Stay Tuned

Chapter 20

I couldn’t help but feel flattered. How long had it been since anyone, let alone a sixty-year-old man, fell all over me and complimented my looks?
     
Bellissimo, I repeated, rolling the word around. Why did it always sound sexier in another language? Right. Italians. Language of love. They were all pros.
    
By the time I strolled through the door of the station, I was feeling pretty good.
    
I’d go through some DVDs, check the mail for new ones, see if I could retrieve some boxes from Drew’s wastebasket. He always kept his door open and unlocked.
    
Except today.
    
I tried the knob. It didn’t move. I peered through the glass, just in case Drew was in there sleeping. Pitch black. No news director.
     
There went that idea.
    
Voices floated from the control room out into the hallway. Joe, legs stretched, cowboy boots on his desk, was in the midst of telling a joke when I walked in.
    
“…and so, when he opened the door, there was a big hairy man, wearing nothing but tennis shoes and a sign around his neck saying, ‘If I catch you, I can do anything I want…’”
    
The room erupted in laughter so loud no one noticed me standing in the corner, balancing my drink, the guys’ coffee, bags of treats, my just-in-case makeup bag, and purse.
    
Joe stood up so fast he looked like a giant wasp had stung his backside. He knocked over a bag of pork rinds, which scattered across the floor like pieces of Styrofoam. The look on everyone’s face was identical, sheepish, and a little shocked, like they’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar—or better yet, dirty magazines.
    
“Hey there,” I said to break the silence, and laid the bags and coffee cups on the desk.
    
“Hey,” they chorused. Joe bent his mammoth body to pick up a few stray pork rinds. I sank to my knees to help.
    
“How can you guys eat this stuff?” I teased, eyeballing the bag of boiled peanuts on the counter. “Do your wives know?” My eyes narrowed in a mock look of concern.
    
“Aw, Melissa,” one of the guys started to explain.
    
I waved for him to stop. “Just kidding. Here’s some more junk food so we don’t run out.
And what’s the deal with Drew’s door being locked?”
    
“Um, Alyssa-alert,” Joe rolled his eyes. “Someone said they saw her outside the building yesterday. Drew’s worried Alyssa might do something crazy.”
    
“I saw her in her car this morning. She drove by the station three or four times,” someone else chimed in.
    
“Say no more,” I said and held up both hands.
    
Agreement was murmured all around the room. Joe stood, reached over, and shoved his hand in the bag. He fished out a muffin and took an enormous bite.
    
“Y’look good,” Joe managed between mouthfuls. He raised his eyebrows and took a closer look. “Mm-hmm. Mighty nice.”
    
Once more, a hum of approval circulated through the room. Someone coughed and suddenly the group tried to look busy, pushing buttons, adjusting lights in the studio, and checking equipment.
    
“Ready to go?” Joe asked.
    
“If it’s not too much trouble…” I started, gauging Joe’s reaction. He shook his head. “I was hoping I could run through Friday…I mean Thursday night’s show.” Better to forget about Friday night.
    
He nodded. Easy as that.
    
Without another word, Joe jumped into action. With a few clicks on the keyboard, the script from Thursday evening sprang up on the teleprompter screen. I took a few minutes to glance it over on the computer screen while Joe printed a copy for me to have on set.
    
“Ready when you are.” Joe handed me the script.
    
I nodded and went out the door.
    
In the studio, I glanced down at my outfit, briefly thinking I should have put something bright and flashy on. No, that was trying too hard. I was only filling in. And I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.
    
The lights snapped on and warmed up as I blinked to adjust to the brightness. I slid my earpiece in, clipped on my microphone, watched as one of the guys adjusted the camera, and felt a little thrill run through me. This was nothing like going on set Friday night during an emergency with only a few seconds of airtime—no time to prepare, no time to think. Now I had to do both. This could be fun.
     
“Give me a level, Melissa.”
     
Here we go. I made myself take a deep breath. “Mic check. Mic check—”
    
“Okay, thanks.” Joe cleared his throat. “All set?”
    
I nodded, and then focused on the teleprompter. All of a sudden, the words seemed to swim in circles, white against black. My mouth went dry, the flutter in my throat intensified, and the clench of nerves in my stomach tightened. I gripped the desk to keep my hands from quivering, and whispered a quick prayer.
    
Joe cued me. “Ready? In three…two…”
    
I nodded and plunged into the show as the music started.
     
Get through it.
    
Taking my time, I read each sentence, careful to enunciate and inflect my voice.
    
“A thirty year-old Atlanta man died after he was shot in West Macon Thursday night. That's according to the Bibb County Coroner. Jones was wounded while standing near the corner of Ell and Chappell Streets off Eisenhower Parkway. He was pronounced dead hours later at The Medical Center of Central Georgia.”
    
By the fourth sentence, I was pacing myself better, breathing in the right places. I kept reading. Several stories later, near the end of the segment, I was in a good rhythm.
    
“Stay tuned for weather and sports. WSGA will be right back.” I set down my script and pen, relieved to be through it.
    
Joe’s voice filled my earpiece. “What’d you think?” he asked.
    
“I think it was okay,” I bit my lip. “What about you?”
 
“Let’s run through it again,” said Joe.
     
“Okay.” My pulse sped up. I tried not to frown into the camera.

“You need to relax your shoulders, move your arms apart, give me a natural smile,” Joe replied. “To tell you the truth, you’re a little stiff. And your voice is a little wobbly.”
 
I checked the cord to make sure it was still attached.

“Melissa?” Joe was patiently waiting for me to decide. “You don’t have to be perfect. Maybe this will help. Just think about the stories. How you’d want to hear them as a viewer.”

“Um,” I stalled. Alyssa sprang to mind, but I didn’t want to be fake and plastic. There was Amy Robach from NBC, Megyn Kelly from FOX. What about Samantha Brown from the Travel Channel? That was it.

“Hey, you. Melissa,” Joe said. “You’re over-thinking this.”
    
“You’re right. Give me a sec.”
    
He understood. Joe was someone I really trusted. The lines on the teleprompter flew backwards.
Shoulders down, arms relaxed at my sides, hands laid lightly on the desk, I was ready.
    
“All set?”
    
I thought about beaches in California, my daughter Kelly, and smiled into the camera.
    
“Let’s go.”