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There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
—Maya Angelou
“Jesus, Addy, you’re late again. Get in there before Craig has a shit fit, and we all suffer.”
I race past Stu, the magazine’s senior editor, into the small newsroom, and throw myself into the closest open seat. Sadly, that seat happens to be at the front of the conference table, right next to Craig, my boss.
“Ms. Finch, late again I see. Remind me why we keep you employed here?”
The rest of the tabloid columnists at Celebrity Dirt laugh, and my cheeks blaze the color of my red underwear, soon to match my maroon bra. “Sorry, sir. Traffic was horrible. A bad accident on Lake Shore Drive.”
“Well, why don’t you write about it so I can trash that storyline too? Now…” He turns to the rest of the staff as I sink down in my chair. “We’ve just entered into the summer rush. As you should all know, because I fucking pay you to know, this means bathing suit season. Rooftop parties. Mindless celebrities drinking too many martinis and forgetting people are watching. Those people are you! Do what I hired you to do. Go search the local hotspots for celebrities people give a shit about. I’m talkin’ Post Malone’s beach parties, Kanye’s clubs, wherever the latest sex scandal’s secret underground hangout is. I don’t give a shit if you crash Oprah’s reading club, just get me some goddamn juice!”
Rebecca Haines, junior journalist, raises her hand, glittery, cat-like nails catching the sunlight from the wrap-around window. “Question! Do we get specific picks per our ranking? Since I’m above some of these fools, I think I should get the top leads. Sports celebrities, as we know, are my strong suit.”
“Yeah, strong suiting them into bed,” Bill Irish from marketing mutters, causing a few chuckles.
Rebecca takes her notepad and slaps it against his bicep. “Fuck you, Bill. At least I don’t pay for sex—or is that not the reason your wife’s leaving you?”
A flow of “oh shit” and “damn” scatters across the room, and Craig slams his hand on the table, eyes transfixed on his phone. “Hold on. Whatever I just told you, scratch it. I’ve got a lead about a huge fucking celebrity gala at Navy Pier.”
“What is this, a kid’s column?” Justin Lester, junior editor, asks, tapping his pen on the table. “Gonna write an explosive story about teenagers making out on the Ferris Wheel?” He laughs, then shuts up fast when Craig takes his pen and darts it forward, hitting him between the eyes. Justin grunts, holding his nose. “Shit!”
“Shit is the creek you’re going to be up if you don’t shut up and listen. We all know Chicago’s hosting the AMA awards this year. Well, a source just told me there’s an exclusive, invite-only party happening there tomorrow night.” His eyes move back and forth, his face lighting up with excitement. “Fuck me, this list is huge. Post Malone, Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga!”
“If it’s invite-only, how do we get in?” Bill asks, ducking as Craig whips another pen.
“Jesus, is this your first day? How are you all still employed here?” Turning, he picks up a dry erase marker and scribbles four words on the board.
Find a ticket in.
He turns back. “This is so elite, only one hundred invitations are being dispersed to exclusive media and local influencers. Invitations will be personally hand-delivered today. Your job is to intercept those. Get your hands on one and get into that goddamn party. Whoever does and gets me a story gets the open senior journalist spot. Whoever doesn’t, you’re covering the tampon art exhibit at the Daily Plaza and annual summer American Girl Doll showing at Water Tower Place.”
Everyone grumbles. Well…mostly me. I’ve had to cover the American Girl Doll premiere the last three years. I’m still waiting for my big break. I’m what you call the bottom of the totem pole. The one who’s never fast enough to get the big stories, secure enough to follow through with any risky leads, or bold enough to take the reins. That’s why, after three long years at the small tabloid, I’m still stuck as an associate columnist.
It’s not that I’m a terrible journalist. It’s that there are so many bigger stories out there to report on. Why pour all my blood, sweat, and tears into D-list celebs’ secret fad diets—surprise, it’s cocaine!—when I could be exposing real-life issues like Chicago’s misuse of city funds and the serious corruption in politics? I want real interviews, real stories. Instead, I’m chasing mindless gossip.
I raise my hand, and Craig rolls his eyes in annoyance. He flicks his wrist for me to speak, and I sit up straighter. “Yes, thanks. So I thought maybe I could interview the mayor? There’s been some buzz regarding his office and pretty heavy racketeering charges—”
