Savage News

by Jessica Yellin

  MOM: I say this to help you!!! Love you.

  Natalie shut her eyes, jammed her palms into her sockets and did silent screaming in her head. Did everyone’s mother notice these things? Was thirty-two too old to care when your mother noticed these things?

  “What has happened? Greasy have news?” It was Dasha, back from her smoking break and mistaking Natalie’s fetal position for a Ryan-reaction.

  “Don’t mention McGreasy,” Matt said in a loud fake whisper. “Someone’s in a mood.”

  “Greasy always has news!” Natalie said in a voice that sounded a little borderline hysterical even to herself. She glared at the TV. As if by magic, Ryan appeared on screen. He was live! From the Colombian embassy! (The real one.) Looking Earnest and Sincere! The headline blared: “When Girls Make Good Boys Go Bad.”

  “Turn it up,” Natalie and Dasha said at once.

  “I know the pain Rigo is suffering because I have lived through it myself,” Ryan was saying, with Heartfelt Intensity.

  Natalie and Matt exchanged horrified looks. Was Ryan about to confess to something?

  “In college, one my closest friends, we’ll call him Jeff, was on the wrong side of a false accusation.” Ryan paused for a Deep Breath. “Jeff had it all going for him. Six-three, thick hair, arm like a rocket launcher, headed to a big-time career with a hedge fund that had more than five billion in assets.” Ryan hesitated, looking like he might cry. “Then, his senior year, a sophomore accused him of raping her—on a night when he was too drunk to do anything like that!” Ryan’s face was a mask of horror and disbelief. “It ruined his life.”

  On TV, Heath asked, “What happened to your friend?”

  “He graduated a year late. Lost the hedge fund job. He’s working at a mutual fund in Boston now.” Ryan shook his head, looking dejected. “Compared to where he was headed, it’s real bad.”

  “This is tragedy?” Dasha said, her body nearly vibrating with anger. “Why does he say these stupid things?”

  Heath looked like he was working hard to appear moved by the story. “And what happened to the woman?”

  For a moment Ryan looked truly surprised, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Great question,” he said, reporter speak for I-have-no-fucking-idea. But Ryan bounced back fast, or Andrea, in his ear, did. “Maybe she’s somewhere in that crowd.” He gestured toward the protesters behind him. “My point is, these things ruin lives. And Rigo’s story is putting an important spotlight on this crisis of false accusations.”

  “There’s no way we’re going to beat Ryan,” Natalie sighed, falling back in her chair. “There is no way I can match him for drama and absurdity.”

  “We must crush him,” Dasha said.

  “Yes, and I know how we can start.” Matt fixed Natalie with a meaningful look.

  “I’m not wearing a bikini top, we’ve been over this,” she replied to his unspoken demand.

  “I wasn’t going to say that. Yet. But you could show more skin,” he said, “Maybe a tank top?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you malformed? Do you have an embarrassing tattoo? That’s it, isn’t it. What does it say?”

  “You wouldn’t ask Ryan to wear a tank top,” she countered.

  Matt looked offended. “If Ryan could come up with a reason, he’d be on air in a muscle shirt in no time. In fact if I were Andrea, I’d be racking my brain trying to figure out a way to make that happen.” He gestured to the beach out the window. “Meanwhile we’re in the land of fun and sun, and you won’t even wear something sleeveless.”

  “Let’s play a game,” Natalie said. “Whoever is quiet the longest wins.”

  He turned away. She closed her eyes and noticed that it was starting to get hot in the room. With the glass missing from the window, she knew the air-conditioning wouldn’t stand a chance against Miami humidity. Let’s hope The Treatment holds.

  Standing up, she walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and looked in the mirror. In thick TV makeup, she looked like the wax museum version of herself. Or a corpse ready for an open casket funeral. She would have killed for a shower but with the mask of makeup, she couldn’t even splash her face with water.

  Leaning toward the mirror, she studied her reflection. Her mom was right: there were bags under her eyes. At least her hair was straight. Remarkably straight, given the humidity. Victory! she thought and managed a smile.

  She dampened a washcloth, unbuttoned her shirt, and wiped down her neck, upper chest, and armpits. Relief. She closed her eyes and was feeling some calm when there was a banging on the door.

  “Go time.” It was Matt. “The chopper is up. They want you live.”

  “What’s happening?” she asked, opening her eyes and buttoning up her shirt.

  “The photographer found a yacht. FLOTUS is on it,” Matt told her. “They think it’s Leonardo DiCaprio’s boat.”

  Heart racing, she flung open the door. “FLOTUS is doing Leonardo DiCaprio?” Hell, if that were true, she might even consider a bikini top.

  * * *

  Natalie was standing on the stepladder three feet off the ground staring straight ahead. There were two diva lights shining in her eyes, one with diffused color to soften her features and make her glow, another under her chin to fill shadows under her eyes cast from the bright sun. Two high-intensity HMI lights were flooding the space around her to create a sunlit look to counter the brighter sun outside. She knew that if they were in St. Tropez they’d be outside and none of this would have been necessary. Not for the first time, Natalie was struck by how much more work faking it took than the real thing.

  “Stand by to go live. Your anchor is Heath,” a voice said in her ear. “You ready?”

  “Ready!” Natalie chirped as a flash of excitement raced to her stomach.

  Bibb had hired a helicopter and a paparazzi to troll the coastline searching for signs of FLOTUS. According to Hal, the helicopter pilot had located a VVIP yacht in international waters; the pilot was now hovering overhead with a cameraman ready to go live.

  A new voice said in Natalie’s ear, “Coming to you in 30. In 15. In 10.”

  Silence. Followed by a clash of symbols and thunderous music—the ATN breaking news intro. A tingle ran up her spine.

  The next voice was Heath’s. “Welcome back to ATN and our fast-developing breaking news. All eyes are on the glamorous beaches of St. Tropez, a playground for the rich and famous. It’s known for its ten-thousand-dollar-a-night hotel rooms and all-night party scene. And now, perhaps, as the hideaway for the First Lady.” He turned to another camera. “We go now to our own Natalie Savage, who has been tracking Anita Crusoe to the sandy beaches of the French Riviera. Natalie, we have news?”

  Natalie smiled, admiring the smooth way Heath handled her intro. Tracking the First Lady to the French Riviera. It was close to the wind but not flying right into it, she thought, wondering if that was actually a valid nautical metaphor.

  “Hello, Heath,” she said cheerily. “It’s nearly 4 p.m. St. Tropez time, where the party kids are just starting to wake up from their disco naps. In an exciting development, a member of our team has located a mysterious luxury yacht. There is reason to believe the First Lady could be on board. Luques Frier, a local photographer, is joining us now from a helicopter above the Mediterranean Sea. Luques, tell us what you’re seeing.”

  An image of an exceedingly long white yacht floating on teal blue water filled the screen. Its name, the Xury, was stenciled on the transom. The scratchy sounds of a Frenchman talking into a headset came into Natalie’s ear.

  “Natalie, we believe this is the yacht of Leonardo DiCaprio.” It came out zuh YAAT of Le-O-NAR-doh Dee-CAP-rio. Luques went on to explain that when the yacht docked the night before, there were reports that the captain had requested extra security to escort his guests to a restaurant on the coast. Paparazzi had m
aterialized, the yacht had pulled away without disgorging any of its elusive guests, and for these reasons, Luques believed the First Lady was on board.

  “Interesting. So you believe the First Lady is on board because the guests required security? Do we have any other information validating that?” Natalie asked, troubled he’d jumped to such a conclusion.

  “Hey! Go along with it!” a voice in her ear said. In her peripheral vision, she could see Matt putting his head in his hands.

  Be a team player. Increase your VOP, she told herself. Rate now, report later.

  Working to sound coolheaded and in command, Natalie did as the voices in her ear advised. “Luques, is there any indication who is on board the yacht now?” she asked. “Any signs of DiCaprio, the First Lady, or the Secret Service?”

  “We’ll get a closer look,” Luques declared, and to Natalie’s surprise the helicopter dropped twenty feet closer to the water as the camera zoomed into the ship’s tinted windows.

  “I cannot see zee persons, but we know they are there!”

  Someone in the control room yelped into Natalie’s ear, “We’ve got a photo of the First Lady receiving an award with DiCaprio. We have it ready to go whenever you want to toss to it.”

  Natalie took a breath. “Luques,” she said, “I want to show our viewers this photograph. It was taken—”

  “—two years ago,” the voice from the control room said in her ear.

  “—at a charity function two years ago. Leonardo DiCaprio and the First Lady receiving an award together,” Natalie said.

  The voice in her ear added, “For the environment!”

  “In recognition of their work protecting the environment.”

  “Natalie, have him get closer—zoom in,” the voice said.

  “Luques, do you think you can get a closer look? Those windows are awfully dark.”

  The camera zoomed closer until she could see the silhouettes of several people inside. It was impossible to make out their faces. Still, Natalie’s heartbeat started racing, like she’d just run a red light.

  “Luques,” she said, “think we could try zooming in on the other side of the yacht?”

  “Great, great direction,” someone said in Natalie’s ear. “Just keep it moving. More angles. More questions.”

  As Luques started to answer, a figure in a crew uniform raced out from behind the smoky sliding glass doors onto the deck of the yacht. He was just below the chopper shaking his fist directly at the camera, screaming, his face nearly purple with rage. It was impossible to hear him over the roar of the propellers.

  “What’s he saying?” the control room yelled.

  “Luques, can you make out what he’s saying?”

  The uniformed crew member stalked back into the boat and Luques launched into a disquisition about the maritime rights of photographers. He was in the middle of insisting “zee photographers have zee right to film zee boats” when another man, presumably the captain, emerged on the deck, brandishing a long black gun. It looked just like the ones Natalie had seen in the hands of the Big Horn survivalists when she’d covered their standoff with the Wyoming National Guard. That had ended badly for everyone involved, except ATN, which blessedly had time to black out the gory parts before the video made air.

  Now, Natalie stared into the camera, feeling one part worried she was about to watch a live shooting on television, one part thrilled that it would be hers, exclusively.

  “Is Remington 700,” Dasha said from behind the camera. “Good gun. Has laser sight.”

  Natalie didn’t wait for direction this time. “Luques, he’s got a rifle,” she said urgently.

  Suddenly there were multiple voices shouting in her ear. “Stay! Hold the shot!”

  Natalie’s heart started racing in a new way. Like she was watching someone get targeted by a massive-rifle-with-laser-sight kind of way.

  “Stay on the shot, Luques,” she heard herself say.

  The helicopter circled the boat while the captain screamed and, gripping the rifle, ran to the other side of the deck. For a split second Natalie was outside the moment, watching it. The two high-intensity lights in her eyes, TV makeup spackled on her skin, a piece of plastic wedged in her ear, Matt five feet away, laughing, while she stood perched above the ground on their make-believe set in their midlevel motel room. Is this really happening? Any of it? In that moment the scene on the monitor seemed as fake—or surreal—as her beachside backdrop.

  “Luques, you’re doing a great job, just hold that shot,” Natalie said, fighting to ignore the awful feeling of dread flooding in with her adrenaline. Without warning the captain raised the gun to his shoulder and fired. In her ear Natalie heard a scream and then the shot went black.

  Behind the camera Dasha nodded. “Is very good gun.”

  * * *

  The next five minutes were chaos. With no video, Natalie was forced to sift through the voices screaming in her earpiece. She tried to deliver salient information about what had just happened. Relief flooded her when she learned that she had not, in fact, participated in broadcasting the death of two people. The captain had aimed not for the chopper but for the camera, shooting it out of Luques’ hands. By shooting him in the wrist. The helicopter pilot reported that there was a lot of blood, so he was flying Luques to the hospital.

  Since New York wasn’t interested in that part of the story, Natalie signed off and unplugged her earpiece. Her body felt clammy and her mouth felt dry.

  Matt helped her down off the step stool, his face split by a huge grin. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve just taken part in something unclean,” she said. I pressured a man to risk his life, for nothing.

  She was headed to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face when her phone rang.

  “Natalie, my girl, that was phenomenal. High stakes. Real tension. Totally diverting. Felt fresh. Well done!” It was the Chief. “You are surprising me, Natalie. I’m very happy with your work.”

  “I’m so glad, Chief,” she said, feeling not so much glad as opportunistic. She decided to seize the moment. “Sir, do you think it’s possible we could report the rest of the story from St. Tropez? I think—”

  “Oh no need,” the Chief interrupted with a chuckle. “We spoke with the Mayor of St. Tropez. The First Lady isn’t there.” He paused. “I stuck with the story because I had a feeling it’d be great TV. Good thing I did. I suspect your VOP is going to be in the stratosphere today.”

  Natalie looked at the hotel TV where ATN was rerunning video of the yacht with the Breaking News banner “FLOTUS on DiCaprio Boat?”

  She felt her surprise shift to anger. The boss knew FLOTUS wasn’t on the boat, and he made her play along with the cameraman anyway? This was a whole new class of pushing the limits. Not only ethically, but personally. They’d put her credibility on the line and Luques’s safety. They’d set her up, used her, let a man get shot—

  “Sir, are you saying—?”

  “My dear, I have to jump,” the Chief said. “You’ve got to watch what our boy Ryan is about to do!” And he was gone.

  Natalie’s mind was spinning.

  “Holy shit!” Matt yelped and Natalie watched him stab the remote control through his antibacterial plastic baggie. He and Dasha began staring like zombies at the TV. Natalie shifted her gaze to see what they were looking at.

  On air, Ryan was standing in front of the protesters outside the embassy and—

  Natalie blinked to make sure her eyes weren’t lying.

  “Is he—undressing?” Natalie asked slowly.

  Matt and Dasha were too mesmerized to respond.

  Ryan’s hand had moved from his top button to the second, and third, and was now unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his chest.

  “They say only women are sexualized in our culture. Well, are we sure?” Ryan said as he continued t
he slow tease, now down to his navel. He looked somewhere outside the shot, presumably at his producer, Andrea, and winked. “To challenge that theory, I am removing my shirt on camera.” He shrugged out of it and let it drop giving the camera a stunning view of his eight-pack. “If this video of my naked chest goes viral online, if it shows up in chat rooms,” Ryan said, sounding Defiant and Full of Intent, “if it is discussed on entertainment shows, if I’m booked on talk shows or the subject of other reports simply for showing my chest on air, I say we rethink this whole idea that women are the only ones being objectified.”

  He was standing, somehow glistening and shirtless, in front of a sea of female protesters, delivering a polemic about the plight of hot twentysomething dudes with TV gigs.

  This should be a soda ad, Natalie thought.

  That was drowned out by another thought. Matt was right.

  The mind control shattered. Matt was now looking at Natalie. “Do I get to say I told you so now or should I—?”

  “Shut up.”

  * * *

  An hour later, the breakfast Doritos weren’t aging well nor was Ryan’s stunt striptease. A What Girl had called and ordered the team to “shelter in place” until the Chief decided their next assignment. Natalie had found a French florist to deliver flowers to Luques’s hospital room—the least she could do—and was now in the hotel gym, in exercise gear and crouched over the handlebars of a rusty Nautilus bicycle, her mind running in circles with her legs. She was cycling through a mess of self-recrimination and doubt. Turning up the music, she tried to focus on Beyoncé, but the image of Ryan unbuttoning his shirt had taken up permanent residence in her mind. How did I not see this coming? she thought as Bey belted it out. What can I do to compete? Surely there’s an obvious way to up my game or lower my standards and beat Ryan.

  She was moving double time nearly at the end of the song when she noticed her phone ringing. “Hello,” she answered without looking at the caller ID.

  “Natalie, my girl, it sounds like you’re in a wind tunnel. Where are you?” It was the Chief.