A Reason To Fall

1. Kylie

One

Kylie

Two Months Before

I shuffle the papers on my desk. The lines are blocks of nonsense text that some intern typed. I don’t bother glancing at them. The studio lights are blinding, but I’m used to it. Instead of squinting, I widen my eyes and smile at the camera. “From all of us here at Channel Four News, good night.”

The red light on the camera fades. The studio comes alive as everyone running behind-the-scenes sprints across the room one last time. I stretch my arms to the ceiling and arch my back. A spa trip is in my future. The masseuse will have fun cracking my back like bubble wrap.

“Hey!” Someone springs onto the platform and smacks my wrist. “That jacket costs five hundred bucks. Don’t you dare stretch it out.”

“Sorry, Liv.” I let my arms flop and push my chair back. It goes skating across the wooden floor but stops just short of teetering over the edge.

One day.

Liv tucks a lock of my hair away from my face and sighs. “You look perfect as usual. Selfie?”

“Not today.” I shake my head. “I’m tired.”

“Come on.” She pushes out her pink lips. Her mocha-colored skin glistens beneath the lights. She’s wearing a pound of makeup, but somehow she makes it look natural. Long braids sweep her elbows and she clasps her small hands. “I won’t post it. Hm?”

“Fine.” I stick my cheek close to hers. The fake smile jumps to life in a snap. “Cheese.”

She takes the picture with her phone and admires it. “You’re so stunning, Kylie. It’s a miracle I even got this job. All you need is powder and lipstick, and you’d rock the camera.” She looks stricken and whispers, “But don’t tell Brenda that.”

“I won’t.”

Liv makes life easier for me. Makeup artistry is her dream, and her untapped enthusiasm has been rubbing off. If not for her, I would have stormed off set weeks ago. Now I’m thinking about using a less dramatic method to get what I want.

“You need help with that?” Liv points to my dress that’s basically sprayed on. I spent twenty minutes forcing the thing over my hips. I’ve gained a little weight, but I didn’t think it was that bad. I should restart my gym membership.

“No. I’ll figure it out.” I shrug out of the jacket and hand it over. “You said it cost five hundred, right? It’s best you take that now.”

Liv’s eyes bounce from my toes back to my face. “O…kay. If you’re sure.”

“What?” I slide my hands down my waist. Insecurity crawls over me. “Do I look too fat?”

“Fat?” She lets out a strained cough. “You’re like every guy’s dream.” She glances at her flower-patterned, off-the-shoulder blouse and skinny jeans. “I wish I had that kind of shape.”

“You’re gorgeous, Liv.” I squeeze her arm and step away. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

She bobs her head. Her braids sway behind her. “Different time. Same place.”

I head to my dressing room. My heels clack against the tiles. Conversations still as I pass and the whispers rage again when I’m gone. The skin on my neck prickles as I notice all the men in the room staring at me. Regret for giving Liv the jacket pools inside. Who cares about the cost? I hate feeling so exposed.

Someone skates into my path, and I narrowly miss plowing her down in my haste to escape the newsroom. When I straighten, I notice Wilma Grinage glowering at me. She’s a woman in her early forties with a face hardened by life and cigarette smoking.

“Brenda’s asking for you,” Wilma says in that gravelly, I’m-a-chain-smoker voice. “She wants to see you in her office.”

“Now?”

Wilma narrows her brown eyes, and I swear I hear knives sharpening in the background. “You want to risk taking your time?”

“You’re right.” I hurry away and then run back. “Wait… before I forget. Wilma, did you look over the news draft I sent you about the—?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Wilma’s the news director in charge of choosing the segments we air. Her stories have won the station regional and international awards. If Wilma says I’m onto something, it means I’m closer to where I want to be. I lick my lips. “Well, when you get a chance…”

“Look, Barbie.” I bristle at the nickname, but she doesn’t seem to care. “We’ve got writers and journalists to deal with the news. You just keep looking pretty.” Something over my shoulder grabs her attention and she stalks away. “Harold! We need to talk!”

I watch her pull the broadcast technician aside to scold him about the static sound during the second news clip. My heart sinks. Great. Wilma’s brushing me off. Again. Or maybe this is her way of telling me that my story sucks.

My limbs throb with exhaustion. The last person I want to see right now is Brenda. Our producer has had it out for me since she got the job six months ago. Whatever she wants to see me about will probably suck.

I push her door open and stick my head inside to test the air and gauge her mood. She’s sitting with her back to me. All I can see from here is the crown of her short black hair. I knock on the door. “Brenda?”

She swings around, big brown eyes taking me in. Her round chin sinks, and she beckons me inside. I close the door and tiptoe to the chair in front of her desk. She stares at me as she continues her call, but I avoid her gaze and study the room.

College degrees, pictures of her with dignitaries, and awards won at her old broadcasting station decorate the walls. In the world of news, she’s Beyoncé and I’m… well… I’m just a nobody.

Brenda ends the call and tosses her cell phone on the desk. “Right. Sorry about that.”

“Um… did you want to see me?”

“Yes.” She straightens her shoulders and wears a bright smile. “Discussions for this year’s singing competition have begun, and I’d like to confirm that you’re hosting again.”

Her smile cloaks the steel in her gaze. This is a thinly disguised instruction. I swallow. “I’m sorry, Brenda. This year, I’d like to focus on other projects outside of hosting.”

An eyebrow pops high. “I see.”

My fingers tremble. I slide them into my lap to hide them from view. “I was a reporter before this. I mean… I didn’t work in that position for long, but—”

“Yes. I heard about your sudden promotion.” She tilts her head, her small lips smacking together. “The previous producer saw something…” she clears her throat and glances at my chest, “special in you, I suppose.”

I bristle. Rumors of my ‘affair’ with Mr. Yanique Williams, the old producer at Channel Four, ran rampant when he gave me a shot at the news anchor position. Someone has let Brenda in on the newsroom gossip.

Her comment annoys me, but I’m not here to start an argument or clear my name. Brenda wouldn’t believe me if I tried. “My dream, since I was a little girl, was to be a journalist. As much as I enjoy hosting singing competitions and doing other entertainment pieces, I want to report—”

“Ms. Mitchel,” Brenda presses her hands together, “let me make one thing clear. The only reason you still have a job at this news station is because you’ve established a relationship with our viewers. After five years of delivering the news to them, firing you would harm more than help.”

My jaw drops. It's like she punched me in the chest. Whispering behind my back, excluding me from outside functions and parties—I can handle that. But Brenda is crossing a line. “Excuse me?”

“To put it plainly,” she leans back, “you’re useless. An empty, primped-up vessel to keep the middle-aged men from turning the channel.”

My nose flares. “Mrs. Evans!”

“I’m not trying to be mean, but it would be in your best interest to cooperate with me.”

My teeth clamp hard on my bottom lip. A painful lump forms in my throat. I want to cry, which makes me even angrier. My chest rises as I take in a big breath. “You’ve got the wrong impression. I’m a good reporter. Give me a chance to prove it.”

Her eyes flicker. Brenda must have expected me to start a fight, but I’ve been in this business too long to engage her. The first rule of a good interview is to stay on topic. I’ve been dreaming of returning to journalism for a while now. Brenda isn’t getting in my way.

“I’m busy, Kylie.” She flicks her fingers in my general direction. “You should get your beauty sleep. You have to wake up early for your interview with that famous author tomorrow.”

My heels clop against the floor as I stomp to the door.

“Oh, and Kylie?” When I turn around, Brenda isn’t even looking at me. Still staring at her desk, she says, “The camera adds ten pounds. You should probably deal with that extra weight.”