It’s Thursday morning.I’m the first one in the conference room, and I am ready to rock. I’ve claimed the best conference room chair, the plush swivel one that Mark usually plants his bony ass in. My laptop is open with my notes on my pitch—thanks to Erebuni and her confirmation that Congresswoman Grove has agreed to the interview. My water bottle is full to the brim, and my snack bar is unwrapped so I don’t disturb the meeting with the crackles of opening it up.
After last night, I am feeling weirdly good. The prospect of landing an exclusive interview with a congresswoman—something not even Richard can deny is impressive—has given me a sense of purpose today.
Not to mention what happened in the car—oh my God. The necessity of keeping our clothes on sparked all kinds of creativity, I mean, really, I should quit my job and work in tech as an “ideas guy” because now I know I’m that good.
Erebuni and I have a proper date tonight, and I’m going to spend the night at her place. I only had to lie to my mom and tell her I’m working on an evening story with Elaine and that I might crash at her house. Wonder how many times I can get away with that.
Nothing has been able to bring down my mood in the last day, including Trevor texting me back that he misses me and hopes we can talk when he comes home. The reality is yes, we do have to talk. I still have his ring. And we dated for five whole years. We can’t do the old ghost-each-other-and-move-on thing. We’ll have to see each other and formally end things. Two weeks ago, before he left, the idea of that would have filled me with dread, but now it seems like the appropriate thing to do, and I have armor up to help me through it. It’s probably Erebuni and the protective, joyful halo she casts around me. A little conversation with Trevor isn’t going to bring me down.
As my colleagues shuffle in one by one, I can’t help but be optimistic. I’m complimenting blouses, perfumes, drink choices. “I love a hard-boiled egg in the morning,” I find myself gushing to one of the anchors. She raises her eyebrow but takes my awkward compliment, then throws back that I should consider her favorite brand of breakfast bars instead since they’re lower in calories. Well, some things don’t change. Though, when Richard walks in and clears his throat, she rolls her eyes in his direction, and I wonder if we might have more in common than I thought.
The meeting begins with the usual pitches and assignments, going around the room one by one. Then it’s my turn. Puffed up like a bird, I begin, “I’ve scored an exclusive interview with Congresswoman Grove at a fundraising banquet she’s going to be at this weekend.”
Richard’s mustache tweaks upward, which is his version of a smile. “Great work. It’s confirmed?”
“It is,” I say, inwardly beaming at how Erebuni pulled it off so quickly. Also, Richard said,Great work. I know I shouldn’t want to hear that so badly, but it fills me with pride. And Mark looks personally offended. He’s been in the pit at Congresswoman Grove’s press conferences but never gotten to speak to her individually.
“Music to my ears,” Richard replies. This is going to be excellent for my portfolio, leveling me up from National Soup Swap Day reels to exclusive federal politician interviews. I sweetly glance over at Mark, who is scratching at his notebook more aggressively than someone who is feeling chill. Man, it feels good.
Richard says, “Mark.” And Mark snaps up from his work, ready for a command. “I want you to cover this story. You’ve got the know-how and the skills to pull it off.”
Excuse me? Did he just take my work and hand it over to someone else? And effing Mark at that? Mark’s shirt looks violently salmon all of a sudden, like it’s mocking me. Matching his smug face. My peripheral vision begins to close in, and I know I’m not going to be able to keep the hurt out of my voice. While Mark is saying some kind of “Yes, of course, I’d love to—” I interrupt, “Richard, I’m confident I can do this story well. I’m not sure why you’re assigning it to Mark? My source set me up with the Congresswoman. Besides, it’s at an—”
I’m about to tell him about the Armenian banquet fundraiser, but Richard sighs, exasperated, like you would about a pesky fruit fly that zooms off every time you swat at it. “You aren’t the right reporter for this.”
I’m practically spitting now, and my mouth feels almost out ofcontrol. “Why not? I’m the one who tracked down this opportunity. It took my time and effort.”
He waves me off. “Don’t talk to me about effort. Everyone here puts in one hundred and ten percent, so that’s not up for discussion.”
My face is red-hot, there’s no hiding it. My blood’s pumping hard, and I’m afraid to speak, because if I say something rude, that might be it for me. But this is so monumentally not okay for him to do.
“Listen,” he says, kindness returning to his voice. “We have a lovely lead on a five-year-old girl who wrote to Duchess Kate about her love of fancy hats, and she received a letter back. Well, from her lady’s maid, but it was still a big deal to her. She’s right here in Redwood City. The people need feel-good pieces, and you’re our girl for that.”
I’m their girl. For the little-kid fluff pieces. For God’s sake, I don’t even like kids all that much. I always get stuck reporting on them because Richard assumes that I’m nice and a pushover, so I must love kids. I’m never going to be taken seriously here, am I? Out of the corner of my eye, there’s Winnie, our intern, whose face has gone gray and is biting her cuticles like she’s tearing into a carcass. She, quiet and agreeable, is probably thinking this is going to be her fate at the station if she stays here any longer. Probably is. Unless I change things.
I blurt, “It’s at the Armenian banquet. Congresswoman Grove only agreed to be interviewed about the Armenian Genocide Recognition Bill. As your only Armenian reporter, I’m a shoo-in for this interview.”
At the wordsArmenian GenocideRichard rolls his eyes. “You should have mentioned that earlier. We, our local news team, arenot in the business of reporting on hundred-year-old history. Mark, call her offices, see if you can get her to agree to talk about something else. Maybe the increase in crime downtown.”
Again with this cruel indifference when it comes to my culture. He clearly knows about the genocide since he mentioned it’s one hundred years old, so why can’t he understand the impor—
Huh. It hits me fast: I used to think like him, too.Enough with ancient history, let’s talk about something new and hot.It wasn’t until I met Erebuni that I felt differently. I was able to change my mind—granted, my journey included falling for a gentle witchy woman who leaves my brain fuzzy and open to new ideas—but maybe I could help Richard change his, too.
I’m about to tell him that Congresswoman Grove is Armenian, that she authored this bill herself, and that because she’s at the banquet to promote it, she clearly wants to discuss the bill in her interview. But I figure, first, I might as well let Mark waste his time on the phone with her staff. Second, I am going to that banquet, and I’m going to do that interview anyway. When I deliver Richard the exclusive story, then he can talk to me about what kind of reporter I am. And more importantly, maybe it will sway him to understand why these stories are newsworthy.
18
Whoever enters the bath must sweat.
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—Armenian Proverb
The next night,I’m researching Congresswoman Grove while surrounded by all the hallmarks of comfort. A mug of Earl Grey tea made British style (I’m only partially willing to admit that I was inspired by the little miss I interviewed yesterday), my favorite tattered sleep pants that were purchased back in eighth grade, and my portable heater stashed under my desk (the electricity bill is a classic fight catalyst in our home, so it must stay hidden). But none of it is working to put me at ease.
The banquet is tomorrow. The anticipation of the biggest interview in my career so far is causing some stress, but mostly, it’s the list of attendees:
