Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,12
stomach does a flip, and my hands—which instantly ball into fists—start to sweat.
“It’s a countdown,” he says as the words “Number 10” flash on the screen. “Bet you can’t guess who’s number one.” His voice is full of sarcasm, accented by icky garlic breath.
“No,” I yell, standing up so quickly, my wheeled ergonomic chair zooms behind me, nearly hitting an intern who’s walking by.
“Oh, yes.” He clicks on the video and, using the mouse, moves it ahead near the end, and sure enough, there I am. In my f-bomb-dropping glory. I hate watching this replay. For many reasons. But I especially hate what I was wearing that day. It wasn’t flattering. Orange has never been my color. And a T-shirt with the costume shop’s logo on it, tucked into trousers? That was a last-minute wardrobe change I should have never agreed to.
“Already over eight hundred and fifty thousand views,” he says, looking up at me. I’ve got a few inches on the tiny little firecracker of a man.
How am I supposed to get a leg up in this business when this keeps haunting me? I just want to get out of midday news. Not today. But someday. How can I do that with this stupid video making the rounds?
I reach over and move his hands away from my mouse, and then I hip check Jerry, giving him the signal to stand back. He complies, which isn’t very Jerry-like.
I look at the number of views and then turn back to Jerry, a more important issue on my mind. I lean in close, lowering my voice. “Has she seen it?” I ask under my breath.
“Who? Moriarty?” He says this louder than I want him to, and some of the typing and chatter that had been going on around us stops. Just her name elicits a dark feeling in the room, as if I had summoned the Dark Lord.
Moriarty is Stacey Moriarty. I started calling her by her last name not long after I came to work at the station. Mostly because, at the time, I loved everything Sherlock (the Benedict Cumberbatch version). But also because she’s essentially my archenemy. Moriarty does the evening news and is basically the station’s darling, her smug mug on nearly every billboard the station owns in this city. She’s also the meanest, nastiest piece of human and the bane of my existence. She has had it out for me from day one, and I have no idea why. Also, every good news idea I present to our executive producer or news director is given to her to run with. It’s the most annoying thing ever. Part of me wants to believe that it’s because she’s on the evening news and therefore the story would get more viewers. But the other part of me knows the truth: she’s evil and has put the station under a spell.
“Yes, her,” I hiss.
“How’d I know?” Jerry says, his face a smirk. “You’ve got bigger problems on your hands. Dwayne and Tim.”
Dwayne Chambers is our executive producer, and Tim Walstrom is the news director. The big guys. The head honchos.
I want to put my face in my hands, but I just did my makeup and I don’t want to redo it. If only I hadn’t cussed on air, making it so I had to quit cussing. I could so use a couple of swear words right now.
“Let me guess: they’re thrilled with the exposure for the station,” I say, hoping that if I say it, I can will it to be true.
“No,” Jerry says, his shiny forehead glistening in the overhead lighting.
I blow air out of my mouth slowly. Filling my cheeks like a chipmunk. “What can I do?” I ask him.
“Got any other stories up your sleeve?” he asks, his eyes suddenly hopeful.
I put my finger on my chin. “Oh, you mean like another friend I can send on a trip with a complete stranger?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“No.” I shake my head.
If only. I think I’ve used all my friend favors for a while. Definitely with Holly. No, sending my best friend off on what was to be her honeymoon with a near stranger did not turn out like it should have. Well, not for her. For me, it was great. It got the station off my back; they ate it up. And Holly has forgiven me. I’m pretty sure. Besides, it’s all good now. She’s happier than she was before she left. She’s with Logan now, and none of that would