by Andrea Cale
“You know, I think he’s a little sad to be watching this year’s Orange Bowl from home instead of covering it, but he’s handling it better than everyone thought for some reason.”
The women climbed into Joy’s economical rental and checked their growing adrenaline by buckling their seatbelts. After a few minutes of nervous silence on both the driver and passenger sides, the reporter opened up to the photographer.
“It’s my kid’s birthday today,” Joy said. “Don’t let me forget to call her immediately following this interview. I want to catch her before she goes into her birthday party.”
“How old is she?” Maxine asked.
“She’s turning five. It’s so hard not to be there. Do you have kids?”
“No.”
“A husband?”
“No.”
“A significant other?”
Maxine realized that she might not have so much in common with her new colleague after all. She wondered which way of life was more challenging: balancing motherhood and work or being married to a job with little more than a lonely apartment and some nagging voicemails to return home to every night. Her vote was on the latter.
“I’ve actually given up on dating for a while,” Maxine said with a slight shudder. “It’s a new decision after an especially horrible Internet date.” The date with the George Clooney lookalike may have carried great expectations by Maxine, her friends, and family members, but it had been disastrous.
“So, your profile said you like football,” Maxine had said as the man drove them to what would be their first and last date together.
“Yup.”
“I’m leaving in a few days to cover the Orange Bowl.”
“Yeah, I’m not a big fan of bowl games.”
“Oh really?” Maxine had asked with sincere interest. “May I ask why? Are you an NFL fan over collegiate play?”
“I just don’t like them. Hey, do you mind staying quiet a moment?”
The air in the man’s spotless, plush luxury car shifted from awkward to uncomfortable. Maxine sensed George’s temper rising, although she had no idea why. She gently folded her snowy knit hat in her lap so it wouldn’t dampen his headrest nor his already poor mood.
“Damn butthole!” George shouted toward the driver in front of him who hadn’t immediately noticed the stoplight turn green. He laid on the horn.
“Anyway,” he snapped.
“Anyway,” Maxine repeated more gently. “So where are we off to? You mentioned dinner, but I don’t think you mentioned where.”
“I didn’t mention where,” George said.
“And,” Maxine said with a forced smile.
“We’re going to the Dinosaur BBQ,” George said. “Please tell me you eat meat.”
“I do,” Maxine said, exhaling slightly. The place was a favorite hangout of hers, along with the rest of her colleagues at Syracuse’s International Presswire Bureau. The atmosphere was relaxed, fun, and intentionally not fancy there. It would be a much-needed change from the environment inside the stress-filled car.
But Maxine’s relief had been short-lived. As she opened the door to the restaurant, George had plowed down the corridor like one of the big machines on the snowy roads that night. He had charged straight toward the hostess desk, knocking into a leather-jacketed man’s shoulder in the process.
“Two,” George barked.
“Your name please?”
“Why?” he demanded.
“We have a fifteen-minute wait,” the hostess had coolly replied. She would undoubtedly be cursing George’s name to one of the servers as soon as he was out of earshot, Maxine thought. “You’re welcome to get a drink at the bar; I’ll call you momentarily.”
“I called five minutes ago and the person said there was no wait,” George snapped. Maxine looked around in hopes that none of her press colleagues were about. She returned her gaze to the hostess, who appeared shaken by George’s abrasive tone.
“You know,” Maxine said to her date quietly. “I’ve found that the wait goes especially quickly here. The place also fills up on a dime. I’m sure there was no wait just five minutes ago. Let’s just go to the bar and enjoy a drink.”
“No,” George said to her through clenched teeth. “We’re leaving.”
As the pair walked numbly outside, the frigid Syracuse air helped cool George’s temper.
“How about the Blue Tusk instead?” he asked.
There was no place Maxine thought she would rather be in that instant than the comfort of her lonely apartment with a frozen dinner and bad Saturday night TV. She felt as though she might vomit from the discomfort of being around George.
“You know, I’m not feeling so well,” Maxine said truthfully. “I was really looking forward to our date, but I think it would be best if I got some fresh air and walked myself home.”
George had glared at her silently.
“It’s not too far, really,” Maxine offered, even though she knew that her safety was probably the least of her date’s concerns. “Goodbye.”
Maxine had pivoted toward her apartment and begun walking quickly without looking back. She found herself hoping she wouldn’t be sideswiped by a beautiful luxury car with perfect side mirrors until she felt a tap on her shoulder and reluctantly turned around. To her relief, it was the patron with the leather jacket.
“You all right, miss?” he asked. He was missing a tooth and he looked concerned.
“Yeah, thanks for checking,” Maxine had said with a purposefully dramatic roll of her eyes in reference to her date’s scene at the restaurant. “I’m actually not that far from where I’m going. I really appreciate your concern. Have a good night. Eat some ribs for me, will you?”
Maxine safely reached her peaceful apartment, which already contained five blinking messages on her answering machine from loved ones wondering how the night went. All of them begged for an update that night, no matter how late.
The typically calm photographer angrily opened her laptop and closed the page that featured George’s suddenly scary profile. She had fired off a reply to all five messages.
“This is it,” Maxine had typed. “I’m not doing this anymore. I’m done with the bad dates and the crazies. I’m better off alone, and I mean it. Please, please, please just let me be happy plugging away at the job I love.”
At long last, Maxine’s friends and family members would get the hint.
During the car ride toward her first pre-game Orange Bowl interview, Maxine had clearly intrigued her new journalism colleague.
“And what happened on that Internet date to make you sign off on love for a while?” Joy asked.
“Let’s just say the man was no George Clooney.”
“Been there, done that,” Joy said. “You know, everyone says that when you’re not looking, that’s when you finally meet someone. Maybe this is your time.”
Maxine could’ve finished the woman’s sentence herself. She knew people meant well, but if she heard someone tell her one more time that things happen for a reason, she thought she might self-destruct.
“So have you covered the Orange Bowl before?” Maxine asked, desperate to change the subject.
“This is my third year,” Joy said. “I covered the first couple under the veteran’s wing. I hope he would have equally kind words to say about me as he does about you. The first year, I was completely green as I battled competitors along the sidelines. The mass media at the head coach press conferences was pretty overwhelming. I did my best, though, and it was good enough to buy me another assignment here, followed by another. The key is obviously getting one-on-one time with the big players for some meaningful pre-game stories.”
Joy’s persistence had secured them their pending interview with Devin Madison, while Maxine, through her own hard work and relationship building, had succeeded in scheduling them the only pre-game interview with the highly sought-after underdog, JP Hemmings.
The two women soon found themselves waiting for Devin in a
stuffy meeting room within the golden boy’s hotel. Their small talk waned to silence as each of them mentally calculated the steps needed to get the best interview or take the best shot.
They ended up having more than enough time to think.
As the meeting room clock’s second hand made nearly fifteen hundred quiet ticks, Maxine watched Joy attempt to hide her worry over missing her daughter by phone before the girl left for her birthday party.
Their silent wait finally ended with a barge through the meeting-room door. Both women shared the same thought: Devin Madison was even more handsome in person. That was until his words unraveled his image.
“Ladies, I think you’re in the wrong place,” the young man said. “I’m here to do some press interviews.”
Maxine looked down at her bulky camera, peered at Joy’s journalism pad, pen, and recorder, and wondered whether Devin was making a joke. A red-faced man who appeared out of nowhere was a signal that the quarterback had not. The man spoke in humble, fast tones. He was on his game, at least.
“You must be Joy and Maxine from the prestigious International Presswire,” he said. “I’m James O’Leary, University of Boston Public Relations, and I know you’re anticipating our boy Devin here, and you know all about him already. Devin, this is Joy and Maxine, the wire’s lead writer and photographer for the Orange Bowl. I will step back now and let you all do your thing. Please let me know if I can be of further assistance to you after the interview.”
“Well, I’ve never been one to complain about being alone in a room with two women,” Devin said.
“Our quarterback has a unique taste for humor, and I’m sure you’ll get a taste of it today,” James said. “I think you’ll find he has a wonderful story to tell about his family history and his drive to win this thing for the University of Boston.”
“I thought you said you were going to let us do our thing,” Devin said.
James bowed as comically as he could while attempting to hide his mortification. Maxine and Joy knew it was there, even though James did a fine job of rolling with it. For the first time in their careers, both women cared for the PR person more than the subject of their interview.
As the second hand ticked now with near-matching clicks from Maxine’s camera, Devin relayed to Joy the aging story of his grandfather’s failed attempt at making it into the Orange Bowl. Joy grew desperate for a fresh angle.
Devin was as close-lipped as they came, though, revealing little about his pre-game emotions or game-day strategies. After thirty minutes of going around in circles, Joy gave up.
Sensing the end of the interview, Maxine quietly asked Joy for permission to fire off one last question for her caption.
“Of course,” the reporter whispered back.
Maxine thought of the veteran’s brief notes on Devin during her valuable meeting with him at the wire’s headquarters. The veteran had held back from saying much about the confident quarterback, but Maxine had quickly recalled his description of Devin being an obsessive young man.
“One last question, Devin, and then we’ll have you on your way,” Maxine jumped in.
“I was beginning to think you were mute,” Devin joked.
“Well, my lens does most of the talking for me,” Maxine pushed back. “Anyway, this is an odd question, but do you have any pre-Orange Bowl routines?”
“Orange juice,” Devin said.
“You can take over if you want,” Maxine whispered to the reporter, knowing that Devin hadn’t given Joy much, if anything, for her story.
“Orange juice?” Joy asked with a thankful wink at her new photographer friend. “No Gatorade, no SmartWater, no milk? Just orange juice?”
“This is the Orange Bowl,” Devin said. “There is orange in my blood now. There is orange in my hungry eyes, and yes, there is even orange in my diet. After the win, the color is going to be right up there as a favorite around our campus back home—it will soon be regarded as highly as maroon and gold. Just wait and see.”
James sensed the journalists’ abilities to zone in on the quarterback’s quirkiness.
“I’ve got to get this guy to his next interview, but here’s my card with the contact information of everyone on my PR team. My press colleagues and I are happy to assist if there is anything else you need.”
Devin’s emotional quote about orange juice would end up toward the lead of Joy’s pre-game story. The colorful comment, paired with the exclusive pre-game comments that would flow in next from JP Hemmings, would make Joy’s story a well-used reference by major newspapers across the country as well as sports broadcasters on television and radio.
While Joy should’ve felt relieved, Maxine could tell that her new friend’s heart ached over missing the birthday message to her daughter, thanks to Devin’s tardiness.
“Let’s catch her immediately after her party so you can be the first she tells every detail to,” Maxine offered. “I’m sure we’ll get you back in time for that. I’m almost certain that our next interview will run on time.”
“You think?” Joy asked, her teary eyes filled now with new hope.
“Oh, I’d bet on it,” Maxine said as she visualized the humble young man who had once welcomed Maxine into the home of the loving professors he called Mom and Dad. “I know I’m not supposed to be biased, but let’s just say the next one’s parents raised him beautifully.”
“OK, since you started it,” Joy teased with a laugh. “I had to hold myself back from pointing out to that Devin character that orange is not only the color of his upcoming bowl game, it’s also the color of his competition. Duh.”
The women laughed together genuinely.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Maxine said. “I think that poor PR guy was too.”
CHAPTER 31
HENRY
The Shy One
By a unanimous vote and without any surprise to Teach, the trio of judges selected Henry’s poem as the clear winner and wanted to learn more about the author.
“He’s painfully shy,” Teach explained. “He doesn’t understand his talents. Kids’ cruel comments seem to stifle his words, but when everyone matures, I’m sure Henry will find his groove.”
As the kids filed into the classroom with great anticipation for the verdict, Teach glanced quickly at each of their faces and took attendance. All of them wore their usual expressions except for Henry, whose face looked like it belonged to a quarterback under a tackle who had just thrown a Hail Mary, risking everything to win the game. Teach decided to give the results right away.
“So you all did a nice job on the poetry assignment,” he said. “I was pleased with everyone’s effort. Our judges all selected the same winner. I think, by your standing ovations and applause, that you will agree on the winner too.”
Henry felt like he had been holding his breath underwater and was finally coming up for air.
“The tickets go to Henry. Nice job, Henry. We’ll have some papers and logistics to go over, but I will see you at the game.”
“You’ve got to come in to meet my teacher,” Henry said from outside the family car window when his mother arrived to pick him up that afternoon.
“What? What happened?”
“I found out today that I won us both tickets to watch University of Boston at the bowl game.”
“What? How?”
“I wrote a poem and it won a contest,” Henry said. “You need to come talk with my teacher about it.” The boy swallowed hard. “Can we go?”
“My head is spinning, Henry.”
Misty was already dressed in her uniform for her evening shift. She glanced at her watch in fear of being late to start side work before the dinner rush at the restaurant. There were endless ramekins to fill, salad fixings to prepare, and utensils to roll, or she would be in the weeds all night.
“Henry, we really need to talk more,” was all Misty managed as she reached for her cell phone so she could inform her boss that for the first time in her career, she might arrive fift
een or so minutes late.
As the mother and son entered the classroom, Teach was sitting at his sloppy desk grading spelling tests. Papers with red checks and “X” marks surrounded him. The young man didn’t believe in using flowery colors to grade papers. He believed the color red had an impact and kids were too coddled these days.
Forgetting he was expecting guests, Teach wore headphones that blared AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” He couldn’t help singing enthusiastically—and badly—along.
Misty stood in the doorway of Henry’s classroom and looked at her son in disbelief.
“This is your teacher?” she asked.
Henry nodded.
She knocked on the open door without success as Henry walked to Teach’s desk and tapped the singing man on the shoulder. Teach jumped. With one look at Misty, his cheeks became the color of Henry’s on the morning the boy was first called “Polly Ester.” The woman was the definition of stunning, he thought.
“Holy smokes,” Teach said aloud.
“We startled you,” Misty said.
“Sorry about that. A little Brian Johnson makes grading the spelling word larynx a whopping twenty-six times in a row go by a little faster. Please, have a seat.”
Misty understood the AC/DC reference.
“Wasn’t Bon Scott still the lead singer for ‘Back in Black?’” she asked. “That album had some of the band’s best songs.”
Teach felt immediately impressed that any parent of his students would know even that much about his favorite rock band, even if she was wrong about the timing of the lead singers.
“Oh, nooooooo no no,” Teach said as he made an “X” mark in the air with his red pen. “Mrs. um…”
“Misty,” the woman said, finally reaching out her hand for a more proper introduction.
“Ah-ha,” said Teach. “Mrs. Misty. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Miss,” she corrected him.
“Mrs. Misty Miss?” Teach asked with pure confusion.
He was used to having kids and their parents carry different names, but this one was a tongue twister, he thought.
