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broadcasting equipment
into the company van.
Just about the time
I’m ready to roll,
a beater Pontiac burps
into the parking lot.
Oh, no. It’s Montana.
Her real name is Corrine,
but she wanted her air
name to play off
Hannah Montana.
Don’t ask me why.
Morning, she breathes,
in her best “I’m trying
not to sound like
the dingbat I am” voice.
(Not that it works.)
Awesome day, huh?
“Uh, yeah.” I load
the last speaker. “Well,
I’m about ready. As soon
as Rick gets here …”
Montana’s head swings
side to side. Didn’t you
get the message? Rick
has a major flu bug.
She moves closer. Too
close. Her lips are four
inches from mine when
she says, It’s me and you.
