This Ordinary Life (23 page)

The receptionist sitting at the front desk is trendy in the way I've always imagined most native New Yorkers tend to be without even trying, with her cropped asymmetrical haircut and a drapey silver shirt and red leather pants.

“Welcome to WYN60!” Her face brightens when we walk into the reception area. “Do you have an appointment?”

The Get Up and Go show is being piped in throughout the speakers and I listen closely, hardly believing that I'm in the building where it's being broadcasted. Like, live, as in right now.

We're shown into an office and Ms. Hudson and I wait in matching leather chairs opposite a big glass-top desk. On the walls are all kinds of pictures of various celebrities and radio personalities. Award trophies and plaques line one shelf and framed gold and silver records line another.

Ms. Hudson winks. “You got this,” she mouths.

A few minutes later, a woman about Ms. Hudson's age walks in. She's impressive, tall and stylish in a smart black suit. She's absolutely beautiful and the way she carries herself, straight back and poised, with complete confidence, shows how professional she is. She gives Ms. Hudson a hug, reminding me that the two women are old friends. My phone vibrates in my bag and I look quickly between them, hoping neither of them heard it. I kick it under my chair, saying a quick, silent prayer that everything is okay and that buzz wasn't about Danny.

“You must be Jasmine,” she says, shaking my hand firmly. “I have heard so very much about you. I'm Roberta Jackson.”

“Thanks for seeing us today,” I say, crossing my legs and making sure to sit up straight. “I've been working in our school radio station since freshman year, and it's the only thing I want to do with my future. Just being in this building is more excitement than I've ever had, I think.”

Her smile grows even wider and she takes a sip from a glass of water. “I'll tell you what,” she says. “I know you have your samples and recordings, which of course I want to hear. But why don't I give you a quick tour of the studio and office? We can even get a peek in on the morning show, if you want?”

If I wasn't sitting down, I think I would probably faint. “That sounds great.” I keep my voice as calm and professional as I can. “As long as you're sure you have time. I know you're very busy. I don't want to take up too much of your morning.”

“Nonsense.” She stands up. “Follow me. You can leave all your things here.”

I walk beside her as we make our way through the halls. She points out various departments: marketing, art directors, sales, and accounting. It's all cubicles and so many people I can hardly take it in. Plus, she's walking and talking quickly, so I don't have much time to stop and notice much.

We walk down a long hall, with a tiled floor and low, warm lighting. Like most places in the office, this hallway is lined with pictures of Brian, Sarah, Johnny and Latisha of the Get Up and Go show, standing and sitting with various pop stars and other celebrities. I have the urge to touch the pictures, their faces. A fleeting feeling grips me, a dream really, one I don't even want to allow myself… imagining my own face on these walls someday.

Hello, New York City, this is Jasmine Torres with Get Up and Go, wishing you an awesome Monday morning.

Holy goosebumps.

“And here, of course, is the broadcast area.” Ms. Jackson walks quickly, her heels clicking like a metronome on the floor.

“How many years have you been here now?” Ms. Hudson asks.

“Me? Thirty-four years. Can you even imagine? We were kids back then, weren't we?”

Ms. Hudson smiles.

Ms. Jackson looks at me. “Your teacher and I went to NYU together and interned here forever ago. After a few years in the business she was the smart one to get out to make a difference. And here I am, still here.” She waves her hands as if to say she's stuck here, but it's obviously not true. Not that Ms. Hudson doesn't love her life, because she chose to leave radio for teaching. But come on, Ms. Jackson runs one of the most successful radio stations in New York City. I doubt she really regrets her decision to stay. How could she?

I gape at the O
N
A
IR
sign above our heads. I'm heady with the excitement of being here. Please, please, please let me get this internship. Even if I'm walking through these halls for long shifts and doing nothing but making copies or picking up lunch, it will be a dream come true.

Ms. Jackson pushes a door open and we enter the studio. There's a glass window separating us from the broadcast area. I try not to gawk as I watch the DJs. The four of them sit around the table, computer screens and microphones in front of each one, bulky headphones resting on their ears. They interact seamlessly, volleying conversation around the table as if they're a family having dinner.

So unbelievably cool.

“And behind us,” Ms. Jackson is saying. “These are the sound engineers and producers.” I turn around and wave to the few guys at computers in the room with us.

“This is amazing,” I say, feeling like a cartoon character with stars swirling out of my eyes.

“Thanks,” she says. “We're proud of our little family here. Come on, let's head back.”

Little family. Wow. She really is modest.

I walk next to Ms. Jackson on the way back to her office. Ms. Hudson hangs back, letting us talk. When we get back to the office, Ms. Jackson goes over my resume and listens to the clips we brought from the last few weeks of morning shows.

“Your interview skills are solid.” She nods as she backs the recording up to hear another segment again. After a few minutes, she looks at me and smiles. “You obviously have the knack and hard work ethic for radio. Your themed segments are really great, and as you can see, listeners respond well to you.”

“Thanks,” I answer coolly. Coolly! As if I wasn't just complimented by one of the most powerful women in radio in one of the leading radio cities in the world.

About that trifecta of stuff going well? Yeah. Life is good.

“So you know this internship doesn't allow any on air time, right? I'm sure Ms. Hudson has explained that to you? Our college interns are a little more involved in the recording room than the high school interns, but even those are not on the air.”

“Yeah, er, yes. She has. I know I'd be working in a supportive role to everyone here at WYN60. I'm more than happy to do whatever you and everyone else here needs.”

I don't say what I'm really thinking, that I'd lick the dirt off her shoes for a job here.

She nods. “At this point, we have the candidates narrowed down to four finalists.”

Four others? Gulp. I begin to deflate.

“You understand this is a very competitive business and many, many high school students applied for this one spot.”

“Yes, I can imagine how many applicants you had to screen.” I try to keep the warble from my voice.

“We had more than two thousand applicants for the high school intern spot.”

Double gulp.

“Your clips are very good and as I said, you have some very solid skills. The other applicants, however, are also very talented.”

Fully deflated now. I knew I didn't have a chance. Who did I think I was fooling?

Of course the other applicants are very talented. Way more than me, I'm sure. I probably only got this interview because of Ms. Hudson, anyway. My clips are probably one of the worst Ms. Jackson has ever heard, but she feels obligated to say nice things to me.

I clear my throat to bite back my embarrassment.

She sits back in her chair, holding my transcripts and resume up again. “Any idea where you'll be applying to schools next year?”

“None yet. But I've been compiling a list of schools with good communications programs.”

Again I don't say what I'm really thinking. I'm compiling a list of schools I can't afford and hoping for a miracle to land in my lap.

“As well you should.” She smiles and drops the papers on her desk and hits a button on her phone. “Mark?” she calls into the speaker.

“Yes, Roberta?” A friendly voice answers.

“Can you bring me a welcome kit, please?”

A welcome kit.

A welcome kit!

Wait.

I don't even want to think it. That can't have anything to do with me. Can it? It can't be
for
me? I mean, it obviously,
has
to be. But it can't be.

“Give me two minutes,” Mark answers.

Roberta presses a button and looks up at me with a smile. “Welcome to WYN60, Ms. Torres. We are looking forward to having you on board as one of our summer interns.”

My cool mask of fake composure slips. “Oh my God! I mean, thank you so much!” I can feel the tears pooling in my eyes.

Great Jasmine; nice way to hang on to that air of professionalism.

But Ms. Jackson is smiling and when her assistant, Mark comes into the room, she passes the Get up and Go tote bag to me.

“Welcome,” she says. “Once again. Mark, this is Jasmine Torres, one of our new summer interns. Can you ask H.R. to bring over the paperwork? She can bring it home and fill it out with her parents over the weekend.”

“Hey Jasmine!” Mark, a pudgy guy with glasses and a cool style, wearing a bolero hat and striped vest, gives me a small wave. “I'll get that paperwork right over.”

And then Mark is gone, and Ms. Jackson and Ms. Hudson are reminiscing about college and I just sit here, holding a bag chock full of goodies like tee shirts and notepads and pens from my absolute favorite radio show and station which happens to be (gasp!) the new place I work.

What is life?

We leave about twenty minutes later, with the human resources (which is apparently what H.R. stands for) paperwork. Ms. Jackson shakes my hand when we leave and I take a look around the WYN60 office, knowing (and hardly believing!) this will be my new surroundings three days each week this summer.
I'll even earn a small stipend—enough pay for my commute and lunches and hopefully some left over to help out at home.

As soon as we get out onto the sidewalk, I squeal, jumping up and down.

Ms. Hudson high-fives me. She slides her sunglasses on, but not before I notice tears in her eyes. “I'm so proud of you!” She says. “You didn't even need me here. That was a home run, Jasmine, from the minute you walked in the door.”

I bite my lip. “It was, wasn't it? I was in some kind of weird robot mode. I didn't want to look like a dork, but I was so excited!”

“You worked so hard for this. It's well deserved.” She squeezes my arm. “Now let's get some lunch.”

We choose a small café with sidewalk seating. We look over the menu and I decide on a veggie burger and sweet potato fries. All the energy expended on this morning's meeting has left me exhausted and absolutely starving.

“I'm going to text my friend and tell him what happened,” I say, slipping my phone from my bag.

“Friend?” Ms. Hudson asks, a small smile playing on her lips.

I shrug and laugh. “It's complicated.”

Two missed calls from Wes? That's weird. He knows where I am today. And a voicemail? I press the phone to my ear, confused.

“Hi Jasmine, this is Lynette, Wesley's mom. There's been an accident. I know he would want me to call you.”

She pauses, her breath hitching, and my stomach drops like I'm doing a freefall right off the side of the earth.

When she speaks again, her words are muddied with tears. “We're at St. Bonaventure. Room 356 in ICU. I wanted to let you know. You meant a lot to Wes.
Mean
a lot, I mean. I know he'd want me to tell you.”

The message clicks off and she's gone.

“What's wrong?” Ms. Hudson's voice shows only a fraction of the alarm I feel. “Is it your brother?”

I shake my head slowly, forcing words from sticking in the arid desert my mouth has become. “We have to go,” I manage.

M
Y MOM ANSWERS
on the third ring.

“Mom!”

“Jasmine, hi! How did it go?”

“What?” My mind darts all around. Frantic thoughts on top of frantic thoughts, chasing more frantic thoughts.

“The interview. How was it?”

“Oh. It was great. I got the internship, but—”

“Congratulations! I knew you could do it. We have to celebrate.”

“No. Mom. That's not why I'm calling. Wes is in the hospital.”

“Who?”

I huff. “Wes, Mom! My friend Wes. The boy from last night. With the Bortans. The headphones? The guy with the present!”

“Oh, him! Is he okay?”

“I don't know. His mom left a message for me. She said there was an accident. But she said he would want her to call.
Would want.
That doesn't sound good.” A sob works its way out of me.

“Oh honey.”

“Anyway, Ms. Hudson is going to drop me off at the hospital. Is that okay? Are you home for Danny after school?”

“Yeah, of course. Sure. Want me to come to the hospital?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. “No, that's okay. But thanks. I'll call you when I know something.”

T
HE INTENSIVE CARE
floor is way quieter than pediatrics ever is, and when I get off the elevator the hush falls around me like the loudest thing ever. The waiting room is smaller, too, and has none of the fish tanks or toy centers that the pediatric floor has. It's tiny, really, with about ten ugly paisley chairs and three scarred up wood end tables. Wes's mom paces there, whispering into her cell phone, the lines on her face deeper than I remember. She wears cotton shorts and a tee shirt and no makeup.

I glance at the nurse's station and decide to wait for Lynette to end her call. I'm not sure if I'll even be allowed to see him, but if I don't at least find out soon what happened, I'm going to lose it. I take deep breaths and shove my shaking hands in my pockets as I pace the short hallway. It takes serious mental strength to keep my mind from landing on every bad memory of Danny's visits in this place.