by Lia London
“Chieko, I’ve got some bad news.”
“I’m guessing this is either about the cancelled Bingo party, or the third-quarter reports.”
Brice tapped his nose. “Like I said. Smart.” He cracked his knuckles. “The station budget is tighter than anticipated going into the fourth quarter. All the emergency coverage of the forest fires cost a lot. We need to make some adjustments around here.”
Chieko bit her lip to keep from releasing a whimper of impending doom.
“We all want to keep you on the team, but we have to downsize your role a bit.” He held up a hand. “Temporarily, we hope. The roving feature pieces will need to be picked up by our other, more tenured reporters.”
“But I did that whole segment on Crawford Andrews and the homeless shelter.”
“Yes, and it was brilliant. It even created a big stir in the community.” He gave an appeasing smile. “This is not about the quality of your work. We all will have to do more with less for a while.”
She pursed her lips. “Except me. Sounds like I’ll be doing less with less.”
“The weekend anchor slot is still yours if you want it, but we don’t have the hours to give you during the week. I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “Last one hired, first one fired,” she said without emotion.
“You’re not being fired.”
“Un-hired.”
“Downsized, sort of. Temporarily.”
“Until when? We’re heading into the most expensive quarter of the year.” Chieko clenched her hands into tiny fists but kept her voice calm. “You know I can’t pay the bills for a Portland apartment on—”
“You’ll be paid the full agreed salary up through the end of next month, and then—”
“Then why not let me keep reporting during that time?” she pressed.
“Travel expenses, Chieko.”
She shot her hands into the air in frustration. “Don’t you have to pay the expenses of the ones you’re keeping, too? Or have they all learned how to teleport in order to keep costs down?”
Brice chuckled, which was precisely the wrong reaction, and Chieko stood up, a storm gathering in her brain. Harnessing years of practiced restraint, she repacked her emotions and rolled her shoulders back.
“Thank you for letting me know. I assume I can count on you as a reference if I need to find another job to supplement my income?”
“Absolutely.” He proffered a hand to shake, but she pretended not to see it.
“Thank you, sir.” She withdrew into the hall, resenting the fact she didn’t have her own office in which to throw a tantrum. The shared, low-walled cubicle would not contain her fury, and she feared she’d create a domino crash of chaos, sending potted plants and magnetic picture frames toppling across the floor of the journalists’ work space.
She’d wait until she got home to explode.
Chieko cursed her volatile nature. Her parents, models of decorum, scolded her often about her temperamental outbursts. They insisted she get her emotions in check. Better yet, she should disconnect them completely. Chieko and free-range emotions never resulted in anything pretty or productive.
Snatching up her purse and suit jacket, she rattled down the tile floor with alarming speed.
First, she’d indulge in a good cry. Maybe throw something.
Second, she’d box away her feelings for the last time.
Third, she’d find a better job. One that let her be herself.
Fourth, she’d figure out who herself even was…
A massive, soft weight pressed Barth’s toes deeper into the cushions of the sectional couch.
“Grammy!” he protested. “You seriously didn’t see me sleeping here?” As a former star of the Ducks’ offensive line, he knew he could never blend into the chocolate-colored cushions no matter how dark his skin.
Grammy MarLee chuckled and patted his knee. “Of course, baby. I see you. I hear you. I smell you. You hogging up my living room, ain’t you?”
Barth groaned inwardly and sat up. “If you’d let me sleep in Shep’s old room—”
“Then you’d think you could stay even longer. No, honey. I’m turning that space into my craft room just as soon as Shep clears out the last of his junk.”
Barth nodded, knowing he’d outstayed his welcome, which was saying something given the size of Grammy MarLee’s heart. This woman, as round and black as a bowling ball, played mother hen to generations of her posterity, but even she knew to shoo a grown child out into the world.
“I’m tired, Grammy. I spent twelve hours looking for a job yesterday.” He shifted to rest his shorn head on her shoulders.
“You big baby,” she said, affectionately wrapping her pudgy arm around him. “You ain’t tired. You sad ’cause you ain’t the star you was.”
Barth chewed the inside of his cheeks. She knew him so well. For three years, he’d been a celebrity—even televised as a hero on national TV—but only when he wore his helmet and jersey and knocked down massive linemen or caught a pass on a trick play.
Graduating from the University of Oregon should have brought him a glorious sense of achievement, but in reality, it plunged him into obscurity. Armed with a diploma but no NFL draft options, he needed to find a new way to identify himself, and the prospect terrified him.
Still, he’d tried to find work. “Eugene’s too small to need another photojournalist, Grammy. And folks up here in Portland won’t hire you without experience. How are you supposed to get experience unless someone hires you?”
“It’s a cold, cruel, terrible world, baby,” she said, massaging his forehead tenderly. “Now save your crying for the commercial break, or I’ll have to set you working in the backyard.” She keyed the remote and settled further into the deep cushions with a sigh.
He glanced out the window at the blackened sky. “It’s dark outside, Grammy. Nobody does yardwork at night. Can’t I watch with you?”
She palmed his face playfully. “I ain’t watchin’ a mushy romance with my grandson right next me. A woman my age gotta be able to sigh at the kissy parts without her child giggling and teasing.”
“I’ll give you a kiss, Grammy.”
“Ha!”
Barth placed a sloppy kiss on his grandmother’s cheek. “You’re the only girl I’ll ever love, Grammy.”
“Keep it that way, and maybe I’ll let you stay here a little longer.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Now go on. Get.”
“You’re the meanest mama in this family, Grammy.”
“I love you, baby.” She winked. “Why don’t you go bother Amaya? She doesn’t work Saturdays.”
One thought of his cousin Amaya leapfrogged into a vision of her platinum-haired roommate, Charlene. Of course, now that he wasn’t the big football hero, she might not be as friendly about his flirtations. He frowned, hesitating on the edge of the couch.
“It’s visiting Amaya or clipping the hedge, baby. Pick one, but you ain’t stayin’ here to watch me watch TV.”
“I’m going. I’m going.” With a grunt, he heaved himself upright. “Don’t be farting on my bed now, Grammy.”
“It’s you’s been sweatin’ on my sofa, baby.” She flicked her fingers at him. “Go on. I’m busy.”
“Busy.” Barth snorted and thumped down the hall to the bathroom where he kept most of his worldly belongings in giant tubs stacked against the wall. He needed to find work, and then an apartment ASAP. But first, he needed to go through the pockets of all his jeans and find enough cash for gas to cross town.
“Chieko!” Amaya swept her into a hug. “What are you doing here?”
“I just got off work. Is this an okay time to chat?” Chieko’s voice came muffled from their tangled arms.
“Of course. We’re finishing up the prep work for a late dinner. Come on in. Kick off those heels.”
Chieko obediently slipped off her three-inch heels, her confidence sinking with her height. “We?” Her eyes skimmed over Amaya’s boyfriend Frank swishing somet
hing in a small frying pan at the stove while he ran a hand through his short, dark hair. She smirked because he looked like an ad for cooking spray or something, but Frank wasn’t the type to model despite his looks. He always struck Chieko as too serious for Amaya. Still, she’d seen how the two understood and sustained each other and wondered what that might be like.
Giving him a polite wave, she cursed inwardly. She’d counted on Amaya’s roommate being out on a date but had completely forgotten about Frank. How would she be able to enjoy a full-on meltdown with him around?
“What’s wrong, girl?” Amaya frowned at her with smiling eyes, something only Amaya could do. “You look like someone scribbled lipstick all over your Gucci bag or something.”
Chieko turned her face away from the kitchen and widened her eyes at Amaya. “I got some … news.”
Amaya caught on and lowered her voice. “It can’t be good. I can hear your blood pressure rising from here.”
Tears splattered down Chieko’s cheeks. “I lost my job!”
“Oh no!” Amaya squeezed Chieko in a tight embrace, shuffling them sideways like two entangled penguins until they toppled onto the couch. “What happened?” She glanced over her shoulder at Frank. “Hon, can you turn on the stove fan? Those onions are making Chieko’s eyes water.”
Frank raised a brow and gave an apologetic half-smile. “This is garlic and aspara—”
“The fan, Frank. The fan!”
“Oh!” Frank nodded knowingly. “Yes. The air is quite stifling in here.” He cranked up the fan. “Mind if I turn on the radio?”
“Please!” Amaya blew him a kiss and turned back to Chieko, lowering her voice. “You want to tell me all about it, or is he making extra noise for no reason?”
Chieko laughed at her friend’s ingenuity, and then covered her face with both hands, letting herself rock into Amaya’s shoulder. “They had some budget issues and are taking me off the road. Last hired, first fired.”
“That stinks.” Amaya shifted, gently shoving Chieko upright. “Any notice?”
“Yeah, but … well.” Chieko sniffed. “They said I could stay on for the weekend anchor stuff, but they can’t use me for the features anymore.”
“Aw, and you’re so good at those! I tune in every night in case you’re doing one.”
Chieko swallowed. “Too bad you’re not one of our big sponsors.”
“The weekend slot doesn’t pay enough?”
Chieko shook her head. “I’m willing to do it to stay in the reporter pool, but...” She sobbed and waved her hand in a circle. “I’m sorry I’m being so emotional. I need to keep it together!”
“Why?”
Chieko blinked. “Amaya, I can’t keep crying all day.”
“Has it been all day?”
“Since I found out at six thirty.”
Amaya gave her a heavy-lidded look of skepticism. “They called you at six thirty in the morning?”
“Of course not.”
“Then it’s only been forty-five minutes. Hardly all day. Keep crying if you need to. The night is still young, and you just got crappy news. You’re allowed to feel bad.”
Chieko frowned. “But it’s so humiliating.”
“Then scream instead.”
A laugh stirred inside of Chieko, and she punched Amaya’s thigh playfully. Amaya’s cool composure both frustrated and bewildered her. “I swear we were switched at birth. Your family is so crazy, and you’re so calm, but mine is so totally devoid of emotion, and I’m a screeching banshee in a bottle, waiting to burst.”
Amaya flopped her head back, addressing Frank. “Frank, am I so calm?”
Frank leaned on the countertop with his elbows, peeking under the cupboards to see them more clearly. “Are we going for journalistic integrity here?”
Amaya glanced at Chieko, who snickered. “Yes, please,” said Amaya.
Frank strode over, his lanky form moving with the same dancer’s grace he shared with Amaya. Crouching down to nestle his fair cheek against Amaya’s brown one, he grinned. “Chieko, Amaya has you altogether beguiled. She’s as boisterous and volatile as the sea when provoked, and as gentle and sweet as a puddle of chocolate milk when she’s been properly kissed.”
“Aw,” said Amaya.
“Or heavily sedated,” added Frank with a wink.
Amaya burst into laughter. “Right, Frank. Your kisses are like Nyquil. They knock me out!”
Chieko chuckled even as her stomach tightened. She couldn’t begrudge her friend the love of a good man, but mushy romance dragged her spirits even further down. Every time she’d given in to the sweet talk of men, she’d turned into a blithering, blubbering, giggling goon. Love meant emotions, and she didn’t know how to control them. They always got away from her.
Except on camera. And now she’d lost her favorite part of the job. “What am I going to do?” She snapped back into her steady, professional persona.
“I’m hoping you’re going to go with Amaya to pick up the sour cream I forgot to bring,” said Frank.
“Oh honey, seriously?” Amaya groaned. “It’s already late, and that smells so good. I’m starving.”
“It’s either that, or you two get to migrate to the kitchen and make sure nothing burns.”
“Sour cream!” called Amaya. “There is no way I want to be in charge of keeping all your culinary babies happy at the same time.” She nudged Chieko. “His recipes are as temperamental as you are.”
Chieko’s throat tightened. Amaya meant no harm, but if her flaws made the punchline of a joke, then she’d let the weakness get away from her too often. Years of parental reprimands played through her mind, and she wondered how she ever learned to smile.
Orthodontia.
And three years of varsity cheerleading.
“We’ll get the sour cream,” agreed Chieko, standing back up with a stretch.
“Excellent. Thank you,” said Frank. “I promise it will be worth the effort.” He lay an encouraging hand on her shoulder. “Sorry about your job, Chieko. But you’re good at what you do. Something will turn up soon.”
Chieko chased away a flutter of hope, knowing it was only her irrational response to a handsome man giving her a compliment. “You could hear me over the fan?”
“Oh. Um. Sorry.”
Amaya patted Chieko’s back. “He’s been hanging out with my Grammy too much. You know how she can hear things a mile away. C’mon. We’ll go to the store that’s more than a mile away, so he won’t be able to hear us.”
“Now Frank, is that any way to look at your future cousin-in-law when he stops by for a friendly visit?” Barth grinned and shouldered past Frank, though inwardly his stomach churned. If Frank was here, Charlene was probably not, and he’d just interrupted an in-house date. “Where’s Amaya?”
Frank closed the door and sauntered to the kitchen area. “She stepped out to grab some sour cream. We’ll be eating soon. Would you like to join us?”
Barth turned in a slow circle, his eyes narrowed. “Wait, you don’t live here now, do you?”
“No, I’m only here for dinner.”
“Where’s ’Maya’s cute roomie?”
“I presume you mean Charlene?” Frank turned off several dials on the stove. “She’s on a ski trip on Mt. Hood, I think. What brings you by?”
“Oh, I was just in the neighborhood,” said Barth. He straddled a chair at the kitchen table, leaning on its back to watch Frank work.
“Something on your mind?” Frank opened the fridge. “I’ve got quite a selection of sodas and gross green drinks to drown your sorrows in.”
“Why do you say I’m sorrowing?”
“Just a hunch. We’re running a special on crisis management today.” Frank handed him a can of Pepsi. “I seem to recall this was your poison of choice.”
Barth popped open the can, took a swig, and set it down. He ran a palm over his forehead, and then tried to still the jitters in his legs. “You know, maybe it’s a God thing that you’re here. You
probably know how I feel. Or maybe not. Probably not. Could be.”
Frank chuckled. “Don’t have the conversation without me. What’s going on?”
“Graduation, man!”
Frank opened a cupboard and unloaded four plates onto the counter. “That was four months ago.”
“I know! And I still don’t have a job. Football’s in full swing down there, and I’m not on the team for the first time in forever. It’s like I’ve been forgotten completely, and I have nothing to do. No leads.”
Sliding four glasses next to the plates, Frank nodded. “Normally, I’d say go apply at the local news stations, but I understand they’re having budget crunches, too. Hard times all around for us newsies, huh?”
“Yeah, but you write. I’m trying to film. You know how hard it is to get a job in that? Everyone’s taking videos on their phones and sending them in to news stations. They almost don’t need camera crews anymore. The smart phones are killing me.”
“I suspect that’s the master plan,” said Frank, counting out cutlery. “The more they do, the less we know how to do anything.”
“Got that right,” said Barth. He downed half the can. “And the worst part is you can’t get a job unless you had a job. I have no way of getting field experience that matters.” He balled his fists.
Being a star on the University of Oregon offensive line had been so much easier. He knew what to do. Everyone already trusted his ability.
Pointing at Frank, he asked, “How did you get hired right out of college?”
“I was willing to take a terrible position to get my foot in the door.”
“Oh yeah. The Grumbleygut thing when you pretended to be a food critic.”
“I was a food critic. Just the name was fake.”
“Right. That’s how you met ’Maya.”
“Yes, she was the one perk of the worst job ever.” Frank smiled. “Maybe you’ll get lucky the same way.”
The door opened, and Amaya entered with a friend in tow.
“Oh hey! It’s China Doll!” Barth had always thought Amaya’s friend was cute, and now he shimmied his broad shoulders like a puppy whose tail wags the rest of him back and forth. “My luck’s changing already!”
