“I don’t know either, Mom. Wait, maybe it’s because you let other people make your life decisions based on what they see inside a crystal ball.”
“Please. No one uses crystal balls anymore,” she scoffs.
“Thank you for the wake-up call, Mom,” I tell her, realizing that she will never hear the truth of my words. The woman who gave me life is a die-hard lover of woo-woo nonsense that will likely bilk her of her savings and have her moving in with me by the time she’s sixty. “Why don’t you go back to bed for awhile,” I suggest.
“No way,” she says. “The girls are coming over in a bit to catch your big national television debut. I’m making my famous cornflake casserole.”
The girls are my mom’s two best friends, Lita and Lynda. My mom’s name is Lydia, so together they’re the L-Triad, sort of like a gang of middle-aged women who wear yoga pants and drink a lot of wine. They’ve known each other for a whopping fifty-one years now. When my dad left, it was Lita and Lynda who picked up the slack and helped get both of us through the fallout. “Tell them hi for me.”
“I will. Oh, and Lita said to tell you to break a leg.”
“I’m sure I will.” I immediately have a vision of tripping over my own foot and shattering my tibia on national television.
“And call me as soon as you’re done so we can celebrate over the phone!”
“Okay, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you too, my big TV star son!”
I get to the studio precisely twelve minutes early, which I’ve determined to be the right arrival time for any occasion. Fifteen minutes is too long because I get panicky and want to leave right around the fourteen-minute mark, whereas ten isn’t quite enough for me to acclimate myself to my new surroundings.
The tired-looking security guard gives me a visitor’s badge and points down the hall. “Take the elevator to the fifteenth floor and someone will meet you.”
By the time I get there, my tongue feels like it’s transformed from a human-sized into a giant cow’s tongue. I’m about to choke on it. Well, that’s going to help me speak coherently, isn’t it?
When the elevator doors open, I follow the signs that lead to Wake Up America!’s dressing rooms. As soon as I arrive at my destination, I’m stunned speechless by the brightly lit room filled with gorgeous women. They are way too beautiful to be average, everyday people. I check the floor number again to make sure I’m at the Wake Up America! studio and unfortunately, I am. Great. Beautiful women. This is the last thing I need.
“You! You there!” a woman with a clipboard and headset yells. “Are you our Gemini?”
I glance around and realize she’s talking to me. “Pardon?”
She rolls her eyes. “Did the agency send you?”
I’ve never heard NASA referred to as “the agency,” but I suppose it fits. “Yes.”
“Okay, we don’t have a spot for you yet because we can’t put you in the dressing room with the other models … unless you’re gay. Are you gay?”
All the other women stop what they’re doing to listen to our conversation, which causes my anxiety to shoot up to the mesosphere. Okay, I’m exaggerating — more like the troposphere. My mouth suddenly becomes so dry, I can’t speak. I shake my head to indicate that I’m not, in fact, gay. Although I’m still not sure why that matters.
Apparently, my sexuality is a real irritation for her because she rolls her eyes. “Wait over by the wall and I’ll get someone to find a room for you.”
I nod, then do as she says, glad to be standing in a corner away from all the action. Grabbing my cell out of my suit jacket pocket, I pretend to be reading something riveting to avoid the possibility of anyone striking up a conversation with me. Also, to avoid actually looking at these women because there’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate around any of them.
A few minutes later, the gorgeous crowd is ushered through a door that says Green Room. That’s when a young man with a headset comes out to greet me.
“I’m Justin, the unpaid, under-appreciated intern.” He looks me up and down, and says, “Man, I know you guys end up wearing some pretty odd outfits, but the pants they picked for you…” He pauses and makes a clicking sound with his teeth. “It’s really out there.”
What uncomfortable outfits is he referring to? Spacesuits? I’m about to tell him I’m not an actual astronaut, but really, what’s the point? It would only lead to questions I don’t want to answer.
He turns and leads me through a set of double doors and down a long hall as my mind races to figure out what exactly is going on. “What’s wrong with what I have on?” I ask. Navy sports jacket, light blue button-up shirt, and tan slacks. The man at the store told me it’s a classic look for any occasion.
“Personally, I think you look great, but apparently they want everyone wearing clothes for their star sign. Are you really a Gemini, or is that just the outfit they’re giving you?”
I pause for a moment, aggravation scraping my insides at the very mention of anything to do with astrology. My mom religiously tracks her horoscope and has been known to cancel vacations if Mercury is in retrograde. If Mars or Venus go into retrograde, she refuses to leave the house. I tell the intern, “I was born on June twentieth, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“They really are going for authenticity, then.” He stops in front of an open door and points to the clothes rack. “You might want to try it on and make sure it fits. Those pants look, well, like they were bought in the boys department.”
I stare, my mouth hanging down, at a pair of bright yellow pants, a white button-up shirt and a green sweater vest. Justin’s gone before I can tell him there’s no way I’m wearing that ensemble on national television. Then an image of me sitting front row at a shuttle launch pops into my mind. Maybe it won’t be so bad. If I end up behind a desk, no one will even see my legs. I hope, because if not, I’m about to renew my membership in the geeks and freaks club.
Glancing at my watch, I see it’s only five, so I doubt Dev will be up yet. To prove what an exemplary NASA employee I am, I take a shot of the ridiculous clown outfit they want me in, then send it to him with the hashtag: #totallycommittedteamleader
If I’m going to humiliate myself like this, I’m going to damn well be at that launch.
Five
Serafina
This morning is super hectic, but even so, it’s gone much smoother than I expected. The only fly in the ointment so far is that the model wearing my Gemini outfit hasn’t shown up yet. I didn’t personally audition the models for that spot; I just called the agency and got access to look at online portfolios. The guy I picked was supposed to be here a half an hour ago and I’m starting to feel a bit panicky about the fact that he’s not here.
Once all the other models, including Charley, are ready to go, I look for Waltraut to see if she’s seen my Gemini model. I can’t find her though, so I stop a youngish looking guy in a headset. “Hey, there. I’m Serafina Lopez from Live for Your Star Sign. Have you seen my male model?”