Chapter Text
The newsroom is already loud when I arrive. Phones are ringing, typewriters are clacking, and someone is arguing over the copy machine near the back. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, thick enough that I can taste it.
I sit down at my desk just outside the main studio room and set my bag underneath it. I smooth my skirt out of habit before pulling a stack of papers toward me. They’re warm, fresh from the printer.
More scripts. I pick up my pencil and start rewriting. Mr. Caldwell’s notes are written in red ink. Too soft. Trim this. Unnecessary. One entire paragraph is crossed out with a single word written next to it: NO.
I stare at it for a moment before erasing the first sentence. Then the second. Then the third. I rewrote them shorter. Cleaner. Colder. “Make it punchier.” He’d told me earlier, not even looking up from his cigarette. “And don’t make it sound emotional. Serious news.” I know what he meant. I always do.
I’ve learned how to write like I don’t have a voice. It comes easily now. When I’m finished, the script sounds nothing like me anymore. That’s how I know it’s right.
I gather the pages and stand, careful not to wrinkle them, and walk into the studio. Richard Whitlock is already seated at the desk, fixing his tie and practicing his smile in the camera lens.
I handed him the script and took it without saying anything. Just like usual. I stand there for a second longer than I need to, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment that never comes, then I turn away.
Across the room, Margaret Collins laughs. She’s sitting at her desk with a coffee in her hands, talking to one of the producers. Her laugh is light and easy, the kind people like hearing in the morning. She notices me standing there and smiles. “Good morning.” She says. “You’re early again.”
“I like to be prepared,” I reply. She nods approvingly. “That’ll take you far.” I smile back, but I don’t say anything. It won’t. Margaret is the only woman on air at the station.
Whenever I ask about moving up, they gesture toward her like she’s proof enough. We already have one. She’s nice. She’s polite. She never causes problems. She’s safe.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if Margaret didn’t come in one morning. Not forever. Just long enough for someone else to sit in her chair. I don’t think about her being gone. I think about the space she’d leave behind.
I walk back to my desk as the crew starts getting ready. Lights warm up, cameras are moved into place. Someone tests a microphone, their voice echoing briefly through the studio before cutting out. The air shifts as broadcast time gets closer.
Someone brushes past me in the narrow hallway. I didn't look up at first. There’s no reason to. “Excuse me.” A voice says, low and distracted. I glance up just in time to see Vincent Whittman disappearing into the control room. His jacket was slung over his shoulder, tie loosened, as if the day had already disappointed him.
I know his name because everyone does. You have to, when someone keeps getting moved closer to the center. He doesn’t look at me. Not really. If he does, it’s only in the way people look at furniture; registering presence without interest. That’s fine.
The red light above the camera turns on. Richard straightens in his chair, Margaret sets her coffee down carefully and smooths her skirt, as the broadcast begins.
I stand behind the glass and watch as my words are read aloud by someone else. Richard sounds confident. Margaret sounds warm. Together, they look exactly how the station wants them to look.
When the broadcast ends, polite applause fills the room. Richard grins like he’s just done something impressive. Margaret laughs as the producers crowd around her, taking a new coffee from a secretary and beginning to drink it.
I lean against my desk, watching Richard gather his notes. He’s grinning too wide, talking to one of the producers about a segment he wants to pitch next week. Vincent’s voice cuts in from across the room, low but sharp enough to catch. “Richard,” he says, “how about a drink after this? Just the two of us?”
Richard laughs, claps him on the shoulder. “You’re on. I could use one.” I don’t move. I don’t think. I just watch them, the way people move without thinking about it. How easily they trust someone with an invitation, a joke, a plan.
I sit back down and finally reach for my coffee. It’s cold. I stare down at it for a moment before taking a sip anyway. The bitterness makes me wince, but I swallow it down. I’ve swallowed worse.
Three years. Three years of writing scripts that other people read. Three years of being told to wait, to be patient, to understand how things work.
They say women aren’t trusted with serious news. I don’t believe that. I think they’re afraid of what we’d say if we were allowed to speak. I set the cup back down and look toward the studio again.
Two chairs. Two faces America trusts. By this time tomorrow, one of those chairs will be empty. And for the first time, I won’t be standing behind the glass.