Page 5 of And Now, Back to You

“Domino could have ended up anywhere, and yet he’s here with us. Set to arrive at one of the top rehabilitation facilities for marine life in the country. All because he was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. It looks like fate took a hand in delivering this new shell-ebrity”—I roll my eyes—“to his forever home.”

I blink at the screen. Fate. A ridiculous concept meant for ridiculous people. Teenage girls and whimsical weather women, hell-bent on turning science into a circus. I snort and finally darken the phone.

What a bizarre woman.

DELILAH STEWART: Delilah Stewart, reporting live from the National Aquarium. And now, back to you.

CHAPTER 2

DELILAH

Just keep smiling, I say to myself as I stare at the tiny red light on the camera. You’re almost there. A few more minutes. Just keep smiling.

Mark, our beleaguered and bearded cameraman, holds up his hand and counts down from five. When his thumb finally tucks in, the little light goes dark and I release my pent-up sigh, pushing my turtle helmet off my forehead.

“You got it?”

He grunts, which is Mark for Yes, well done. Your finest broadcast yet. I’m so proud of you. He communicates mainly in monosyllabic sounds, hand signals, and vaguely apathetic looks. I have to fill in a lot of the blanks with Mark, but it works for us. After three years of partnership, I’ve almost cracked that hard exterior.

Almost.

“Great.” I try to shimmy out of the shell strapped to my back. It’s February in Baltimore, but the turtle costume is hot and the shell is heavy. I’m sweating bullets underneath this thing. I have no idea where Keith—my boss, and apparent turtle aficionado—even found it.

The University of Maryland? Did he steal it from Testudo himself?

I unclip my helmet and glance at Mark. “Are we heading back to the station or does Keith want me to interview the turtle?”

I’m only half joking. My assignments have been steadily increasing in absurdity. Two weeks ago, Keith had me attend the Toilet Races at Hampdenfest. Usually, I wouldn’t bat an eye at reporting on the Baltimore-beloved tradition—especially in my own neighborhood—but he had me sit on an actual toilet for the duration of the broadcast.

It was hard to smile that day.

I want to be taken seriously. It’s hard to be taken seriously when you’re sitting on toilets and wearing turtle shells.

Mark doesn’t look up from his phone, flicking across the screen with his thumb. I’m pretty sure I could be hit by a city bus and he wouldn’t notice. For a cameraman, his attention span is very limited.

“Mark,” I try again. “Are we done?”

He nods, not bothering with eye contact. “Yeah. You’re due back at the station.”

I try to shimmy my other arm out of the turtle shell strap, but it’s twisted. I turn, around and around, like a dog chasing her tail. “I know. The weather report is in, like, thirty minutes.”

“Not for that,” he says. “Leon is doing the weather this morning. Keith wants you in a meeting.”

I stop trying to chase my strap, my heart sinking like a stone. “But I always do the morning report.”

The weather is what I want to be reporting on. But somehow, I’ve landed in quirky feature hell instead. Toilets and turtles and an empty warehouse Keith said was a historical renovation but really turned out to just be a dumping site.

Mark finally looks up from his phone, his face twisted into something vaguely sympathetic. “Not today. Today I’m supposed to drop you off at Keith’s office as soon as we’re back. No excuses.”

I bristle. “What? Are you my chaperone? Am I a flight risk?”

“I’m not your chaperone, although—” Mark’s mouth turns up at the corners. “You did fail to show up to the staff meeting where we reviewed your Pimlico coverage.”

I sniff and avert my attention to the glistening water of the harbor. The sun is bright today, not a cloud in the sky.

“Yes, well, my car wouldn’t start.” I also didn’t feel the need to watch the footage of me slipping and face-planting in the mud at the racetrack thirteen times over. We rarely review footage of past features, but for some reason Keith demanded that the entire station gather to take a look at that specific coverage. He probably had the moment I slipped and fell live on air recalibrated in slow motion and set to some ridiculous song. I bet it’s the screen saver on his computer. Me, at the racetrack in my sunshine yellow derby hat, covered in mud from my chin to my shins.

I don’t know when Keith started explicitly taking joy in watching me humiliate myself, but it’s been a slow slog through hell. I’m tired. I’m so tired of him scraping the bottom of the barrel and assigning me whatever he dregs up. I’ve reported while standing in the harbor next to a half-submerged shopping cart. I’ve reported live from Fort McHenry while wearing a colonial dress, two sizes too big. I’ve reported with an actual monkey on my head.