d
probably react the same way if I were her. Poor kid.

I closed Dad’s e-mail without responding and turned to the one from the promotions department. I knew from experience this
one ought to be good.

Hi Maddy,

It’s Ron, your favorite Promo Boy! Here’s what we decided on for the promo for “Cosmetics That Kill.”

LURKING IN YOUR MEDICINE CABINET THEY SEEM INNOCENT . . .

HARMLESS.

BUT YOUR COSMETICS . . .

CAN ACTUALLY KILL YOU!

TERRANCE TELLS ALL, TONIGHT AT ELEVEN.

What do you think? Awesome, huh?

Ron

“Ugh” seemed the appropriate response. Nothing like a bad promo to ruin your day. Now I had to go argue with the promotions
producer and beg him to change the promo to something that remotely resembled the story itself.

I picked up the phone. It’d take way too long to respond by e-mail.

“Ron speaking.”

“Yeah, hi Ron. It’s Maddy down in Special Projects. About that promo you e-mailed me . . .”

“Isn’t it great? I showed everyone up here and we all agree it’s one of our best promos ever.”

“Um, yeah. Very catchy. But you see, the thing is, it’s not exactly true.”

“True?”

Of course. The word was a foreign phrase to the promos department. Actually, to the whole newsroom if it came to that.

“Yeah. As in, cosmetics don’t actually kill you.”

“Of course they don’t actually kill
me
. I’m a guy. I don’t wear cosmetics. By ‘you,’ we mean the viewer. The twenty-four- to fifty-five-year-old soccer mom we
call Abby who has two point four kids, a white picket fence and a ton of disposable income.”

I took a deep breath. “Right. But they don’t actually kill Abby either.”

“Hmm. Do they kill people who watch other stations besides News Nine? We might be able to work that in.”

“Uh, no. Sorry. The story is basically how certain lipsticks that contain lead may lead to brain damage to unborn babies.”

“Unborn babies can be considered viewers, ” Ron said defensively.

I grimaced. “They can’t view. They’re blocked by a wall of mommy flesh.”

I could hear Ron’s annoyed sigh on the other end of the phone line. “Since when did you get so technical? I showed the promo
to my boss Chris and he loved it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the promo. Except that what it says is not true.” I couldn’t believe I had to argue this point.

“Yeah, well, it took a day and a half to come up with this. We’re editing tomorrow and I have no time to rewrite my entire
promo just because of some technicality, ” he said in a huff.

It took him a day and a half to come up with five lines? It took me about an hour to write a four-page script. Promo producers
had the best jobs in the world. I envisioned them having wild parties in their fourth-floor offices, laughing at the rest
of the newsroom, who actually had to work. When an order came up for a promo they scribbled something out that took five minutes
and then resumed the party.

“Look, ” Ron said. “How about this? We change the line ‘your cosmetics can actually kill you!’ to ‘can your cosmetics actually
kill you?’ with a question mark. That way if anyone says anything you can say it was a question not a statement and that the
answer to the question happens to be no.”

I wondered if
Newsline
producers had to put up with this kind of bullshit.

“Fine. Whatever. Thanks, Ron.” I got off the phone quickly, my heart no longer into fighting the good fight. Why did I even
care? In the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter one bit. So a few viewers might stay up a half hour later, worrying a
bit about their killer cosmetics. When they saw the story they’d be relieved, right? It wasn’t like an incorrect promo would
destroy the world.

After squashing all my noble journalistic ethics, I went back to writing my script. All I could do was be responsible for
my own work. And my script was good. It contained facts, figures, and useful information. People would learn something. Unborn
babies would be saved from possible brain damage.

I’d have to tell Dad to make sure Cindi didn’t wear any lipstick during her pregnancy. Not that I cared about her, but the
baby’s brain itself shouldn’t be damaged simply because its mother was a home wrecker.

I finished the script and sent the file to the printer. I was actually pleased at how it had come out. A fair, well-balanced
story that aimed to scare the viewer a little, but then brought back reason in the end so as not to keep them up at night.
Sure, it wasn’t the ideal piece to kick off the new
Terrance Tells All
franchise. Not big and sexy and undercover. But it was better than half the drivel that ended up on TV, and hopefully after
I got this one on the air I could turn my focus to bigger investigations and really make my mark at the station and pad the
résumé videotape I’d eventually send to
Newsline.

I grabbed the script off the printer and headed down to the Newsplex to give it to Terrance to voice. That’s one thing I definitely
liked about my job. I had all the creative input and followed the story from beginning to end. The anchors and reporters simply
read my words. I was the news world’s Cyrano de Bergerac.

“Hi, Terrance, ” I greeted my own Christian de Neuvillette, approaching his desk.

He looked up, an annoyed expression on his face. I glanced at my watch. I didn’t catch him right before a show, did I? No.
He wasn’t on for hours.

“What?”

“Um, I’m Maddy. Your new producer? I have a script for you to voice.”

“You think I’m going to voice something I haven’t even read?” Terrance reached out and yanked the script from my hand.

“No. Of course not, ” I said, a bit taken aback. “I want you to read it. If you want to tweak it that’s fine, too.”

I stood there, hovering like an idiot, while Terrance grabbed a black sharpie from his desk and started making corrections
to the script. Actually, corrections might be an understatement. I watched in horror as he made sweeping Xs through almost
every line of text, mumbling as he did.

“No! No! NO!” The last no was almost a scream. Several other employees looked over, and I felt my face heat.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, a bit freaked out.

He looked up, a brilliant newsman smile on his face. “Oh, no. Nothing. I’m just making a few tweaks, like you said.”

A few tweaks, my ass. There wouldn’t be a word left on the page after he was done with it. But what could I do? He was the
million-dollar anchor; I was the lowly producer. Even though Richard had said that this was a producer-driven segment—that
Terrance should simply read what I wrote—if Terrance wouldn’t do it, I didn’t have a leg to stand on. I couldn’t force him
to read it, could I?

This sucked. My beautiful, thought-provoking, factual, and fair script now looked like a two-year-old had gone mad with a
marker. How was
Newsline
going to see my work if it never got on the air the way I’d written it? I mean, I could see tweaking. Editing. Questioning.
But not ripping to shreds. There was simply no reason. It was a good script.

“Retype this with my corrections, ” Terrance said after he finished his Texas Chainsaw Script Massacre. He handed me the paper’s
mutilated corpse. “
Then
I’ll voice it.”

I stared at him. “Was there something wrong with the script?” I asked, trying to bite back my tears. Maybe we could work together.
I could learn to write in his style and then in the future we could avoid this embarrassment.