It Girl. Nic Tatano
Читать онлайн книгу.
bed like I've been hit with a cattle prod by an alarm which, at that hour, sounds like a Chinese gong.
Start the coffee pot, which I've loaded the night before since during my first week on the job I attempted to make some java while bleary-eyed and filled the coffee machine with flour, thus creating the first paste cappuccino.
Take a ten minute hot shower, drink two cups of coffee, stagger down to the limo in jeans or sweats, chasing raccoons away from the door in the process. I look up at what I thought were birds, but which Charlie informed me were actually bats since birds don't fly at night. Appropriate for the vampire shift, so I wave at them. Professional courtesy.
Drink two more cups of coffee after arriving at the station.
Breakfast across the street, which perks me up just long enough to get through the show.
Home by ten. Close the black curtains I've purchased to block out every ray of sunlight and make my apartment look like a hangout for a coven. Eat bowl of cereal, careful to add blueberries instead of the olives I used my first week. (New! Lucky Charms! Now with a full days serving of olives!)
Resolve to stay up without taking nap so that I will fall asleep at six and get eight hours.
Despite the caffeine content of four cups of coffee, I pass out on couch at noon after watching The Price is Right. (I always overbid.)
Wake up at four, covered with drool and somewhat rested. Eat lunch or dinner, depending on what I decide to call it.
Crawl back into bed at six in an attempt to sleep.
Give up at eight and watch television or read.
Fall asleep at ten.
Rinse. Repeat.
Social life? Seriously? Weekdays are totally out of the question. Weekends are spent in bed trying to catch up on sleep. I haven't been out with anyone since I did my swan dive into the lobster bisque and got a nine-point-four from the tabloid judge. I seem to remember what sex was like, but the memory is fading. I'm lonely as hell. My friends still are my friends, but they're on a different schedule, along with the rest of the world.
Sunday nights are the worst. After two days of my body almost getting back to normal, I have to crawl back into my coffin.
I know, I know, there's a big brass ring waiting for me in two years, eight months and twenty-eight days (who's counting) but I'm not sure it's worth it. I might be dead before then.
So, after two weeks of deep thought I'd decided on a course of action. To hell with the evening anchor job. I want my life back. And there's only one way to do it.
Try my best to get fired.
Oh, I wasn't going to make it obvious, like not showing up or dropping F-bombs on live television. It's going to be something natural. No one's going to be surprised. And no one's going to blame me.
Because everyone on the staff knows how exhausted I've been and what a physical wreck I am.
Now I had to let the whole country know.
***
I was filled with more energy than I'd ever had on this show, then realized I was simply excited about launching my plan. But I couldn't show it. Instead of sitting up straight as the intro music faded I slumped into my chair. Scott started with his usual upbeat welcome to the viewers. "Good Monday, everyone, and welcome to The Morning Show. I'm Scott Winter."
I started to talk and then stifled a fake yawn. "Oh, excuse me. And I'm Veronica Summer. At least I will be at some point."
"She was up past her bedtime," said Scott, always quick with the ad-lib. "Went to bed at eight."
"Just wake me when the prompter says it's my turn to talk."
Scott turned and made eye contact, shooting me a somewhat worried look that our two-shot camera could not pick up. I rubbed my eyes like people do when they first roll out of bed. His eyes widened a bit. Now I could tell he was seriously worried.
"So let's get started," said Scott, turning back to the camera, "because we've got a packed show for you this morning. A very special guest from Hollywood will be dropping by later on. He's just been named the most beautiful person on earth."
"Pffft, whatever," I said, waving my hand like I was shooing a fly. "Eye candy aint gonna cure cancer, so what's the big deal?" I caught a glimpse of Scott taken aback in my peripheral vision. "As for the really important stuff that isn't superficial, we'll get you up to date on the budget situation in Congress and take a look at how the new tax laws could effect your paycheck. And later on we'll have a visit from a nutrition expert to show you how to make a very healthy school lunch for your children that won't impact your budget."
"Right," said Scott. "And in the second hour—"
I cut him off. "You know what, Scott?"
Scott turned and gave me a wide-eyed look that I knew meant What the hell are you doing? "No, what?"
"I'm thinkin' there are a whole bunch of parents out there who just dragged themselves out of bed a half hour early to make those lunches for their precious little snowflakes. Well … here's a news flash for you moms and dads out there." I leaned forward and raised my voice. "KIDS CAN ACTUALLY PUT A SANDWICH TOGETHER BY THEMSELVES! HELLO, MCFLY!" I leaned back and returned to my normal tone. "Kids, stop playing with Facebook and listen up. You get your peanut butter, you get your jelly, you slap it on two pieces of bread and toss it in your Harry Potter lunchbox with a banana and a juice box. It's not rocket science! Let mom and dad sleep an extra thirty minutes and make your own lunch because they work their tails off so you can have a two hundred dollar cell phone in the third grade and then chauffeur you to every conceivable activity they can think of lest they be thought of as bad parents. Mom and Dad, go back to bed. We're here for two hours anyway and you can catch up later." I waved my hand at the camera. "Go on. Get under the covers. The kids won't starve. Toss 'em a pop-tart and catch some more shut-eye."
Scott's jaw dropped. I took a quick glance around the studio and saw the same reaction from members of the crew.
I flashed a devilish grin at the camera. "And tomorrow, we might even teach your children how to make an exotic breakfast called … wait for it … scrambled eggs! If we have time we'll show them how to do something really tricky … pour milk into a bowl of cereal! An incredible life skill! Meanwhile, let's check on the latest news."
***
Nothing happened as we went to commercial because I had one trump card up my sleeve. I knew Gavin Karlson had one hard and fast rule he'd never broken. He would not, under any circumstances, enter the studio until the show was over. He would not chastise me through my earpiece. He believed, as I do, that yelling at an anchor in the middle of a show only made things worse.
Didn't matter, I was doing it on my own.
The level of snark had reached an all time high for a network morning show. I went off on tangents, ranted about stuff that bugged me like helicopter parents who bubblewrap their kids; wondered aloud while interviewing our fashion expert why anyone would pay four hundred bucks for a purse when you could buy a perfectly good illegal knockoff on the streets of Manhattan for thirty, because, what the hell, they were all made with shoddy workmanship in China anyway; slammed the Mets for not having a decent centerfielder and charging too much to watch a lousy team; argued that all Central Park mimes were so damn annoying they should be deported to France; and vented about people who brought babies to the movies. Get a damn sitter! Scott had tried to talk me down off the ledge during each commercial break, and I gave him the bobblehead, then took off again the minute the red light went on. I figured someone was no doubt compiling my greatest hits for YouTube (probably labeled "Morning Anchor Goes Batshit") and whole thing would get ten million hits before the day was out.
At one minute till nine Scott ended the show with, "We'll see you tomorrow morning. I think." The credits rolled over a two-shot as I waved cheerfully to the camera. I'm sure that even my faux perkiness looked sarcastic.
At one nanosecond after nine the wooden door