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it.”
    “Be here Monday.” He hung up.
    For a moment I was utterly still, a high heel–clad rock in the river of Manhattan foot traffic. And then I leapt for joy. I started whooping and screaming, scaring at least ten pedestrians. I twirled around a few times for good measure, then danced down the street toward the nearest entrance to the subway.
    Becky Fuller, Executive Producer of IBS’s Daybreak .
    I’d done it.
    I was already trolling craigslist for apartments on the ferry ride back to Jersey.
    “No, I don’t have any pets,” I explained to the dude with the promising-sounding studio. “Loud parties?” I laughed. “Not unless you think me and some raw cookie dough is a party. And I don’t mind the lack of a view. I actually find looking at a wall kind of soothing.”
    “Lady,” he said, “you sound weird, but you can come take a look.”
    The apartment wasn’t about to win any design awards, but it would do. I devoted the rest of the week to making my move. I reserved a U-Haul on my BlackBerry after signing the lease, and picked up some boxes from the packing place near my house on the way home. Sadly, I only needed three, though at least it meant saving on storage fees. My new place was tiny . I could brush my teeth, make toast, pick out clothes, open the window, and see who was at the front door, all without moving my feet. I guess that’s what you got when you wanted to live in Manhattan. But if it meant my own morning show, I’d live in a footlocker.
    Packing my furniture didn’t take too long either. IKEA stuff, as it turns out, is as easy to dismantle as it is to put together. Except for the futon. That college-era monstrosity was so ready for the curb. Within a few days, I had a new apartment and a new sofa, and was all set for my new life.
    Maybe this time, I’d actually have a life.
    Anna flipped when I told her, over drinks my last night in Jersey. Well, my last afternoon, as we were both committed to morning show schedules.
    “ Daybreak ?” she said. “I didn’t even know that show was still on.”
    I had a feeling I was going to get that a lot. “Well, you will soon. Now that I’m in charge.”
    Anna clinked her glass against mine. “Here’s to that!”
    I also told her about meeting Mike Pomeroy, and my unfortunate case of verbal diarrhea.
    “Yikes,” said Anna. “What has he been up to recently? I don’t think I’ve seen him on The Nightly News lately.”
    “He got fired,” I said. “Something about calling some politician a shithead or a used tampon; I can’t remember the details. But it was on air. The fines alone—”
    “Then what was he doing in the building?” she asked.
    “He still does the occasional story,” I explained. “Just isn’t anchoring anymore. I bet he’s still under contract there.”
    Anna shot me a look. “Becky,” she warned. “Do not stalk Mike Pomeroy.”
    “I won’t.”
    “Seriously. I hear he carries a gun.”
    “I won’t!” I insisted.
    Much.
    And then, before I knew it, it was my first day at IBS. I put on my best suit, dragged out the heels again, and went to town with the straightening iron. My first day as an executive producer, and I wanted to look the part. Besides, like Jerry said, a lot of people there were already expecting me to fail. I could not afford to look like anything but an absolute ballbreaker.
    I was from New Jersey. We know how to break balls there.
    Inside the atrium, I waited for my escort to take me to my new office. My brand-new briefcase rested by my side, looking neat and professional and executive. I straightened my skirt and took a deep breath and waited.
    The monitor in the lobby was playing Daybreak . I could see Paul McVee and Colleen Peck, the two anchors, bantering on the show’s signature sunshine-colored set.
    “Tomorrow,” Colleen was saying brightly but vapidly, like the ex–beauty queen she was, “we’ll show you what to do with all those shampoo bottles you’ve got lying around with