Page 6 of True North

“It’s what you’ve worked toward for years, isn’t it? Now’s your chance. You’ve got five minutes.”

I grip the clipboard to my chest, blinking as I try to discern if he’s messing with me or deadly serious. But I’m not prepared. Wanting something badly and stepping up under duress are two very different things.

“Masters, now. We haven’t got all day. Frigging hell, this is the last time I work with women. On the grounds on unprofessionalism, for one thing.”

I shake my head. He’s such an ass.

Not helping the nerves that are currently tossing javelins through my veins. I swear one pierced my heart.

He throws his hands up. As if to sayhurry the hell up.

I drop the clipboard and run to wardrobe. The second I’m inside, the door shuts. Hands work me over. My old ripped jeans hit the floor. The sweater Mom gave me goes next. In under a minute, I’m standing in front of the long mirror in clothes I would never wear, looking so far removed from myself. If it wasn’t for the hair, face, and hands that I’m currently turning over in front of me, I would have thought some other woman was standing here.

About to live out the chance of a lifetime.

Daytime television culinary anchor.

Holy shit.

Someone grips my shoulders, hauling me into a chair. Fingers pull through my blonde hair, turning it from its updo of necessity to blown and curled. Something like fine dust explodes over my face as the young woman in front of me taps, swipes, and shapes my face.

Two minutes later, when they swivel the chair toward the long mirror, my mouth gapes. Someone more like Miss America stares back at me. I’ve always been pretty, but this is otherworldly. They are miracle workers. At least if I screw this up, no one from back home will recognize me.

Always a silver lining.

Heels slide onto my feet and the door opens. Manny, the wardrobe director, gives me a push, signaling me to hurry up. I jump from the chair and clack down the long white hall back to set. Marty glances me over before a small mic and receiver are planted on my body. Rough hands turn me toward set.

It’s now or never, Louisa.

I stalk my way toward the counter we have worked on for the cooking show for the last three years. I have to own this. I can recite this segment backward, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Still, I’m always behind the camera, not in front of it.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I move in behind the set kitchen counter. The camera rolls in. The teleprompter rolls in beside it. The green words hover. As if waiting for my signal.

The room falls silent.

Marty cups his hands under his chin, mouthing ‘We are live.’

Oh great. Just great.

On Airflashes red.

My heart flings in my chest.

A stone grows in my throat by the second.

The clapperboard slams.

The teleprompter rolls.

My shoulders heave, hands clammy, as lightning buzzes through my body.

The last breath I took is lodged tight.

I open my mouth to repeat the words that rolled out of sight.

I try to swallow... and choke.

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