Speak of the devil—or rather, speak of my mother.
"Hi, Trisha," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"Why don't you ever call me Mom?" she complained. "You are my daughter, after all."
"Are you calling about the article I sent you?" I said, gritting my teeth. I had submitted an article about the Wild West of knitting: people stealing yarn, sabotaging projects, and lying about patterns. It was nuts and would make a fascinating article. I was sure of it.
"Our readers don’t want to hear about that," Trisha said with a fake laugh.
"Oh. Okay. Well, I appreciate you calling to tell me in person."
Ugh! I couldn't believe I had fallen for her liesagain!
My mother snorted. "I didn't call about that. I heard through the grapevine that you are going to be working at Svensson PharmaTech."
"I'm not technically workingforthem, I’m just a temp."
"Of course you are."
There was that underhanded dig. Every time I had to talk to my mother, my self-confidence did a nosedive, and I had to self-medicate with copious amounts of cake.
"Great conversation,Mom."
"Don't get snippy with me, Penny," Trisha said, a harsh undercurrent in her voice. Then it softened. "I was calling to see if you had availability to do some freelance work."
In spite of myself, I perked up. Was this my big break?
"I have a fantastic idea for the next issue," my mother continued. "The Svenssons have been in the news recently with the popsicle scandal, and people are interested. They’re the new hot topic—all those good-looking brothers, polygamist cult victims turned billionaires. We want you to do an in-depth exposé on them. Really get to know them, learn about their family, their habits, their interactions."
"That sounds a little unethical…" I said uncertainly.
"They’re public figures," Trisha insisted.
I blew out a breath.
"If you can write a good story on them, you could parlay that article into a book, a TED talk, aGood Morning Americaappearance, maybe even a movie," Trisha said. "You could be one of the top investigative journalists of your generation."
Against my better judgment, I saw dollar signs and glory pass before my eyes. Then I thought better of it.
"I don’t know, maybe I shouldn't," I said.
"Trust me, Penny," Trisha said, using that tone that always made me believe whatever she was saying. "The Svenssons are terrible people. Men like that don’t become billionaires by being nice. They have skeletons in their closets. Ask me how I know. Evan Harrington’s investment firm bought our magazine last winter, and they are determined to wring every cent out of it. We want you to expose them."
"Can I think about it?"
"We need an answer now. There are other people we can ask, too, you know. You're not that special." She sniffed. "Look, we really want this story to happen. We’ll give you an advance."
An advance! Well then. Penny had bills to pay. But when I had signed up to be a journalist, I’d had visions of being like Erin Brockovich and exposing things people in power were trying to sweep under the rug. I had imagined saving lives and making a difference, not airing someone's family drama all over the newsstands.
I looked down at Davy asleep on my lap.Good men don't send their sons across the country by train all alone.
I had never been able to stand up to my mother on my own behalf, but maybe I could be in Davy's corner.
"You know what?" I said. "Sign me up."
"That's my girl!" my mother said.
Against my better impulses, I felt a flush of joy that my mom seemed proud of me.
