Page 97 of You Spin Me

My gut churns at the thought, but something makes me ask, “If I were to say yes, what happens next?”

Jones picks up a headshot of a woman with a big smile and bigger hair. “It’s more complicated than a baseball trade. We can get this woman from Atlanta for Gracie’s slot but only if we also take her partner on for your late-night slot.”

“So I’m the DFA in this scenario?”

“Kind of, but in this case I need to actually designate your assignment. We don’t have any free agents here. If your spot’s part of the deal, I have a stronger case for the Atlanta couple. But if we make the change one at a time, corporate can argue that we need their picks ratings-wise.” Jones sits on the arm of the couch across from me. “This’d be a good shake-up all around. We get a black couple in here, which will diversify our sound and our roster. Plus you get an opportunity to change things up.”

“I’d have to play what corporate wants me to play?”

“Yes and no. Partly because of you, we have a reputation of finding up-and-comers before anyone else. If you can build on that by getting them in here for exclusive interviews, that’s as valuable as playing the tried and true that the advertisers think they want.” He shrugs. “It’s all a balancing act.”

“Which is why I’m glad I don’t have your job,” I mutter before meeting his gaze. “Can I think it over?”

“I can give you a week. No more.”

“Okay.”

When I stand to shake Motor’s hand, he claps me on the shoulder. “You can do it, man.”

“Thanks, Motor. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Any stranger than I already am?” Releasing my hand, he points a finger at me. “Same to you. You and that gorgeous girlfriend of yours are welcome at the Comedy Stop anytime.”

That gorgeous girlfriend of mine. Yet another reason to face the music. We’d get to have a semi-normal life together. As I exit Jones’s office, the possibilities have my heart racing, not with fear, but with anticipation.

If you’d told me a few months ago that any of the shit going down right now was even a remote possibility—from an amazing woman in my life to a high-visibility slot at the station—I’d have told you to go get your head examined right before you go jump in a lake.

Perhaps my life could have a fairy-tale ending after all.

As I headfor the exit door, planning to go home and hit the bag to work out some of the questions in my head, as well as get my ass in gear, one of the sales managers catches me.

“Cal, a woman’s here from the Shriners’ organization. She says she’s been trying to get in touch with you.”

“Yeah, and I’ve been avoiding her,” I mutter.

“Don’t they help kids like… uh…”

I’m pretty sure this is the guy who assumed Jess was a temp on her first day at work with Rocket and Porky, so I don’t let him off the hook. “Kids with massive burns all over their bodies? Like me?”

“Well, yeah.” He nods, his face reddening. “We’re always looking for quality charities to partner with, so?—”

I put a hand up between us. “Save it. I’ll talk to her.”

May as well get it over with. Obviously, the Shriners are not going to let it go.

The sales guy ushers me to an office where a blonde about my age waits. When she sticks out her hand to shake mine, I can’t help but notice that it’s covered in scars. “Sharon Clemmons. I’m a recipient of the Shriners’ charity, as well as an advocate,” she says by way of introduction.

“Nice to meet you,” I lie.

For the next half hour, Ms. Clemmons bombards me with statistics and batters me with arguments. She doesn’t breathe a word about what the organization did for me personally, the thousands of dollars of bills they footed for years of surgeries and therapies. She does tell me about the kids from all over the world whose lives they’ve saved and the new therapies and techniques they are on the forefront of developing.

When she finally takes a moment to breathe and her left hand traces over her right hand’s scars, something about the movement jogs a memory. “I believe you, like me,” she says, “received care early on that would be considered barbaric now. In fact, I believe that we may have heard each other beg for mercy.”

It’s then that her name drops in, and the face of a girl a couple of years older than me flashes in my mind. “Sharon from Vermont?”

She nods and her professional smile softens. It’s only then that I notice a slight pull in the skin around her right eye. She must’ve hung in for more plastic surgery than I did because if memory serves, her facial scarring was more extensive than mine.

“Remember playing keep the balloon off the ground?” she asks.

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