Stay Tuned

Chapter 13

So, I didn’t have on any makeup and probably looked like I hadn’t slept in a week. Getting on set and finishing the newscast had been the right decision.
    
It mitigated the damage. We didn’t leave the viewers hanging. We didn’t look completely unprofessional…

Still calm, I walked into the control room and scooped up my script. My cell phone had vibrated itself right onto the floor. I snatched it up as everyone else headed for the door. My pulse sped up and slowed down.
    
“Don’t go anywhere,” someone warned. “Drew’s called a meeting. Fifteen minutes.”
    
I nodded and flipped open the phone. Eight missed calls, all from Candace. Before my finger found the screen, the phone buzzed again with the intensity of a small earthquake. Candace again. She would keep calling until I answered.
    
Privacy was paramount, especially in light of what just happened on set. I didn’t want anyone to overhear our conversation. I walked slowly and purposefully out of the room, down the hallway, and answered the phone.
    
“Hey—”
    
“That should have been your top story, Mel!” Candace cut in, assuming her best mock-journalist voice. “Battle of the psycho news anchors! A fight to the finish, no holds barred. We’ll have the full details. Stay turned for WSGA News at Ten.”
    
I stifled a laugh and shook my head, pausing at the doorway to the back parking lot of the building. With the toe of my shoe, I pushed open the heavy metal door and walked outside.
    
“Funny,” I deadpanned.
    
But Candace was right. WSGA News had a well-deserved reputation for serving up a menu of bold, violence-tinged, sometimes bordering on the edge of R-rated stories. Any shooting, car crash, robbery-gone-bad, or twisted sex scandal secured a top spot in the late newscast, provided we could get video and a great sound bite.
    
I helped with the arm-twisting, string pulling, and calling in favors. Challenging? Yes. Stressful? Definitely. Rewarding? Absolutely. In short, my job was to make sure everything came together in the end. My job, however, did not involve our own employees becoming the story.
    
Candace coughed. I hadn’t heard a word she’d been saying. Her voice was tinged with suspicion. “Melissa?” I’d missed at least the last five minutes of the conversation.
    
“Sorry,” I said guiltily.
    
“Well, what’s so funny…strange, I mean, is that Tim didn’t even try to stop Alyssa.” Candace paused. “What did he expect? Someone to swoop in and save him?”
    
“I think he was shocked,” I replied, the image of the fight flashing in my mind. “But, Tim’s the one who decided to have a relationship with her. So, the way I see it, no one can save Tim…except Tim.”
    
I meant it as a joke, but the comment launched Candace full-force into a complete and thorough Dr. Phil analysis.
    
“That is so…Life Law Number Eight:
 
We teach people how to treat us,” Candace exclaimed, rustling through the pages of a book. To my best friend, Dr. Phil’s word was like the gospel; she simply shared his wisdom.
     
“Here it is. Dr. Phil says, ‘If you’re involved in a relationship in which someone is abusive—’”
    
“Wait a minute.” It was my turn to interrupt. “Candace, are you carrying that book around with you?”
    
“No!” she answered. “It was right here the whole time. You’re interrupting.”
    
I usually teased Candace about Dr. Phil and gave her a hard time about being a full-fledged, dyed-in-the-wool disciple, but deep down, I loved it. His observations made sense.
    
“Dr. Phil would say, ‘Alyssa acts like that because Tim lets her,’” Candace continued. “And the people at the television station allow her to.”
     
“Well, maybe,” I said slowly. Alyssa did get her way and practically had permission to behave like she did because she was talented and beautiful. And because of the ratings.
     
Okay. Dr. Phil was right.
    
Candace, even before Dr. Phil, had always been gifted in the people-analyzing department. Counseling was almost certainly her true calling.
    
Now that she was starting to quote the man verbatim, she could probably do seminars in her spare time. “You really should go back to school,” I remarked, trying to keep my tone light. “Finish your degree.”
    
“Don’t try to change the subject, Miss Smarty-Pants.”
    
“It’s true,” I protested.
    
“We’re not talking about me,” Candace retorted huffily. “We’re talking about your TV station and its human resources issues.”
    
“Fine,” I mumbled.
    
“Melissa! You put up with it, too. You’re forced to be a producer and find stories and check video and who knows what else.” Candace sniffed. “What’s next? Running a daycare at the station once Tim and Alyssa have babies?”
    
“Not in this lifetime,” I tossed back, although I could easily see the truth in what she was saying. I kicked at a pebble in frustration and watched it bounce off the cement of the building. Temper tantrum-referee did not fall under my official job responsibilities, but somehow that was exactly what I was required to handle.
    
“I just know Dr. Phil would tell you to make some change. Shake things up.” Candace exclaimed, defending her position. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, you deserve more, and better people to work with. You’re smart, talented—”
    
“Okay, okay, uncle.”
    
“All right.” Candace relented a bit. “And Drew needs to wake up, see the big picture, and hire adults.”
     
I think Drew realizes that now.
    
Exhausted, trying to concentrate on the sound of Candace’s voice, I found myself longing for a nap. My head started to throb. My skin was sticky to the touch. And I still had Drew’s meeting to get through. I glanced at my watch. Five more minutes.
    
I stretched my neck back, blinking a speck out of the corner of one eye. The stars above my head twinkled back at me in between the wisps of smoke from a restaurant down the street. The smell of golden fried chicken wafted by, accompanied by the boom-boom funk of someone’s overpriced Bose speakers pumping out trashy phrases I didn’t want to repeat.
    
Trying to focus, I blinked up at the station’s towering twelve stories. The structure cut an imposing shape against the sky, red brick against the deep, dark blue of night. A century ago, the building housed the city’s only hotel. It had been a respite for weary travelers on their way to Atlanta or Charleston.
     
Back then, ages ago, I’d be checking in to this hotel right now. Then, as soon as possible, my head would be on those overstuffed pillows.
    
The sound of the hip-hop driver and his stereo faded into the night.
    
Candace whistled long and low into the phone cradled to my ear. “What’s going to happen now? Will Alyssa and Tim get the boot?”
    
I shrugged and bit my lip. “Maybe. Probably,” I answered, glad I wasn’t in charge of that decision. “It’s really up to Drew.”
    
In most circumstances, Drew held true to the theory that any publicity was good for business. That’s because when you connected with an audience and brought in stellar ratings, as Alyssa and Tim did, bad behavior tended to be overlooked. Poor attitudes were reprimanded gently. Laziness was brushed off.
    
But that was nothing compared to this. No catfight, argument, or recent break up, had been quite as awful—or as public—as tonight’s fiasco.
    
In retrospect, we should have seen it coming. All the warning signs were there:
 
Nasty glances, inappropriate comments, black roses last Valentine’s Day. Even Drew joked that their relationship should have arrived packaged in a red bag slapped with OSHA warning labels. Stop! Toxic Waste! Dispose of Properly!
    
But after months of breaking up and making up, everyone at WSGA seemed immune to the Alyssa-Tim rollercoaster. It was kind of like going to Disney World and riding Space Mountain every day for a month. The “wow” value wears off in a hurry. You just throw up and go on.
    
A scrape of the station’s metal door interrupted me. I spun around in time to see Alyssa and Tim fly out, both making a beeline for the parking lot. Drew stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face darkened from the light of the hallway behind him.
    
I shivered and took a step back.
    
Alyssa stormed past on her stilettos, still sniffling. Tim, band-aid pasted across his once perfectly formed nose, uttered a gruff, “Excuse me,” under his breath but didn’t make eye contact.
    
Both cars—his and her white BMWs—beeped open simultaneously. Tim climbed in first and gunned his engine. His broken taillight gaped open with jagged edges.
    
Alyssa was seconds behind. Her tires screeched as she followed him out of the parking lot. I watched the dust settle behind them.
   
A faint voice floated up from my cell phone. “Mel. Mel! Are you there?”
 
Oh no. Candace was still on the line.
    
“Gotta go,” I whispered and hoped she heard me. I hung up and gave Drew my most confident, everything-under-control nod.
    
Stone-faced, he motioned me inside. But before I could take a step, Drew had already pushed open the door and disappeared down the hallway.
    
I swallowed hard and fought away a tinge of anxiety. Be rational. No need to panic.
    
After all, Drew had every reason to be angry. And upset. He had big decisions to make about the station. It was going to be painful. And personal.