the stage if you're not the brightest person out there."
Sara repeated the words like some battle cry, but her confidence refused to leave the trenches. Her debut tonight featured a report on the financial improprieties of Reverend Ernest Sanders, the televangelist, founder of the Holy Crusade a big, slippery (read: slimy) fish. In fact, the Reverend Sanders had agreed to appear for a live interview after the report was aired to answer the charges on the condition, of course, that News Flash display his 800 number on the screen. Sara had tried to make her story as evenhanded as possible.
She merely stated facts, with a minimum of innuendo and conclusions.
But deep inside Sara knew the truth about the Reverend Ernest Sanders.
There was just no avoiding it.
The man was pure scum.
The studio bustled with activity. Technicians read meters and adjusted lights. Cameramen swung their lenses into place. The teleprompter was being tested, no more than three words to a line so that the audience at home would not see the anchor's eyes shifting. Directors, producers, engineers, and gofers scrambled back and forth across a set that looked like a large family room with no ceiling and only one wall, as though some giant had ripped apart the outside so he could peer in.
A man Sara did not recognize rushed toward her.
"Here you go," he said. The man handed her several sheets of paper.
"What's this?" she ask eh
"Papers."
"No, I mean what are they for?"
He shrugged.
"To shuffle."
"Shuffle?"
"Yeah, you know, like when you break for a commercial and the camera pulls away. You shuffle them."
"I dor
"Makes you look important," he assured her before rushing off.
She shook her head. Alas, so much to learn.
Without conscious thought, Sara began to sing quietly. She usually restricted her singing to the shower or the car, preferably accompanied by a very loud radio, but occasionally, when she was nervous, she began to sing in public. Loudly.
When she got to the chorus of
"Tattoo Vampire" ("Vampire photo suckin' the skin"), her voice rose and she started playing the air guitar.
Really into it now. Getting down.
A moment later she realized that people were staring at her.
She lowered her hands back to her sides, dropping her well tuned air guitar into oblivion. The song faded from her lips. She smiled, shrugged.
"Uh sorry."
The crew returned to work without so much as a second glance. Air guitar gone, Sara tried to think about something both distracting and comforting.
Michael immediately came to mind. She wondered what Michael was doing right now. He was probably jogging home from basketball practice. She pictured all six feet five of him opening the door, a white towel draped around his neck, sweat bleeding through his gray practice jersey. He always wore the craziest shorts loud orange or yellow or pink Hawaiian ones that came down to his knees, or some whacko-designed jams.
Without breaking stride, he would jog past the expensive piano and into the den. He would turn on a little Bach, veer toward the kitchen, pour himself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and then drink half of it in one gulp. Then he would collapse into the reclining chair and let the chamber music sweep him away.
Michael.
Another tap on her shoulder.
"Telephone call." The same man who had handed her the sheets of paper handed her a portable telephone.
She took the phone.
"Hello?"
"Did you start singing yet?"
She broke into a smile. It was Michael.
"Blue Oyster Cult?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Let me guess." Michael thought a moment. " Tton't Fear the Reaper?"
"No, Tattoo Vampire'."
"God, how awful. So what are you up to now?"
Sara closed her eyes. She could feel herself beginning to relax.
"Not much. I'm just hanging around the set, waiting to go on."
"Play any air guitar?" "Of course not," she said.
"I'm a professional journalist, for God's sake."
"Uh- huh. So how nervous are you?"
"I feel pretty calm actually," she replied.
"Liar."
"All right, I'm scared out of my mind. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," he replied.
"But remember one thing."
"What?"
"You're always scared before you go on the air. The more scared you are, the more you kick ass."
"You think so?"
"I know so," he said.
"This poor guy will never know what hit him."
"Really?" she asked, her face beginning to beam.
"Yeah, really," he said.
"Now let me ask you a quick question:
do we have to go to your father's gala tonight?"
"Let me give you a quick answer: yes." "Black tie?" Michael asked.
"Another yes."
"These big stuffy affairs can be so boring."
"Tell me about it." He paused.
"Can I at least have my way with you during the party?"
"Who knows?" Sara answered.
"You may get lucky."