“I’m not going on TV in sweats!” I exploded, throwing my hands up in exasperation. None of this was helping. In fact, it was just making me more stressed out. Part of me didn’t even want to go anymore.
Willing myself to calm down, I took a few deep breaths with my eyes closed. When I finally opened them, I looked from one surprised face to another. I rarely had outbursts, so this had caught them all off-guard.
“Listen, guys,” I tried again, more calmly. “I really appreciate all your suggestions, and I know you’re just trying to help…but I think I’m going to figure out what I’m wearing on my own.”
“Just remember that this outfit is even more important than the first-day-of-school look,” McCartney said solemnly. “And you didn’t exactly ace that one. Just saying.”
I bit my tongue to keep myself from screaming. When I was sure I could move without freaking out on her or the others, I slowly turned away and walked over to the stairs. Without looking behind me, I climbed the steps. Once in my room, I shut the door and let out a sigh.
I’d never wanted to be alone so much in my life.
I dragged my tired butt over to the bed and collapsed face-first on top of its covers. Burying my head in my pillow, I let my whirring mind go still, until the only sound I could hear was the steady beat of my own heart. Before I knew it, I was asleep.
It was a little bit after six in the morning and I was fully primped and standing just offstage on the news station set. I watched as the two morning anchors bantered back and forth, trading jokes every few minutes. The man seemed older than my mom, the woman younger, though they were both so done up that it was hard to pinpoint their exact ages.
“You’re on after the next break,” a man whispered, appearing next to me from behind the stage. Before I could thank him he was gone, off to carry a cheese platter over to a table set up with snacks in the corner.
I watched as the lights dimmed slightly on set, signaling that we’d gone to commercial, and then snuck a peek around the curtain. Glancing at the audience, I tried to locate my mom and friends. Every face was unfamiliar though.
I so wasn’t prepared to do this alone.
My stomach started to twist into knots, but then the lights were bursting back on, forcing me to turn away from the action on the set. A familiar voice began to talk again, this time with heightened enthusiasm. It was the female anchor and we were back on the air.
“We mentioned earlier that we had a special guest for you today, and boy, is this one special,” the woman said, chuckling to herself.
“Boy, is she,” the man next to her answered, and let out his own fake laugh.
My stomach lurched and I frantically searched for the nearest bucket in case I threw up.
“Lets all welcome to the show, Arielle Sawyer!” the orange-faced anchorwoman called out like a game show host on a sugar rush.
Both reporters turned to face me, cartoonish smiles plastered across their faces, expectations wafting off them in waves. Only, I hesitated. I wasn’t sure whether I was ready to go out there. Suddenly I was having trouble breathing.
As I struggled to catch my breath, someone shoved me hard from behind and before I knew it, I was staggering onstage, tripping over my own feet. Then I froze. Right in the middle of the walk to the set. I thought about how everyone was watching me back at home, waiting to see my segment, and here I was failing epically. But hard as I tried, I couldn’t seem to get myself to move toward the guest chair.
“Arielle sawyer, everyone,” the female anchor repeated, clapping her hands politely but raising her eyebrows at me. The audience applauded a second time, assuming I just needed more encouragement. But that wasn’t it.
Confused by the noise and the bright lights, I remained where I stood, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“Arielle,” the man said, smiling stiffly. “Why don’t you come over here and sit down?”
He motioned to the chair next to the big desk they shared.
Smiling uncomfortably, I took one hesitant step and then another, until I was finally sitting in the chair next to them.
“Well, now,” the woman said, looking relieved that I wasn’t going to be a problem after all. “Why don’t we start off the interview by talking about this outrageous outfit you’re wearing? What kind of statement are you trying to make today?”
I looked down to remind myself what I’d actually put on that morning. “Uh, I don’t know, I just…”
My heart dropped into my stomach as I saw that my top, which had been tied tightly behind my neck just a few minutes before, was now hanging loosely around my waist, the thin strap ripped at its seams. The strapless nude bra that I could barely fill out, was fully exposed for everyone to see.
I let out a strangled scream as I frantically attempted to cover up my “Girls Gone Wild” moment. But it was too late. I could hear some of the audience members start to snicker while others gasped in disgust. Like I had planned it or something.
I wanted to yell out, “Hello?! I’m not Miley Cyrus, people!”
“Oops, sorry there folks,” the female anchor said with a light chuckle. “If I’d known it was going to be a ‘wardrobe malfunction’ kind of morning, I would have warned ya.”
She said it as if it wasn’t a big deal. The way you’d apologize for pronouncing a guests’ name wrong. Not the way you should respond when your guest flashes the entire country! I was pretty sure that underage nudity was a big television no-no. Maybe they were just planning on editing it out later.
But wait—the show was live, wasn’t it?
“I’m so, so sorry,” I gushed as I fumbled to hold my shirt together. My upper half was flushed with embarrassment by now, which just brought more attention to my miniscule chest. “I don’t understand how this happened. Can I just get another shirt and maybe come back to do it again?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s all the time we have for today,” the male anchor replied, gesturing in my direction. “And remember, you saw Arielle here first. All of her.”
“What?” I asked, stunned. “No! But I didn’t even get to say anything yet. We can’t be finished!”
The lights dimmed seconds later and I was once again left in the dark, feeling sick to my stomach. I was horrified, shocked, and confused, and I just wanted to die. Didn’t matter how it happened—it could be because of blood loss due to thousands of little paper cuts and I wouldn’t care.
I just wanted out.
Exhausted and gasping for air, I shot up in bed, my hair stuck to my face and neck. I’d been having a nightmare. As my chest heaved up and down, I realized I’d sweat completely through the shirt I’d been wearing when I passed out after school. I pulled the damp top over my head and tossed it onto the floor beside me. Glancing at the glowing clock across my room, I saw that it was 3:30 in the morning.
Still groggy, I tugged at my shoes and yanked off my jeans and then laid back down onto my bed in a heap, my heart still beating a mile a minute. I groaned as I recalled my dream and pressed my fingers to my eye scokets, willing myself to forget where my head had gone to.
But as hard as I tried, I couldn’t get the horrifying images out of my mind. So, imagination still spinning from the dream, I got up and turned on my bedside light. Sighing, I moved over to my closet and surveyed my clothes closely. Then, I began to throw outfit after outfit off its hanger and onto my bed.
I knew the only way I was going to be able to get any sleep was if I found the perfect outfit for my interview later that day.
One that didn’t fall off mid-interview, preferably.
IT WAS JUST after 4 am when I reluctantly dragged myself into the passenger side of our car, my favorite snuggly fleece blanket pulled tightly around me. The last time I’d been up this early was years before, when mom and I decided to take a road trip to Disneyland. She’d wrapped me up in a blanket, carried me out to the car, and buckled me in before the sun had even started to peek out. Of course, then I’d promptly gone ba
ck to sleep until Mom announced that we were at the park.
This morning however, was different. There was no way I’d be getting any more sleep. Partly because of the topless dream I’d had, which had only added to my existing nerves. But also because I wouldn’t be on this drive alone. We were on our way to McCartney’s house to pick her up. And that girl could Talk no matter how early it was.
I yawned as we pulled out of the driveway, shaking a bit with sleep. Then, I reached down and pulled a red Bull out of my bag. Popping the top, I began to guzzle it down, barely breathing as I crushed it.
“I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,” Mom said, glancing over at me as she drove. She made a face. “It smells like cough syrup and makes you all jittery.”
I finished off the rest of the can and then placed it in the cup holder next to my mom’s thermos. “Still tastes better than coffee,” I said, shuddering as I remembered that first cup with Sylvia. “And it’s four in the morning. I could use a little hyper activity, don’t you think? nobody likes a guest who puts them to sleep.”
My mom sighed, but didn’t argue any further. I leaned over and turned on the radio, scanning the channels until I found a country station. Taylor swift’s voice suddenly filled the car.
“I love this song!” I exclaimed and started to sing along. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another picture to burn!”
I started to dance the best I could while strapped into a seatbelt. If anyone were out on the road this early, they’d probably think I was crazy. And I wouldn’t be able to blame them. Pointing to an imaginary ex-boyfriend as I recited the lyrics, I channeled my inner angry girl. I tapped my toes on the dashboard to the beat of the song and closed my eyes as I let loose.
“Okay shania,” my mom said, turning the volume down when she’d had enough. “Lets try not to wake the Janning’s or their neighbors at this hour.”
I rolled my eyes as I watched the massive houses fly by. “I’m not even sure the Jannings are in town,” I muttered as we pulled into my friend’s driveway.
Before the car had even stopped, McCartney was already out of the house and running towards us. She jerked open the car door and tossed her things into the back seat before climbing in herself.
“Have fun,” McCartney’s mom said from the front porch where she was standing in a blue fluffy robe. “Thanks for taking her, Karen.”
“We’re always happy to have her, Rita,” my mom answered.
I heard McCartney buckle her belt and then open a can with a “pshhh” sound. She tapped me on the shoulder and without looking, I reached back and took the drink she was offering.
My mom stared first at me, and then back at McCartney, who was already chugging her energy drink like a thirsty man in the desert. She shook her head at us and then muttered something under her breath that I was sure ended with, “kids these days.” I turned to look out the window again before taking another sip of the tangy liquid.
An hour and a half later, McCartney and I had managed to sing our way through Miley Cyrus’ latest CD—four times—and catch up on what was going on in the entertainment world thanks to the copy of Life & Style that McCartney had snagged from her mom’s secret rag-mag stash.
“The teen Queens caused another scene,” McCartney announced to the car, even though Mom had lost interest in our conversations by the time we’d hit the highway.
“Surprise, surprise!” I said, making a face. “They think they’re so cool.” I looked at the page McCartney was holding up and pointed a finger at the leader of The current celeb brat pack. “I think he might actually be the devil. All that shaggy blonde hair just covers up his horns.”
“Totally,” McCartney nodded in agreement. “When you become famous, please, please, please don’t turn out to be like them.”
“That so won’t be a problem,” I answered. “And don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself with the whole famous stuff? This is just a local news station. I’ll be lucky if a dozen people are up to see it.”
“Yeah, but this is the local news for New York City. It’s not exactly Podunk, alaska,” McCartney said. “Do you know what you’re going to say yet?”
“Um, I could barely sleep last night because I was trying to figure that out. Then when I finally did close my eyes, I had nightmares. So I decided I’m just gonna wait for them to ask me a question, and then I’ll answer it.”
“What was your nightmare about? Sharks again?” McCartney asked.
“No. And I’m sort of sick of thinking about it, to be honest,” I mumbled, remembering my nearly-naked experience from the night before. “Let’s talk about what we’re gonna do after the show, instead.”
I could tell McCartney wanted to push the subject further, but after a moment, her face softened, and she handed me the magazine she’d been reading. “Can we go by the MTV studios in times square? Apparently you can see the guests from the street, and if they think you’re rowdy enough, they may even bring you up into the studios!”
“Mom?” I asked, looking over at her expectantly.
“We can stop by If we have enough time,” my mom agreed.
“Yes!” McCartney said, pumping her arm into the air and doing a little victory dance where she sat. “Thanks, Mrs. Sawyer!”
As we neared the city, McCartney and I both pressed our faces up against the windows, mouths hanging open slightly as we stared in awe at the large buildings that lined the city streets. I’d been to NYC a few times when I was younger, but hadn’t been in years. It was so much bigger than I remembered it.
There were so many people walking around, even at this early hour. Men wore tailored suits and checked their Blackberries and iPhones for e-mails from their clients as they walked to work. Women were dressed in smart dresses and sneakers, so they could pull double-duty as they power-walked to the office. Nannies herded Their charges down the street to daycares, playdates and pre-school before hurrying home to start the mountainous list of to-dos that had been left for them.
“Okay, so maybe more than a dozen people will watch the show,” I said, gulping nervously. I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes, the nerves building back up in my stomach.
“Deep breaths, Arielle. Deep breaths,” my mom said gently. “Try and think about something else. Keep telling yourself, ‘This too shall pass.’”
Yeah, it’ll pass…but will I survive the aftermath?
Still, I did what she suggested and concentrated on my breathing. After a few minutes, my pulse went back to normal and I felt myself calm a bit. I’d never had a panic attack before, but I was pretty sure I’d just narrowly missed having my first.
“Okay, I think we’re here,” my mom said as she pulled the car into a parking garage.
As we found an empty spot and parked, I grabbed my bag that held my outfit and makeup for the show. I’d figured it would be pointless to get ready before we left, considering the hours we had to be in the car. My clothes would’ve ended up wrinkled and my makeup would’ve disappeared to the place where makeup so often goes. On my hands and shirt. So, I’d neatly packed everything away and figured that I’d just get ready at the studio.
“Got everything?” my mom asked as we clambered out of the car and made our way to the street.
“I guess,” I mumbled.
“This is so exciting!” McCartney practically shouted. “Are you excited? I can’t believe you’re going to be on TV. My friend on TV!”
I could think of a word that described how I felt, but excited wasn’t it. In fact, I couldn’t help but feel sort of like I was headed to my own execution.
Dead girl walking. Wasn’t that how the saying went? It felt incredibly appropriate at the moment.
We crossed the street during a lull in traffic and found ourselves smack-dab in front of a large television studio. The outside of the building was made up entirely of glass and I squinted as the morning sunlight bounced off the windows and hit my eyes. The whole thing was blinding. And impressive.
With a tentative look up, I realized with awe that the structure was the tallest in the area. I tried To count the stories, but gave up at floor 17 and turned my focus back to the spacious lobby we were about to enter.
Following my mom and McCartney through the revolving doors, I clutched my bag closer to my body and joined the throngs of people who’d just started showing up for work. Strangers pushed past me, grasping their jumbo cups of coffee and giant purses, flashing their passes to the security guard off to the left of the check-in desk. My mom talked to the woman sitting behind the counter for a few minutes, before we were handed day passes and told to follow the crowd to the elevator banks.
It was so busy that we had to wait as four elevators came and went before all three of us were able to fit inside together. When we finally saw an opening, we shuffled into the metal box and pushed the button for the thirty-third floor. In the corner, there was a small tV screen, posting news bytes. Nobody looked at each other as they studied the screen, hoping for a glimpse of what had happened in the world since they’d left for work.
A TV in a TV station. How original.
When we arrived at our floor, we quickly made our exit, and found ourselves in yet another lobby. As mom checked us in at the counter, I wandered over to the nearest wall and studied the photos hanging in my eyesight. Every frame held a picture of one of their anchors interviewing a different celeb, each one more famous than the last.
Scarlett Johansson. Ashton Kutcher. Jennifer Aniston. Kim Kardashian.
“I wonder who’ll be on the show today. Do you think it’ll be someone big? Like Zac efron?” McCartney asked, sneaking up behind me as I checked out the pictures. “Please let it be Zac efron…”
“God, I hope it’s not Zac efron,” I said. I so didn’t need the extra stress that a celebrity encounter would add to the day.
“Bite your tongue!” McCartney said, horrified.
“Come on, guys,” my mom called out, ending what was probably the beginning of a fight.
A woman stood next to Mom in the lobby now, wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard; a clear sign that she worked on the show. Which meant that she was a very important person. To me at least.
Kiss & Sell Page 8