Page 4 of Barre Fight
“What are you going to do?” Alan had been at theMorning Sunfor at least a decade when she’d arrived. She couldn’t imagine the paper without him.
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “I should have planned for this, but I never imagined they’d kill the entire section. I thought that even if it got down to just you and me, we’d be safe.” Ivy had thought so, too. But she’d let her hope overcome the reality right in front of her, just like she had when her ballet teacher had tried to warn her that she was too short for a professional career. And now she’d been cut adrift again, with no back-up plan.
“The severance buys us some time, I guess,” Ivy said, the words feeling clunky and surreal in her mouth.Severance. Unemployment. Failure. She’d given this job everything she had, and it hadn’t been enough, again. She’d failed, again.
“Yeah. Like I said, I’ll put you in touch with anyone I can, but if you want my advice…” Alan paused, like he was weighing his words carefully, then gave his head a resigned shake. “If I were you, if I were still young, I’d read the writing on the wall and get out of this industry. Go into marketing and PR. Maybe speech writing, or copywriting. Teach English. At this point you could join the circus and it’d be more stable than journalism.”
Ivy bit her lip, trying not to think about the month she’d spent researching and reporting a story about the real lives of circus performers a few years ago. She’d had so much fun going behind the scenes for that one, and it had been nominated for an award at the end of the year. She’d done good work here. Work she was proud of. And now they were just kicking her out, and Alan was telling her to leave the industry altogether. She was about to object to his advice when she saw the EIC’s assistant furtively hurrying their way, an empty cardboard box under each arm. Every single eye in the newsroom followed Tracey as she walked, head down, towards Alan and Ivy.
Silently, Tracey dropped the boxes on the desk, and shot Ivy an apologetic glance that didn’t even meet her eyes. Then she scurried away. Ivy’s face flamed, and she felt tears threaten again. But she straightened her spine, pulling up from the backs of her legs all the way to the crown of her head, the way she’d done at the barre for years, and looked at Alan, ignoring everyone else.
“Let’s get this over with. And then can I buy you a coffee?”
“Fuck a coffee,” Alan said, loud enough for the desks around them to hear. “You can buy me a beer.”
Three beers later, Alan slid off his stool reluctantly and pulled some bills out of his wallet. “I’ll get this.”
“I said it was on me,” Ivy objected, her authority somewhat undercut by her loud hiccup.
“I’ll get it, and then I’ll get you a cab. You’re in no condition to take the bus home,” Alan said sternly.
“You’re not the boss of me,” Ivy said, and then she froze, realizing what she’d said.
“Indeed I’m not,” he said glumly. “I’m not the boss of anyone anymore.”
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine.” Alan shook his head. He stooped down and picked up his banker’s box, and Ivy, a little unsteady in her heels after several rounds, did a wobbly squat to grab her own things. Together, they made their way to the door and out onto the busy street. It was a bright, sunny morning, completely at odds with their mood, and the footpaths were filling up as the lunch rush began. Hoisting his box against one hip, Alan threw out a hand and hailed a taxi.
“I guess this is it,” Ivy said sadly, as the car slowed to a stop in front of them. “Thanks for everything, Alan. You taught me so much, and you made me a better reporter, and I?—”
“Alright, that’ll do,” he said, gruffly. “No need for a big song and dance. I’m not dying.”
No, but our industry is, Ivy wanted to say, but instead she gave him a firm nod and pretended not to notice that his eyes were shining with tears. He opened the cab door for her, and she slid in, pulling her box awkwardly after her.
As the cab pulled away, she dug her phone out of her purse and texted Em with clumsy thumbs.
Ivy, 11:47am: Emergency. Got laid off. Bring wine.
Ivy stared at the words on the screen, trying to make them sink in. Laid off. Em replied almost instantly, as Ivy had known she would.
Em, 11:48am: Shit shit shit. Honey, I’m so sorry. I’m coming over right from work. I’d go home sick now but we have a big brief due on Monday. Fire up Mamma Mia without me and I’ll be there ASAP with wine.
Drivy was unk. No, wait. She was drunk. She was Ivy. She was Ivy and she was drunk. Or “deee-ruuunnnk,” as Em had said a few minutes ago, upending the remainder of the second bottle of red wine into Ivy’s glass.
Em was not drunk, somehow. Even after a decade of friendship, Ivy didn’t understand the magic that was Em Watkins’ liver, but the woman could hold a lot of liquor. It didn’t matter what they were drinking—vodka shots at a campus bar, margaritas at a backyard barbeque, or two whole bottles of Unemployment Wine—Em stayed steady on her feet and woke up the next day fresh as a daisy, her skin glowing and her eyes bright, ready to take on the day. It was like her best friend had a portrait of her own liver in the attic.
Ivy snorted at this thought as she lay sprawled on her couch, staring miserably at the ceiling. Em had come over just as Meryl Streep and her girls had started singing “Super Trooper” and found Ivy right here, on the couch, paralyzed by panic and dread, her limbs heavy from hunger. Em had ordered them a pizza, and when it had arrived she’d opened the wine and joined Ivy in chasing their hot and cheesy carbs with heavy swigs of red.
“What am I going to do?” Ivy wondered, slurring at the ceiling fan.
“You don’t need to figure that out tonight. Tonight is about wallowing.”
She’d certainly done that. First, they’d spent some time during their second glasses inventing increasingly elaborate insults for theMorning Sun’s idiot EIC; “spineless fopdoodle” had sent Em to the floor, gasping for air as she cackled. Somewhere near the end of the first bottle, Ivy had had a good long ugly cry and as Em rubbed her back and promised hereverything would be okay.
Now, her eyes stinging and puffy, Ivy let her body sink into the couch and sighed.
“Screw journalism, I’m done,” she said flatly. It felt odd to say out loud, but she’d been thinking it all day. She’d thought it as she opened Twitter in the taxi and typed out the kind of update she’d seen so many other journalists post over the years.
