about it.”
“Well, um, thanks,” I said modestly. Inside, my reaction was a bit livelier.
Oh, yeah! Maddy Madison, getting a compliment from Mr. Toller .Who rules the universe, bay-bee?
It took every bit of willpower not to start doing the Snoopy dance right then and there.
“You know, Madeline,” Terrance said, after not so surreptitiously checking his reflection in the mirror, “I was wrong about you. I assumed you were one of those cookie-cutter News Nine producers who had no brains and simply went along with whatever plastic surgery story of the week was assigned to her. But this …” He looked down at the script and back up at me. “This takes guts. It takes brains. It takes courage. I’ll be proud to put my name on this story.”
“Um, thank you,” I repeated, still at a loss for words. I knew I was blushing. Probably deep purple at this point. But at the same time I was pleased as punch. He liked my story! The fussy old anchorman liked my story!
“So, what’s your next move, Madeline?” Terrance asked. “After News Nine, I mean. If you’re writing stuff like this, you’re not going to be stuck in this hell-hole much longer.”
Wow. The compliments kept coming. I wondered if he was serious. Or if I told him about my Newsline dream he’d start making fun of me? Oh, what the heck. Let him. Having goals and dreams was nothing to be ashamed of.
“My ultimate dream goal is to become a Newsline producer,” I said, squaring my shoulders and daring him to put me down.
But he didn’t. He simply nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said. “That would be a good move for you, I think.”
“Really?” I asked before I could censor my enthusiasm.
“Produce a few more stories like this and you’re a shoo-in,” Terrance said. “And I’d be happy to give you my recommendation.”
I stared at him, still unable to get over his enthusiastic reaction to the script. I thought for sure, no matter how good it was, he’d tear it apart simply because it hadn’t been written by him. I would have never guessed in a million years that he would be offering me a reference to my dream job.
“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that,” I said, finding my tongue.
“Now, about this story. Anything else you need me to do? A stand-up? Maybe some teases?” He paged through his Daytimer. “I’m available tomorrow afternoon after my Botox appointment.”
Here it was. He wanted to be in the story. He wanted thirty-seven of the fifty shots to be pictures of him.
“Terrance, can I ask you something?” I queried. I might as well lay all my cards on the table, even if that meant the compliments would cease.
He looked up. “Sure. What is it?”
“Why do you think it’s so important for you to be physically present in the story? I mean, what’s wrong with it just being your voice? Do you really think it adds to the piece to see you in it?”
He stared at me for a moment, as if in disbelief that I had asked him such a question. I bit my lower lip, waiting for the yell-fest to begin. Why couldn’t I have kept silent? Terrance opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. He was beginning to resemble a goldfish.
“Have you looked around News Nine, Maddy?” he asked. “Counted how many people work here over the age of thirty-five?”
“Um, there’s.. .” I tried to think. My mind went blank. Surely there were one or two middle-aged people. “Well, there’s Don,” I said, referencing the old engineer that’d been working at News Nine since the days of black-and-white film.
“I mean on air. Reporters. Anchors,” Terrance clarified. “Don’t think too hard. There’s no one. I’m sixty-five years old and the next oldest reporter is thirty-three.” He cleared his throat. “Every time contract time comes around the station bosses ask themselves, why do we want to keep an aging, overpaid anchor around, when we could buy a hip, leather jacket–wearing, twenty-something replacement who will work for a quarter of his salary?”
I nodded slowly. I’d never thought about that. But it made perfect sense. There were hundreds of reporters banging down the door to work in “America’s Finest City.”
“The only thing I have going for me is name recognition. The viewers know who I am. They watch News Nine to see me and management knows it. If I ever lost that, I’d be kicked out the door with not so much as a ‘thanks for