I choose one of the seats facing the window. The wall of floor-to-ceiling windows opens to a view that never fails to steal my breath.
The emerald-green lawn that starts across the street from our office at Lafayette Square serves as the north and south lawns of The White House. The gently sloping grass lawn runs under the Washington Monument, is broken by the Tidal Basin, but continues past the Jefferson Memorial before it stops on the banks of the Potomac River. Beyond the symbolism of it all, it’s fitting that the country’s leading news organization occupies this space.
When I look out there, my doubts about taking this job dim. DC may be a town with tunnel vision, but it’s the root of all the major stories that have shaped politics and culture for the last decade.
The rest of the writers who plan on shooting their shot file in and soon it’s standing room only.
The doors open again and my excitement goes into overdrivewhen my editor, Kathy, walks in with Sofia Lallemand, the head of the news division and my idol.
No wonder there are so many people here today. This is my chance. If Kathy had liked my pitch, sending it to Sofia would have been the next step. This is a chance to cut out the middleman.
An awed hush falls over as she takes her place behind the lectern. She’s not just my idol—she’s an icon in the news business.
Kathy stands next to her smiling like she’s displaying a prized and priceless possession. “I know you’re all excited that Sofia’s here, but we’re going to try and have a regular open pitch meeting. This is your chance, so make your case and don’t make me look bad.” She gives us a warning glare that elicits a round of nervous laughter.
“Thank you for letting me sit in. The paper is very excited about the fresh voices and diversity of opinion you all bring to this newsroom, I look forward to hearing about the stories that are keeping you up at night,” Sofia says, her gaze traveling around the table like a ruler taking in her subjects.
The loud trill of a phone ringing cuts through the reverent quiet.
I glance around like everyone else until the weight of several eyes falls on me.
I look down and realize the sound is coming from my pocket and nearly combust from embarrassment. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I duck my head and fumble to silence the call and switch off the phone.
I drag my eyes up until they meet Kathy’s and swallow hard at the icy annoyance in them. The people gathered around the table keep their eyes glued to the stack of documents, but their pity is palpable.
I clear my throat and force myself to speak but can’t look at Sofia. “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t reply. “Kathy will introduce you by name and then you may start.” She turns to the man on her left. “We’ll start with you.”
A few minutes into his presentation, I risk a sidelong glance in Sofia’s direction and almost faint when our eyes meet. I give a small smile that she doesn’t return.
I spend the next hour second guessing myself.
I’ve made a bad first impression. Maybe this isn’t the right time to pitch?
I shake off the negative voice. Stars aligned to make this moment happen. What if it’s another six months before I have this chance again? What if the timing isn’t right?
This is Sofia’s first year in a hyper-visible job. She’s not just thefirst woman to lead the newsroom, she’s the first in the organization’s one-hundred-and-five-year history who doesn’t come from a family whose name is on the side of a museum or stadium.
For those without anything but our grit and talent to recommend us, she’s proof that the pinnacle is possible for anyone who works hard enough.
All eyes are on her in this role. The industry has been abuzz about her historic leadership and there are plenty of people waiting for her to fail.
I wonder if that’s made her more risk adverse or daring.
“Arsino?”
I’ve always gritted my teeth and never corrected Kathy on her mispronunciation of my name. Having Sofia here though, I feel like it’s important for her to know how to say it.
“Actually,” I clear my throat to dislodge the lump of discomfort that’s formed there. “It’s pronounced R-sin-no-way.” I turn my eyes to Sofia. “Most people call me Sin.”
“Okay, Sin.” She quirks an eyebrow and purses her full, expertly outlined, tinted, and lacquered lips and continues to stare at me for five deeply uncomfortable seconds that inspire a couple of cleared throats and makes mine go dry. Her expression softens and her smile is warm. “Give me the budget line of your pitch.”
My pulse kicks up a notch. I wasn’t expecting her, but I’m prepared. “Reclamation and Robbery. How the effort to hold on to plundered art is a billion-dollar black market that is fueled by the most powerful philanthropists in the world. Last year I worked on a story that led to the recovery of stolen artifacts and jewelry, all of which have significant cultural significance to the countries they—”
“Wait.” Sofia holds up a hand and looks down at her laptop.
Startled by the interruption, I press my lips together and stifle the nearly feral urge to ask her what’s wrong while she scans her screen for nearly a full minute. The rush of blood in my ears grows louder by the second and I wish I could read people’s minds. My mind’s latest party trick is its ability to create narratives based on a single glance. My therapist said it’s a defense mechanism. But right now, it only makes the waiting harder. Does that raised eyebrow mean she’s about to tell me I’m brilliant?
