Flawless

by Lara Chapman

  Fighting every shred of common sense inside me, I stuff the novel into my binder and follow her to the computer, where she’s already busy logging on. I stand behind her, letter in hand.

  She opens her e-mail account, clicks Compose, types in Rock’s e-mail address—which she’s already memorized—and stands. “It’s all yours.”

  Of course it is, I think as I take a quick glance at the clock, then drop into the seat. “We’ve only got eight minutes.”

  “That’s more than enough time for a supersmart genius like you. Get busy.” She rubs my shoulders like she’s prepping a boxer for the next round.

  I shake her off. “Back up a little. Geez.”

  She plops into the seat next to me as I put my hands on the keyboard, staring at the flashing cursor. It’s totally mocking me.

  Tapping my fingers on the keys, I look at my notes, then begin typing. After a couple of false starts, I finally get in the groove and the words flow. Kind of.

  I know this may seem a little forward, but I have to tell you that every time I see you, your smile sets my heart on fire. I can’t explain it, but I’ve never felt this way before. Join me for dinner at the Aquarium Saturday night. My treat.

  Love, Kristen

  555-0250

  “It’s too short,” I say.

  “No, it’s just right.” Kristen’s smile is glowing and it’s hard not to let her joy rub off on me just a little. For a second, I can even pretend my every waking moment isn’t filled with thoughts of the very guy she’s—we’re—writing.

  “Maybe we should add something specific about his smile,” I say, more to myself than anyone.

  “Like how precious his crooked teeth are?” she says quickly. “It’s so adorable.”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just missing something.” I continue tapping the keys. “What about …” I click the cursor before the last sentence and add a new one, then reread the new message.

  I know this may seem a little forward, but I have to tell you that every time I see you, your smile sets my heart on fire. I can’t explain it, but I’ve never felt this way before. There’s something in your smile that makes me feel alive. Join me for dinner at the Aquarium Saturday night. My treat.

  Love, Kristen

  555-0250

  I swivel the screen so Kristen can see it, feeling pretty damn proud of my ability to take her grade-school letter and turn it into something spectacular in three minutes flat.

  Kristen reaches over and hugs me. “You’re amazing. Send it!”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “There’s no turning back after this.”

  “Positive.” She reaches around me, commandeers the mouse, then clicks Send.

  Somebody shoot me.

  It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.

  —LEO TOLSTOY

  Chapter Seven

  I make it to the station just minutes before Mom goes live for the five o’clock broadcast, looking forward to dinner and not so forward to meeting another rising news star.

  “You’re finally here,” she says, eyes closed in the makeup chair as Marta continues her work on Mom’s eyelids. Don’t ask me how she knows I’m here; mother’s intuition or something. “I was getting worried.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Hi, Marta.”

  “How’s life treating you, Sarah?” she asks, never taking her eyes off Mom. Marta’s been Mom’s stylist and makeup artist for years. Her twin sons just turned thirteen, so she always looks a little frazzled and vaguely irritated.

  “Pretty good,” I answer. “How are the boys?”

  Marta looks up from Mom’s face and I can see the dark circles under her eyes. “Making me wonder why I ever went through all those years of infertility treatments to create them.”

  I laugh, knowing Marta loves the boys more than anything. “That bad, huh?”

  “Just typical teenage-boy stuff.” She dusts Mom’s face with an oversized powder brush, then leans back to study her handiwork. “You’re done, Beth.”

  Mom opens her eyes and studies her face in the mirror as she takes off the protective drape snapped behind her neck. “Great job as always, Marta. Thanks.”

  Mom stands and grabs my hand. “I’m on in four minutes, so we’ll have to talk later.”

  “Bye, Marta,” I call out as Mom drags me from the room.

  “Later, gorgeous!” Marta answers, already cleaning the workspace she insists on keeping immaculate. It’s just one of the many reasons I adore her.

  Mom turns her full attention to me and I’m struck by her stunning face. Does she realize how beautiful she is or does she still see the insecure girl with the gargantuan nose when she looks in the mirror? “You look great, Mom.”

  A warm smile brightens her face. “Thanks, sweetie. You look pretty marvelous yourself.”

  I look down at the blue jeans and T-shirt I’ve worn all day. “Right.”

  “Where do you want to watch? From the stage or the sound room?”

  “Definitely the stage,” I say. I’m not in the mood for a bunch of chitchat with Mom’s producer, Vic, who’s been gunning to date her since the first day she arrived over ten years ago. He’s a nice-enough guy but I get the feeling he’s trying to play dad to me. Not cool.

  “Okay,” she says. “Don’t leave. I still want you to meet Jen and then we have a dinner date, remember?”

  “I’ll be right here,” I say, pointing to my usual seat at the edge of the room that gives me a great view of the news desk.

  Mom takes her seat at the right of her coanchor, David Newlund. He’s a pretty decent guy, even if he’s totally self-absorbed. One of the things I’ve learned about this business is that most on-air journalists, especially anchors, have a tendency to be full of themselves. Even Mom can get that way from time to time, which is one of the reasons I’m sticking to print, where the news is all about the facts. Nothing else matters. Not the way you dress, the way you look, or how old you are.

  Watching the two of them behind the glass desk, it’s easy to see how anchors become that way. They’re spectacular forty-somethings with perfect hair, perfect teeth, and perfect clothes. The two of them together make a showstopping anchor team; they’ve been ranked first in the Houston market since they paired up nearly six years ago.

  When the director calls out the one-minute warning, Mom takes one last look at the papers in front of her. I know from years of following her around the station that she and David have spent the better part of the day going over the news stories with Vic, deciding which stories to report and in which order. The fact that she and David keep the papers in front of them during the newscast has never made sense to me. They keep their eyes on the teleprompter, only ad-libbing when they have to stretch for time.

  I watch the newscast, mesmerized by the range of emotions that play over Mom’s face, alternating between amused and deadly serious as the news story she’s reporting warrants. Anyone who thinks reporters aren’t actors is fooling themselves. I know that Mom’s genuinely upset when she reports a murder or fatal car wreck, but to seamlessly transition from that story to a feel-good story about a dancing pig … well, that takes talent. And Mom’s got it in spades.

  Over the years, Mom’s not so gently pushed me to follow in her footsteps. And there’s a huge part of me that wants to do just that. I’ve grown up at this station, watching news stories unfold before my eyes. It’s an addictive industry, really. Especially if you thrive in an environment where no two days are the same. But I have my reasons for insisting on print journalism.

  Coming to the station is always tricky for me because they have a huge turnover, especially with all the interns they hire. So a cruise through the station is uncomfortable as people try not to stare at the anchor’s daughter’s enormous nose. And I’ll give them credit; they always try to look me in the eyes, but it never quite works. Without even realizing it, their eyes wander back to the gigantic beak I’ve been graced with.

  Mom says I’m stubborn
to a fault, but that’s really not it. I’m not refusing to get a nose job just to assert my independence. It’s more an issue of being determined to accept who I am. Mom devoted an enormous amount of energy into raising a self-assured young woman, and now that I’ve become that, she’s irritated I won’t cave to society’s idea of beauty.

  Not that I don’t consider the wretched rhinoplasty every now and then. I’m only human. But I’ve spent so many years insisting I can live with my nose that I actually kind of believe it.

  When the news finally wraps, Mom says a few quick good-byes to the cameramen before coming to get me.

  “Great, as always,” I say with a smile, proud of Mom and all she’s accomplished.

  “Like you ever watch,” she says, which is basically true. I only watch her in person. Somehow, seeing her on television isn’t the same for me. She just never seems real.

  I follow her down the wide corridor that leads to the enormous newsroom, affectionately referred to as “the pit,” divided only by cubicle half-walls and a menagerie of filing cabinets and desks. This is truly the heart of the newsroom and I defy anyone to walk through this space and not get a little rush of adrenaline. I wave and smile at the faces I know as we move to Mom’s office, one of the few enclosed rooms along the back wall.

  Once inside, she quickly removes her jacket and hangs it on a hook behind her door. She grabs the clothes hanging in her armoire. “Let me change and then we’ll find Jen before going to dinner.”

  Mom slips into her private bathroom as I sit in the buttery-soft leather chair behind her desk, which is littered with Post-its, notepads, and about two dozen different pens and pencils. I have to stop myself from organizing the mess. The last time I did that, she nearly had a heart attack.

  She emerges from the bathroom looking like a model for Ann Taylor, wearing crisp white capris with a pale yellow cardigan set, which is stunning against her spray-tanned skin and shoulder-length blond hair. “Let’s find Jen,” she says.

  Mom has a history of introducing me to up-and-coming reporters at the station in the hopes that their excitement and newfound success will light a fire in me. I gave up fighting these meetings years ago.

  I follow Mom as she walks through the newsroom, keeping my head down when she peeks over cubicle walls. Don’t want to frighten the newbies by throwing my nose into their already-crowded cubicles.

  “There she is,” she says, waving at a tall, beautiful brunette leaning over a printer and looking like she might tear it apart and throw it out the fourth-story window behind her.

  “What’s the problem, Jen?” Mom asks, like she would have a clue about how to help her. She knows just enough about technology to send and receive e-mails. Even that’s a chore for her.

  Jen lets out a frustrated sigh. “Bum equipment.” She drops the screwdriver onto the table and extends her hand. “You must be Sarah. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”

  I take her hand, noticing her firm handshake, something Mom insists every professional woman must master. “It’s nice to meet you, Jen.”

  “Jen Masters,” she says, filling in the last name for me. I’m stunned at her ability to look me in the eyes, not wavering for even a second. Impressive.

  “How long have you been working at the station?” I ask, easily slipping into my own form of investigative journalism. I have a bank of questions for these kinds of meetings.

  “Just under a month,” she says, her velvety voice warm. I like her instantly, unlike so many others I’ve met before her. Despite her drop-dead-gorgeous looks, she’s surprisingly real.

  “Where did you work before you came here?” I ask.

  She laughs with a small roll of her eyes. “I was a reporter in Texarkana.”

  Anyone with a morsel of knowledge about broadcast journalism knows that a move from Texarkana to Houston is the equivalent of jumping from T-ball to the World Series.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  “Thanks, Sarah. I’m really excited to be here.” She casts a disparaging glance at the ancient printer on her desk. “Well, I would be if I could get this piece of junk working.”

  “Here,” I say, moving around her desk to the printer. “Let me look.”

  “Oh, no. That’s okay. You two go on to dinner.”

  Mom waves her comment away. “Let her try. She’s a genius with this kind of thing.”

  I open the printer door and pull out the toner, then pull about a dozen torn pieces of paper from the machine. When I replace the toner cartridge and reset the printer, papers begin printing and Jen sighs in relief. “I owe you.”

  “No problem,” I answer. “Simple fix.”

  Mom laughs. “Everything’s simple for Sarah.”

  I have to stop myself from laughing out loud. There are a few things in my life that I don’t find simple. Not the least of which is my personal life.

  “Are you joining us for dinner?” I ask Jen, hoping she is. There’s something about her that I like, something that tells me she’s worth knowing.

  “Sorry,” she answers. “I’ve got a deadline to meet. And thanks to this printer, I’m already running behind. Maybe next time.”

  “Count on it,” Mom says, then turns to me. “Ready to go, sweetie?”

  “Definitely.” I turn to smile at Jen before following Mom. “It was really nice to meet you, Jen.”

  And for the very first time since I began meeting Mom’s coworkers over a decade ago, I honestly mean it.

  Kristen practically pounces on me when I jump into her Jeep the following morning. “What happened to you last night?” she demands.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, doing my best to keep up with her rapid-fire words.

  “What do I mean?” she repeats, eyes wide, voice high and screechy. “What I mean is where were you when I called?”

  “I was at dinner with Mom. What’s the emergency?”

  “Rock, that’s what!”

  Okay, now she’s got my attention. “Rock?”

  “Yes. Rock.”

  “What about him?” I ask, heart pounding in my chest like the bass drum on the high school drum line.

  “He replied.”

  “Replied to what?” I ask, lost for the sweetest little second before reality slaps me in the face. “Wait. He replied? What’d it say?”

  Instead of answering, she pulls a folded sheet of paper from the glove box and drops it on my lap. I stare at it, dread filling my empty stomach.

  “Open it!” Kristen demands, clapping her hands in urgency.

  I do as she says, unfolding the paper like a rattlesnake might jump out at me, and read the printed e-mail.

  Kristen,

  Thanks for the e-mail. I’d love to go to the Aquarium. But I insist on paying. That’s a deal breaker.

  “Barkis is willin’.”

  Rock

  Barkis is willin’.

  It’s like a punch in the gut just reading it. Knowing he wrote it about Kristen makes me positively nauseous.

  “Did you e-mail him back?” I ask, praying she hasn’t but almost wishing she has. I know that makes me a crummy friend and I hate I even thought it. Why would I want her to embarrass herself like that? Mom was right: men can ruin a woman’s other relationships.

  Kristen pulls away from the curb, then makes a sound somewhere between a howl and a laugh. “Not hardly. I don’t even understand what that quote means. How I am supposed to respond to that? And what am I going to do at dinner? I mean, if he starts talking like that, I’m going to fall flat on my face.”

  I clap my hand over her mouth to squelch her rising hysteria. “Calm down.” Removing my hand, I look at her. “Take three deep breaths.”

  I take the breaths with her, trying to think through her legitimate concerns. “Okay, are you ready to talk about this?” Am I?

  She nods, eyes on the road, white knuckles grasping the steering wheel in a death grip.

  “First of all,” I say, “you have got to relax. I’ve never see
n you this uptight before.”

  “I’ve never felt so stupid before. I’m totally freaking out. Who the hell is Barkis? And what, exactly, is he willing to do?”

  I can’t stop myself from smiling. “The quote is really pretty clever. Barkis is a character from David Copperfield. He sent the message ‘Barkis is willing’ to the woman he was in love with, but she wasn’t interested. His persistence paid off; he finally won her over in the end.”

  Kristen slaps her hand over her chest, mouth agape. “Oh. My. God. That’s so sweet!”

  And just like that, he’s stolen my heart and broken it. There’s finally a guy out there that has a clue and he’s got his eyes set on Kristen, a girl unlikely to appreciate his intelligence.

  It was as if he’d written to me, not Kristen. Me. Like we had our own secret literary code that only he and I would understand.

  “Let’s talk about dinner,” I say. “He said yes and he wants to pay. Those are good things. That means he’s got some maturity and sense about him. It’s supersweet that he wants to treat you to dinner.”

  “What about the quote? What if he talks like that?”

  I fold the e-mail back up and return it to the glove box. “First of all, he’s just feeding off what you told him you were reading. And second, no one actually talks like that. If he tries to start a conversation about David Copperfield—or some other novel you’ve never read before—then change the subject to something you’re more comfortable with.”

  Kristen chews on her lip, her breathing back to normal. “I can do that, right?”

  “Totally.” Maybe.

  “You have to help me get ready. Promise you will,” she pleads, regressing to toddler tactics. I swear, if she wasn’t driving she’d be on her knees, pulling on my shirt as she begs.

  “The last thing you need is me telling you what to wear. That’s like Tyra Banks getting clothing advice from Lady Gaga.”

  Of course, that’s not entirely true. I definitely have a style … but it’s my own and about a million miles away from Kristen’s. The thought of watching her get ready for her first official date with Rock is enough to make me nauseous.