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of course. But as soon as I can find two other people who want to play, we’ll make it a foursome.”
    “Perfect!” I grabbed the bottle from my mother. No! She’d just covered Gretchen with insect repellent. Please God. Not the one that made her break out in hives when we did that remote from the Everglades. The only way she’d be able to goon the air was if she wore sunglasses and a hat from the Camilla Parker Bowles collection.
    But no time for an anxiety attack now. I had less than twenty minutes to get her ready.
    “Mom, do me a favor.” I started wiping thick, greasy globs off Gretchen’s face.
    “Sheila Holtz. Beep beep. At your service.”
    “Open this roll of paper towel and split all the sheets up so they make a nice, big pile.”
    “What for?” Gretchen peeked with one eye.
    “It’s an idea I read in one of my journals,” I lied. “Paper towels make great test palettes.”
    “We need Gretchen in fifteen.” Benny returned, now in uniform: headset, microphone, clipboard. “Hey Gretch? As long as you’re here, can we get you to do the local promos?”
    “Go to hell.” She threw a tissue box at him. “Do you see what I look like? Get Kevin Kiss Ass to do them…Who was that little man?”
    “Who? Benny? We’re going to his retirement party next month, remember?”
    “Hey Gretch,” Jay, a line producer, bounded in. “Okay, so here’s how this plays out for now. Because the Holy Father just passed, we’re keeping it low key. For twenty-six years Pope John Paul II has been a great religious and moral leader who traveled the globe in the name of peace, he helped bring about the end of communism, he took on Castro, yada yada yada…”
    “And don’t forget he was the first pope to ever step foot into a synagogue,” my mother added. “That’s very important.”
    “Mom. Shhh.”
    “What’s O’Shea working on?” Gretchen sneered. “Oh wait. I bet he’s on his way to Rome as we speak…another Daybreak exclusive. Kevin O’Shea kisses the pope’s ass…”
    “No, he’s here, Gretchen…but Simon wants you to handle the Farrell Carew interview. He’s the author who wrote thebook about how the pope only named bishops and cardinals who opposed masturbation, birth control, and premarital sex, so now the next pope is coming from a group that may not be the brightest or the best, he just bought the program…”
    “Jesus Frank Christ!” Gretchen bellowed from the chair, knowing if she jumped and smudged her makeup, it would cost us precious minutes we didn’t have. “He’s only dead for a few hours and people are screaming, ‘Santo subito, sainthood now!’ Why the hell are we giving airtime to some writer who got lucky with a publishing contract?”
    “Although the author makes a good point,” my mother said. “Maybe if all those priests got a little hokey in the pokey every once in a while, they wouldn’t be molesting little boys.”
    “Mother!” I led her outside.
    “The guy’s not a definite yet.” Jay cowered. “Let me get back to you…”
    “Don’t you love it?” Gretchen seethed. “You’ve got all these liberal New York Jews running the news division…no respect…”
    “What did she say?” my mother gasped.
    “Nothing. She’s letting off steam…Prebroadcast jitters.”
    “Robyn, get me ready this instant! I need to see Simon mas pronto.”
    “Coming, Gretchen.”
    “If you ask me,” my mother whispered, “you should make her look a little orange.”
    “Good thinking,” I whispered back. “Because I can afford never to work again.”
     
    I couldn’t remember the last time I pigged out, but if ever I’d earned the right to eat a pint of Chunky Monkey, tonight was it. And shame of it was, it had started out great.
    I’d gotten a no-hassle ride to the bar mitzvah with a teacher friend of Rhonda’s. I looked svelte in my new, little black dressthat cost more than my zipcode (actually, it was my friend Julia Volkman’s old, black dress, but