Amanda Wakes Up

by Alisyn Camerota

  I shut off the computer, padded to my bag, put my notes in, then climbed under the covers and reached for the light switch. I could hear the muffled sound of the game Charlie was watching on TV in the other room. I lay in my undark room with the sun shining through the gaps in the curtains. I shut my eyes tighter. Now sleep, I commanded myself. Sleep! I was wide awake.

  Chapter 10

  Cold Open

  A nerve-jangling chirping was piercing my eardrum, like someone’s parakeet had become trapped in my bedroom and was whistling for help. Don’t people realize it’s 3:15 in the morning? I fixed my eyes on my bedside clock. Oh, my God! It’s 3:15 in the morning! I threw off the covers and staggered to the shower. The hot water raining down, I went over my mental checklist:

  Apply self-tanner on legs.

  Bring sneakers. Get Gisele Bündchen to show me some yoga moves.

  Don’t forget this is a morning show. Be light, funny.

  Try not to faint on air. Or throw up. Or sneeze.

  Don’t read too fast. “Don’t race the prompter home,” as I’d been told I did in Roanoke.

  This may be my one and only shot. If nothing else, enjoy it.

  I sifted through my narrow closet, yanking down some old brown sweatpants and a baggy beige sweatshirt. I slipped a pair of beat-up clogs onto my bare feet and pulled my wet hair into a ponytail. I stared at my dark reflection in the mirror on the closet door, marking this momentous morning that would change the course of my life. I looked like a homeless person. A homeless person with awesome highlights.

  Grabbing my bag, I shut the door softly, tiptoeing along the silent hallway then down the four flights of stairs.

  “Going out for a walk at this hour?” the overnight super asked, giving me a quizzical look.

  “Actually, going to work. I’m hosting a new morning show, Wake Up, USA! on FAIR News.” It sounded strange to say it out loud.

  “Oh, yeah? I’ll be sure to turn it on. Looks like that’s your car.” He motioned to a black Lincoln idling out front. Inside, the driver was sleeping, his seat reclined. I rapped gently on the window.

  “Gallo?” he asked, straightening up in a jiffy.

  “Yup.”

  “Going to FAIR News?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You always go to work at this time?”

  “I do now,” I said, realizing this was the first day of my new life.

  He hit the gas and we sped off through Midtown’s mostly deserted streets, save for a few scantily clad women on a corner and some raucous college kids clustered outside a strip club. We pulled up to the studio and I climbed out, heading for the unmarked talent-only door; no guests or visitors or even producers were allowed to set foot through its special threshold.

  Before I could fish out my passcard, the door swung open. “Good morning, Ms. Gallo,” said a guard with “Stanley” on his name tag. “Here, let me help you with that bag. It looks heavy.”

  I spotted Angie across the hall, just coming through the main entrance, struggling to pull open a set of heavy glass doors while wrestling her unwieldy roller bag up three stairs. One wheel was stuck on the first step. She gave a violent tug, causing the suitcase to pop open like a jack-in-the-box and spill its contents down the stairs.

  “Motherscratcher!” she yelled. The guard didn’t budge.

  “Oh!” I scrambled toward her and crouched down on the stairs. “Let me give you a hand.” She had a salon’s worth of stuff in there: a blow-dryer, curling iron, backup blow-dryer, flat iron. There were more combs and brushes than I’d ever seen at once: fat round ones, thin metal ones plus scissors, hair gel, mousse, Moroccan oil, dry shampoo, brush-on highlights, leave-in lowlights, and a half dozen hair spray canisters.

  “No, no,” she said, shooing me away. “You gotta go get dressed! I’ll meet you in my room in five. This is ya big day, girl!”

  I stood up too fast, my stomach doing a flip. I helped her steady her suitcase, then darted to the elevator, my heart pounding. God, don’t let me be this nervous throughout the whole show. I tried taking the deep breaths I’d learned in yoga class but realized they didn’t work when jogging down a hallway. There’s no namaste in news, I thought, smiling at my own joke. Remember that line for Gisele Bündchen!

  I keyed into my office and spotted what might have been a mirage. Draped over my chair was the outfit Meg had selected for my debut: a stunning sleeveless cranberry-colored crepe Rolando Santana dress, plus a gold pendant necklace she’d hung around the top of the hanger, and matching earrings she’d left on my desk. Two ruby-soled pumps sat at the foot of my chair. I threw off my brown sweat suit and kicked my clogs in a corner, then hopped around the office trying to zip myself into the dress.

  • • •

  4:15 A.M. “Excuse me, Amanda?” a tentative voice said from behind where I sat in the hair chair. In the mirror’s reflection, I could see a dark-haired girl approaching. “I’m Jada. I’m the PA this morning. I have some articles and research packets here for you.”

  Jada was teeny: five foot nothing, even in ridiculously high heels. She carried a massive stack of newspapers and articles, half the length of her torso, then dropped the load into my lap. “Fatima will be picking the talking points from these articles.”

  “Talking points?” I asked into the reflection.

  “That’s where you and Rob will talk about things in the news.”

  “Oh,” I said, picking at my cuticle again. “Fatima didn’t mention those.”

  “I’ll be across the hall in the greenroom if you need anything,” Jada said. “Anything at all.”

  I stared down at the mound of material and began digging through it, article by article, reading the headlines.

  Virginia Wynn Releases Her Top Priorities if Elected. #1 Gun Control.

  Texas Pastor Organizes Rally in Dallas to Make Texas an “Open Carry” State. Encourages Fluke Supporters to Bring Firearms to Church.

  Study Shows American Marriage Rate Falling. Victor Fluke Writes Op-Ed on Decay of Traditional Marriage.

  Victor Fluke Prepares to Share His Fourth Secret of Success on Campaign Website.

  Fuck. That’s a lot of Fluke. For a second, I felt Charlie looking aghast over my shoulder until I remembered he was in his apartment in bed. Does balance in the show mean having the same number of segments for both candidates or showing both sides of every segment? I’ve got to ask Fatima about that. I checked my watch and reached for a highlighter in my purse.

  “Sit back,” Angie commanded.

  “But I need to start studying.”

  “Beauty before brains, doll.” She smiled, but she was serious and wielding a 600-watt weapon.

  The highlighter slipped in my sweaty palm. I rearranged the five-pound stack on my lap to keep my feet from falling asleep. “I really have to go soon.”

  “Not so fast. Relax. I gotta give ya my signature sexy bang swoop, right he-yah in the front.”

  “I . . . I . . . actually . . . don’t have—” I stopped, catching my own stunning head in the mirror. “I didn’t know my hair could do that.”

  “Whatitellya?” Angie said, making it sound like one word. “Now ya done.” She put down the dryer like she was resting her case.

  I lifted the tower of papers from my lap and reached for my bag, trying to keep the sneakers from spilling out, then looked at the clock. 4:30 A.M. I dashed out and rounded the corner into the kitchen, almost bumping into a deliveryman wheeling a cart of fragrant warm bagels, oversized fruit muffins, and shiny glazed doughnuts. “Who are those for?” I asked him, actually licking my lips.

  “Anyone,” he shrugged. “Want one?”

  My eyes danced over a yellow, softball-sized corn muffin studded with cranberries, then moved to a blueberry one, then one loaded with chocolate chips, until they landed on a reasonably sized cin
namon-raisin bagel that seemed to represent a responsible breakfast choice. I reached in and grabbed it, feeling its fresh-from-the-oven warmth in my hand. What I would have given for someone to hand me a free bagel and cream cheese when I worked for Gabe Wellborn.

  Back then, I made $250 a week. By the last day of the month, after paying for groceries, rent on my group house, gas, and the loan on my used car, I had one dollar left to my name. Literally. And a hot pretzel from the street vendor was exactly one buck. I would buy a pretzel in the morning, then ration it throughout the day—one arm for breakfast, the other for lunch, and the middle twist for dinner. Mustard doubled as a different food group. You’re gonna make it after all, I sang softly, the way Mom used to.

  Stuffing a chunk of the cinnamon-raisin bagel in my mouth, I darted into the greenroom looking for Fatima or anyone who could tell me what to do next, then I stopped in my tracks. Sitting right there on the couch was Arthur Dove, looking exactly like, well, the infamous Arthur Dove.

  He had a fleshy dough face, like a biscuit that hadn’t been baked, making him look younger than his fifty-plus years, though his wispy blond comb-over gave it away. I’d seen him on TV dozens of times, ferrying Victor Fluke to the next campaign stop, but only now did I realize Dove’s features were the opposite of menacing: they were squishy, round, and pale, except for the dark sunken sockets around his eyes that made him look like a lifelong smoker or insomniac.

  Here in the greenroom, his pallor hadn’t gotten any rosier, but his demeanor had. He looked almost amused, sitting there next to Gisele Bündchen, surrounded by scampering and snorting piglets and puppies. For a second I felt my body hovering over the scene, trying to compute how on earth I would sum it up for Charlie.

  “Amanda.” It was Arthur Dove saying my name. And now he was smiling at me—a warm, genial smile. And now he was standing, like any courtly southern gentleman would do, and stretching out his hand to shake mine.

  “Pleasure to meet you. T minus sixty!” he said in an enthusiastic Texas drawl. “I’m excited to be part of this historic re-launch. Whenever anyone asks me in the future, where were you on the day Wake Up, USA! started, I will say, ‘I was right there in the greenroom, with a pack of piglets.’ Oh, by the way, I remember the first time I saw you on TV. It was at that post office shooting and, boy, you were just terrific. Man, that Richard Betts was one unhinged fellow. But you were cool as a cucumber.”

  A moist mound of bagel had come to rest on my tongue, which I now strained to swallow without chewing. “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  “I’m just chattin‘ with my new friend here, Gisele Bündchen,” Dove continued, smiling as if we were all in on the same joke. “She says she’s gonna show me some Down Dog.”

  “Hi.” Gisele gave me a sultry wave from her perch on the sofa.

  Dove went on, “Gisele and I were debatin‘ where to find the best ribs. Texas or Kansas City? Care to weigh in? Not that either of you girls looks like you’ve ever eaten a single rib in your lives.”

  “Um . . .” I struggled to get my bearings, then held up my bagel with the bite taken out. “I’m actually not that picky. Any style would do around now.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what. The next time I come in to your fine studio, I’ll bring you a big ole rack of Texas ribs and then you can see their sublime righteousness for yourself.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, half hoping I would never see Dove again and half hoping if I did, he’d bring some of those ribs. I was also hoping there wasn’t a big ole brown raisin stuck on my tooth. “So I’m actually trying to find the producers.”

  “That’s right. You’ve got a show to prepare for,” Dove said, slapping his own hand. “Let me know if I can answer any questions. Can I get you some coffee to wash down that bagel?” he asked, springing toward me.

  “Oh, no thanks,” I said, backing away. Wait till I tell Charlie! Arthur Dove is my new manservant! A miniature dachshund let out a loud yap under my foot.

  “Here, let me help you carry that stuff,” Jada said, appearing out of the chaos and standing next to me.

  “Oh, thank God. Where is Fatima? I have a lot of questions.” My stomach was starting to seize up.

  “We should probably get you into makeup,” Jada said, leading me by the arm away from Dove and down the hall.

  I slid back the curtain to Jess’s stall, then stopped cold. There in her chair was Margot.

  “Oh,” I said, startled.

  “Morning,” Margot said, not looking up from her cell phone.

  “I . . . I . . . need to get into makeup,” I said to my own reflection. “I thought this was my time slot.”

  “Nope,” Margot said. “Didn’t Benji tell you? This is my slot now. Now that I’m doing the five A.M. show, Wake Up Now!”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, looking to Jess for some direction.

  Jess looked back with eyes like coffee-filled saucers. “Maybe you could come back in half an hour?”

  “I really can’t,” I said. “I need to start prepping for the show.”

  “Good idea,” Margot said, still looking down at her phone. “Anchoring a show is very hard, particularly for someone who’s not an anchor. People think anyone can be an anchor, but they can’t.”

  I stood paralyzed, staring at the top of her perfect head.

  “Not that it matters anyway,” she went on, “because I have my own show now, which my agent says is really, really good for me.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “Yes, it IS great,” she said, not looking at me. “Oh, that reminds me, Roberta is waiting for you. He’ll be doing your makeup from now on.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, bringing my hand to my mouth and meeting Jess’s eyes.

  “Sorry,” she mouthed, then one more word: “Benji.”

  Just then, Roberta swooped into the stall. Six feet tall in skinny jeans and strappy gold heels, his long black Cher-hair was ironed smooth and his fingernails were painted in gold and black zebra stripes. “I’ve got you, babe,” he said with an impeccable Cher affect, kissing me on both cheeks French style. “I’ve been waiting for you! We’ve got to get started. We’re going to glam you up for the debut!” Roberta grabbed my hand and dragged me away from Jess and down the hall to his own stall.

  “Here, lie down, relax,” he said, plopping me in a chair, then reaching for a lever and reclining the seat until I was lying back, almost flat, looking up into his nostrils. The view seemed strangely familiar, until I realized I recognized it from my semiannual teeth cleaning.

  “I’d kind of like to see what you’re doing,” I told him.

  “What, you don’t trust me?” he trilled. “I’ve done the biggest names on the runway. You’ll be gorge!”

  I was starting to sweat. Not only could I not see my face, I couldn’t read my notes. Shutting my eyes tight, I tried to slow my breath and meditate through what felt like Roberta sponging cold clay onto my cheeks. After an unbearably long time, he popped me upright again.

  “Voila!”

  I almost screamed. Whatever he’d used on my face had turned my skin a chalky gray. Plus he’d applied bright red lipstick and extra-long fake lashes, giving me the look of a hooker with bubonic plague.

  “Um, oh boy,” I said, my throat starting to close. “I look a little . . . gray.”

  “Right,” he agreed, “I had to use a base with cool tones because those studio lights cast crazy warmth. They’re awful. I honestly cannot believe a place with this much money has such crazy-ass lighting. Luckily, I know how to correct with blue tones to keep you from looking orange on air. That would be awful.”

  “Amanda, I need to bring you downstairs now.” Jada poked her head through the curtain. “I’ll grab all your stuff and . . . Ooh,” she said.

  “Yeah, let’s go,” I said.

  “Work it, girl,” Roberta called.

  �
�Where’s the closest bathroom?” I asked Jada when we were out of earshot. “I need to wipe all this off.”

  “I really have to bring you downstairs first. The producers are waiting for you.” Scuffing along the linoleum to the elevator, I could see Jada’s yellow plastic heels were a size too big for her. Blisters were forming on the backs of her ankles.

  “So, Jada, what time did you get here?” I asked when the elevator doors closed.

  “Two A.M. I couldn’t even sleep I was so excited. I think I’m going to get a chance to produce some of your segments. I want to be a reporter someday, and then an anchor. Just like you.” She paused to look up at me before scurrying forward again.

  People think I’m an anchor, I thought. I’m an anchor.

  “Here we are,” she said, halting at a nondescript pod of six desks in the middle of the newsroom, one of thirty identical pods in rows.

  “Hi,” I said to the back of four producers’ heads, all staring into computer screens.

  “Oh, Amanda, hi!” Fatima said, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Insane morning here. Our graphics editor overslept, so I’m trying to find a replacement. But we may not have graphics for the show. And I’m down a producer cause Margot needed one. And we lost our Salt Lake City satellite, so I’m going to have to find a way to fill the 7:35 segment. Grab a desk. I’m sorry I don’t have time to talk.”

  “Um, okay. I do have a couple questions, though,” I said, clutching my notes to my chest and gripping my pen.

  “Make it fast,” she said.

  “Um, okay, well, Topher’s research packet didn’t give me any stats on global warming. This is dense stuff and I’m worried that some of our guests, like the Princeton professors, are saying things for which there’s no evidence.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, it’s really simple. Just always give the other side of whatever anyone is saying. That way we make sure everything is T and E, okay?”

  “I’m sorry?”