Pretty Girls

by Mimi Strong

  She arrived at the building and parked her old car between two much-nicer vehicles. Maybe someday she'd get a new car.

  As she walked up to the station's brick building, she wondered what make and model she might get. She didn't have any favorites, as cars were just transportation to her.

  The studio was, like Nora's loft apartment, in an old industrial building that had been converted from factory use. The sun wasn't up yet, and wouldn't be until half past five a.m., but the interior was cheerful, as the bricks on the interior had all been painted a shiny, bright white, and the new, light-toned hardwood floors gleamed. The owners had brought in a feng shui consultant, resulting in a greenhouse worth of potted plants placed throughout, as well as red-toned area rugs, and desk dividers made not of standard upholstered panels, but reclaimed stained-glass window panels and paint-flecked antique doors. It was unlike any radio station Nora had ever been to, and made her former workplace look like the DMV by comparison. She hoped her first pay check wouldn't bounce.

  She found Stevey at his desk, which was across from hers, and gave him a hug. Their morning show producer brought over a chair and a plate of cinnamon buns, and they sat down to discuss strategy. Nora was used to having more creative control over her segment, close to absolute control, but the morning drive was big money, and thus required more planning. The combination of lack of sleep and first-broadcast pressure pulled her stomach in on itself, and she had to force herself to get down even half a cinnamon bun.

  The sun came up, and they got settled in the studio, which had an exterior window, recently upgraded to be triple paned.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Stevey said as he settled in.

  “Sounds ominous.”

  Their producer, a fast-talking redhead named Stacy, ran them through the equipment again, and they recorded some sweepers that would run between commercials and music, allowing the DJs to take washroom breaks.

  As she leaned back from the microphone, Nora said to Stevey, “Every time feels like the first time. You've got a good decade of experience on me, do you ever stop feeling nervous?”

  “Nope, and I hope I never do. Little bit of nerves gives you some edge, some fire.” He gave her a wink, and they began.

  The first hour of the morning broadcast went well—almost too well. Mistakes were an expected part of the first-day fun, and listeners would be disappointed by a lack of shenanigans. Stevey kept hinting, on air, that he had something up his sleeve for Nora.

  During the second hour, Nora and Stevey tried a new segment called What am I Eating? Nora got the idea from Tianne and the blind taste test of the puddings. Stevey proved himself quite the gourmet when he accurately identified cubes of tofu, grape Jell-O, and frozen pineapple chunks. “I eat these all the time, instead of ice cream,” he said.

  Nora didn't guess any of hers correctly, though Stacy, their producer, got a good laugh out of her reaction to the tapioca—spitting it back out while squealing.

  In the third hour, Stevey brought in his special surprise guest, a broad-shouldered, tanned woman with short hair and piercings up and down both ears. The woman, who worked in the accounting department at the studio, introduced herself as J, just J, and Nora suddenly realized where she recognized her from, but it was too late.

  Stevely delightedly interviewed J, getting her to talk about summer camp and kissing girls, with one of them being Nora. He kept playing the same stinger after his jokes, a kissing sound followed by a lady's sigh. J made eye contact with Nora the whole time, which Stevey commented on, of course.

  Stevey said, “We're going to play a certain Katy Perry song next, but first, any reaction from you, Nora?”

  The station's population had been steadily increasing over the three-hour show, and now there were fifty people or more gathered around the studio's interior window, watching, plus everyone in their cars and offices listening, Nora knew it was up to her to establish her on-air personality in her new city. She'd been known as “nice” and “friendly” back on her afternoon show. Nora had been safe and reliable, but now she wanted to be more. She wasn't going to play the prude, disgusted by Stevey's antics. She wanted to be as big as those billboards outside.

  “For the record… ” Nora said slowly. “J here has the most gorgeous lips you've ever seen. They're full on the top and bottom, naturally deep pink, and I dare say she could model lipstick. I can't imagine anyone turning down a chance to kiss J.” The music for the song was already started, and over top of it, she said, “For the record, although I've been kissing boys lately, on one hot summer night, I kissed a girl, and I liked it.”

  The chirpy sounds of Katy Perry bubbled up, and once she was sure the microphones were cut, Nora said to Stevey, “I'm going to kill you,” but she did have a smile on her face.

  “All's fair in love and radio,” Stevey said. “It's the theater of the mind.”

  “It's the theater of the bizarre.”

  “That's a good name for our show,” Stevey said, typing something on a laptop.

  Nora turned to J and thanked her for being such a good sport.

  “You should come out with me and my friends some weekend,” J said as she walked to the door.

  Nora thanked her, saying it sounded like fun and she looked forward to learning more about the city.

  After J left, Nora said to Stevey, “How on earth are we going to top that tomorrow?”

  “Therein lies the fun,” he said. During the next live update, they talked further about kissing, and Nora agreed she'd kiss Stevey live, on air, on Friday, just to clear away any of the will-they-or-won't-they tension.

  Stevey's eyes widened, showing extra bits of white around the pupils, signifying fear—Nora knew fear, having seen it on guests who were nervous—but Stevey kept his voice positive while they were live. They agreed to some terms and conditions, including a set amount in donations from listeners to the charity of Nora's choice.

  Before the week was up, Nora found one potential problem with working the early show, besides thinking aliens were coming for her when the alarm clock lit up. When she left work at the end of her day, the stores were still open. She kept finding new cute boutiques, and they were always having sales she couldn't resist.

  She strolled down one of the shopping streets, wondering how it was that people in Portland were so similar to people in Eugene, and yet, slightly different. Her new city was a tiny bit more multi-cultural, and younger.

  A sidewalk rack of dip-dyed shirts caught her eye, and she reminded herself she was making more money, and it was good to support the local economy of her new home.

  Inside the shop, the sales associate brought some dresses to the change room and insisted she try them on. Nora didn't normally wear dresses, but she slid on the floral-print summery one. The hem fell a little below her knees, and if you didn't look too close, you wouldn't know she wore a prosthetic on the right, thanks to the skillful job the artists had done matching her skin tone. She put her shoes back on and came out to look in the mirror, cursing evil changing rooms that didn't have mirrors inside them.

  “Perfect,” the girl said, looking her up and down, not stopping on the leg.

  “I'll take it,” Nora said. She could always wear opaque nylons, just to be safe.

  When she got home, Nora didn't have a place to hang the dress. Her closet was divided into two bars, one over top of the other, for shirts and pants on hangers. There was nowhere long enough for a dress.

  She laughed and lay back on her bed, draping the dress over herself, and promptly fell asleep.

  On Friday, Stevey kissed Nora while one of the interns counted down from ten seconds, which they had determined was the optimal time for a first kiss.

  “Better than a chimpanzee,” Stevey said after they pulled apart.

  “Speaking of chimpanzee, what's that cologne you wear? It smells like wet dog.”

  “That's my armpits, I forgot to blow dry them this morning.”

  “You should try shaving your arm
pits,” Nora said. “Like a swimmer. Going hairless isn't just for women any more. The newest study I have here says sixty percent of women under twenty-five expect a man to do, ahem, personal grooming.”

  “I don't know. Shave my armpits? Mornings are already so hectic, and what with grooming my bathing suit area, that's a good ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes? Is that because of the coarseness of the fur, or is it a square footage problem?”

  Stevey paused for a moment, finally caught speechless by Nora for the first time. She gave him a little smirk.

  Picking up half a beat later, Stevey said, “It's not square at all, but it is a little over a foot.” He hit the button for the cheesy stinger, cymbals, and fired up the next song.

  Off air, he said to Nora, “You're sure you're not going to slap me one of these days? Like you did to old Murray?”

  “This is different and you know it,” Nora said.

  He paused thoughtfully. “I don't think I would have made the switch to host this show with you, if it hadn't been for that day you bit me on the arm. I think I saw what you were made of.”

  “Sugar and spice and everything nice?”

  “Good one,” he said turning to his computer screen. “Hey, were you responsible for this one?” He pointed to a song scheduled for later in the show. The artist's name was Aaron Edward.

  “I don't know anything about that,” Nora said. She thought about Aaron in his leather pants, getting wet in the rain outside the Greek restaurant. She pulled on her headphones to listen to the song ahead of time.

  When she got back to her apartment after work, Nora typed up an email to send Aaron, telling him how much she loved his new song, and wishing him the best of luck with the new album—an album she hadn't even known he was releasing. At the last minute, she included a PS about his leather pants. In retrospect, it was rather flirtatious, and she shouldn't have been surprised when he replied back within ten minutes, asking what she was wearing and if she had a webcam.

  She ran to the bathroom to put on some more makeup, and stacked her laptop up on a couple of books so she wouldn't get a double chin. Double chins were fine for talking to her parents, or to Tianne while her kids ran around behind her with their clothes off, yelling about ducks and geese, but this was Aaron, the man she'd had a crush on for as long as she could remember.

  Of course, when she was fourteen, her fantasies had consisted of them holding hands, or sharing a can of Coke, both of their mouths touching the same can or straw. Her thoughts about him as an adult were much less adorable.

  She clicked the button to receive his call, but her monitor was black. “I don't think your picture's working,” she said into her microphone.

  “How about now?” came Aaron's voice, sounding hollow from being away from the speaker. The black image on the screen shifted, and she could make out the outline of something square. A pocket. The pocket got smaller and was joined by another. The screen hadn't been black from not working; she was looking at Aaron's butt, in his leather pants. “Are you getting anything?” he asked innocently.

  “Maybe you should bend over and check the cords on the floor, make sure they aren't tangled.”

  Gamely, he took two steps away and angled a bit to the side, giving her a nice view of his ass in the leather pants as he bent over. “You're right, these cords are all tangled up,” he said.

  Nora giggled. “I just took some screen captures for later,” she said.

  “Oh no, blackmail material. You can sell it to the tabloids when I'm famous.” He turned around, displaying the front of his pants and the nice shape around his zipper. Nora had to look away in modesty, and when she looked back, Aaron's face was on the screen.

  “I love the new song,” she said. “Why didn't you play it at the party?”

  He shrugged and smiled sweetly. “I'm shy.”

  “Yeah right.”

  He leaned in toward his camera, filling the screen with his lips, and made a kissing sound. After he settled back in his chair, he said, “So, when are you coming back to town for a visit?”

  “Soon. Real soon. To see my parents, of course. We're having a little send-off party for Uncle Don before he jets off to Europe and beyond.”

  Aaron turned and pulled something down from the wall behind him. It appeared to be a massive cork board, covered in postcards, clippings, and yellow Post-it notes, not unlike the inspiration board back at Nora's former studio. “I'm marking my calendar,” Aaron explained. “I'm very organized. What day is the party, and do you need anyone in leather pants to attend, or is it more of a jeans thing?”

  Nora assured him he could wear anything he wanted. They continued talking for nearly two hours, as she told him all about her new job and city, and he caught her up on the ups and downs of producing music. Nora admitted she hadn't given much thought to what went into creating the songs they played at the station; new songs were always just there, as predictably and reliably as electricity and running water. He admitted he felt somewhat adversarial toward the gatekeepers of the music industry, and even the on-air personalities, who didn't choose the songs, but still had the power to make or break artists by how they presented the material. They talked about how complicated and frustrating the whole industry was, and how money and the flow of it got in the way of humans connecting with each other through art and stories.

  “Just so we're clear,” Nora said, “I'd like my cash up front, and for a thousand dollars I'll say your new single is the smash hit of the summer. For two thousand, I'll refrain from singing along with the intro.”

  “Deal,” Aaron said. His face froze, and Nora thought for a second the connection had been dropped, but he was just gazing back at her, looking at her, and listening for what she'd say next.

  CHAPTER 11

  Aaron Edward

  Talking to Nora had taken Aaron's mind blissfully off other, less enjoyable business.

  First, there was the stack of paperwork on his desk. He'd tried to get his housekeeper to help him open the mail and set up a filing system. “It's a type of housekeeping,” he'd said, but she wasn't convinced. She finally conceded to helping him open some mail, but only if he told her more about his love life. She found the real lives of her younger clients much more interesting than soap operas.

  Second to the paperwork, or first if you went by annoyance level, was his ex-wife, Shoshanna. On their first date, she'd grilled him with a hundred questions, but failed to mention her very serious, very Jewish parents, or her bi-polar disorder.

  Though her name should have been his first clue, he figured out the Jewish thing on his first dinner at her family's house, and decided it was an obstacle he could overcome to be with Shoshanna. Besides her bad habit of yelling at waiters, other drivers, and even inanimate objects, she was fun to be around, and exciting in the bedroom. There were some issues, but he'd correlated the nightmare sessions of mid-coital crying to a certain time of the month, and arranged to have headaches on those days, and it seemed they might be able to make a relationship work.

  They married. It was a spontaneous moment, in Las Vegas, while they were in town for some mutual friends' bachelor and bachelorette parties. It was stupid, and getting married at a tacky chapel didn't seem right, but it didn't seem wrong either.

  They'd been married six months when he found her empty pill bottle next to the kitchen garbage can.

  He tried to tell himself he was upset over the secret, not the mental illness itself, but how could he know?

  That very morning, he realized he'd been subconsciously making future plans without Shoshanna, for a life after what he assumed would be their inevitable divorce.

  The day he found the pill bottle had been two years ago, and the divorce had only been finalized the day he returned to his childhood home of Eugene.

  They'd tried, for a while, to “make it work,” though after many fights, and some independent soul searching at his own therapist's office, he'd determined that he wasn't breaking up with her because of h
er mental illness, but because she was a liar, and he didn't actually like her that much.

  Aaron's friends hadn't seen it his way. Shoshanna painted a convincing portrait of him as cold and selfish, focused only on his music career. She told her parents tall tales about him cheating on her, and they believed their flesh and blood.

  Shoshanna's older sister had been the only one to see through the lies. If it wasn't for her, Aaron might have left town with his head hanging low, believing the worst about himself, but with one honest moment from his soon-to-be-former-sister-in-law, he'd been saved.

  Aaron left Los Angeles for a number of reasons, including getting a fresh start and more time outdoors. Somewhere in that list was putting some distance between him and the sister-in-law, who he didn't think he could resist for long. He'd felt a fondness for her that he hadn't experienced since his childhood crush on Nora Scott.

  Talking to Nora, even though it was over the computer, made him feel alive.

  He'd stared at her bouncy hair, wishing he could reach through the screen and touch it, and her creamy skin. More than that, though, scared him.

  He was terrified of what was under the fabric of her slacks. Specifically, he was terrified of his own reaction. If they were together, he feared he might be the way he was with the tadpoles, unable to hold them, letting them slip through his fingers.

  And then, there was Shoshanna. She'd been calling. She could be very convincing.

  CHAPTER 12

  Nora Scott