Weather Girl(66)

A few weeks ago, Seth suggested sports and weather collaborate on this story. I leaped at the chance to do some field reporting, especially with Russell. He’s both my field producer and camera operator today, because when you major in journalism, you have to learn how to do everything, and he’s just as easygoing and encouraging as he is the rest of the time. Maybe we trade a few more smiles than usual, but aside from that, he’s a true professional.

“And it’s worth it?” I ask Tyler.

“I probably don’t have to convince you of that,” he says, wincing as he adjusts the front strap on his backpack. When we arrived, I told him he could take it off, but he wanted to make sure we shot him in his full getup. “It absolutely is. Every time.” In his tool belt, his phone rings. “Hold up. I think I’m getting a lead on a storm out east. Do you mind if I make a call?”

“Go ahead,” I say.

Russell takes some B-roll of the lake and beach while Tyler speaks forcefully into the phone ten yards away.

“He seems like he might be a while.” Russell stops shooting and gives me a hopeful, hesitant look. “I hate to ask this, but I’m covering a hockey game tomorrow, kind of last minute, and Elodie’s mom is away on business. She’s usually fine without a babysitter, but I’ve always been a little nervous, leaving her alone at home for too long. So I was wondering . . . if maybe you’d be able to stop by and grab dinner with her? I can leave some money.”

When I’m quiet a beat too long, he seems to interpret it as disinterest. “You don’t have to stay long. Just dinner, just to check on her. And you’re, like, one of the only responsible people I know,” he continues, “and you have your niece and nephew, so I figured you probably aren’t too terrible with kids.”

“I think I’m flattered?” I say with a laugh, which serves to mask whatever else I’m feeling. Fear, maybe. Affection, definitely. “I’d love to. Really.”

“She’ll probably just want to run lines, maybe practice her Torah portion. She’s a super easy kid.” As though that’s the reason I wouldn’t want to do it, the only thing stopping me from giving him an immediate yes. “I don’t want it to mess with your sleep schedule or anything.”

I wave this off. “I’ll nap beforehand. We can watch bootleg Broadway tapings all night.”

A soft exhale. Relief. “Good. Thank you.” He steps closer, grazing my wrist with a few fingertips, and I savor this brief at-work physical contact.

Tyler/Typhoon hangs up and heads back toward us, backpack swaying.

“Okay,” he says, shoving the phone back into his belt. “So it looks like I’m going to be heading out to Darrington. Wanna tag along?”

As we pack up, my mind wanders away from storms and wind patterns and air pressure. Spending time with Russell’s daughter is a huge step, and the fact that he asked me to fills me with a mix of warmth and anxiety.

I just have to hope I don’t screw it up.





23




FORECAST:

One hundred percent chance of show tunes

“YOU HAVE TO agree that Janis is the real star of the show,” Elodie says, tucking a strand of dark hair back into her haphazard bun before reaching for a bottle of glittery gold nail polish. “Her voice. The way she brings that character to life.”

“I’ll give you that. But don’t you think part of it is that she’s given the better songs?”

Elodie considers this. “Maybe,” she relents.

We’re in her living room, sprawled out with a dozen bottles of nail polish on the coffee table, listening to the Mean Girls musical soundtrack.

“You just do musicals, not plays?” I can grasp the nail polish with my left hand at this point, but I don’t quite have the stability needed to paint my nails, so I’ve told her she can paint my right hand any way she wants. She’s taken this under careful consideration, testing a few shades on a sheet of paper before deciding on a blue base with little suns on top.

Elodie leans over my hand, dotting the sun on my thumb with two eyes and a black dash of a mouth. “If there aren’t songs, what’s the point?” she says. “Sorry, this one looks kind of angry.”

“It’s okay. She’s still cute.” I peer down to admire her handiwork. “And you’re right. I get so bored during plays.”

Elodie gives me this long-suffering look. “Thank you. My dad dragged me to Shakespeare in the Park last year, and I fell asleep at the beginning of the second act. He said he was exposing me to ‘culture,’ but honestly what is more cultured than Hadestown?”

I’m laughing, imagining Russell doing this. The Mean Girls soundtrack ends, and Elodie leaps up to find a new one on her phone. She knows all the words even to shows she hasn’t seen. It’s impressive.

“You don’t have to sing so quietly,” I say, and she blushes. “You have a great voice.”

“Sorry. I get a little shy singing in front of new people sometimes. It’s different when you’re onstage, in a costume. Did you ever do theater?”

“Does Tree #2 in my middle school’s production of The Wizard of Oz count?”

“But you’re on TV.”

“It’s a very different kind of acting,” I say. “Our goal isn’t solely to entertain people. Well, we hope we’re entertaining, but we’re delivering information, first and foremost, and we want to make sure we’re doing that in a clear and non-biased way.” I consider that for a moment. “Except when I’m going on about how much I love the rain, but that’s not exactly a hot-button issue.”