Original Work: You'll Always Find Your Way Back Home, Chapter 7, Part 3
Chapter 7, Part 3
Finally the traffic started moving and before too long we had made it to the towering building housing the radio station. As soon as I got out of the car passersby turned and stared, nudging the people they were with and whispering excitedly as they looked at me. A few people even pulled out their phones and started snapping pictures; at least I looked decent, because I doubted there would be any air brushing when these pictures showed up online. I smiled at the people I made eye-contact with but as more than happy to disappear into the building.
The well-dressed, expertly coiffed woman sitting behind the front desk hardly batted an eyelash when she set eyes on me. “Which station are you here for?” She questioned in a crisply polite voice.
It hadn’t occurred to me that there would be more than one radio station housed in the same building but it made sense, though it did prompt a confused look to cross my face. I hadn’t been paying attention to the name of the station I was about to be interviewed by and could barely remember the names of my future interviewers. I glanced over at Schapelle, who was quick to supply the answer. The woman behind the desk did give me a pointed, easy to read expression, in response to my confusion and called up to the appropriate floor before indicating that we take the elevator up there.
I felt my nerves beginning to build as we walked toward the elevator; my throat was going dry, I was feeling sick to my stomach and I was sure that as soon as I opened my mouth to speak nothing but butterflies would come floating out. If they asked me questions about something Emilia had done in the past, I wouldn’t be able to answer for fear of completely getting it wrong, which would only make it seem like she was more out of her mind than people had all ready been thinking.
Before the elevator doors could slide closed, a voice shouted, “Hold the elevator please!” and a hand slipped through the crack in the doors and they jerked open quickly. To further improve my day, I found myself staring at Michaela Foxx’s manager and Michaela Foxx herself and they both wore identical, obvious expressions of disgust upon their faces as soon as they saw who they would be sharing the elevator with.
Michaela was much taller than person, even without the aid of high-heels and she was dressed as though she was about to hit a high-profile restaurant or night club, not do a radio interview. The gold sequined fabric she was wearing caught every glare from every light in a ten mile radius and nearly blinded me when she slinked into the elevator, her crimson lips still fixed in a scowl. Michaela’s manager jabbed a button for another floor (God does answer prayers) and shot a dirty look at Schapelle before facing the front.
Unfortunately, in the small space, Michaela and I were standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, though she was doing her best to ignore that I was there. I wondered if I should say anything to her or if I should just stand there and let her simmer in her catty anger toward me. But the awkward silence was quickly becoming too much for me and the complete hatred I felt radiating from her every pore wasn’t doing much to help the situation. It was just like being in the same class in high school with someone that you know absolutely hates you; it makes you desperate to smooth things over even if you didn’t do anything wrong.
“So, Michaela,” I cleared my throat, “are you doing an interview too?”
Michaela looked at me and rolled her fake color-contacted eyes. “No, I’ve started a new career as a weather forecaster.” She snapped.
Oh, really? What was the forecast? Partly cloudy with a hundred percent chance of bitch? “Well, it’s always good to have a back up career.” I replied and Michaela’s eyes narrowed into slits. Schapelle and Linda both managed to keep their laughter to controlled snorts.
Thankfully the elevator reached their floor and Michaela and her manager quickly left without a backward glance. I couldn’t keep from muttering, “Bitch,” though it was only after the word left my lips that I realized the doors weren’t completely closed.
Linda looked at me and arched an eyebrow. “Maybe you are a little more like Emilia than we gave you credit for.” But it didn’t sound like it was completely a bad thing.
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