Amanda Wakes Up

by Alisyn Camerota

  By the fifth day, I’d almost convinced her that we’d spoken so much on the phone, I might as well fly out there to talk in person. No cameras. No commitment. Just a conversation.

  “But one problem,” she said. “My lawyer. He wants me to talk to BNN. He says there’s a person there that I have to talk to. Just a minute, I wrote down the name—”

  “Laurie Prodder!” I yelled before she could say it.

  “Laurie Prod-der,” she said.

  “She’s my best friend! Tell your lawyer you want Laurie and me to do it together. We’ll come out there together. And you can talk to both of us at the same time. Kill two birds with one stone. I’m sure he’ll agree. Let’s plan on it,” I said, getting ahead of myself, because it was time to seal this deal. “We can do it tomorrow.”

  “No, tomorrow’s no good. Wednesday,” she said.

  “Okay! Wednesday it is! That’s gr—” I stopped upon looking down at my wide-open calendar, every day white with space. The month had only one thing written on it, in big, bold, red ink on Wednesday, October 26. WHITE HOUSE HALLOWEEN PARTY. “Great,” I said flatly.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No, no, no. Not at all,” I said quickly. “That just happens to be the day of this Halloween party . . . not a big deal . . . it’s going to be at the White House . . . um . . . but not a big deal at all . . . so Wednesday it is,” I said, trying to inject excitement back into my overly glum voice, which even I could hear.

  “Oh, no, no, no. You don’t miss that party. It’s like Carnival back home. You go to that. We’ll do it on Thursday.”

  I hung up and pressed my fingers to my mouth to contain the excitement. Getting Martina would be the granddaddy of October surprises. Everything—my career, my connection to Rob, the election, was about to turn around.

  • • •

  Sitting on the hotel bed, I ran my fingers again across the hand-engraved gold lettering on the heavy-stock, creamy, ecru stationery. “The President and First Lady request your presence at the White House Halloween Party.” I’d been certain that since Benji had taken me off the show, I’d be crossed off the guest list. But then Susan in the PR department called to tell me that I was expected to go—to show what a united FAIR News family we are. I shut my eyes in silent prayer that Rob was going, too, and I would have the chance to see him face-to-face. FAIR had gotten a block of rooms at the Hay-Adams. Maybe he was here already. Maybe he was in the room next to mine. I felt that old fluttery feeling at what might happen next.

  Of course, in case Rob wasn’t inclined to talk to me, I had a plan. And I’d lugged the main component of that plan on the train down to DC, where it now sat on the other queen bed, staring at me: half of our old Rubik’s Cube costume. I’d snuck into the Wake Up pod yesterday afternoon when I knew no one would be around and found it in a back corner, my heart skipping a beat when I saw that Rob’s half was missing. Maybe Rob was too lazy to have gotten any other costume and, lo and behold, we would be stuck together for the night.

  I pulled on nude tights and stepped into the cardboard box, tugging at the sides and securing the big black electrical tape straps over my shoulders. I had hoped that the tights, pumps, and box around my midsection would give me the vintage air of a sexy 1950s cigarette girl. But standing in front of the mirror, with my yellow squares facing forward, I saw Sponge Bob. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I said out loud. “Why didn’t we do the Kardashians?”

  I bumbled down the hallway to the elevator cursing, half hoping Rob might stick his head out of one of the rooms, see me, and start laughing. And then this silence would be over.

  The White House was across the street from the hotel, thank God, because walking in a cardboard box that stretched from breastbone to mid-thighs was not easy—it required a waddle, back and forth, in tiny half steps that made crossing the street time consuming and hazardous. Taking my place at the back of the queue that stretched down Pennsylvania Avenue, I felt someone grab my arm.

  “Amanda!” It was timid Emily Galen. “HI! Oh, I’m so glad to see you! What are you?” she asked.

  “Half a Rubik’s Cube,” I said.

  She looked down at my squares and knitted her brow.

  “Rob is supposed to be the other half,” I explained.

  “Oh, that’s cute!” she said. “I know he’d much rather share a costume with you than Margot.”

  “You do? Did he say that?” I asked too fast.

  “No, I haven’t seen him. But the show is terrible without you. What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “Fluke says he won’t come on if I’m there.”

  “That’s terrible,” Emily whispered. “But it was so great when he hung up on you.”

  “Well, I think things are about to change. I have a plan,” I told her, crossing my fingers and holding them up.

  “I hope so,” she said. “Want to see my costume?” she asked, looking abashed and adorably naughty as she opened her raincoat to reveal a French maid’s outfit. “Get it?” she asked. “I’m Fluke’s maid.”

  “You vixen,” I said, thinking how different the steadfast real housekeeper I’d spent the past week talking to was from that caricature.

  Wending our way forward in line, I looked around, hoping to spot Rob and growing more and more anxious that he wasn’t there. It was hard to tell who was who, since everyone was in costume and a striking number of guests were wearing Fluke masks.

  “Is that Matt Lauer?” I asked, pointing to the fourth Fluke I’d seen, this one taller than the others, standing next to a completely recognizable Al Roker dressed as Olaf the snowman from Frozen.

  “No, that is,” Emily said, pointing to Matt Lauer in a French maid’s costume. “The one in the Fluke mask must be Savannah.”

  I turned and spotted Cleopatra, her hair in Roman plaits and a toga sticking out of the bottom of her fur coat. “Diane Sawyer,” I whispered to nobody.

  We stepped into a giant white tent, where security was checking IDs and sending people through the magnetometer. My cube, of course, didn’t fit.

  “I’m going to have to check the inside of this box,” a security guard said.

  “Of course you are,” I said, looking behind me, half hoping to hear Rob chime in with “That sounds dirty!” The guard grabbed a metal detection wand and stuck it into each of my armholes, wiggling it back and forth.

  “Is this a Rubik’s Cube cavity check?” I asked, attempting to josh through the humiliation.

  The security guard’s lips stayed flat, then he nodded a go-ahead to one of his coworkers and I did my best to amble out of the tent and up the stone stairs in a crab walk. At the entrance, the big, wooden, white doors swept open.

  “Welcome to the White House,” one of the two Navy cadets holding the brass door handles said.

  I was enveloped by golden light and music.

  “I was working in the lab, late one night . . .”

  A dozen schoolchildren dressed as little goblins stood at attention in the grand marble foyer singing an a cappella “Monster Mash” in front of a small crowd of costume-clad guests.

  A familiar face came toward me. It was Margot in a navy blue uniform, cap, and empty hip holster. A politically correct police officer, I assumed. I scanned the wall, looking for a quick getaway, but realized there is no easy out for a woman in a cube.

  “Amanda!” Margot said with a sticky smile. “You’re the last person I expected to see here.”

  “Well, here I am,” I said.

  “What are you?”

  “I’m a Rubik’s Cube. Well, half of one. Production thought of it. This was their idea for Rob and me.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, shaking her head in pity. “Once again, you surrender to someone else’s idea of who you should be. That’s what women do. I don’t know if you’ve bought a ticket yet to my Women’s Power Forum next week, but
I strongly suggest you go online and purchase one. I’ll be leading workshops on how to stop being subjugated by men. You need to develop a stronger self-image.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I muttered, thinking it took a particularly intact self-image to sport half a cube. “So is Rob here?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s dressed up as a fireman. We took a viewer poll and they voted for policewoman and fireman.”

  I almost winced from pain.

  “Sorry,” said someone who had knocked into me in a spot-on J. Lo get-up. I let the crowd’s momentum push me past Margot and down a long corridor with big, framed photos of previous White House parties, including a 2 x 3-foot photo of President Clinton trimming a Christmas tree with a thirteen-year-old Chelsea.

  I stopped in front of a doorway to a library, with an ornate cornice above its threshold. Staring in, I watched a gaggle of Dumbledores serving drinks. Moving on, I lumbered toward a grand staircase and made the awkward shuffle up it, clutching the bannister and being bumped by people passing on the left. At the top, the stairs emptied into a grand ballroom, in the middle of which sat a long table covered by a bright orange tablecloth and a lavish buffet: silver platters filled with giant slabs of roast beef next to little bowls of fresh horseradish; big china plates of roasted potatoes and bright green haricots vert; an overflowing silver terrine of giant shrimp, raw oysters, and stone crab claws. On the wall behind the smorgasbord hung an enormous portrait of George Washington in a heavy gold-leaf frame. I popped two oysters on my plate, then slid one into my mouth, wondering what Washington would make of this scene.

  “Hey, you,” said a deep voice behind me and I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Rob’s face, his blue eyes beaming and his celebrity smile turned on. He was in yellow fireman pants with red suspenders dangling at the sides, a plastic fireman hat, and a tight red T-shirt, none of which, I noticed, incorporated any colored cubes.

  “Oh, hi!” I said, quickly putting down my plate and giving an inadvertent flap of my arms against the side of my box. “I see you decided against the Rubik’s Cube.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “it just seemed silly. Though now that I see you in it—”

  “Yes?”

  “I think I made the right call.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, forcing a laugh. “Just leave me hanging.”

  “Guess that makes us even,” Rob said with a cock of his head, and I felt the jab right in my chest. “Quite a shindig, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s incredible,” I said, staring up at Rob, wishing that he didn’t look so damn good and that I’d worn anything but a multicolored cube.

  Behind Rob I spotted Emily waving. “Let’s get a picture of you two! Reunited and it feels so good,” she sang. “Now Amanda, you stand right here, like so.” She moved me into position. “And Rob, you get over here. And put your arm around Amanda . . . hmm, let’s see, this box doesn’t make it easy. Try putting your hand here, right on her shoulder. Now hold that position!”

  Emily walked backward and played around with her iPhone while we stood frozen.

  “Is your boyfriend here?” Rob asked, not looking at me.

  “Get closer,” Emily called, and we instinctively tilted our heads toward each other until the camera flashed.

  “No,” I said, freeing myself as quickly as possible so I could face Rob. “We broke up. For real and for good. You know, after you and I . . .” I trailed off, staring into his handsome face. “Listen, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. I really wanted to apologize and explain myself . . . and tell you how much I regret—”

  “There you are!” A tall brunette ambled up behind Rob. She wore a tight, low-cut black leotard that exposed her perfect cleavage, plus black tights and black thigh-high boots. Her only discernible nod to a costume was a thin black headband with cat ears.

  “Hi,” she said to me as she rested her chin on Rob’s shoulder. “Wait, let me guess. You’re a Lego?”

  “I’m a Rubik’s Cube,” I said, flapping my arms against the outside of my box again. “Well, half of one.”

  “I don’t get it,” she said.

  “Me, neither,” I said.

  “Oh, Amanda, this is Barbie,” Rob said.

  “Barbie?” I repeated. Literally?

  “Hi,” Barbie smiled, not taking her head from Rob’s shoulder.

  “And you’re a . . .?” Slutty cat, I wanted to say.

  “Oh, just a black cat. I know, not creative. But, you know,” she turned her head to smile at Rob, “firemen rescue cats who get into trouble.”

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling that oyster work its way back up.

  “So, do you two work together?” she asked. “What do you do at FAIR?”

  “Oh, um, you know, try to find truth and justice.”

  “Amanda’s an anchor,” Rob said.

  “It must be great to be on TV,” Barbie said.

  “Um, yeah, sometimes.”

  “Let’s go grab some champagne,” Rob said to Barbie, starting to steer her away. “Nice to see you, Amanda. Show’s not the same without you,” he called over his shoulder as I watched them walk away.

  I stood staring straight ahead, watching the crowd laugh and jostle around me, feeling as alone as I’d ever been. I wanted to go back to my hotel room, now, but as I turned to leave, I heard a minor commotion near the door and saw bodies circling around someone. When the cluster parted, they revealed Wonder Woman in a bright blue skirt with white stars, a gold headband, and a red cape. She wore a W across her chest.

  “Over here, Senator Wynn,” the White House photographer called, taking a knee in front of her and snapping a pic. I’d spent so much time over the past year focused on Victor Fluke, I realized now I hadn’t studied Virginia Wynn closely enough. I didn’t know her every facial expression and hand gesture the way I did Fluke’s, and for that I felt failure. I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd to watch her, before realizing I’d become part of her photo op. I stayed. If nothing else, I’d have a memento of the historic, albeit shitty, night that I finally made it inside the White House. And God willing, someday I might look back on this photo and forget that Rob and Barbie were a two-headed fire-cat couple and only remember that I’d met the future president.

  Watching the partygoers ahead of me taking pictures with her, I realized I might have about five seconds of an exchange with Wynn, shorter than an elevator pitch. Hello, Senator. How ’bout a sit-down interview before the election?

  “Good evening,” a young Hermione wearing a Wynn pin said. “Would you like your picture taken with Senator Wynn?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “All right, hand me your phone. After these folks, you can step over, I’ll snap it, then move off to the right as quickly as possible.”

  “Got it.”

  “Who’s next?” the senator asked. I stepped forward. Upon seeing me, she cocked her head sideways. “A Rubik’s Cube?”

  “Congratulations, Senator,” I said. “You’re the first person to guess that correctly.”

  “I suppose it helps to be of a certain generation. Tell me your name and affiliation?” she asked as we both turned our bodies sideways for the photo, my cube almost sideswiping her.

  “Amanda Gallo. FAIR News. Wake Up, USA!”

  “I see,” she said. The camera flashed and I knew that was my cue to move along.

  “Nice meeting you,” she said.

  “Senator, I’d love to interview you.”

  Wynn looked directly at me, then smirked. “I don’t think that would be the best use of our time.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Hasn’t your program focused solely on Fluke? Not sure what my campaign could get out of an appearance there.”

  “His supporters need to hear from you.” I told her. “Maybe you could sway some of them. And if you win, you’ll be their presi
dent, too.”

  “I’ve learned there are some minds you can’t change,” she said. “And some minds are not even worth trying.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I told her.

  “Move along,” her handler instructed, handing me my phone and shepherding me off to the right, leaving me spun around and needing air.

  Was that true? Should I give up on trying to get viewers to hear different perspectives? Were people unswayable? It was a question I didn’t feel prepared to answer dressed as a lonely cube. I needed to go. I clambered toward the exit, doing my crusty crab walk until I was down the stairs, out the door, and back in the stiff night air. It had started to rain, leaving a slick sheen on the marble stairs, which I had to navigate by alternately sliding and hopping, landing in puddles that soaked my pumps. “Dammit!” I cursed as the construction paper on my sides wilted and warped into a limp, wet mush.

  If there’s one thing sadder than half a Rubik’s cube, I realized, it’s half a soggy Rubik’s Cube. “Get this thing off of me,” I muttered to myself, before spotting a trash can on the corner. “Must . . . get this . . . off!” I furiously clawed and ripped at it until the box was in tatters and I’d stuffed it into the garbage can.

  “There!” I shouted triumphantly. Then I looked down. I was in a nude leotard, nude tights, pumps, and no pants. “Oh, come on!”

  “Amanda Gallo?” someone called.

  I turned as a cell phone flash went off in my face. “Hey! Love watching you!” A middle-aged couple under an umbrella gave me a thumbs-up, then locked arms and hurried on.

  I looked upward at the heavens. “Make this happen, Martina Harrow. I want to believe in what I’m doing again. Help me find my path.”

  Chapter 33

  October Surprise

  “Do you want a People or an Us Weekly?” Laurie asked, perusing the magazine rack at the gift shop.

  “I want both, but I’m morally opposed to paying for either. I’ll only devour celebrity gossip for free at the doctor’s office. Now, of course I can’t tell you whether you should buy it.” I waved a big bag of candy at her. “Do you want M&M’s? What’s a girls’ getaway without M&M’s?”