Luke leans over toward me. “We’ve got this, Agresti.”
I gaze up at him and nod. “We sure as hell better, Burke.”
This makes him burst out laughing, loudly, and the entire Synergy team turns to shoot us a disapproving look.
I chop my onions as methodically as possible and ignore them.
They don’t know they’re going down and it’s going to be so, so epic.
CHAPTER 10
Deciding to obliterate Hunter and Brynn’s group has become my new fuel, to the point that I wonder what other aspects of my life I can apply this to. It’s invigorating.
The problem is, I don’t have enough of a social life to be out there one-upping them in much of anything else. It’s completely evident all weekend, when, after Jodie catches a cold and can’t hang out, I’m stuck in the house with my parents, who are all hover-y and “how are you doing, honey?” I appreciate the support, but this only drives the point home that I’ve wasted the last eight months of my life not making any friends outside of Hunter’s group.
So I spend most of Sunday reading The Buzz archives in the hopes of spotting some old gossip about Hunter and Brynn, but instead learn maybe too much about my other classmates: The high-achieving junior who, as of last March, was probably getting shipped off to rehab for an Adderall addiction (I know that this actually happened a few weeks later to Madison Sawyer, a quiet girl in my gym class. She has yet to come back to RHHS); the lovers’ spat that broke out in the cafeteria and revealed one party cheating with at least two other people; a sophomore boy who feared coming out to his family so he was “man-whoring it up with as many girls in his class as possible.”
And then I feel gross for reading every word.
So a few days later, when I see a poster declaring that the RHHS TV station is looking for camera people and editors, I figure this is a sign, both literally and figuratively. Hunter hates the TV station—what better way to be like, “I don’t care what you think,” than by doing something he despises?
And it’s two birds with one stone, because the next time I meet with Mrs. Gillroy, I can be truthful when I tell her I took her advice and joined the TV station—and editing keeps me from being on camera, which is key.
After school, I poke my head into the newsroom, where there’s one of those news-anchor desks with a green wall behind it. Chris Phan, one of the anchorpeople who was also in my French class last year, is sitting behind the desk with a pen tucked behind his ear, reading a bunch of papers and shaking his head.
Hunter used to make fun of him for being so intense about the TV station—“He acts like it’s freaking CNN and not some stupid homeroom time-killer,” he said. Meanwhile, Hunter once flipped out because all the guys in the Ringtones didn’t have their hair parted on the same side. For a performance at a peewee hockey game.
“Hey, Chris,” I say, and he jumps, knocking his knee on the anchor desk.
“Oh, hey,” he says, rubbing his knee. “What’s up?”
“Mrs. Gillroy told me to come down here because I’m interested in being a meteorologist and—”
“Do you know football?” His eyes are full of hope, like my answer is the key to our existence or something.
“Uh, yeah, kind of,” I say. I learned about it from Mariana, the bartender at my dad’s old restaurant. She was from western Pennsylvania and obsessed with the Pittsburgh Steelers. I don’t understand football completely, but thanks to her, I do have a basic grasp.
“Thank you, god!” he says, clasping his hands together. “Have you ever been on camera before? Wait, never mind, we’re stuck so we need you no matter what.”
“Stuck?” is all I say because a sudden sense of doom has come over me. I don’t want to be on camera.
“Yeah, our sports reporter is out with a broken ankle and her backup has the flu.”
It hits me then. “Wait, Alisha is the sports reporter. She broke her ankle?”
“Yeah, it was a bad break,” he says, flipping through some of his papers. “She tripped in gym class. Had to have surgery and everything.”
I think back to the last time I saw Alisha. It was that day in the cafeteria, when she got pulled away by Kim. This whole time I thought she’d been avoiding me because of the breakup. I almost unfollowed her on Instagram. I’m pissed at myself for being so thoughtless and—
“So we’re short-staffed and we need someone to interview Rashad Bryant, the football team captain, about his sacks record. Do you know anything about that?”
I’m relieved to say “No.” If I don’t know what’s going on, how could I possibly interview him about it?
And if I can’t conduct the interview, I can’t possibly be on camera, and then become some serious fodder for The Buzz, or worse, give Hunter and Brynn something to laugh hysterically about, can I?
Chris waves his hand. “No worries. He’s about to break the record for most sacks in school history. You just have to ask him how he feels about that.”
I’m struck dumb momentarily. I don’t know enough about sports—jeez, I don’t know enough about this school—to be asking questions in a journalistic capacity. Particularly while on camera.
This on-camera thing is going to be a real problem.
But Chris must take my petrified silence for an affirmative answer, because he continues with, “We need to get this in before tomorrow morning’s broadcast since he could break the record during Saturday’s game.” He consults his Apple watch, oblivious to my openmouthed panic. “You’ve got about an hour before football practice ends. You can catch him after and just ask him a few questions.”
Um, no.
The only thing I know about TV journalism, outside of my beloved Weather Channel, is what I see during the ten o’clock newscast that my mom watches. And then there are those prime-time shows with those reporters who jump out of bushes to accost someone about their defective products or ask how it feels to be let off for the murder of their mistress. In all those cases, the reporters, even the jump-out-of-bushes sort, are ballsy. And bubbly. At the same time. That is so not me.
And god only knows what Jared could cook up about me stammering my way through an interview, looking like a total idiot.
I still haven’t said anything when Chris hands me one of his papers. “Here are some questions you can ask him.”
I’ve seen Rashad in the halls and in the cafeteria. He’s about six foot three and all muscle. He’s crazy popular and he’s in honors classes with Hunter, so I know he’s smart enough to figure out I don’t have much of a clue about football.
“I’m going to get in touch with Willow Goldstein, our cameraperson, and you can meet her back here in a half hour or so,” Chris says. “Okay?”
I desperately want to say, No, it’s not okay. I just wanted to own my ex, but this is something else entirely, but I still haven’t regained the power of speech. Besides, I’m afraid I’ll look like a coward. So I just nod.
Chris smiles and shuffles his papers. “You’re awesome, Ellie. Thanks.”
But when I pass out from fright?
On camera?
He’s not going to think I’m so awesome anymore.
* * *
A half hour later, after studying the mini-script and questions I’m supposed to ask, I’m standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, trying to cover the zit that’s formed right next to my nose. I take a deep breath and will the lines to ease out of my furrowed forehead. I am going to do this. I am fully capable of asking questions. It’s just talking to another human being.
On camera. And shown to twelve hundred of my peers.
Oh, who am I kidding? I exhale loudly as I turn away from the mirror. I don’t want all of RHHS snickering over my zit or taking note that I’m bloated or that my voice is really, really high when it’s recorded. I don’t want to give them anything to pick on. I was Robot Girl once, and that’s more than enough for me.
Maybe I can fake being sick. Yes, that’s it. I’ve got a sudden stomach b
ug or something. Chris doesn’t have to know it’s the “I just want to fly under the radar, thanks” flu.
I march back to the studio, working on my best “sick face” and practicing what I’m going to say in my head. I’m so caught up trying to look deathly ill that I almost crash into a tiny blonde girl carrying a camera and a footstool. She smiles when she sees me. “Oh, hey, you’re Mary Ellen, right? I’m Willow, your cameraperson.”
I blink down at this sprite of a girl: I’m only five foot five, but Willow is barely cracking five feet. I’m surprised she doesn’t collapse under the weight of the camera.
“It’s so great that you’re doing the sports report,” she goes on. “Like, girl power, you know?”
“Yeah, girl power,” I say weakly. There’s no way I can get out of this now. Not with Willow playing the feminism card.
“Chris says I’m supposed to help you out,” Willow says. “Have you ever been on camera before?”
“Not unless you count home movies,” I say, forcing a laugh.
“Well, then, we can practice a bit,” Willow says. “That’ll help you get a feel for it.”
Willow leads me to the hill above the football field, also known as The Nest, home to the RHHS Hornets. “We can interview him here. It’ll set the tone for the story,” she says.
Down below, football and cheerleading practices are going on simultaneously. I can hear whistles and the crashing of helmets and shoulder pads mingling with a cheer that includes a lot of clapping and chanting, “Sting you, fling you, the Hornets are gonna bring you pain.”
Willow hands me a microphone, then climbs up on her stepstool and aims the camera at me. “Remember to talk into the mic. And smile, too.”
When Willow nods, I project my voice as loudly as I can. “When the Hornets face the Ford Hill Tigers—”
Willow moves the camera down for a minute. “Talk loud, but don’t scream,” she says. She then gives me the thumbs-up. “You’re doing great!”
We work at this for about five minutes when music starts blasting from the field.
“Is that going to interfere with the sound?” I ask.
“It might,” Willow says. “Let’s wait for Rashad in the senior parking lot. There won’t be anything going on there to distract us.”
“Sounds good,” I say, giving silent thanks that one of us knows what she’s doing.
While we’re waiting, we manage to record the intro for the story. And I only need six takes to finally get it right.
Since Rashad is for all intents and purposes a giant, it’s not hard to spot him when he makes his way into the parking lot a half hour later. When he sees us waiting on the curb, he stops short.
“Hey, R-R-ashad,” I say. “CouldIaskyouafewquestions?”
He stares at me blankly and I’m terrified that this is someone else I’ve mistakenly thought was Rashad Bryant for the last nine months.
“It’s for RHHS TV,” Willow pipes up, plopping down her footstool and climbing up on it.
I nod. “We want to ask about you breaking the school record for sacks.”
Rashad checks his phone. “Okay, but I’ve only got five minutes. I have to pick up my sister at karate practice.”
Five minutes? I feel my hairline break out in sweat. There’s no room for mistakes with only five minutes.
Rashad motions for us to follow him to his car, where he drops his backpack on the trunk, rubs his hands together, then looks at us expectantly.
Willow lifts up her camera and she nods at me with a big smile. “We’re rolling!”
“Uh, okay. So, Rashad, when—”
Willow lowers the camera. “Your microphone!” she reminds me.
“Oh,” I say, suddenly remembering that I’m holding it. Rashad gives me a wary glance and I pray he can’t see my hands shaking. “Okay, so, Rashad, when did it first occur to you that you’d break the school record for tackles?”
“You mean sacks?” he asks, his face totally neutral.
I feel my face turning bright red. “Oh, god. Yeah, sorry.” Ugh.
Rashad doesn’t even have to think. “I’d say last October. I had a good first few games and Coach Abbott was like, ‘Hey, you know you can break Joe Howard’s record, right? And I was like, ‘Okay, that’s something to strive for.’”
I smile and nod, which seems to encourage Rashad to open up about how he met Joe Howard last year at a banquet. Thank goodness, I think I’m actually going to get through this. But as he goes into how Joe was chock-full of advice, there’s a strange snarling “arrr” noise—it almost sounds like a vicious cross between gasping and gargling—from somewhere to the left.
“You started as a quarterback. How did you make your way into defense?” I ask, just as there’s a more audible “arrr, arrr.” I begin to fret that some kind of hellmouth has opened behind me and that a bloodthirsty demon is about to unleash its fiery wrath on us. I mean, that would be my luck. I can’t turn around because the camera is straight on me, probably capturing the look of paralyzed fear on my face.
Rashad doesn’t seem fazed at all, and answers above the murderous sounds behind us, which are growing louder.
And then I remember: Montague. As if on cue, I spot the white German shepherd behind the chain-link fence beyond Rashad’s shoulder. And he’s dragging one of his infamous cinder blocks around while making those heinous noises. When he makes eye contact with me, his tail wags excitedly. And then, I swear to god, he nudges the gate open with his nose and practically prances toward us, tail whipping back and forth, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
I see Willow’s face go slack from behind the camera. I feel my own face stiffen as Montague’s thick tail whacks me in the leg and he starts barking excitedly. Why? Why is this happening right now? When I’m already making a fool of myself for the dumbest of reasons? It takes everything in me to keep my hand from shaking and my eyes on Rashad and keep my face looking neutral instead of the all-out panic that’s suddenly coursing through me.
Rashad, though, doesn’t miss a beat, as he launches into a story about how he once played quarterback and defensive tackle in one game. And he does all this while petting Montague, who keeps jumping up, trying to lick Rashad’s face.
Just one last question, thank god.
“Any thoughts on playing Ford Hill?”
“Yeah,” Rashad says, rubbing his hands together. “We’re going to tear them apart.”
“Arrr! Arrr!” Montague dances around between us.
I smile at Rashad and turn back to the camera, knowing I look like a crazy woman, and say the first thing that pops into my head. “And it seems Montague would agree!”
Willow waves her hand, reminding me I have to add, “The Hornets play here at The Nest on Saturday afternoon at one p.m. Back to you in the studio,” and with that, we’re done.
When I turn back around, Rashad is actually smiling and cooing, “Who’s a good boy?” as he leans over and pets Montague, who has now rolled over on his back for a belly rub.
“I have no idea how you stayed so calm,” I say with a laugh, as I lean over and scratch Montague’s ears. “I thought I was going to lose it.”
Rashad shrugs. “Aw, he just wanted to make friends. And I know we were short on time, so I tried to be professional about it.”
I smile at him gratefully. “Thanks.”
The three of us quickly make our way over to the fence, calling Montague so he follows us. I hold the gate open for him as he trots back inside, and shove the latch down so he can’t get back out. He lays down next to his cinder block and sighs, seemingly content with the amount of havoc he’s wreaked for the day.
“I’m going to run this back to the studio so they can edit this by tonight,” Willow says as she folds up her footstool. “See you later!”
“Thanks for everything, Willow,” I say as she scampers off. “And thank you for your time, Rashad. Good luck on Saturday.”
“Thank you. Mary Ellen, right?” he says.
“Oh
my god, I never introduced myself,” I say, slapping my hand to my forehead. “Yes, I’m Ellie Agresti.”
Rashad opens his car door. “I’ve seen you around. You were going out with Hunter Panzic, right?”
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I just know he’s not too big on school sports and stuff is all. I thought you might be the same.”
“No,” I say. “I like sports. I’m not that good at playing them. I mean, I totally suck in gym class. But I like watching them.”
Jesus, Ellie, he didn’t ask for your life story.
“Well, you should try to get out to at least one game, they’re a lot of fun. We’ve got a good team this year.” With that, he climbs in his car and backs out of the parking lot. He waves at me before he leaves, and I wave back, looking like an idiot with the microphone still in my hand.
* * *
I’m fidgeting in my seat in homeroom the next morning. The news portion of RHHS TV is airing on the classroom flat-screen, and half of my classmates are sleeping through it. The others aren’t paying much attention. Apparently, there’s a quiz in one of the history classes and a lot of kids are cramming for it now.
All of this bodes well for me. If no one is watching, then they won’t notice my zit or that I totally suck at interviewing people.
A story about the school nurse’s twenty-five years at RHHS is wrapping up, and Mia Mullholland, one of the anchorpeople, smiles at the camera. “And in other milestone news, the Hornets’ Rashad Bryant is about to set the school record for sacks. Mary Ellen Agresti has that story in sports.”
This weird feeling of pride suddenly swells through me at hearing my name. It ebbs away just as quickly when my smiling face takes up the whole screen and my voice is way, way higher than I ever thought it would be when I asked the first question.
“Hey,” Tom Arriston says, tapping me on the shoulder from behind. “That’s you!”
All I can do is nod. My eyes are glued to what surely is going to be a train wreck, what with my voice sounding like I’d been mainlining helium before the interview started, and Montague’s antics about to come.
The Secret Recipe for Moving On Page 9