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CHAPTER SIX
For the next three years, they wrote letters faithfully back and forth. It became more than a tradition and something of a lifeline. Every Sunday evening, Tully sat down at the white desk in her lavender and pink little-girls room and spilled her thoughts and dreams and worries and frustrations onto a sheet of notebook paper. Sometimes she wrote about things that didnt matter—the Farrah Fawcett haircut shed gotten that made her look foxy or the Gunny Sax dress she wore to the junior prom—but every now and then she went deeper and told Katie about the times she couldnt sleep or the way she dreamed of her mother coming back and saying she was proud of her. When her grandfather died, it was Kate to whom Tully turned. She hadnt cried for him until she got the phone call from her best friend that began with, "Oh, Tul, Im so sorry. " For the first time in her life, Tully didnt lie or embellish (well, not too much); she was mostly just herself, and that was good enough for Kate.
Now it was the summer of 1977. In a few short months theyd be seniors, ruling their separate schools.
And today was the day Tully had been working toward for months. Finally, she was going to actually step onto the road Mrs. Mularkey had shown her all those years ago.
The next Jean Enersen.
The words had become her mantra, a secret code that housed the enormity of her dream and made it sound possible. The seeds of it, planted so long ago in the kitchen of the Snohomish house, had sprouted wildly and sent roots deep into her heart. She hadnt realized how much shed needed a dream, but it had transformed her, changed her from poor motherless and abandoned Tully to a girl poised to take on the world. The goal made her life story unimportant, gave her something to reach for, to hang on to. And it made Mrs. Mularkey proud; she knew that from their letters. She knew, too, that Kate shared this dream. They would be reporters together, tracking down stories and writing them up. A team.
She stood on the sidewalk, staring at the building in front of her, feeling like a bank robber staring at Fort Knox.
Surprisingly, the ABC affiliate, despite its clout and glory, was in a small building in the Denny Regrade section of town. There was no view to speak of, no impressive wall of windows or expensive art-filled lobby. Rather, there was an L-shaped desk, a pretty-enough receptionist, and a trio of mustard-yellow molded plastic lobby chairs.
Tully took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and went inside. At the receptionists desk, she gave her name, and then took a seat along the wall. She made sure not to fidget or tap her feet during the long wait for her interview.
You never knew who was watching.
"Ms. Hart?" the receptionist finally said, looking up. "Hell see you now. "
Tully gave her a poised, camera-ready smile and stood up. "Thank you. " She followed the receptionist through the doors to another waiting area.
There, she came face to face with the man to whom shed been writing weekly for almost a year.
"Hello, Mr. Rorbach. " She shook his hand. "Its excellent to finally meet you. "
He looked tired; older than shed expected, too. There were only a handful of reddish gray hairs growing on his shiny head, and none of them were where they should be. The pale blue leisure suit he wore was decorated with white topstitching. "Come into my office, Miss Hart. "
"Ms. Hart," she said. It was always better to start off on the right foot. Gloria Steinem said youd never get respect if you didnt demand it.
Mr. Rorbach blinked at her. "Excuse me?"
"Ill answer to Ms. Hart, if you dont mind, which Im sure you dont. How could anyone with a degree in English literature from Georgetown be resistant to change? Im certain youre on the cutting edge of social consciousness. I can see it in your eyes. I like your glasses, by the way. "
He stared at her, his mouth hanging open the slightest bit before he seemed to remember where he was. "Follow me, Ms. Hart. " He led her down the bland white hallway to the last fake wood door on the left, which he opened.
His office was a small corner space, with a window that looked directly at the monorails elevated cement track. The walls were completely bare.
Tully sat on the black fold-up chair positioned in front of his desk.
Mr. Rorbach took his seat and stared at her. "One hundred and twelve letters, Ms. Hart. " He patted the thick manila file folder on his desk.
Hed saved all the letters shed sent. That must mean something. She pulled her newest résumé out of the briefcase and set it on his desk. "As Im sure youll notice, the high school paper has repeatedly put my work on its front page. Additionally Ive included an in-depth piece on the Guatemalan earthquake, an update on Karen Ann Quinlan, and a heart-wrenching look at Freddie Prinzes last days. Theyll surely showcase my ability. "
"Youre seventeen years old. "
"Yes. "
"Next month youll start your senior year of high school. "
All those letters had worked. He knew everything about her. "Exactly. I think thats an interesting story angle, by the way. Going in to senior year; watching the class of 78. Maybe we could do monthly features about what really goes on behind the doors of a local high school. Im sure your viewers—"
"Ms. Hart. " He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the tips, looking at her. She got the impression he was trying not to smile.
"Yes, Mr. Rorbach?"
"This is the ABC affiliate, for gosh sakes. We dont hire high school kids. "
