Nic Tatano - It Girl

The hot water from the shower woke me up a little. When I emerged my Siamese cat Pandora was waiting at the bathroom door with a happy face, as if to say, Cool! You're up! You're nocturnal too! Let's play!

I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, having been told not to put my outfit on till I got to the studio. No wrinkles on the morning show. (Clothes or face.) I grabbed the hanging bag that contained my outfit, headed out the door and one minute later found a lean, middle-aged man in a dark suit standing next to a limo with the engine running.

He tipped his hat at me and smiled. "Morning, Miss Summer. I'm Charlie."

"Morning," I said, thought it came out "mohreen."

He laughed as he pointed at my mouth. "Forget something?"

"Huh?" I brought my hand up to my face and felt the toothbrush sticking out of my mouth. I yanked it out, and shook my head. "Dear God."

"It's a tough shift to get used to," he said, laughing as he opened the door for me.

I considered spitting out the toothpaste but the thought of paparazzi lurking in the shadows stopped me, so I just swallowed it and got into the car, which was toasty warm. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and immediately fell asleep.

***

One nanosecond later, or so it seemed, the sound of the car door opening awakened me.

"Good luck today," said Charlie.

"Thanks," I said, stifling a yawn as I got out of the car and staggered toward the door. I actually heard my heel clicks on the pavement, the streets being quiet without any traffic.

The door swung open as I approached and I was greeted by Scott's cheerful smile and obviously over-the-top perky face. "Morning, sunshine!"

"Bite me," I said.

"Yeah, I've been there," he said, ushering me in the door and wrapping one arm around my shoulder. "You'll get used to it."

"I feel like shit. I probably look like shit, but I can't focus my eyes enough to look in the mirror."

"You look fine. Get any sleep at all?"

"Four hours, but it seemed like four minutes."

"You just have to adjust your body clock." He led me down a hallway toward the network's newsroom.

"I'm not even in my body yet," I said, as we headed into the newsroom which was already a beehive of activity.

Gavin looked up from a desk and headed in my direction. "Well, you made it," he said, extending his hand.

"My body's here. My brain will arrive at five."

"As long as it's in the chair by seven, you'll be fine." He turned to Scott. "Get her down to makeup."

Oooh. A chair. I can sleep.

***

I discovered you can't catch a few zzzzzzs when your hair is being styled and your face painted. I was still in my roll-out-of-bed spring collection as this was being done, so as not to mess up the turquoise suit that's been chosen for my first day. Personally, I think it's a jacket with a matching belt. The skirt is that short.

The clock struck three-thirty, the makeup and hair were done and all of a sudden I heard a rumble from the pit of my stomach. The hollow feeling reminiscent of a hangover washed over me, and I knew I had to eat something or I'd pass out.

I walked briskly to the newsroom and grabbed Scott's forearm. "Where are the vending machines?"

He looked up at me, studied my face and nodded. "Ah, you're right on schedule. Time for your first breakfast."

"First breakfast?"

"If you think your body clock is screwed up, wait till you deal with your stomach. It's living in a parallel universe. I need to explain morning show weight gain syndrome later."

"I'm gonna get fat?"

"If you're not careful. Here's how it works. You usually eat breakfast, right?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Well, your body thinks it's time for breakfast because you've been up awhile. Of course, you'll burn so much energy during the show you'll need to eat breakfast again at nine. And we're not counting any snacks during the show. Then you get home and you eat lunch and dinner, except you're eating dinner at your normal time but it's time to go to bed, which is the worst thing to do. So you can pack on the pounds real easy. I gained ten my first month."

"Again, I'm gonna get fat?"

"Like I said, if you're not careful. Anyway, it's time for our dinner break."

"I thought we were eating breakfast?"

"Figure of speech. Follow me." He turned to the staff. "We'll be back after dinner."

Everyone nodded as he led me out of the newsroom and down a brightly lit hallway that made me shade my eyes as we headed to the front door. "Where are we going?"

"Across the street. The little bakery opens up early for us."

"Great. Just give me a bear claw or something."

"Not what you need. You'll slide right into morning show sugar crash syndrome. The guy who runs the place has a special breakfast that I've eaten every day for the past two years and haven't gained an ounce."

"I thought you gained ten pounds?"

"That was before I started eating here."

We left the building, crossed the street and headed for a place that looked closed. The sign above the door read The Little Bakery. Sort of appropriate for people who worked on a morning show called The Morning Show.

Scott reached the glass door and tapped on it. I could see a light on in the back and shadows moving around. A man emerged from the back, backlit so I couldn't see his face, and made his way to the door. He turned a key and opened it. "Morning, Scott."

Scott moved through the door. "Hi, Angelo. This is our new co-anchor, Veronica."

He stuck out his hand, though I still couldn't make out his face. All I could tell was that his shadow was tall and well-built. "My pleasure," he said.

I shook his hand, which was dry (no doubt from working with flour) and smiled. "Hi, Angelo."

"C'mon back," he said, then turned and led us past the display cases which were half-filled with cookies, breads and pastries. The smells filled my lungs, a combination of sugary sweetness mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread.

We emerged in the kitchen, already full of activity as bakers in white aprons shoved dough into stone ovens. I could finally see Angelo, who looked as Italian as his name. Maybe thirty, thick black hair and deep brown eyes, a rugged complexion on a lean face. About six feet without an ounce of fat. How he did that working in a bakery was a secret I wanted.

Scott led me to a small table for two that was set off in the corner. There were already two large glasses of orange juice on the table as we took our seats. "So what are we having?" I asked.

Angelo smiled at me. "The only thing that can get you through your show. A real Italian breakfast." He headed for a stove, put something onto two dishes, returned, and slid the plates in front of us. "Sausage bread and eggs," he said. "Protein, carbs, and my special blend of spices designed to give you energy and keep your metabolism up."

"It looks wonderful," I said. And it did. Next to a couple of sunny side up eggs were two slices of hot bread that had veins of crumbled Italian sausage running through it. It was a lot more than I usually ate for breakfast, but I was starving.

"Get a piece of bread and dip it in the yolk," said Scott, who demonstrated.

I followed his lead and tasted something wonderful. The sausage, hot bread, egg and spices blended beautifully and seemed to instantly satisfy my hunger and wake me up at the same time. A sip of what was obviously freshly squeezed orange juice washed it down perfectly. "This is fantastic," I said.

"Glad you like it," said Angelo. He turned to Scott. "She seems nicer than the dragon lady."

I couldn't help but raise one eyebrow. "Dragon lady?"

"Let's just say Katrina is not on Angelo's Christmas card list," said Scott. "I only brought her here once."

"She's a gavonne ," said Angelo.