voice roared through Portable Five, and I jumped, dropping the paper airplane. Singed hair and flaring nostrils hovered over me as Clementine dragged me to the control room and pointed to the chair next to Duncan. “Sit.”
“You know, people would be much more apt to follow your direction if you were a little less . . . oh, I don’t know . . . fascist.” I sat and winked at Duncan. He hid a smile in his scarf. Tonight’s nubby neckwear was soft blue and green, like the ocean on a misty morning. The missed stitches and ragged tails of yarn looked like bits of seaweed. And of course it had the crooked red heart stitched on one end.
Having Duncan at my side for my first show felt good. Sparring with Clementine felt good. Knowing the entire staff was in the newsroom felt good.
“Breathe between units of thought, not randomly.” Clementine picked up my headset.
“Been working on it for sixteen years.”
She slipped the headset over my head and adjusted the band. “If you read, hold your copy in front of you so you don’t look down. Keeps the airway open.”
“Of course, closed airwaves would kill my show.”
To her credit, Clementine ignored my stupid chatter. “Elbowson the table make for a more conversational style,” she continued in a steady, calming voice.
“Elbows positioned.”
She rested her hand on my knee, stopping the clackity-clack of my shoe. “And if you feel like you’re going to hurl, do not blow chunks on my equipment, got it?” She looked at the ceiling. “Seriously, if you get nervous, close your eyes and pretend you’re talking to a friend. Okay?”
“I’ll picture you.”
Dragon sigh.
Clementine knew her stuff. All of this was designed to create a more natural radio presence that would appeal to listeners.
I adjusted the cord on the mic. If we had any listeners tonight. Had my week-long promotional efforts drummed up any? Had Brie with her continued smear campaign, which now included a gallery full of less-than-complimentary drama-club photos, turned them away? My throat tightened. Or worse, would Brie try anything on air?
“Tell me again about the Great Silencer,” I asked Clementine. “The one I can use on VSPs.”
“We went over it five minutes ago.” Clementine yanked at my headset, repositioning it. “Weren’t you listening?”
Of course I was listening. And worrying. I looked at the clock. Two minutes. “Tell me again.”
Clementine wagged her crinkly hair and hissed. “Okay, we run live shows on a seven-second delay. It’s an intentional delay that allows us to deal with any technical problems, which occasionallyhappen, given our ancient equipment, but we can also use it to cut off objectionable material, like profanity, before it goes out onto the airwaves.”
I wasn’t worried about profanity. I was worried about Brie Sonderby.
Clementine leaned toward me, the heat of her stare like red-hot coals. “You’re not going to wig out on us, are you?”
“No, of course not.” I was ready for this. Duncan was at my side. It would be fun . “Sound the trumpets. The queen has arrived.”
Clementine grumbled and hurried next door into the production studio. She slipped on her own headset, and her voice echoed through mine. “On the beam.”
I positioned myself in front of the microphone.
“Four, three, two, cue music . . .”
Duncan punched a button, and my rumbling theme music filled the air. Taysom had unearthed a 1940s retro piece, upbeat and classy, not too brassy. It was perfect. It was me.
I stared at the microphone and pictured invisible airwaves connecting me to hundreds, thousands of listeners. Maybe even Brie. Mean, mean Brie.
As the music tapered off, Duncan pointed to me, but when I opened my mouth, my throat constricted.
Words.
Where were the words?
Why couldn’t I talk?
I always talked.
Something warm and firm settled on my knee. Duncan’shand. I focused on that hand, the one that made a tricked-out Sparrow with the words Stop
“You know, people would be much more apt to follow your direction if you were a little less . . . oh, I don’t know . . . fascist.” I sat and winked at Duncan. He hid a smile in his scarf. Tonight’s nubby neckwear was soft blue and green, like the ocean on a misty morning. The missed stitches and ragged tails of yarn looked like bits of seaweed. And of course it had the crooked red heart stitched on one end.
Having Duncan at my side for my first show felt good. Sparring with Clementine felt good. Knowing the entire staff was in the newsroom felt good.
“Breathe between units of thought, not randomly.” Clementine picked up my headset.
“Been working on it for sixteen years.”
She slipped the headset over my head and adjusted the band. “If you read, hold your copy in front of you so you don’t look down. Keeps the airway open.”
“Of course, closed airwaves would kill my show.”
To her credit, Clementine ignored my stupid chatter. “Elbowson the table make for a more conversational style,” she continued in a steady, calming voice.
“Elbows positioned.”
She rested her hand on my knee, stopping the clackity-clack of my shoe. “And if you feel like you’re going to hurl, do not blow chunks on my equipment, got it?” She looked at the ceiling. “Seriously, if you get nervous, close your eyes and pretend you’re talking to a friend. Okay?”
“I’ll picture you.”
Dragon sigh.
Clementine knew her stuff. All of this was designed to create a more natural radio presence that would appeal to listeners.
I adjusted the cord on the mic. If we had any listeners tonight. Had my week-long promotional efforts drummed up any? Had Brie with her continued smear campaign, which now included a gallery full of less-than-complimentary drama-club photos, turned them away? My throat tightened. Or worse, would Brie try anything on air?
“Tell me again about the Great Silencer,” I asked Clementine. “The one I can use on VSPs.”
“We went over it five minutes ago.” Clementine yanked at my headset, repositioning it. “Weren’t you listening?”
Of course I was listening. And worrying. I looked at the clock. Two minutes. “Tell me again.”
Clementine wagged her crinkly hair and hissed. “Okay, we run live shows on a seven-second delay. It’s an intentional delay that allows us to deal with any technical problems, which occasionallyhappen, given our ancient equipment, but we can also use it to cut off objectionable material, like profanity, before it goes out onto the airwaves.”
I wasn’t worried about profanity. I was worried about Brie Sonderby.
Clementine leaned toward me, the heat of her stare like red-hot coals. “You’re not going to wig out on us, are you?”
“No, of course not.” I was ready for this. Duncan was at my side. It would be fun . “Sound the trumpets. The queen has arrived.”
Clementine grumbled and hurried next door into the production studio. She slipped on her own headset, and her voice echoed through mine. “On the beam.”
I positioned myself in front of the microphone.
“Four, three, two, cue music . . .”
Duncan punched a button, and my rumbling theme music filled the air. Taysom had unearthed a 1940s retro piece, upbeat and classy, not too brassy. It was perfect. It was me.
I stared at the microphone and pictured invisible airwaves connecting me to hundreds, thousands of listeners. Maybe even Brie. Mean, mean Brie.
As the music tapered off, Duncan pointed to me, but when I opened my mouth, my throat constricted.
Words.
Where were the words?
Why couldn’t I talk?
I always talked.
Something warm and firm settled on my knee. Duncan’shand. I focused on that hand, the one that made a tricked-out Sparrow with the words Stop
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