Nic Tatano - The Wing Girl - A laugh out loud romantic comedy

Evanson looked over his shoulder as fear crept into his dark eyes. (Evanson, it should be noted, is a product of Catholic school and therefore has a genetic fear of rulers.) “All the facts checked out, Harry. What was wrong with it?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Oh, nothing was wrong with it,” said Harry, continuing his parade around the room. “You didn’t go for the kill shot. You had the guy and you let him off with a slap on the wrist. Softball questions.” Tap, tap, tap. “Just lob the damn things over the plate like it’s a beer league.”

“I thought my questions were valid.”

“Yeah, they were valid, but soft. The Cupcake woulda nailed his ass to the wall and lit up a cigarette afterwards on the set.” (Interesting visual that would no doubt land me on the front page of The Post .) He stopped, then turned to face the reporter. “You know the difference between you and her, Bob?” He pointed the ruler at Bob, then me.

Evanson rolled his eyes and exhaled audibly. “No, Harry. What?”

“You’re too nice. You never go for the jugular. What makes her a great reporter is that she’s a bulldog with absolutely no social skills.”

My head jerked back like I was hit with a blow dart.

“Ouch,” said feature reporter Stan Harvey, who was sitting next to me. “That one left a mark.”

Harry glanced at me with his best attempt at an apologetic look. “No offense, Cupcake.”

“None taken,” I said, lying through my slightly quivering lips.

And for the first time in my eight years in the business, I almost showed emotion.

Almost.

But I felt it.

Most interventions are surprises, hitting the target when he or she least expects it. In most cases, the focus is on someone with a drug or alcohol problem. Friends get together and confront the person, hopefully forcing that person to take action and deal with the problem.

So I was surprised when I walked into Ariel’s impeccably decorated apartment on Saturday afternoon and found her and my two other closest friends sitting in a circle next to a whiteboard on an easel. It kinda stuck out amidst all the antique furniture.

“Let me guess,” I said. “This is either an Amway meeting or you haven’t noticed this whiteboard clashes with your decor.”

“Wing Girl, we need to talk,” said Ariel, patting the empty space on the dark-brown leather couch next to her.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked.

“It’s an intuhvention,” said Roxanne Falcone, the short but buxom raven-haired sister from Brooklyn I never had.

“I don’t have a drinking problem,” I said.

“No, you have a man problem,” said Serena Dash, the tall, doe-eyed brunette lawyer who, despite average looks, manages to spend her nights looking at more ceilings than Michelangelo.

My jaw hung open. “So, what are you guys gonna do, list my bad qualities on the board?”

“No, sweetie,” said Ariel. “We’re taking you to charm school.”

My face tightened. “Charm school? Are you implying I am without charm?”

All three looked away from me, at each other, then down at the hardwood floor.

And then I heard Harry’s voice in my head. Absolutely no social skills.

“I’ve had boyfriends in the past,” I said, in what I knew was a lame attempt at defending said charm.

Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Again with the college professuh.”

“He was nice,” I said.

“He was an illegal alien who wanted to marry you for a green card,” said Ariel. “And don’t even bring up that fling with the student in that career day class you taught who just wanted a job at your station.”

I felt my lip quivering. Serena noticed, got up, put her arms around me and gave me a strong hug. My eyes narrowed as I bit my lower lip, trying to keep my emotions in check.

Serena pulled back and looked at me. “Let it out, Wing Girl. For once, just let it out.”

“The Brass Cupcake doesn’t cry,” I said, standing up straight, arms folded. “There’s no crying in news.”

“Great, now she’s channeling Tom Hanks,” said Roxanne.

“You’re not an investigative reporter when you’re with us,” said Ariel. “You’re our dear friend, who we know has a huge heart. The problem is, no man can see it. It’s locked away in some journalism vault by this Brass Cupcake alter ego who thinks that if she lets it out her career will dive headfirst into the shitter.”

“Let it out,” said Roxanne.

“There’s nothing to let out!”

“We want you to be happy,” said Ariel.

“I am happy,” I said. “My career—”

“With your life ! Ariel got up and tapped me on the head with one knuckle. “Hello! McFly! There’s more to life than work.”

Serena took me by one hand and led me to the couch. “Honey, if you keep going the way you’re going you’ll end up like one of those crazy cat ladies.”

I sat down on the soft leather and let out an audible exhale. I knew they were right. I repelled men. And I did like cats an awful lot. “Fine,” I said. “So what’s the deal with this charm school?”

“First,” said Ariel, as she moved to the white board and grabbed a magic marker, “we’re going to start with what you’re looking for in a man.”

“Pffft. I’ll settle for breathing at this point,” I said.

“Be serious,” said Serena.

“Give us the qualities you’re looking for,” said Ariel.

***

Ten minutes later we all looked at the very long list compiled on the board. Bright sunshine spilled through the large window, illuminating the room but shedding no light on my problem.

Serena furrowed her brow. “Guys, I’m not sure he exists.”

“Fuhgeddaboudit,” said Roxanne. “The only guys left are the Pope and Tim Tebow.”

I shrugged. “So I have high standards.”

“You have unreal standards,” said Ariel. “Your problem is that you’ve spent your life going after politicians who are supposed to be squeaky clean, and you expect the men you date to be that way. Everyone has baggage. Some have a carry-on, others have more than a trophy wife on a European vacation.”

“Fine,” I said. “So I need to lower my standards.”

“You don’t have to lower them,” said Serena, “you just have to learn to accept the fact that there is no one out there with every single quality you want.”

I nodded, realizing they were right. “Okay. So I become more open minded about men. There, we’re done. Let’s go to dinner.”

“Not so fast,” said Ariel. “And not dressed like that. You’re not going out in those outfits anymore.”

I looked down at my clothes, a pair of red and black plaid slacks and a bulky purple sweater. “What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s fine if you wanna pick up a guy at Home Depot,” said Roxanne.

“I always attract men,” I said. “That’s why you call me Wing Girl.”

“The Brass Cupcake attracts men,” said Serena. “Belinda needs to learn how to keep them.”

“Really?” said Ariel. “Pants and flats for a Saturday night?”

“They’re comfortable,” I said.

“Men want heels and skirts,” said Serena. “We know you’ve got great legs under there. We’ve been to the beach with you.”

“And the hair,” said Roxanne, rolling her eyes as she pointed at my head.

“What?” I asked.

“The bun is done,” she said.

“You’re blessed with that beautiful red and you tie it up in a bun of steel,” said Ariel. “Meanwhile, the glasses have got to go. We need to see that green.”

“I can’t see without glasses.”

“As a reporter you should know there’s been a fabulous new invention called contact lenses,” said Serena. “Maybe you’ve read about it.”