A Second Bite at the Apple (2 page)

Melanie may love gossip, but she also has a pretty good track record when it comes to knowing what's going on behind the scenes at our network. She knows which anchors are about to get the boot and which reporters are about to get a promotion and which correspondents are sleeping with the network executives. So if she says major changes are coming, major changes are coming.

I scoot back to my desk, which is wedged between a rectangular column and the wall: a less than perfect location for a less than perfect job. I know, I know—I shouldn't complain. It's a paying job, after all, and to most outsiders, it sounds fantastic. Associate producer for a national morning show? Who
wouldn't
want that job? Well . . . me, actually. It's not that I hate my job. In many ways, it's a great gig. I put together stories seen by millions of people every morning, regularly interact with on-air personalities like Charles Griffin and Diana Humphrey, and meet interesting people, from politicians to inventors, all the time. But the truth is, I ended up here by mistake, and if I had my choice, I'd be producing segments for the Cooking Channel or writing food columns for the
Washington Chronicle
. But I'm not. I'm here, working for a correspondent whose contribution to the journalistic profession includes a live shot on skis.

My fingers are still red and raw from our two hours in the snowy outdoors, so I sit at my desk, rubbing my hands together to thaw them. As I press my palms against each other, my cell phone hums and buzzes on my desk. It's my younger sister, Libby. I can only imagine what she wants to talk about this time.

Libby recently moved in with her boyfriend, relocating to an apartment in downtown Philadelphia only twenty minutes from the house where we grew up in the Philly suburbs, and has taken to calling me regularly with “crises” that involve crown molding and paint colors. I toy with the idea of ignoring her call, but I decide talking to her about Benjamin Moore's “Lavender Whisper” is better than talking to Charles, who is currently parading around the office in long johns.

“Syd—hi,” she says, her voice tense. “Are you sitting down?”

As if by command, I sit up straighter. “Yes . . . Why?”

“I have news.” She takes a deep breath. “Matt and I are engaged!”

My stomach curdles. This is an inappropriate reaction, I realize, but it is my reaction nonetheless. “What?”

“I'm engaged,” she repeats. A brief moment passes. “Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes—sorry. Wow. Congrats, Lib. That's . . . great news.”

“That almost sounded sincere,” she says.

“Sorry, I'm just . . . How long have you known each other? Six months?”

“Seven,” she says. “And they've been the most wonderful seven months of my life. I thought you'd be happy for me.”

“I am. Sorry. I am. Really. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she says. I can hear her smile through the phone. “And to think, everyone thought you and Zach would be the ones to get engaged first!”

“Yeah. To think.”

“Sorry—I didn't mean . . . It's just funny, is all.”

Our idea of what is “funny” is one of the many ways Libby and I are nothing alike. We are three years apart, but to look at us you wouldn't think we were even related. She inherited my mother's honey-brown hair, her blue eyes, and her fair skin, whereas I am my father's likeness: thick, sable-colored hair, so dark it appears almost black, green eyes, and freckles, all set atop a wiry frame. At my best, I can look cute—the classic nice Jewish girl from a good family—but Libby is flat-out beautiful and always has been. She never went through an awkward phase, whereas I looked like a mutant Chinese crested dog for most of middle school.

To speak to us, you wouldn't know we were related either. Libby was the popular, sporty one in school, destined to become captain of the field hockey team and president of her sorority at Penn State. She dated with such frequency and enthusiasm that I could never keep track of the flavor du jour. One week it was James so-and-so, and the next it was Mike what's-his-face. With her bubbly laugh and outgoing personality, men flocked to her like a bunch of lovesick fools. Until now, she's had no interest in maintaining a long-term relationship with anyone, but that's because she knew she would always have a date, even if it was with a new person every time. She didn't even have to try.

Meanwhile, I had Zach. We met freshman year at Lower Merion High School when we both joined the school paper. Immediately I was attracted to his geeky, sideways smile and big truffle-colored eyes. Other girls probably laughed at the way his pin-straight brown hair stuck upright in the front, thanks to his severe cowlick, but I thought it was adorable. He must have thought the same about me because within a week of meeting, we were inseparable. We were like two black jellybeans in a sea of reds, two nerds who didn't really fit in with everyone else. We weren't outcasts. We were just . . . different. Old souls. Rather than spend the weekend drunk in the woods around a bonfire, we would cook each other dinner and watch the original Japanese version of
Iron Chef
. When I went to Northwestern and he went to Princeton, we maintained a long-distance relationship all the way through graduation. Everyone assumed we would get married. I thought so, too. And then he lied to me and broke my heart.

“Obviously you will be the maid of honor,” Libby says.

“Are you sure?”

“
That's
how you respond? ‘Are you sure?' ”

“It's just that work is so crazy, and you know I'm the worst when it comes to parties. I want you to have the maid of honor you deserve.”

Libby grunts. “You're the maid of honor I
want,
okay? But if you'd rather I choose someone else, just say so.”

Realistically, I
would
rather she chose someone else—not because I don't want to support Libby, but because helping with her wedding, after everything I've been through . . . it's too much. But I can't say that. Not if I want to avoid an onslaught of teary hysterics and a stern call from our mother.

“Of course I'll do it,” I say. “I'm honored—no pun intended.”

Libby squeals. “Fantastic! How do you feel about coming up here tomorrow morning to look at bridesmaids' dresses?”

“Already? Have you even set a date?”

“August 6,” she says.

“But that's, what, eight months from now? What's the rush? Isn't a lot of stuff booked up already?”

“Matt knows the wedding coordinator at The Rittenhouse, so he called in a favor. We lucked out with the florist and photographer, too, so we're pretty much set.”

The Rittenhouse. One of Philadelphia's fanciest hotels. That's where I always thought Zach and I might get married. Not that I fantasized about our wedding in any great detail. I wasn't lying to Libby when I said party-planning isn't my forte. But one time in high school, while Zach and I were having a picnic in Rittenhouse Square, we saw a bride and groom getting their photos taken in front of the hotel. And as I bit into my Di Bruno Brothers sandwich, I thought,
Who knows? Maybe that'll be us someday.

Of course, as the years went by and I realized what a wedding at The Rittenhouse would cost, that fantasy gradually withered away. And then everything with Zach fell apart, so it hardly mattered.

“The Rittenhouse Hotel? Mom and Dad are okay with that?”

“Sure,” she says. “Why wouldn't they be?”

“You know money has been tight. . . .”

“Yeah, but this is my
wedding.
And for all they know, it may be the only one they ever host.”

“Thanks, Lib . . .”

“I'm just saying. Anyway, can you come up tomorrow?”

“I'm not even sure Amtrak will be running. The snow has shut everything down. And since I don't have a car—why don't we put a pin in that for now?”

She groans. “Fine. But I'm still going to need help with color schemes. I'm pretty sure I'm going with the jade chiffon for the bridesmaids' dresses. So the logical color accompaniment for the flowers is white and yellow. But now the florist thinks I need a third accent color, and I don't know what to do.”

Libby pauses, and a long silence ensues. I pull my phone from my ear to make sure I haven't dropped her call. She is still there. And, apparently, waiting for me to say something.

“Syd? Hello?”

“I'm here,” I say.

“Well, what should I do? What goes with yellow, white, and green?”

The only person less qualified than I to answer that question is someone who both is colorblind and has a penis. My work attire revolves around five pairs of slacks—two black, two gray, and one khaki—and a limited variety of solid color tops, the “wildest” of which is a red sweater. Style has never been a personal strength.

“Lib, you repeatedly tell me my entire wardrobe is a crime against fashion. I think you might be better served asking one of your other bridesmaids. Or Mom.”

“Mom is more indecisive than I am, and my other bridesmaids are too worried about their own weddings. You're the only one left.”

I lean back in my chair. “Okay . . . What about . . . lavender? Or violet?”

“Matt hates purple flowers.”

“Wait, Matt has an
opinion
about flowers? What guy has an opinion about flowers?”

“Sydney—stop. Help me.”

I clench my fist into a ball and bite my knuckle. “What about hot pink? That's bright and summery.”

Libby goes silent, presumably mulling over this very important decision, upon which rests the fate of the human race.

“That's perfect!” she says. “See? There is a fashion sense somewhere in there. Just takes a little digging.”

“Glad I could be of service.”

“You're my maid of honor,” she says. “Being of service is your job.”

“Ah,” I say. “Right.”

This wedding is going to kill me.

 

When I hang up with Libby, Melanie storms over to my desk, her arms folded across her body.

“Hey—Boogerface,” she barks. “You off the phone?”

It's at times like these that I remember Melanie grew up the youngest among five brothers. Sensitivity does not come naturally. Jokes revolving around poop and boogers, however, seem to flow with ease.

“Yeah, what's up?”

“Check your e-mail. Memo from the network prez. It's happening.”

I scroll through my in-box and find a message from the network president, Andrew Halliday: “Structural Changes at the Network.”

This can't be good.

The e-mail continues, using expressions like “consolidate,” “promote efficiency,” and “eliminate redundancies.” The bottom line? They are going to close bureaus, combine jobs, and fire people.

“Holy crap,” I say as I finish reading the e-mail.

“I told you this was coming.”

“Yeah, but I didn't realize . . . I mean, I didn't think it would happen
today.
Or be so extensive.”

Melanie pushes her black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. “No one is safe. Every job is up for grabs.”

“How many jobs are they eliminating?”

“How should I know?”

“You knew about the restructuring, didn't you?”

She tucks a pin-straight lock behind her ear. “I'm hearing at least four hundred positions.”

My eyes widen. “Four
hundred?
”

“Apparently Halliday is calling the bureau chiefs today. He's delegating.”

My heart rate quickens. This may not be my dream job, but I make a respectable salary and have decent health insurance. And given that I'm behind on rent and have a knee-high stack of bills, any job is better than no job.

“He's not telling us in person?”

“I think he wants to get this over with as quickly as possible. Out with the old year, in with the new.”

Before I can exacerbate my anxiety with more questions, Charles waltzes past my desk, his thermal underpants only adding to my nausea.

“What's with the somber faces?” he asks.

“Check your e-mail,” we say in unison.

Charles glances down at his phone, and his dopey smile morphs into a sober stare as he scrolls through the two-page memo.

“How long have you known about this?”

“I just found out,” I say.

Charles nods solemnly, scrolling through the memo a second and then a third time. It's the most serious I've seen him in the four years I've worked here. Even when the Dow dropped almost eight hundred points in a day and all of our futures seemed to splinter before our eyes, Charles injected levity into the newsroom with an occasional bad joke or cheesy story. But not today. Today his face is as white as the snow outside, and he utters not a word.