In The Middle of Middle America

by David B Lyons

  “How’d it go?” I say, swinging back around.

  “Eh… I really don’t know,” she whispers. “There were a lot of awkward silences. In fact, most of the date was silent. But… I dunno. The psychic can’t be wrong, can she? I mean she called it bang on. His initials. His hair. I mean... how could she have known all that?”

  “Whatcha mean hair?” I say. Then I look back at Meric again. Good for him. Caoimhe’s a great girl. He prolly needed this attention more than anyone. That boy might finally come out from those bangs he’s been hiding behind his whole life.

  “Get this,” Caoimhe says, leaning in closer to me. “I went to Madam Aspectu on Thursday night... this is why I was gutted you weren’t in on Friday. She told me that the guy with the MM initials also has black hair that hangs over his eyes.”

  “What? That’s craaazy,” I say. And then I yawn again. Because I can’t help it.

  “Wendy, you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Fine.”

  And as I’m saying it, Miss Decker walks into the classroom with a bright smile on her face.

  “Okay, Caoimhe, into your regular seat,” she says. Caoimhe squishes up her face at me before standing and eventually walking to the back of the class to sit next to her new boyfriend.

  Decker hangs her bag onto the back of her chair, then shuffles around some paperwork on her desk before glancing round the room.

  “Where’s Kai?” she asks.

  I look at the empty seat next to me, then turn to her and shrug.

  “No idea, Miss,” I say.

  LUCY DECKER

  I turn to the chalkboard and scribble.

  “Okay, Nicole,” I say, “explain to the class again why it may cause major issues if news anchors are given a platform to air their opinions during broadcasts?”

  “Because news isn’t meant to divide us,” Nicole says. “It’s meant to inform us. The men who own these networks shouldn’t be able to impose their opinions on us.”

  I nod, enthusiastically, then scribble some more.

  “So, what you’re getting at, Miss Decker,” Hawkins says, “is that news on these networks isn’t really news, it’s just entertainment?”

  “Well... it’s not what I think that matters,” I say, turning back around to face my students. “This is all about making you guys think for yourselves. Should news just be straightforward news, or should it be entertainment?”

  “Bit of both,” Stevie says after shooting his hand up. “It’s like real-life entertainment, isn’t it?”

  “Real-life TV, that’s all we’re gonna watch in the future,” Brody says. Most of the class chuckles until I hold up my hand, shutting them up. “No, I’m serious,” Brody continues. “I read about it in a magazine. You know like The Real World on MTV… well, that’s… that’s―”

  “What magazine did you read it in, a porn magazine?” Hawkins says. And then half the class laugh. I shake my head, not necessarily because of the chuckling again, but because that wasn’t even remotely close to being funny.

  “Brody’s right, y’know,” I say, slipping in to dampen the laughter. “Reality TV is going to be the real deal.”

  I nod and wink at Brody, and when he smiles back at me, I see his Dad.

  That’s weird. I never once looked at Johnny on Saturday night and saw Brody, even after he told me who his son was. But now, staring at the young boy in front of me that I’ve taught for two years now, all I see is that soldier who tried to charm me with terrible jokes over dinner on Saturday night. I’ve no idea if he’ll ask me out again. We were supposed to call into our dating bot yesterday to rate the date between one and five. I gave it a three. I wonder if John rated it. And if he did, I wonder how much he ranked me out of five. I think a three is fair enough. He was nice. And kinda funny in his own way. And I was right. After I touched his hand early on during the date, it relaxed us both, and there wasn’t one awkward silence after that. Not until he hesitated as I got into the cab at the end of the night, unsure whether or not he should kiss me. I got on my tiptoes and leaned in to peck him on the cheek, then said, “Thanks, I enjoyed that,” before sliding into the back of the cab and slamming the door shut. I was being honest. I did enjoy it. It was fun. Funny. But we’re just total opposites, Johnny and I. I seriously can’t imagine us getting along. I’d say we likely disagree on almost every fundamental issue we could ever think of to discuss. And besides, I can’t just start dating one of my student’s dads. It’s not right. It’s not ethical.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, clapping my hands twice. “Before the bell rings, let me tell you that I am setting a mission we’re all going to undertake in a few weeks’ time. Sarah-Jane Zdanski has exclusive interviews coming up that she is teasing on her network… whatever it is, we’re all gonna watch it. It’s going to be the only homework I assign you over the next few weeks. The interviews are going to be on a Thursday night, and first thing on Friday morning what we’re all going to do is openly discuss the interviews in this classroom. And I want you to consider everything we have been discussing in these past few lessons.”

  “Who’s she interviewing?” Caoimhe asks.

  “We don’t know… it’s all a big tease at the moment,” I say. “On top of that, I must also mention that there are a limited number of spaces left on the trip to Europe. So get your forms and money in as soon as you can.” I hold my finger in the air, and on cue, the bell rings. “Off you go… enjoy math.”

  They groan before packing their backpacks and laboring their way out of my classroom. As I’m wiping down my chalkboard with a damp duster, I notice, in my peripheral vision, Principal Klay’s heavy beard getting closer to me.

  “Oh my Lord Jesus Christ,” he says, blessing himself. He looks pale; much paler than the normal shade of pale he usually is.

  “Are you okay, Principal Klay?” I say. “You look a little―”

  “Kai Chayton,” he says, before looking around and then leaning in closer to me, “tried to kill himself.” I hold my hand to my mouth, as a heavy weight lands in my gut. “With a rope. He tried to hang himself in his own bedroom on Saturday night.”

  “Oh my…” I say. And it’s all I manage to say, before I stumble my way backward so I can collapse into my chair.

  “I never would have thought in a million years… I mean the boy is so quiet.”

  “Sooo quiet,” I say. “And so… so nice. I’ve never once heard him say a bad word about anybody. But ah… you say tried to kill himself. He didn’t manage. ..?”

  “He’s in Smith County Hospital. That’s all I know.”

  I suck in a deep breath, trying to raise the heavy weight from the pit of my stomach.

  “This is my fault — our fault — we need to understand these boys and girls―”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Lucy. Jeez. You’ve been working in teaching for over ten years. If you were to blame yourself for every depressed student you had no idea was depressed you’d be living one horrid life.”

  “Oh my…” is all I can manage to say again as I lower the center of my forehead to my desk.

  “Well… at least the worst didn’t happen,” Principal Klay says, awkwardly patting me on the back. “And we all have something positive to look forward to with this trip to Europe. Has, ah… out of interest… has Kai given you a permission slip and the cash for Europe? Is he supposed to be going on the trip?”

  “Nope,” I mumble into the desk. “Actually,” I then say, sitting more upright and pulling open the drawer of my desk. “I have eight permission slips right here from other students along with thirty-two hundred in cash. Can I give all this to you now?”

  “No. No, you hold on to all that,” Klay says. “If you can take care of all the money for the trip, that’d be a weight off for me. ”

  Five

  When the double gold doors slid back open on floor fifty-five, Sarah-Jane stepped out to find Phil sitting on an uncomfortable steel chair in the hallway, gazing down at the purse between hi
s New Balance sneakers.

  He had barely moved. After almost half an hour of leaning his shoulder against the wall of the hallway, staring at the double gold doors in anticipation of his boss strolling back out of them wearing a gray overcoat, he poked his head through the crack of the office door nearest to him, found himself a chair and then carried it back to the double gold doors where he placed it down, sat into it, and waited… and waited.

  She had been just over an hour in Walter Fellowes’s office, supposed to be eating, but not eating, on parade for the media mogul to gawk at. After she showed off her slim frame in the cheerleader’s outfit Isla had given to her, she sat at Walter’s desk and talked about, initially, her live broadcast in less than two-and-a-half hours before Walter stained the lush carpet beneath his feet with Pepsi while trying to give Sarah-Jane a metaphorical lecture. Not long afterward, with Sarah-Jane’s eyebrows still knitting together due to the peculiarity of the meeting, Walter’s secretary, Barbara, spat through the speakerphone on her boss’s desk, to inform him his dinner hour was over.

  Their eyes met and without asking the question Sarah-Jane knew Phil would be desperate to ask, she answered it for him by slowly shaking her head.

  Phil’s shoulders seemed to sink an inch before he stood up, grabbing Sarah-Jane’s purse and clutching it close to his chest.

  “Oh, there you are,” Howie Laine said, walking toward them and staring Sarah-Jane up and down. “Nice overcoat.”

  Phil growled in the back of his throat as silently as he could, though Sarah-Jane, standing next to him, could certainly hear it.

  “I uh… I gotta go change and―”

  “Yep,” Howie said, “you go change and I’ll see you in the control room for a quick run-through. Just over two hours till we’re live.”

  He patted Sarah-Jane on the bicep, then awkwardly nodded at Phil before mincing away.

  It took them both another twenty minutes to not only find wardrobe, where Sarah-Jane changed back into the clothes she had worn to the studio earlier that day, but to find out where the control room was within the maze of dark hallways.

  When they finally pushed the control room door open, a row of seven male heads turned to face them. Two of them were dressed in suits, four of them — including Howie in his patterned, tight-fitting shirt and jeans — were dressed smart-casual, while one was dressed over-casual, wearing a Chicago Bulls jersey with the name Jordan and the number twenty-three emblazoned across the back.

  “You’ve met Mikey McGrath, Sarah-Jane, yes?” Howie asked, pointing his hand toward the man in the red basketball jersey that was sucking on the end of a cigarette. It seemed a little grotesque to Sarah-Jane that Mikey was wearing the jersey over his bare skin, what with his arms so pasty white and matted with sweaty hair, but she moved closer to him nonetheless and held out her hand.

  “Of course,” she said, as Mikey placed his hand inside hers.

  Then she immediately took a step backward, so she was in the much more comfortable presence of Phil. It was an awkward introduction. Not only did seven heads turn to face them as soon as they pushed through the control room door, but the room itself was eerily uninviting. There was no light, except for that provided by the twelve screens the seven men had been staring at from across an organized mess of buttons that seemed to sprawl out in front of them.

  Sarah-Jane had briefly met Mikey at some point during the course of her day-long meeting at the network the week before. He was introduced to her as the director of her show before they shared an awkward back and forth about the Public Broadcasting Services she had worked for, to which Mikey seemed to dismiss as nowhere near impressive enough experience to warrant her getting her own show on CSN. He certainly didn’t say as much with words, but Sarah-Jane got the distinct impression he considered her somewhat fortunate to find herself in the position she had found herself.

  “I was thinkin’,” Mikey said in his broad Chicago accent, “let’s do a quick run-through, just so you’re familiar with my voice.”

  Sarah-Jane nodded, then glanced at Phil when everything fell silent in the immediate aftermath. Phil was too distracted to notice, staring at the twelve screens that were showing different angles of Sarah-Jane’s brand new studio.

  “Oh,” Sarah-Jane said, rounding her mouth when the seven heads continued to stare at her in the resulting silence, “you want me to go into the studio now?”

  “Exactly,” Mikey said.

  “Here.” Howie stood up and began fidgeting with his fingers. “This is your earpiece.” He brushed Sarah-Jane’s blonde locks to the side, then placed the piece into her ear before showing her to a door that led down two steps and directly into the shadows of the studio.

  Phil wasn’t sure where to go, so he remained standing at the back wall of the control room, clutching Sarah-Jane’s purse to his chest as she appeared on the twelve screens across from him, fingering her ear.

  She coughed, lightly—a cough that was picked up on the microphones above her head and played into the speakers of the control room.

  “Can you hear me, Mikey?” she said, tapping at her ear.

  “Loud and clear, and you can hear me?” the director said.

  Sarah-Jane held her two thumbs up and then beamed her perfect white teeth directly into one of the cameras.

  “Okay, in front of you, as I explained last week, there are four cameras, and one in the beam of the ceiling above your desk.” Sarah-Jane looked upward. “This one will only be shown when we cut away for commercial breaks. The other four cameras will be used throughout the show at different points and I will be guiding you through which camera is beaming live to America. They are numbered from your left to right, as you can see...” Sarah-Jane squinted into the shadows, taking in each camera, noticing them numbered one to four. “Okay, and stare at camera one for me, and say something into it,” Mikey instructed in to her ear.

  Sarah-Jane clasped her hands together, lightly cleared her throat and did what she does best. She presented.

  “Hello, my name is Sarah-Jane Zdanski and welc―”

  “Okay and camera two,” Mikey said softly into her ear.

  She pivoted, hearing the hissing mechanics of the cameras as they swished toward her.

  “And welcome to the Zdanski show. Today we―”

  “Camera three,” Mikey said.

  “Today we bring you astonishing―”

  “And camera four.”

  “Astonishing interviews from―”

  “Perfect. You look better on camera than you even do in real life,” Mikey crackled into her ear. “So, camera direction is obviously very straightforward. Besides, you’ve been working at PBS for a number of years, so you have experience of how that works. The other directions I’ll whisper into your ear during the interviews will be just as straightforward, I promise. Though you’ll get to know my shorthand in time and we’ll develop our own unique line of communication.”

  Phil stared at the screens, to see Sarah-Jane nodding in agreement. Then he noticed Howie stretching over the director’s shoulder, to press at a red button on the control desk.

  “You think she’ll hold up tonight?”

  Mikey pouted his lips and shrugged his shoulders. Then he re-pressed the button Howie had just pressed his finger to.

  “You’ll be fine, Sarah-Jane, right? You’re not gonna be nervous are you?”

  “Excited,” she said, sticking her finger to the plastic piece in her ear.

  Then Howie pressed the red button again.

  “I haven’t told her there’s a projected thirty million tuning in tonight, so let’s keep that to ourselves. She doesn’t need to know.”

  Mikey nodded in agreement.

  “Sure.”

  “She’s got some experience at PBS, but she’s never had a show of this magnitude, I’m just worried―”

  “There’s no need to be worried,” Phil said, taking a step forward.

  “Oh,” Howie said, slapping his hands together. “He speaks.
The producer speaks.”

  Phil growled at the back of his throat again.

  “Sarah-Jane don’t get nervous,” he said. Then he stepped back, re-pressing his shoulders to the back wall of the control room while Howie swung from side to side in the chair he was sitting in next to Mikey.

  Phil was surprised to hear there was an expected thirty million Americans due to tune in tonight. He and Sarah-Jane had spoken about the size of the audience back in their hotel suite over breakfast this morning. Well, she spoke. He listened. She gave him the impression she’d be delighted if more than the regular six million who tune into CSN at seven p.m. every Thursday night tuned in to see her debut show. But he knew that even if Sarah-Jane was privy to the projected thirty million viewers, it still wouldn’t affect her. She was as flawless as a reporter could be in front of the camera as far as Phil was concerned. He had worked with over forty reporters in his time at PBS before Sarah-Jane Zdanski came into his life. None of them could hold a candle to her. She was not only the greatest instinctive inquisitive mind he had come across, but she was the most natural and at-ease reporter in front of the camera he had worked with by a landslide.

  They had spent three years together, driving around North Kansas in a white van with the Public Broadcasting Service logo peeling off the side of it. When they’d eventually stumble across a story, he would hold a heavy camera atop his left shoulder while she’d grip a microphone just below her chin, delivering news as wide-ranging as a cat caught up a tree on an avenue just outside Smith Center, to the kidnapping of little Theia Lancaster who was eventually found in her uncle’s house some five days after being reported missing. It was a story that caught not only the interest of north Kansas, but the state as a whole. And Sarah-Jane was right on top of it from the very beginning. She had actually interviewed the uncle three days prior to his four-year-old niece being found under his bed, pleading straight down Phil’s camera lens for her safe return. Sarah-Jane had thought at the time that her reporting of this story might endear her to some national news producers, but her phone never rang in that regard. In fact it would take over a year later for her phone to ring when the croaky voice of Walter Fellowes offered her her own show on CSN on the spot after he had been blown away, not just by how beautiful she was, but how calm she reported live when under so much pressure.