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“Pfft, easy there, Katie Couric,” Rebecca snickers. Pulling out a nail file, she starts to saw at her pinky nail. “If you did that, how would the world know about the newest arrival of kids’ toys?” Stu laughs but quickly catches himself and sticks his head into his notebook. “Back to the important stuff. How the hell do we know where these invites are being delivered?”
I slump back in my chair.
“In about five seconds, Hilda will forward you the guest list. It has names, addresses, locations of P.O. boxes. Snatch one, and you’re in.” Phones start to ding around the room, and all attention diverts to them, scanning the email. “Why are you still sitting! Get the fuck out of here!”
Everyone flies out of their seat—everyone but me. My over-sized cardigan gets hung up on the back of my chair and I fall back into my seat. “Jesus. Addy, do yourself a favor and just head to Water Tower. Hope some of Chicago’s home-based, D-list celebrity feels like building their street cred and takes their little spawn to buy a tacky doll.” He turns on his heel and storms out, leaving me trapped in my chair, wrestling my cardigan free.
By the time I make it back to my desk, the office is a ghost town. Everyone grabbed their gear and went in search of an invite. Ever since my first day at Celebrity Dirt, it’s been cutthroat. I’m not sure how I’ve managed to stay here this long. Playing dirty to get leads and storylines isn’t the way I want to move up. Maybe that’s another reason I’m still at the bottom. Believe it or not, Rebecca and I started together. We’d even become friends—then the first gossip lead posted. Some people will do anything to work their way to the top—even if it requires being on the bottom.
Sitting on my yoga ball, I open the email about the gala, and the beautiful emblem on the front of the envelope immediately catches my eye. More screenshots of the invitation appear, then the guest list, and I scan the names. Jealousy swirls inside me: movie stars, political figures, music artists. By now, every single person has been stalked. Their mailboxes ransacked. As much as I want to be the lead on this story, I won’t.
Closing all my search engine tabs about Mayor Brighton, I reach for the small bottle of fish food, twist off the cap, and sprinkle a pinch into my fishbowl. “Oh well, Anderson Cooper. Next time.” Closing my laptop, I grab my purse, stuff my notepad in my shoulder bag, and head out to Chicago’s infamous Water Tower Place.
The sound of over-excited girls rattles my eardrums as I walk into Chicago’s historic landmark, a gigantic skyscraper right off Michigan Avenue filled with a shopping mall, theatre, and condos. As I pass a family staring too closely at the mall directory, I lean in and say, “The store is on the main level, but I would take the elevator to the second. It’s most likely where the line’s at.” Then I head up the escalators and make my way toward the elevator, stopping to accept a mint chocolate from a vendor standing outside the candy store. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet and I’m starving.
Every year, it’s the same. Screaming kids, yelling moms, and a whole lot of money spent on an overpriced doll and her entire wardrobe, only to bring the doll home and have their precious child botch it by cutting the hair into a sideways bob. I mean, don’t people know there are kids in third-world countries who’ve never even owned a toy? And whatever happened to an old-fashioned Cabbage Patch Kid? Or even better, Barbie? The need to spoil and teach our children that getting expensive things is our right is so wrong. It reminds me of the piece I pitched to Craig last month about exposing the truth behind abuse allegations from major international toy workers—another story that needs to be told—but was shut down.
As I wait for the elevator, I watch a mother drag her young child out of a store, kicking and screaming about how she hates her for not letting her get the shoes she just had to have. The mother looks ready to leave her own kid right there in the middle of the foyer. It’s hard not to shake my head, ashamed for the child and her poor mother. A wave of jealousy washes over me as I envision my coworkers chasing the thrills and excitement of the exclusive invitations that will get them into the most talked about gala of the summer. It might not be a story about the corruption in our city’s office, but it has to be better than bratty kids and overrated plastic dolls.
I stomp my foot against the marble floor, frustration getting the better of me at how long it’s taking the darn elevator to reach the first floor. I should be out there scoping out real news. Stories that will make a difference. If Rebecca hadn’t cut me off, maybe Craig would have heard me out and finally let me follow my lead. “Stupid Rebecca and her—”
