job.”
“But listen,” I say. “What did you put on that list, anyway? Stories we can actually do?”
“Definitely,” Franklin replies. “You had most of the ideas, as usual. Trucking safety, off-campus housing, those newsbreak stories you were talking about the other morning, remember?”
“Good work,” I tell him. “Did you include the whistle-blower story?”
Periwinkle Toes is back at our door. She’s carrying a piece of paper, looking back and forth between me and Franklin.
“Like, um, here’s some other stuff that was on the printer? For you guys?”
“I’ll take it,” Franklin says, holding out a hand. He glances at the paper and smiles. “This is what I was trying to tell you before storylist-gate. I think there may be something going on at Aztratech. Something Brad Foreman may have latched onto.”
“What? How? How do you know? Can I see? Show me the…” I begin. Then there’s a little tap on our open door.
“Um, Miss McNally?” The intern is still hovering. “I’m Hayley Coffman, I’m a senior at BU?”
Of course you are, dear. Majoring in what, Abs 101?
“Yes?” is what I actually say, looking up at her. Ten seconds, she’s got ten seconds.
“I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time, but I was wondering if I might interview you. For a paper I’m doing on how successful women journalists began their careers? Like what obstacles they had to overcome, that kind of thing. You’re so—like, I mean, I’ve watched you ever since I was little. Professor Shaplen shows your tapes in class all the time.” She gives a little gulp. “And I want to be just like you.”
Franklin swivels out of the conversation, and I feel my eyes—and my heart—go a little soft.
Hayley wants to hear about obstacles. She doesn’t know it, but she just encountered her first. And I’m responsible for it. I’d written her off, based only on her toes and her tummy.
She’s certainly intelligent enough, confident enough, to ask for advice. I’ve been whining about how unfair it is that your TV face dictates your TV future. So what do I do? The same thing in reverse. If I can do it to her, why am I surprised when they do it to me? What’s even more disconcerting—have I become what I fear?
“Of course I’ll do an interview,” I tell her. “I’m flattered and honored you would think of me.” This rings disarmingly true, and somehow bittersweet. “Here’s my direct phone number,” I say, handing my card to the younger generation. “I’m happy to help.” This is true, too.
With a shy smile, Hayley tucks my card into her jeans and skitters away into her world full of possibilities. If she’s TV’s future, does that make me its past? Shouldn’t there be room for both of us?
“She was kind of adorable, really, wasn’t she, Franklin?” I say, getting up to watch her go. I turn back to face him. “And, you know, so earnest and eager? Like me, kind of, back in the day.”
Franklin logs off his computer, glances at me sideways. “I’d have loved to see you in that getup, if that’s true,” he says.
“That’s not what I mean, you—”
Franklin goes on talking. “If you’re finished with the Charlie fan club meeting,” he says, “we need more info on the ownership of the Miranda. ” He tucks a piece of paper in his back pocket. “And here’s how we’re going to get it.”
“Boat ownership, sure,” I reply, cutting him off. “Coast Guard. But aren’t those records in D.C.? Or Annapolis, or someplace like that?”
“Not anymore,” Franklin says with a raised finger. He makes a mark in the air. “Score one for the producer kid. And as a result, you’re gonna have to get your coat—and trust me.”
“Miss?” A gray-uniformed officer points me to the metal detector, gesturing me to put my purse on the conveyor. When Franklin announced we were researching the Miranda’s ownership at the Coast Guard’s waterfront headquarters, I forgot we’d be
“But listen,” I say. “What did you put on that list, anyway? Stories we can actually do?”
“Definitely,” Franklin replies. “You had most of the ideas, as usual. Trucking safety, off-campus housing, those newsbreak stories you were talking about the other morning, remember?”
“Good work,” I tell him. “Did you include the whistle-blower story?”
Periwinkle Toes is back at our door. She’s carrying a piece of paper, looking back and forth between me and Franklin.
“Like, um, here’s some other stuff that was on the printer? For you guys?”
“I’ll take it,” Franklin says, holding out a hand. He glances at the paper and smiles. “This is what I was trying to tell you before storylist-gate. I think there may be something going on at Aztratech. Something Brad Foreman may have latched onto.”
“What? How? How do you know? Can I see? Show me the…” I begin. Then there’s a little tap on our open door.
“Um, Miss McNally?” The intern is still hovering. “I’m Hayley Coffman, I’m a senior at BU?”
Of course you are, dear. Majoring in what, Abs 101?
“Yes?” is what I actually say, looking up at her. Ten seconds, she’s got ten seconds.
“I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time, but I was wondering if I might interview you. For a paper I’m doing on how successful women journalists began their careers? Like what obstacles they had to overcome, that kind of thing. You’re so—like, I mean, I’ve watched you ever since I was little. Professor Shaplen shows your tapes in class all the time.” She gives a little gulp. “And I want to be just like you.”
Franklin swivels out of the conversation, and I feel my eyes—and my heart—go a little soft.
Hayley wants to hear about obstacles. She doesn’t know it, but she just encountered her first. And I’m responsible for it. I’d written her off, based only on her toes and her tummy.
She’s certainly intelligent enough, confident enough, to ask for advice. I’ve been whining about how unfair it is that your TV face dictates your TV future. So what do I do? The same thing in reverse. If I can do it to her, why am I surprised when they do it to me? What’s even more disconcerting—have I become what I fear?
“Of course I’ll do an interview,” I tell her. “I’m flattered and honored you would think of me.” This rings disarmingly true, and somehow bittersweet. “Here’s my direct phone number,” I say, handing my card to the younger generation. “I’m happy to help.” This is true, too.
With a shy smile, Hayley tucks my card into her jeans and skitters away into her world full of possibilities. If she’s TV’s future, does that make me its past? Shouldn’t there be room for both of us?
“She was kind of adorable, really, wasn’t she, Franklin?” I say, getting up to watch her go. I turn back to face him. “And, you know, so earnest and eager? Like me, kind of, back in the day.”
Franklin logs off his computer, glances at me sideways. “I’d have loved to see you in that getup, if that’s true,” he says.
“That’s not what I mean, you—”
Franklin goes on talking. “If you’re finished with the Charlie fan club meeting,” he says, “we need more info on the ownership of the Miranda. ” He tucks a piece of paper in his back pocket. “And here’s how we’re going to get it.”
“Boat ownership, sure,” I reply, cutting him off. “Coast Guard. But aren’t those records in D.C.? Or Annapolis, or someplace like that?”
“Not anymore,” Franklin says with a raised finger. He makes a mark in the air. “Score one for the producer kid. And as a result, you’re gonna have to get your coat—and trust me.”
“Miss?” A gray-uniformed officer points me to the metal detector, gesturing me to put my purse on the conveyor. When Franklin announced we were researching the Miranda’s ownership at the Coast Guard’s waterfront headquarters, I forgot we’d be
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