Love at 11 - By Mari Mancusi Page 0,33

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