Twisted Sisters (6 page)

I don’t mean it. But I have to say it.

“I’ll do that.”

We reach a tentative truce.

“Hey, what are you doing on this side of town? What’s caused you to venture north
of Madison?”

She shrugs. “Eh, there’s a something at the Notebaert Museum and I promised Richie
I’d swing by.” I do admire how my mother’s so thoroughly unimpressed by anyone that
she has no problem referring to the former mayor as “Richie.”

“Is Dad joining you?”

“Nah, he’s over at Mary Mac’s. One of the kids tried to flush a box turtle and now
the plumbing’s all jacked. The turtle’s fine, though. Little pissed off . . . largely
at being pissed on.”

My mother cracks herself up at this.

(This incident does nothing to disabuse me of my notion that those children are trouble.)

“Anyways, the closet bend in the toilet? It’s messed up, so your dad’s working on
it and couldn’t come.” Dad sold his plumbing business a few years ago and grudgingly
retired, so he leaps at any chance to roll up his sleeves. Ma glances at her simple
Timex. “Listen, gotta go. But here, this is for you.” She thrusts the foil-wrapped
pan at me.

“Um, thanks. What is it?” If I were a betting person, I’d wager whatever it is contains
canned cream of mushroom soup, chock-full of MSG and sodium.

“Turkey tetrazzini.”

“You made it with
turkey
?”

“That’s why there’s ‘turkey’ in the name, dear. Didn’t they educate you on anything
at
Battle of the Network Stars
school?” And then she snorts to herself again.

“Thank you, Ma, but did you forget I’m a pescatarian?”

She shrugs. “That’s why there’s no beef in it.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” Fortunately, the Nittany Lions who live on the first
floor are going to love this dish, so I’ll save it for them.

“Take care, Reagan.”

“Okay, Ma. See you soon.”

I kiss her cheek again and open the door to the vestibule, sure to retrieve my hat
before it’s usurped by a neighborhood Golden Gopher. I watch as my mother strides
confidently down the stairs in her sensible shoes.

In terms of familial interaction, this wasn’t so bad. I maintained my cool, and we
didn’t get into it over Geri. Mission accomplished!

But before I step onto the stairs leading up to my unit, I realize my mom’s at the
door.

“Hey, Reagan, I won’t see you
soon
; I’ll see you Sunday. We’re having a birthday party for Finley Patrick. Plan to be
there.”

And with that, she totters off to her Buick, neatly and completely annihilating any
positive energy created on my run.

•   •   •

After I shower, I grab the casserole and knock on the first-floor apartment’s door.
One of the boys occasionally telecommutes, so I take a chance that he’s there.

Trevor answers the door clad in Penn State boxers and a rumpled hockey jersey, his
early-days-of-Bieber ’do hanging even more in his eyes than usual.

“Trevor, did I wake you up?” I glance down at my watch. “It’s almost one p.m.”

He stretches and his shirt pulls up over his stomach, which he then scratches vigorously.
“Yeah, I like to sleep in on the weekends.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

He shrugs. “’S the weekend somewhere.”

“Actually, it isn’t.”

“You sure?”

I nod. “Pretty sure.”

“Shit. Anyway, wanna come in?” I step past his foyer and then into the living room.
The layout of his place is identical to mine, with a large living room surrounded
by bay windows. Whereas mine is arranged with low gray linen couches and butter-soft
cashmere throw blankets, his entire room is taken up with a leather couch the size
of a boxcar, positioned in front of the television altar. I have ecru silk dupioni
curtains on top of feathery sheers, whereas he and his roommate, Bryce, have nothing.
I don’t know why this generation cares so little for the concept of privacy, but I
suspect it has something to do with sharing every aspect of their lives on social
media. Today’s not the first day I’ve inadvertently seen this kid in his underwear.

Beyond the living room is the dining area. I have a vintage-look Parsons table from
Crate and Barrel, whereas they’ve opted for the more traditional billiards table.
Our units differ in that I renovated my kitchen and swapped it with the front bedroom
for better flow. In his place, there are a couple of bedrooms and baths between the
dining room and the kitchen, which made no sense. Now my master is over their kitchen.
As they’ve no idea how to cook, I never hear them in the back of the house once I’m
in bed, which works out nicely for all of us.

“Listen,” I say, “I won’t keep you from your, um . . . busy day. But I have this casserole
I thought you might want.”

Trevor snatches the container out of my hands. “Sweet! What flavor?”

“Turkey tetrazzini made with canned soup.” I shudder involuntarily at the idea of
the preservative-laden, gray-mushroomed, goo-topped noodles.

“Thanks, playa! Did you make it for us?”

“My mother brought it over. She knows I’m a pescatarian and yet she insists on bringing
me a dish made with
turkey
.”

He angles his head, looking down at me. “Thought you were Catholic.”

I weep for this generation.

“Lapsed. And ‘pescatarian’ means I don’t eat anything but fish. So turkey? No. No
way. I’m sure it’s not organic, pasture-raised, antibiotic-free turkey, either. Whatever’s
cheapest at the Jewel? That’s what she used.”

His whole face lights up. “Badass! How cool is it that she makes you dinner and then
takes the time to drop it off? You have the best mom in the world, son!”

That’s his takeaway from this situation? Here she completely disrespects my lifestyle
choice and he thinks it’s “badass”?

I point out, “Your mother pays your rent.”

He rotates his head and I can hear the vertebrae in his neck popping. “Yeah, and I
appreciate that. But anyone could write a check. It takes, like,
commitment
to make a dinner. I mean, my mom’s my best friend, but she never learned to cook
for me. That’s love.”

Yeah,
love
.

Or passive-aggressive.

Big Time

For the sake of the show’s continuity, DBS is leasing space from Wendy, so our offices
are still in the South Loop WeWIN studio. We’ll continue to film audience segments
here, too.

I find a seat in the back of the conference room and set my purse down on an adjacent
chair, saving a spot for Deva. As I settle in, I notice there’s a steady buzz of conversation,
and it all seems to be centered around the same topic.

“Where’s the fruit tray?”

“Probably with the croissants. Which is to say, not here.”

“Seriously? No one stocked the Keurig machine? Seriously?”

“I’m starving! Are the sandwiches coming soon?”

For the first time in
Push
staff history, the credenza behind the conference table is not groaning under the
weight of all manner of treats—muffins, scones, bagels, doughnuts, cookies, cream
cheeses, an assortment of nut butters, six kinds of juices, platters of fresh fruit,
sandwich fixings, and ice baths brimming with boxed salads, yogurt, kefir, and individual
servings of cottage cheese. In fact, there’s not a morsel anywhere. Personally, I’m
fussy about my food’s origin, so I had a spinach salad and some hummus before I arrived
and
I’m
fine, but still, it’s odd not to see the usual spread.

“What are people going to have for lunch?” I say, more to myself than to anyone around
me.

“Whatever they buy for themselves,” says a masculine voice behind me. I whirl around
to see an attractive man, maybe in his mid- to late thirties, leaning against the
wall. I don’t recognize him, but there are some new faces here. A few of the
Push
staff opted for the contract buyout, and a couple went to the scripted-television
division, so we’re an equal mix of old and new. Yet outside of the lights/camera/sound
guys, we don’t have a ton of male employees, so I’d definitely have seen him before
if he were a returning staffer.

This particular gentleman is a shade over six feet tall, deeply tanned, with an almost
imperceptible smattering of gray at his temples blending in with his short blond waves.
The brown eyes are an unexpected twist. I’m normally a fan of light eyes/darker hair,
like Sebastian, but I could see how others would find him handsome. He’s broader than
Sebastian, too. (All that biking and volleyball keeps Seb on the lean side.) My point
is there’s something decidedly rugged and outdoorsy about him, and I wouldn’t be surprised
to find, say, a kayak strapped to the roof of his car. I bet he owns one of those
sloppy, friendly breeds of dog, too. Maybe a Lab or a retriever. There’s something
vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t quite place my finger on what it is.

I’m distracted by admiring the cut of his blue gingham shirt with the cuffs rolled
up just so (is it possible to be attracted to someone’s wrists? Because his are prime
specimens; I suspect he could dig a well or smack a tennis ball like no one’s business)
when what he’s said sinks in and I snap to. “But that’s ridiculous,” I argue. “Wendy’s
a fanatic about making sure snacks are available. She grew up poor and that forever
changed her view on hunger—that’s a big part of her story. In fact, combating hunger
is her battle cry. Over the years, she’s done dozens of shows on food insecurity and
the chronic link between malnutrition and obesity. Surely you’re familiar?” Huh. That
is one square jaw he has there. Not quite as magnificent as the wrists, but fine all
the same.

Sebastian’s wrists are the tiniest bit dainty for my liking. You’d think they’d be,
I don’t know,
meatier
maybe, from playing volleyball, but they’re not. He wears a couple of bracelets,
too. Not a fan. Sometimes I think, “Hey, nice arm party you’ve got going on there,
Johnny Depp.” Of course, the last time I teased him about something innocuous—maybe
the Drakkar Noir in his bathroom?—he went off the grid for a solid three weeks. Sensitive,
that one.

“People are fat
and
malnourished? That dog don’t hunt.”

Is he flirting with me or is he actually dense? I’m generally attracted to intellect,
so clearly this would rule him out. Clearly. Is he one of those guys who isn’t aware
of his looks or their impact on people?

“I assure you, I’m right. Are you at all acquainted with the concept of food deserts?
People in low-income areas don’t have ready access to many unprocessed foods, so even
though their caloric needs are being met, their nutritional needs aren’t.”

He merely shrugs in a manner I find intensely annoying, so I press on. “Wendy’s been
a board member for a number of hunger-fighting charities and she’s a tireless advocate
for SNAP—Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Programs. The—let’s face it—convenient
by-product of her passion is that no one here has to buy his or her own lunch ever,
and not just on the days we film.”

He smiles and I’d be blind not to notice how straight and white his teeth are.
Somebody’s
parents invested in orthodontia. Did I already award bonus points for not wearing
bracelets? Then he says, “I don’t believe in free lunch.”

And like that, any charm this man could potentially have held suddenly dissipates.

I give him a tight smile. “I guess we’ll leave that up to the new executive producer.”

“Guess we will.” Then he ambles off, presumably to annoy someone else.

Deva arrives moments later and settles in next to me. “Salutations, Reagan Bishop.”

I quickly air-kiss her cheek. “Hey, Deva, I’m glad you’re here. We’ve apparently hired
yet another obnoxious staffer and I already hate him.”

She studies my face and then looks me up and down. “Are you sure? Your aura is radiating
clear red right now, which is more indicative of passion.”

As if! “Then you’re reading me wrong.”

“If you were a murky red, I’d sense anger and . . .” Then she takes in the set of
my mouth and my crossed arms and decides not to pursue the reading. “Okay, Reagan
Bishop. I’m sure you know what’s in your own heart. Let it be full of hate if that’s
your preference.”

The conference room is packed to capacity and the meeting was supposed to start a
few minutes ago. We’ve all been summoned here, but it occurs to me that I have no
idea who’s actually running the show now that Patty and her team are gone. As we’re
burning daylight, it’s hot, and I’m sure we’re violating fire code, I feel like it
falls on me to finally ask, “Excuse me, who’s in charge here?” We all crane our heads
to see who’s stepping up to run the show, both literally and figuratively.

And Mr. Outdoorsy Handsome Wrists replies, “That would be me.”

Shit.

•   •   •

“The key word this season is
big
. I want big stories about big lives with big results. You follow?” declares Benjamin
Kassel, our new executive producer (and free-lunch antagonist). He’s been sent here
from LA to run the show, or possibly ruin it; I’m presently undecided.

I glower from the back of the room. Actually, no, Benjamin Kassel, I
don’t
follow you. I’m too distracted by the sound of everyone’s rumbling stomachs and your
refusal to use our given names.

Am leaning toward “ruin.”

He points at Mindy, who’s wearing a black T-shirt embossed with the words “Hail to
the Thief” in white lettering. “You! Radiohead! What’s this season going to be?”

“I don’t know?”

Oh, come on, kid. This isn’t exactly an SAT question or remembering your date’s name
before you take the walk of shame in the morning. She looks around for help and Craig
mouths the answer to her. “Is it . . . big?”

Kassel claps so loud I jump in my chair. “Yes! And what’s going to make it big? Anyone?”

I mutter to Deva, “His ego, perchance?” (“Wrists” would also be an acceptable answer.)

Benjamin “call me Kassel” spent the first twenty minutes of this meeting telling us
all about his illustrious career, the highlights of which include dropping out of
UCLA after his junior year and executive producing a show called
Make ’Em Eat a Bug.
Color me not impressed.

He points to me. “Something to share with the group back there, Peace Corps?”

My hackles are instantly raised. “I beg your pardon?”

“Seems like you have input. Love to hear it.”

I sit up straight and level his gaze. “I absolutely have input. First, I believe I
speak for the group in saying it’s offensive to not be called by our given names.
Dehumanizing, in fact. For example, I am Dr. Bishop, so when you call me ‘Peace Corps’
it diminishes everything I’ve accomplished as a professional.”

His amusement fades and he puts on a serious face.

That’s more like it.

I’ll not have my credentials mocked; I sacrificed too much to earn them.

“Sorry. From now on, I’ll call you Dr. Peace Corps.” The shit-eating grin returns.
Stupid orthodontia. “When you’re finished giving the world a hug,
Doctor
, how will you contribute to making this show big?”

Definitely “ruin.”

With as much control as I can muster, I say, “As I’ve done most successfully for two
seasons, I plan to continue using cognitive strategies to help our pushees achieve
maximum behavior modification through evidence-based treatment. In my experience—”

“Boring! I need asses in seats. Anyone else have a bright idea? Anyone?” He begins
to point at various staffers. “You, Sideburns?” Our hipster/muttonchopped sound engineer
simply shrugs. Then he gestures toward the dark-haired makeup artist who arrived late
and is still wearing her backpack. “How ’bout you, Dora the Explorer?”

Under my breath, I tell Deva, “You want an ass in a seat? Then maybe you should sit
down.”

Deva replies, “For what it’s worth, Reagan Bishop, I’m seeing the murky red now.”

Kassel begins to pace in front of the whiteboard at the head of the room. “Here’s
the deal—everything about this show is wrong.” At that, the audience starts to grumble,
except for Mindy, who’s mentally spent from answering such a difficult question and
is now surreptitiously sending texts.

I whisper to Deva, “Why? Are our pushees not eating enough bugs?”

One of the preppy blond production assistants raises her hand. I’m perpetually intrigued
by her vast collection of embroidered belts and gravity-defying collars. She’s as
sharp as a tack and ambitious to boot, so naturally Dr. Karen grabs her first whenever
she can. “Wendy said we were doing God’s work!”

“Bup, bup—don’t get your panties in a wad, Muffy.” Ironically, her name
is
Muffy. “Let me amend my statement.
Push
is at a five in terms of drama. That’s being generous. We need to turn it up to eleven.”

“How do you propose we do that?” I say, louder than I intended.

“First of all, we need better guests.”

Craig volunteers, “They’re called pushees.”

“Uh-huh, they were, and now they’re called guests, Horn-Rims. About the guests—boring!
Bulimic ballerinas who don’t let us film them bingeing and purging? Boring! Families
who can’t communicate their feelings?
Boring!
A hoarding grandma? Listen, if there’s no flattened cat under that rubble, then she’s
wasting all of our time. Hoard big or go home.”

Everyone’s mouth is hanging open at this point. I can’t be the only person in the
room wondering if Wendy’s just punked all of us.

Backpedaling a bit he says, “Don’t get me wrong—no one wants to see a flat cat. Do
you want to see a flat cat, Tank Top?” He points to the second cameraman, who replies,
“Nope.”

“Me, neither, I don’t want to see a flat cat . . . well, at least not until sweeps.
Point being if we’re not in cat-flattening territory, then we haven’t gone far enough!
That grandmother who was able to hide so much of her disorder? Boring! I want trash
up to the windows and spilling out the door. Understand? I want neighbors testifying
about the smell in front of city council. I want to see bony ballerinas pirouetting
knee-deep in empty Ben and Jerry’s cartons and Doritos bags. I want families tossing
chairs, all right? I want crazy on the outside where the audience can see it, am I
right, Radiohead?”

To which Mindy replies, “Big?”

“See? Radiohead gets it. The rest of you will, too. If we’re going to change everything,
we have to change everything. Now, how do you guys normally find guests?”

“We filter requests from our Web site and viewer mail,” says Ruby, one of the associate
producers. Ruby used to run a YouTube channel and gained a bit of a cult following
with her webisodes, so Wendy snapped her up, looking past her Goth-girl exterior,
saying talent like hers shouldn’t be wasted on the Web. Bar none, she’s our best associate
producer.

“You don’t source them yourselves?” Kassel asks.

“That hasn’t been necessary,” Ruby replies. “We’ve had a lot of luck with the pool
of applicants who contact us.”

“Well, Nose Ring, your pool is shallow and boring, and that changes today. For the
first month while we build an audience, we need to go big, big, big, so I’ve lined
up some celebrities. Mostly D-list. Okay, entirely D-list. I’m talking ex–reality
show people, aging teen stars, has-beens, basically anyone who’s willing to bare their
soul for a chance to be on TV again. And a check, of course.”

Faye, a senior producer and Wendy Winsberg veteran, interjects, “We never pay our
pushees.”

“Which is why we’ve gotten what we’ve paid for to date. The new strategy is we use
those famous enough to garner ratings, but not so famous that they can afford the
house makeovers on their own.”

I don’t even realize my hand is in the air until he calls on me. “Problem, Peace Corps?”

I’m so rattled that I’m practically sputtering. “Since when do we do
home makeovers
? This program is about pushing individuals to change their behavior, not . . . product
placing refrigerators.”

I will
not
have my work upstaged by a guest receiving a free Ford F-150.

Kassel snaps his fingers at Carol, the office manager, sitting at the head of the
table, who’s done nothing but take minutes since the minute he started talking. “Yo,
Note Pad, write that down. We need to approach Sears about a sponsorship. They’re
in bed with
Extreme Makeover: Home Edition
, but maybe their deal isn’t exclusive. Okay, covered that. Who can tell me how you
guys divide into teams once you’ve picked your guest?”