Prime Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan

deadline, you know. We’ll continue this tomorrow.”
    I sit up and punch the speaker off. I’m home. There’s no fire. I have a date with a real possibility. With a flutter of memory, I dig in my bag for the “Gold-Bug” program Josh gave me, smoothing the cover, then scanning for his name. Professor Joshua Ives Gelston, I read. Producer and Drama coach—Board Member, Bexter Academy. I feel myself smiling. Maybe we can produce some interesting drama together. Wonder what Maysie will think.
    With a flourish, I delete the last phone message. Angela can wait.

Chapter Eight
     
     
    M

y desk phone is ringing, my pager is beeping and the intern twins from the promotion department are hovering at my office door. Franklin doesn’t take his eyes off his computer monitor as I arrive for work, but he sticks out one arm, pointing toward the hallway. “Printer,” he says.
    I recognize this as Franklin’s shorthand for “I just printed something interesting and since you’re out there, go pick it up.” This definitely trumps the phone, the beeper and the twins.
    I turn to retrieve Franklin’s stuff, but the interns are faster.
    “We’re here to get the list of your sweeps story ideas,” says the one in the lavender angora. She runs a tiny hand through her strawberry-blond mop, flipping her too-long bangs briefly out of her face.
    I notice the pink peek of skin between the sweater and her low-rider cargoes and wonder if she has a full-length mirror in her dorm room. Her sidekick is resplendent in pale blue nail polish, and with an equally dress-for-access tummy. They’re both wearing sandals. In October.
    “They told us to come pick it up?” she puts in. “That, like, you’d have it for us? It was due, like, today?” She looks at me as if I’m supposed to know what she’s talking about.
    The energy of the room suddenly goes dark, and I see the twins scoot closer together, huddling like delicate forest creatures sensing danger. Franklin looks up, questioning. And then, without a sound, Angela appears in our office.
    “I’ve come from the meeting,” she says quietly. She says it like “THE MEETING.” The forest creatures cringe farther into the corner.
    “We’re all wondering,” she goes on, her voice brittle with power, “about your sweeps story ideas.” She looks down at her clipboard, apparently ticking off some list. “Healthcast sent in their proposals, so did Sports, Envirobeat and Dollarwise. But we can’t plan our ratings book schedule until we hear from you, Charlie. I paged you. I called you. Is there—a problem?”
    She looks as if she hopes there is.
    “I, um, we’re…” I know I can finish this sentence. I just have to decide on my tactics. And fast.
    Thank goodness Franklin is faster.
    “Printer,” he says again.
    “As I was going to say,” I continue, praying I understand Franklin’s shorthand, “we’ve just finished with the story list, and it’s on the printer.”
    “Ten copies,” Franklin adds.
    The news bunnies perk back into life, puffing up their angora and tossing their hair.
    “We’ll—” one chirps.
    “Get them,” says the other.
    They’re gone, leaving only the faint scent of some trendy perfume behind.
    Angela’s curls briefly turn to serpents, just long enough for me to notice, then back to her ordinary tangle.
    “Thanks, Charlie,” she says. “I’ll let you know what we decide.” She turns to go, then turns back, with what apparently is supposed to be a smile.
    “We’re counting on you, you know,” she says. “If your stories are good enough, we could have a solid win this time. No pressure, ha-ha.” Angela waves her clipboard and gives her patented exit line. “Ciao, newsies.”
    I flop into my chair and deflate in frustration. My stories? They’re making me responsible for the ratings of the entire TV station?
    “Wow, Franko,” I say, remembering my manners. “Great move.”
    “No problem,” he says, waving me off. “My