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The long strands of hair clung to the back of my neck. It was pointless. I gave up and let it fall down my shoulders.
The campaign director, Vic Lawson, loosened his tie.
“Any questions?”
I raised my hand.
“Go ahead, Ava.”
“What are we supposed to do when the real stories come out? You know, the truth?”
I heard the grumble around me, but kept my eyes straight ahead on Vic.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
I was pissed. This wasn’t rocket science. I hated how everyone pretended things were perfect.
“We all saw what happened in Sochi. Social media blew up with it. Athletes are arriving here every day. It’s not going to be long before the entire world finds out Rio de Janeiro just isn’t ready. Brazil was never going to be able to handle ten thousand athletes. We need to show the public the truth here.”
Vic unbuttoned his top collar. I could see the perspiration beaded along his forehead.
“We aren’t reporters. We’re a public relations team contracted to promote the successes here. We don’t answer to the public. We answer to our client. Our client is the US Olympic team. That is who we need to worry about.”
It must have been the heat, or maybe the jet lag, but I pressed my new boss despite his tirade.
“You’re asking us to pretend the city is ready. It’s not. Look at us—we’re sweating to death in the committee headquarters main building. Something is wrong with this. We can’t keep this from everyone back home. They should know what it’s like where they sent their athletes and their money. We’re sitting on a crisis.”
He tossed his tie o
ver a chair. The guy next to me backed away from the table a few inches.
“No one outside of this room gives a shit if we have AC. You write feel-good PR pieces. You find the symbolic craftsmanship that went into building these facilities. Talk to locals participating in the Opening Ceremonies and how they’ve practiced with their colorful flags for months. Find the athlete whose village raised money to fly him here. You hear me? You get what I’m saying? Feel-good pieces, people.”
He slapped his palm on the table.
“No one gives a shit about AC or toilets, or cramped rooms in the village. We work for the Olympics. If you want to be an investigative journalist, there’s the door. This isn’t the place for a tell-all.”
I felt a pit in the bottom of my stomach, knowing the comment was aimed directly at me. I seemed to be the only one who had a moral conscience in the room.
“Any other questions?’ Vic barked.
The room was silent. How could they all sit there and pretend they didn’t see what I saw? Opening Ceremonies were a week away. Were we really going to pretend Rio was the land of rainbows and princess castles?
“All right. File stories by 8pm. Drop them on the server and I’ll select what goes out. See you back here tomorrow,” Vic instructed.
He dismissed us while quickly chugging a bottle of water.
I stuffed my notes in my backpack and filed out of the stifling room with everyone else. I wanted to stay behind and fight for the truth, but I didn’t have that kind of clout with this PR firm. I was lucky I had a job. I was lucky they had hired me. It was a reminder of one more compromise I had to make.
I’d been in Rio for three days. I hadn’t quite acclimated to the time difference. I kept telling myself if I drank enough water and spent enough time outside, the jet lag would pass, but it still made my stomach roll. It seemed to be worse at night.
I walked outside, detesting how the heat clung to my skin.
I still hadn’t figured out how to cool off. The hotel room temperature never dropped below eighty degrees. The cold water side of the shower was as tepid as bath water.
I wished I were at the winter Olympics. At least with snow and ice I could find a way to keep warm, layering like a snow bunny in scarves and gloves. The heat was ridiculous.
I strolled along the umbrella lined sidewalk and ducked into a juice bar. The doors opened onto a patio, dotted with climbing vines and tropical flowers.
