Claudia Kishi, Live From WSTO! (7 page)

As for me, well, I felt as if my life had been taken over by the show. (Surprised?) On Saturday night, our second one had been a little rocky. The theme had been "Family." I talked about my family, but when I mentioned Peaches and Mimi, I choked up. I almost blew my nose into the mike (very cool). Then our first act, a brother and sister, arrived ten minutes late because they'd had a fight. I had to switch acts around, and everyone became nervous and began flubbing lines. And I kept speaking too close to the mike, so every time I said a word with the letter P I caused a small explosion.
Plus a couple of our future guests had called to cancel, so we needed to hold more auditions soon.
But the good news was that WSTO had already received some mail and calls about the show — all raves! Mom and Dad had promised to take Janine and me out for dinner on Saturday evening. As usual, I was late getting dressed. Mom had already called me twice from downstairs. I could hear the car starting in the driveway.
Rrrrrring! Oh, great. Of all times for a phone call.
I thought about letting the answering machine take the call. But I didn't do it. Quickly I picked up the receiver. "Hello?" "Claudia, it's me, Kristy." "Oh, hi. Listen, I need to — " "I think I've got it!" "Got what?" "An act. A great one. When can we audition?" My heart sank.
I should have let the machine answer it.
Chapter 10.
"Knock, knock," said Jackie Rodowsky.
"Who's there?" I asked.
"Lena." "Lena who?" Jackie grinned. "Lena little closer and I'll tell you!" Hahahahahahahahaha! That was a laugh track. Bob was sitting with us in the conference room and fooling around with sound equipment.
We were halfway through our Tuesday auditions. The turnout was even bigger than last time, but the talent wasn't as good. (Bob said that when a show becomes popular, everybody wants to hop aboard.) Jackie was giggling so hard at the laugh track, he could barely deliver the next joke.
"Knock knock," he finally said.
"Who's there?" Ashley, Bob, and I all asked.
"Hatch." "Hatch who?" "Gesundheit!" Hoo hoo hee hee ho ho ho! Bob was now playing a recording of one man bellowing with laughter. Well, Jackie laughed so hard at that, he fell off his chair.
He grabbed onto the table on his way down. Unfortunately, Ashley's and my half-filled plastic water cups were on it.
The table tipped and wobbled. Cups, papers, and pens went flying off the end.
"Whoa!" Ashley yelled.
Bob bolted out of his seat to help Jackie, who had been bopped by a flying cup. "Are you okay?" he asked.
His face was red and his hair was wet. "Oops," was all he said.
"It's my fault," Bob said. "Those laugh tracks are too distracting." It wasn't his fault. He just doesn't know Jackie. "The Walking Disaster" is how the BSC members refer to him. Falling and spilling are two of his greatest talents. I keep hoping he'll grow out of it, but he hasn't yet.
After Ash and I helped clean Jackie up, Bob thanked him for the audition and guided him safely back to the waiting room.
I sat down again and gathered my notes. Next to Jackie's name I wrote, Cute, but where to fit?
Ash and I had become much smarter about these auditions. We had decided on the themes for our next three shows in advance — "It Ain't Easy Being a Kid," "My Favorite Place in the World/' and "What Are You Reading?" "Guys, we have a return customer!" Bob announced as he entered the room again.
Behind him was Kristy, clutching a few stapled-together sheets of white paper.
And behind her, also holding sheets, trudged Adam, Jordan, Byron, Vanessa, Nicky, Margo, and Claire Pike.
"Claudia-silly-billy-goo-goo!" Claire called out.
"Hello, everybody, we are the Thomas-Pike players!" Kristy announced.
"Pike-Thomas," I heard Byron mutter.
Kristy read from the papers: " Today we present the story of a very . . . neat monster.' " She looked at each of us and grinned, as if she'd told a joke.
Then Jordan began reading in a mumble so low I could barely hear him. " The monna nimwa Oogelbee and he luvva be clean.' " "Speak up!" Kristy whispered.
But before Jordan could repeat it, Vanessa shouted, " 'EVERY TIME HE DID SOME-~ THING SCARY, HE WAS JUST UPSET ABOUT THE MESS.' " Mar go held up her sheet in front of her face. " 'Like . . . the time . . .when he ... um, arrived home . . . and he ... he saw Rr . . . Rrroo style — ' " "Rustylocks, you dummy!" Nicky hissed.
Margo stuck out her tongue. " 'Rusty-locks,' " she continued. " 'And ... he — '" "Hey! My turn!" Adam said. " 'And he said, "You ate my food but you didn't put the plate in the dishwasher." ' " Kristy laughed. "Great, Adam!" Ashley gave me a sideways glance. She had this tense, little smile on her face.
Bob looked totally bewildered.
And I knew I was going to be making another painful phone call.
After the auditions, Ashley and I carefully pored over our lists.
"I liked the kid who knew sports trivia," I said.
Ashley made a face. "I hate sports." "I do, too. But I think kids will like him." "Well, that's probably true." "A keeper?" "Yup. How about Jackie?" I just gave her a Look.
She sighed. "Yeah, I feel the same way." You know what? Ashley was improving. Either that or I was being more tolerant. What- ever. The thing is, I didn't feel like strangling her every two seconds.
Maybe every two minutes. (Just kidding.) A moment later Bob poked his head in the room. "You guys hungry? I'm on my way to the snack machine to get a Milky Way or something." I reached into my shoulder bag. "Is a Snickers okay?" "Sure. But what about you?" "I have more." I tossed him the Snickers and began rummaging through my bag. "Milk Duds, Peppermint Patties, and I think a box of Raisinets." Ashley laughed. "What, no Heath bar?" "Ohhhh, sorry," I said. "I ate it on the way over." "Man, I would love to be your dentist," Bob remarked, biting into the Snickers bar. He plopped himself into his chair. "Maybe that's what I should do, become a dental assistant." "Right," Ashley said.
"I'm serious. I may need the work soon, the way things are going here." "Uh-oh," I said. "Are they going to fire you?" Bob shrugged. "You know what they say: 'Last one hired, first one fired.' Mr. Bullock tries to be positive about it all, but he's been dropping hints." "What'll you do?" Ashley asked.
"I don't know. I'm only paid a small stipend here, but I really need it. It goes right to my tuition. Maybe I'll leave college for awhile." I didn't know what to say. Neither did Ash-ley. He looked so sad.
Over Bob's shoulder, I noticed that the clock read 6:27. My dad was supposed to pick up Ashley and me at six-thirty. "Um, we have to go," I said.
"I'll walk you to the parking lot/' Bob volunteered.
We gathered our stuff and began heading down the hall toward the front door.
"I just can't imagine Stoneybrook without WSTO/' I said. "I remember listening to it when I was a kid." Bob nodded. "Me, too. And my parents heard the end of World War Two announced on WSTO when they were kids. Our listeners are going to be shocked big-time if the station goes down the drain." "Don't they know about it?" Ashley asked.
"Nahhh," Bob replied. "The station policy has been to keep it quiet. If our advertisers find out, they'll want to desert us. No one wants to stay aboard a sinking ship." I waved to Max and pushed the front door open. "That's dumb. If you get more people to listen, then the advertisers will want to put ads in the show. Right?" "Yup," Bob said, holding the door for Ashley.
"So let everybody know," I went on. "The listeners care about the station. Maybe they can write to advertisers. Or donate money. Like an emergency fund." "True," Bob said. "I mean, it's not the way things are done in commercial radio, but — " "I think it's unfair not to tell the listeners," Ashley remarked.
"I suppose I could broadcast an editorial," Bob said. "But I'd have to get Mr. Bullock's permission." "Write an article for the Stoneybrook News, too," I suggested. "That way you might reach some new listeners." Honk! Honk! Dad was parked in a spot at the other end of the lot. He waved at us.
"You guys better go," Bob said. "Good work." "Will you talk to Mr. Bullock about all this?" Ashley asked.
"Sure, sure," Bob replied. "Hope springs eternal, huh?" He smiled as we headed toward the car.
But judging from the look on his face, hope was the furthest thing from his mind.
Chapter 11.
"You what?" I could not believe it. Our Thursday show was about to begin. I was in the studio, setting up with Ashley, Bob, Mr. Bullock, and the engineers. And now one of our guests, Peter Hayes, was calling up to cancel.
Peter is a great athlete. He has set a bunch of middle-school track records. For our theme, "It Ain't Easy Being a Kid," he was going to talk about sports pressure at the state level.
"I twisted my ankle," Peter said. "I was skateboarding." "And you can't walk?" "Claudia, I have to go to the doctor. Now. I mean, come on, I didn't do this on purpose!" I inhaled and counted to three. Then I exhaled and said, "I know. Sorry, Pete. Good luck. I hope you feel better." "Thanks, Claud." "No problem." I was courteous. I was polite. I was compassionate.
And then I hung up.
"He's a track star, and he twisted his ankle on a skateboard!" I exploded. "Arrrrgh!" "What do we do now?" Ashley asked.
"Can you do a good imitation of a track star?" Bob asked.
"Very funny," I said, pacing the floor. "How on earth are we going to fill fifteen minutes?" "Music?" Ashley suggested.
"We can't forget the theme," I reminded her.
"Talk about the pressures of the Baby-sitters Club," Ashley suggested.
"Kristy would kill me," I said. "She'd think it was bad publicity." The room fell silent. I could hear the equipment buzzing. The clock said 4:50. Ten minutes to showtime.
My mind was flying.
"It Ain't Easy Being a Kid." I sure knew enough about that subject. From my home life, from my friendships, from my personals column.
That would be perfect. A personals column on the air. Well, not personals, exactly. But complaints and advice, more like Dear Abby.
"Okay, let's do a call-in/' I said. "Advice for kids." "From us?" Ashley asked.
"Why not? We can try." "Peer counseling," Mr. Bullock said. "Good idea. I say go for it." Ashley didn't look convinced. But she agreed. And that was all that mattered.
Rosie Wilder was the guest on our first segment. She played her funny violin piece, then talked with me on-air about her conflicts. The fifteen minutes went by super-fast.
In our next two segments, we interviewed some of Ash's SMS friends she'd invited to be on the show: identical twins, and then a boy who had lived in six different places (in three countries) over the past five years.
Throughout the show, I kept saying, "And remember, our Tor Kids Only' call-in begins at five-forty-five. Tell us what's on your mind." An engineer had set up a huge telephone near me, with six lines. By 5:44, all six were lit up.
Ashley was sweating. She squeezed my left hand. I could feel my throat tightening. I picked up the phone and said, " 'For Kids Only.' You're on the air." "Hi, Claudia?" "Yes?" I said. "Who am I speaking to?" "Urn, my name's Joanne. I really love your show, and I just wanted to ask you something. I had this argument with a friend, and I told her I never wanted to speak to her. But now I realize I was stupid. She hates me, but I want to be her friend again. What do I do?" "How do you know she hates you?" I asked.
"She doesn't talk to me in school anymore." "Has either of you called to apologize?" "No." "Well, someone has to do it. Why not you? Just tell her exactly what you told me." "But she'll hang up on me!" "I don't believe that, Joanne. I think you need to try. I bet she'll stop being mad." "You think?" "Yup. And good luck, Joanne." Ashley gave me a thumbs-up.
Why, why did that call make me think of Stacey?
The next caller wanted to complain about a teacher. Ashley handled that one.
Caller three was a girl named Cheryl who asked, "When you're baby-sitting, how do you deal with a one-and-a-half-year-old boy who won't go to sleep?" Right up my alley. "First try singing to him. If that doesn't work, pick him up and pace back and forth — but keep singing. If he still won't sleep, try some warm milk with a little honey in it. If you have a rocking chair, sit in it and rock back and forth while telling a long story. . . ." I went through every baby-sitting trick in the book. Cheryl listened carefully and thanked me.
The next caller blurted out, "Why do kids have to do homework? It's the stupidest thing in the world!" "Do you need some help with your homework?" Ashley asked.
Nah. He'd already done it. It turned out he just wanted to complain.
I answered a few calls. Ashley answered a few. Together we managed to give advice about hair, clothes, boys, girls, parents, grandparents, teachers, you name it. The time was racing by.
At 5:58, I announced, "Okay, I think this'll be our last call. Hello, you're on the air." Sniff. Sniff. "Hello?" When I heard the sniffling, I immediately thought Mary Anne was calling. But the voice was different.
"Hi. This is Claudia." "Hi." Sniff. "Um, my name's George Hew-itt. I'm eleven. And . . . and my parents are, well, it's like, they hate each other. They al- ways fight. Now my dad hasn't been home for a few days, and my mom says they're going to get a divorce." I could see Ashley turning about three shades of pale. (I wasn't feeling too comfy myself. I'd sort of been hoping for a discussion about clothes or videos.) "You sound very upset/' I said.
"Well," George went on, "my mom got really angry today, and she started screaming at my little sister, Rachel. And Rachel started saying how she wished Mom would go away and Dad would come back. Then Mom started crying, and Rachel said . . . well, she said Mom should die, and both of them ran to their rooms. I tried to talk to them, but they told me to go away. I don't know, I guess — I guess I just feel helpless. What should I do?" Whew. How were we going to handle this? I looked at Ashley, but she just shook her head.
I thought about my personals column. Back then, a boy had written me with a similar problem. I referred him to a therapist named Dr. Reese. Yes, a therapist. Mary Anne had seen her not long before, after she had become totally depressed. After a few consultations, Mary Anne was on the right track again and felt much better.
I looked at the clock. It was time to wrap up.
"George, I don't think you're going to find what you need on a call-in show," I said gently. "You need to talk to someone professional." "You mean, like a — " "A therapist. Don't worry. It doesn't mean you're crazy or anything, George. It will really help. Stay on the line, okay? When we go off the air, I'll give you the phone number of someone very good." "Okay." I gave a little closing speech. The red light went off, and Bob came running in with a Stoneybrook phone book. I flipped through and found Dr. Reese's number.