Daniel Price - Slick

“You have thick skin,” I said as I unlocked my apartment door. “When I was thirteen, I took everything personally. Even when the Falklands were invaded. I just knew it had something to do with my acne.”

All Madison could offer was a quivering half-smile. She was trying so damn hard to defuse herself, but she was losing the battle. Poor kid.

“Come in,” I said.

With her jaw clenched tight, she marched in ahead of me.

“Do you want anything to drink?” I asked. “Apple juice?”

She plopped down at the far end of my couch, dropped her book bag, and hunched forward. We both knew that if she opened her mouth now, it’d all come spilling out.

“Madison, I’m really sorry.”

She waved me off. No! Wrong way! Go back! Good point. I wasn’t helping with my pity. I opted to give her some space and let her work it out herself, but by the time I retreated to the kitchenette, I could hear her quick, wet breaths.

Shit. This was the second time today I made someone cry. My duller instincts told me to sit down next to her. To pat her back or something. Anything.

You know what I noticed about you, Scott? You never really touch anyone.

I hadn’t noticed it myself until Harmony brought it up. At the time I took it as flattery, considering that it meant “Please touch me.” But now I saw the flip side to her observation. I saw a glimpse of Gracie toward the end of our relationship. The look in her eyes that screamed I need more from you! even as her mouth was telling me that everything was fine.

After a few tense moments, I reentered the living room and faced Madison from the easy chair.

“I’m sorry,” she said through a curtain of hanging hair.

“I’m the one who screwed up.”

“No. I’m sorry for this,” she said, sniffing. “I’m just being stupid.”

“You’re not being stupid.”

“Yes I am. I was just… I thought I did something yesterday to disappoint you. Or piss you off.”

“Of course not. Madison—”

“No, I know. I know now . But while I was waiting…God, I do this all the time. I fill my head with these black thoughts, even when I know they’re bullshit.”

“Well,” I stated lamely, “that either makes you an insecure adult or a normal teenager.”

She finally looked up at me. “See, that’s exactly why I didn’t want to lose it in front of you. Everyone’s tiptoeing around us now, like we’re all just Annabelle Shanes waiting to happen. I didn’t… The last thing I want is to freak you out.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at this wonderful girl. The way her explosive mind worked. This was Gracie’s field, not mine. She was the Jane Goodall of the teen market. She spent hours each day watching them in their natural habitat, absorbing their lingo, tracking their spending habits. Personally, I didn’t get her fascination, in the same way I didn’t get cat people. But that was long before Madison scratched at my door.

She crossed her arms and looked down at her knees. “Thanks for laughing at me.”

“No, hon. It’s not you. I swear. I feel for you. It’s just…” I laughed again. “I can only imagine what they’re putting you through at school.”

She shook her head, groaning. “You have no idea. We have special assemblies every day. They’ve posted armed guards on one side of the hallway and emergency psychologists on the other. And a girl can’t even reach into her bag for an Altoid without twelve people ducking.”

Now I really laughed. Madison fought her own grin.

“It’s not funny,” she said, tossing a couch pillow. “It’s your fault!”

“Me? What did I do?”

“You work with the media, and they’re the ones who make us all crazy with these end-of-the-world panic stories!”

“Well, that’s hardly my fault. That’s hardly even their fault. We had mass hysteria long before we had mass media. You think television was to blame for the Salem witch hunts?”

“Yes.”

“See, now you’re just being silly.”

She cracked a weak laugh, then rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. I hurried to the kitchen and retrieved a box of tissues. This time I hunkered down next to her.

“You’re the only person in my life who makes sense,” she told me, sniffling. “Everyone else is scrambling around like they don’t have a clue. But you seem to have a handle on everything.”

“If that were true, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting so long.”

“I don’t care about that, Scott. As long as you don’t…Just have faith in me, okay? I promise I won’t disappoint you. Ever.”

See, Gracie, I’m not made of ice. Notice, Maxina, how I open the gate and let another precious young woman into my give-a-shit zone. And take a good hard look, Harmony, as I lean forward and gently poke her in the shoulder. I didn’t know any sign language, so I had to make up my own phrases. With a smile and a jab, I told her I wouldn’t worry if she didn’t.

Madison got the message. She crunched up her tissue and slapped her thighs.

“Okay! This ends the dramatic portion of our afternoon.”

“Good,” I said, opening the laptop. “Because orientation’s over. It’s time to put you to work.”

________________

Yesterday, Madison had asked me what I’d do if I were Hunta’s publicist. It was a perfect opportunity to bring her into the fold (the outer fold, at least) but I had let that ship sail. Today, I confessed. Okay, I was Hunta’s publicist. But I was just one of many crisis managers involved, a mere cog in Maxina Howard’s machine.

Still, from Madison’s hanging gape, I might as well have been Batman. For all she expected, I was just another schmuck pushing Lysol on the nation’s vast subconscious. And she would have been happy with that. But now she just learned that I was playing a defensive role in the nation’s hottest hot-button topic. And she was helping! Holy hambone! She might as well have been Robin!

“Oh my God. This is amazing. So what kind of stuff are you working on?”

In response, I rattled off a list of Maxina’s action items instead of mine. First and foremost was the heat-and-serve “interview” with Hunta, which would be airing tonight on CBS. Then of course was the organized celebrity support effort. There would be a big tug of war between Washington and Hollywood over creative content issues. The more people pulling for our side, the better. Finally, we were prepared to get slappy with every “think of the children” activist who hit below the belt. They were already coming out of the woodwork. Maxina certainly had her hands full.

“Yeah, but what kind of stuff are you doing?”

I couldn’t tell her about my collusion with Harmony, not because I didn’t trust her but simply because that part of the job came with a moral burden. She was in eighth grade, damn it. She was too young to handle the uncut story, and I had too many karmic investments tied up in her. Forget it. She’d get the radio-safe version.

“There’s this woman…” I sighed. “Look, when a celebrity’s on the hot seat like Hunta is, it’s inevitable that a bunch of no-name ‘victims’ will pop up and cry foul. Usually you can swat them away because their accusations are tenuous and their evidence is weak. But now…let’s just say there’s a big one coming down the pike. She won’t be so easy to dismiss.”

“Oh my God. Are we talking about rape? Is she going to say she was raped by Hunta?”

“Pretty much.”

“Jesus. Who is this woman? What’s her name?”

I couldn’t say. At the time there was still a sizable chance her name would be Lisa Glassman.

“You’ll find out soon. Everyone will.”

“Wow. God. So it’s like your job to stop her?”