Chapter Fourteen
Studio lights have no business being this bright.
They press on me, pushing into view, eagerly latching onto my throbbing headache. Putting a hand over my closed eyes helps a little, but the nausea is another problem.
“Hey,” Nancy hisses. Reluctantly, I open my eyes and wince at the light. Nancy, sitting on her stool with perfect posture and glossy hair, smooths down the front of her yellow sheath dress. “Don’t do that,” she says. “You’ll smear your makeup.”
“I didn’t even want makeup,” I groan, pulling my hand away from my face.
“Who was your favorite contestant on the Love Quest set?” asks Marina, who’s sitting on my other side. She takes a sip from her coffee, making a slurping sound that pierces my brain. “We really liked Alexis.”
“Ugh,” Nancy says, which makes Marina laugh so hard she nearly falls off her stool.
I’d ask Marina how she’s not dying of a hangover right now, but I already know the answer. This morning when she was flitting around her bedroom, pulling together possible outfits for us to wear on the show, she confessed that she still felt a little drunk.
So, as I sit glued to my stool of suffering, Marina babbles away to Nancy, asking endless questions about her Love Quest experience. I half listen to Nancy complain about a producer who was out to get her while the rest of me concentrates on staying upright.
At thirty seconds to air, it occurs to me that Marina and I haven’t planned or rehearsed a thing. I cast a questioning look at Marina, trying to telepathically ask her what the hell we’re going to say about the festival.
I start to voice the question, but my stomach roils as if an open mouth is all the invitation it needs to stage a violent upheaval. I clamp my mouth shut and try not to die.
Then Nancy is talking to the camera, greeting her viewers and telling them about the special guests she’s brought today. It takes everything in my power to shift my expression into something resembling pleasant neutrality.
“I hear you have some exciting news,” Nancy prompts, turning to us.
I can only blink at her in misery. In the silence, Nancy’s eyes widen, shifting from friendly to threatening, but my mind is a dark void.
“We’re bringing Greenstead’s apple festival back to town,” Marina announces, grinning like a natural. “There will be vendors and apples and all sorts of other things we haven’t figured out yet. It’ll be the weekend of October 11 in Juniper Park, permit willing.”
“Great,” Nancy says through bared teeth. “All my Nancies know eleven is my number, so what a special date you chose for your festival.”
“I know, right?” Marina says breezily, completely missing the barb.
“Rest assured, Nancies, the Nancy convention will also be taking place at the festival. When they heard about our event, they insisted on making it part of the festival.”
Nancy smiles sweetly at the camera. Marina, oblivious to Nancy’s lie, stares curiously at the camera, as if the Nancies are hiding somewhere inside it.
Then Nancy fixes her gaze on me, sweet smile entirely gone. I instinctively flinch. “I’ve heard this festival is in collaboration with Ryser, is that correct? Don’t you work for Ryser?”
“Yes,” I say suspiciously. “It’s…” I search my empty mind for the company-approved language.
“Ryser’s charity division, Ryser Cares.” I pause and try to swallow past my nausea.
“Sponsoring the festival is part of a long line of continued support Ryser Cares has offered Greenstead over the years.” I end the statement on a whisper, fearful of how my body will react if I speak a decibel louder.
“It’s interesting to hear you say that,” Nancy says. “I’m not sure I see a ‘long line’ of support when I think about the disrepair Greenstead has fallen into since the mustard flood.”
I inwardly groan. Or maybe it’s an outward groan. I don’t know anymore. All I know is that I’m having trouble piecing together how this self-involved mean girl has turned into a hard-hitting journalist before my bleary eyes.
“I appreciate your perspective,” I manage to lie.
Thankfully, years of writing press releases and communications slide decks has made me well versed in Ryser’s usual self-satisfied language.
“Ryser has always believed in the power of community. We don’t believe in quick fixes; we believe in long-term community empowerment.
That’s why Ryser Cares has been—” Then another wave of queasiness hits.
I go still, entirely at the mercy of my nausea. I close my mouth and try to ride out the wave.
Nancy and Marina watch me, waiting for a response. When it’s clear they’re not going to get one, Marina chimes in. “I think what Lauryn is saying is that Ryser Cares has been here in Greenstead ever since the flood—”
Factory malfunction , I want to correct, but I don’t trust my stomach enough to open my mouth.
“Which is true,” Marina continues. “But I totally see your point. It’s not enough to just be here. We deserve more after the devastation Ryser’s caused. Not just in Greenstead, either. Did you know they have a plastic pollution footprint of over fifty thousand tons a year?”
My stomach lurches in another threat, but I’m too busy staring at Nancy and Marina in horror.
This can’t be real. Nancy Fletcher can’t be an investigative journalist when just last night we were watching her splash her vodka soda in Deb’s face for suggesting that her brassy hair, which had clearly been brightened with highlights, wasn’t her natural color.
And Marina can’t be capable of spouting off environmental impact statistics on the fly while drunk. Nothing about today makes sense.
I imagine adding this to my weekly email update for Amanda.
Not only does the apple festival feature Nancy Fletcher idolatry, but our first and only TV spot for this festival has turned to bad-mouthing its sponsor.
If Amanda knew what was happening right now, my chances of returning to the DC office would shrink exponentially.
My only comfort is the knowledge that a small town’s local television show would never fall on Amanda’s radar.
She monitors major outlets and publications for media hits.
Wake Up with Nancy , mercifully, has yet to rise to that level.
Marina’s rant continues, revealing more about Ryser’s atrocities, more statistics pulled out of thin air.
Nancy nods along while I sit there with a smile glued on my face, desperately hoping to mind over matter my way past the nausea.
As Marina shifts to detailing the ways Ryser has depleted the waterways of entire communities to source water for their billion-dollar plastic bottled water business, the churning in my stomach crawls up to my throat and I can’t hold it back anymore.
On live television, I lean forward and vomit on Nancy’s shoes.
***
“It could have gone worse,” Marina says as we leave the studio.
The sun has thankfully cut me a break today, hiding behind clouds to leave the sky gray and overcast. I still have the heat and humidity to contend with, but it’s better than blinding sunlight. The road in front of us is quiet and empty—no sign of our Lyft driver yet.
I lean against the brick wall behind me, searching for steadiness. It’s a relief to be out from under the studio lights, but my mouth tastes like bile, my head is pounding, and my stomach is threatening a round two.
“Why would you say all that stuff?” I moan.
“What stuff?”
“About Ryser.”
Marina frowns. “Nancy asked us a question.”
“Okay, but you didn’t have to answer it so thoroughly.
You didn’t have to use statistics and cite your sources like you’re writing a research paper.
” I huff out a sigh and scan the road—still no Lyft.
I look down at the polka-dotted cotton dress Marina lent me and pinch the fabric at my chest, flapping it back and forth to fan myself.
“So this is about Ryser?” Marina asks.
I close my eyes, still fanning. “It looks bad to criticize Ryser when you’re there to talk about a Ryser-sponsored event.
If my boss heard that, she’d—” I stop when I realize I don’t know what Amanda could do.
Demote me further? Is that even possible?
“It looks bad,” I say again. “It makes me look bad.”
“Okay.” Her voice is quieter. “I’m sorry.
It wasn’t on purpose. I was trying to say Greenstead deserves more, and how this festival was gonna help with that.
But then I got sidetracked, and my heart started beating too fast. I think I drank too much coffee trying to sober up, and now I’m somehow groggy and overcaffeinated at the same time. ”
I blink my eyes open. Her expression is sincere, and her eyes do look bloodshot. “I guess neither of us was at our best,” I concede.
“Besides, no matter how important Nancy thinks she is, I don’t think anyone outside of Greenstead is gonna see this.”
“Yeah.” I force a chuckle, letting myself find reassurance in Marina’s words.
Joking about Nancy is familiar, comforting territory.
I’ll avoid mentioning this particular media hit when I update Amanda, and maybe this awful morning can stay between us.
And Nancy. And her dozen Nancies. “I hope my boss isn’t a Nancy, I guess. That’s my only option at this point.”
I mean to say it jokingly, but my worries must seep through, because it comes out snippier than I mean for it to. Going by the way Marina glances over at me, she seems to notice.
“If she were a Nancy, she’d have to care at least a little about Greenstead, so I think you’re safe.” Her tone is lighthearted, but I detect a sharpness in her words.
“What are you talking about? She gave us ten thousand dollars for the festival.”
“For good PR ,” she corrects. When I scoff, Marina tilts her head, studying me. “Come on. She’s a Ryser exec, right? You know they only care about PR.”
“No, they don’t!” I raise my voice louder than I mean to.
Marina sighs, rubbing a palm into her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to start anything; I was just…” Her voice trails off. “Why does it matter to you what I say about Ryser? I’ve never understood your obsession with them.”
“I’m not obsessed with them,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “I just—”
I don’t know how to say it. That if she disapproves of Ryser, it means she disapproves of me, because Ryser and I may as well be one and the same—and always will be for as long as I work there.
Which won’t be forever, of course. I want to tell her I’ll do something good before I leave, that I won’t be working there forever, if she can just wait a few years for me to show her.
But I’m not sure I can make the words make sense.
“You just what?” Marina asks.
Something about her exasperated tone cuts at me. Like nothing I say will ever make sense to her.
“Nothing,” I mumble. “Just…I don’t need your judgment. If we’re judging, there’s a lot I could say about your mess of a house right now, but I won’t.”
“Wow,” she says sarcastically. “Thanks. Then the next time you invite yourself over, I’ll tell you you’re not welcome.”
“Good,” I spit.
She huffs, I cross my arms, and we spend the remainder of our time aggressively avoiding eye contact until our Lyft driver thankfully slows to a stop in front of us.
We don’t talk on the ride back to Marina’s.
When I follow Marina into her house, the scene we step into feels like it’s from another time.
The pizza box, the H?agen-Dazs wrappers, the bag of Doritos, the Raisinets and Sour Skittles, the almost-empty bottle of vodka.
All reminders of how close we were a matter of hours ago, and how far apart we’ve managed to come since.
I change out of Marina’s dress and back into my skirt and top from yesterday, when everything was different. Our goodbyes are terse and brief. We make no reference to the plans we made last night to watch more Love Quest in the future. I close the door behind me and sit in my car with resignation.
I can’t bring myself to start the car just yet. I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest, steeling myself before I have to make the fifteen-minute drive home.
When my phone chirps with a notification, my first thought is that it’s Marina, apologizing or reaching out with understanding.
Instead, I see someone has tagged me in a video. The clip of me throwing up on Nancy’s show has made it to the internet. Amused comments are rolling in.
For the millionth time that day, I want to die.