The Kiss Test (2 page)

Peppy Asian music cued the end and I turned to the last ad. “No way!” I said to Cleo, off-mike. “Who transported us to Asia overnight?” The third ad was for a Korean grocery.

Cleo just shrugged, concentrating on her computer screen so she wouldn’t miss anything exciting. I read the copy, stumbling over unfamiliar Korean delicacies, hoping I wasn’t botching them into obscenities.

“Holy crap!” I punched up the next song, “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems” by Kenny Chesney, and stared through the glass into the radio control room otherwise known—at least between 5:00 and 10:00 a.m. every weekday morning—as Cleo’s Domain. “No more unpronounceable words. High-school Spanish doesn’t help with the pronunciation of Korean edibles.”

Cleo shrugged again. “I don’t write ’em. I just pass them on.”

“Then we need to hire an interpreter.”

Kenny finished his tribute to Mexican vacations and then it was time for the traffic and weather. I pointed at Ben Barnes, who slipped into the studio—followed by a cloud of cheap cologne strong enough to penetrate a chemical suit—just in time for his report. “Go, Benny.”

After Ben told us how horrible the traffic was in Manhattan (why didn’t we just replay the same traffic report every morning since it never varied?), he moved on to the weather. “Today in New York, we’ll have a high of eighty-seven and muggy. More of the same tomorrow, with a high of ninety. Seoul is expecting a high today of eighty, and tomorrow a high of eighty-three with monsoon rains possible.”

I gaped at Ben open-mouthed. “I must be losing it. I could have sworn you just did the weather for South Korea.”

“That’s what they gave me.” He waved the sheet at me, as if to prove his point, even though I couldn’t read it from the other end of our Formica-topped table. “Maybe for our foreign listeners tuning in over the internet?”

“I guess,” I replied, with an eye roll. “Well, anyone hopping a plane for Korea, pack an umbrella. Anyway, that’s it for me today. Don’t forget to sign on to the WKUP website to win those tickets to next month’s Carrie Underwood concert at the Garden. I’m Margo in the Morning and you’ve—”

Cleo waved frantically at me from beyond the glass wall. “You have a call,” she said into my headphones.

Glancing down at the computer monitor, I noted she’d cued up a call from someone named Nancy. No subject line. “Well, I guess I can’t go home quite yet. I’m taking a call from Nancy. Hi, Nancy.” There was a moment of light static on the line before my caller finally spoke.

“Hi, Margo. I’m Nancy Noble from
Today’s Country Magazine.
”

“Hey, my favorite!” I said, meaning it. They put out a great magazine filled with country music gossip, a lot of which I used on my show, but also had in-depth spreads on other country-related stuff. This month’s issue even included an article about the upcoming anniversary of Elvis’s death and the memorials planned in Memphis. Elvis may not have been a country singer, but he was loved in the South all the same.

“I’m glad you like it. We have some wonderful news for you, Margo. You’ve been chosen as this year’s Best Country DJ.”

I blinked and looked up at Cleo. Her heavily-lined face cracked into a huge grin. I looked over at Ben. He, too, smiled broadly, eyes magnified behind his thick lenses.

“Really?” I squeaked. “Me?”

“You were nominated by your listeners,” Nancy said. “We award Best Country DJ to someone who’s popular amongst their listeners, provides dedicated service to the country music industry and has spent at least three years at their current station, on-air and in a promotional capacity. You’re the first jock outside the South to win. It’s a pretty big thing.”

I was at a total loss for words. Or thoughts.

Me. Margo Gentry. Best Country DJ.

Wow.

“Are you there, Margo?” Nancy asked over the phone line.

“Yeah, I’m just in shock. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You can thank us by coming for an interview next month.”

“Sure. I’d love to.” I know I told my mother I couldn’t get away for her wedding next month. Maybe the eleventh time I got voted Best Country DJ, I’d be more jaded. But now I felt like jumping out the eighty-fifth floor window—this time, because I was sure I could fly.

I hastily signed off and moved into Cleo’s Domain to talk to Nancy about the details. When we were done, I hung up and stared at Cleo, still in shock.

“Good job, girl,” my producer said, pulling cigarettes out of her purse. She fondled the pack between her purple-painted fingertips, crinkling the cellophane. “You deserve it.”

“I still can’t believe it,” I said, leading the way out into the hall that circled the station offices. “This has to be the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Hit ’em up for a raise, I say.” Cleo shoved an unlit cigarette between fuchsia lips and headed off for her smoke break before her blood-to-nicotine ratio got so low her organs began shutting down.

With a grin, I bounced off to the break room to get my stuff from my locker. This award was big. National. It would open doors to other jobs, if I wanted other jobs. But I loved it here at WKUP and had no intention of leaving for a very long time. Even if they didn’t give me the raise Cleo suggested I hit them up for.

I had to tell someone. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed as I walked.

“X-Treem Sports, Chip Xavier speaking.”

“Hey, Chip. It’s Margo. Can I speak to Chris?”

I pushed away the tiny twinge of guilt I felt for not calling my boyfriend first to tell him the good news. Kevin and I aren’t married, so that unwritten rule about having to first tell your spouse about every momentous occasion in your life didn’t apply. Oh, Kevin’ll be happy for me. He’ll tell me he’s excited and push all the right body parts to show his support, but Chris…Chris will
get it.
He’ll know what it means to me. Kevin is my boyfriend, but Chris Treem is my
best
friend. Has been for nearly twenty years. Even though he’s straight as an arrow—and thick as a log to hear him tell it.

The summer I turned ten was a very bad year. My dad walked out, my fragilely Southern mom took to her bed and my older brother, Rob (Chris’s former best friend), took solace in his Sega Genesis. I needed someone to talk to, and Chris was taking applications for a new best friend. The rest is history.

“Chris here.”

“You’ll never guess what I got.”

He paused to consider a moment, then suggested, “You bid on a square of Elvis’s used TP and won.”

“You know, your crappy attitude about Elvis is the only thing that prevents you from being the perfect friend.”

“It’s my only fault. So shoot me.”

“You wouldn’t like where I’d aim. Now will you be serious? Guess what I got.”

I heard a cell phone, presumably Chris’s, going off in the background.

“Can we do this without the twenty questions?” He silenced the phone.

I sighed. It almost took all the fun out of it. Almost, but not quite. “I just won Best Country DJ.
Today’s Country Magazine
called during my show.”

“Damn! That’s pretty huge, isn’t it? Your big mouth finally paid off.” I smiled at the pride in his voice.
That
was why I’d called him instead of Kevin.

“I even get to go to L.A. next month to be interviewed. With a stop in Nashville for a photo shoot for the cover. It’ll be in an issue a couple months from now.”

“Pretty good, for a girl,” Chris said. “I’ll buy on Friday night.”

“Damn straight.”

We said goodbye and I pocketed the cell phone again, glad I’d taken the time to call. Kevin I’d tell in person tonight, over Chinese take-out, maybe naked, so we had something to fall back on if our enthusiasm levels weren’t equal.

I continued down the hall, slowing and moving to the side to let pass a group of tourists being shown around the station by Clement Banks, assistant to Joe Looney, our general manager. Clem was a major dweeb, who spent much of his time kissing ass and pretending to be more important than he really was. The tourists appeared to be Asian businessmen, smiling broadly and gesturing to each other as they moved through the green-carpeted hallway under Clem’s guidance.

Spotting me, they stopped and bowed and smiled. I bowed back, hoping that was the correct response to their greeting. For all I knew, it was insulting for a woman to bow. Or construed as some sort of sexual signal. No one jumped my bones, so I was probably wrong about the last part.

“Hey, Margo!” Clem waved from the other side of the group. I groaned inwardly. I’d been hoping to pass without any acknowledgement from him. But Clem wasn’t going to ruin my good mood. “Gentlemen, this is Margo, our morning DJ, just coming off her show. She’s been one of our most popular DJs. Margo,” Clem continued pointedly, “these men are touring the station from the Soon Kim Group of South Korea.”

Hmm. Maybe we hadn’t been transported to Korea overnight. Maybe we’d been
invaded.
Not that it bothered me. You couldn’t live in New York without being used to the ethnicity of the city. Still, how many Koreans actually listened to Garth Brooks and Johnny Cash? Did these guys even know “A Boy Named Sue”?

Smiling, I bowed again at our guests. “Have fun, gentlemen.” I turned away, but Clem called out to me.
Oh, lucky me,
I thought, turning back and flashing a smile that would only fool someone who expected everyone to smile at him.

“Margo, someone wants to see you in the break room.”

A few minutes later, I discovered the entire station waiting for me, complete with flowers and a cake that said Congrats Margo! Best Country DJ!

Cleo and Ben were there, having circled around the hall to beat me to the lunch room. My friends Katya Steinberg and Adair Lewis from sales, Duane and Yin from promotions, and everyone from engineering and sports were there, too.
God, my life is good,
I thought, accepting hugs and well wishes from all my closest friends and coworkers, who’d apparently been alerted yesterday about the award.

Someone had mocked up a cover of
Today’s Country Magazine,
where they’d superimposed my face over the body of a country star who was much better endowed than I (perhaps I should consider a boob job before my photo shoot), and had inserted the headline Margo Gentry, DJ of the Year!

I couldn’t stop grinning. I accepted a knife and began cutting the cake and distributing it all around. “Where’s Joe?” I asked the crowd at large, missing our general manager, one of my favorite people.

“He had a meeting he couldn’t get out of,” our intern, Nigel, said. “He was pretty pissed about missing your party.”

Oh well. Even that wasn’t going to get me down. I’d see Joe later.

Katya, a spindly, spiky-haired blonde and one of my close friends, sat down at the table with her cake. “I could barely get a break to come here. Your award’s put your time slot in demand for advertising already. The phone’s been ringing off the hook for the past twenty minutes.”

I laughed. “Glad I could help.” I’d put up with reading Korean advertising on-air for the rest of my life, if only I could keep this feeling.

I loved my life. It was perfect.

I knocked at Joe’s door. His gruff voice barked softly to enter. Joe was a huge man, probably six-eight and solid muscle, mammoth in size and girth, especially to a five-foot four-inch girl like me. He sat behind a tiny metal desk—the station owners weren’t big on esthetics—circa nineteen thirty, I think. Maybe it wasn’t
really
tiny but just looked that way because of Joe’s size.

“You summoned me?” I said, drawing Joe’s attention from the papers he was inspecting.

He glanced up and quickly removed his reading glasses before standing.

“Margo.”

I blinked at his somber tone. Joe tended toward cheerful and nearly effusive enthusiasm, with a soft spot for his morning girl, in my own humble opinion, and I surely expected him to be thrilled about my award. Now, he was decidedly not effusive. Or thrilled.

“I missed you at my party yesterday,” I said. “But, I know you planned it. It was really nice. Look, I brought you the magazine the guys in IT made.”

He ignored the magazine I tossed on the desk and looked up at me. A stab of worry went through me. Despite the huge smile I had on my face, Joe looked like someone had died.

He motioned to the faux leather chair in front of his desk, but I shook my head. “I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” I said, twisting my waist one way then the other, in an effort to get some of the kinks out. It would also serve as a warm-up for the Central Park run I planned to take with Katya and Adair in a couple of hours. “A shift in the studio is enough to freeze the limberest joints.”

Joe nodded again and returned to his own seat, not quite meeting my eyes. His fingers thrummed lightly on the cover of my magazine, not really seeing it. “Well. Margo.”

The pause became so pregnant it nearly gave birth.

“You okay, Joe?”

He finally looked up, meeting my eyes, his gaze serious and forbidding. For an instant, I felt a catch in the pit of my stomach. Maybe someone
had
died and Joe had to tell me who it was. I briefly racked my brain trying to remember who in the station I hadn’t seen this morning. Who might have been hit by one of those damned cabs that honked at nothing or who may have succumbed to some fast-acting virus spread through the subway by a bronchitic sicky. I came up with no one.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He heaved a deep breath. “The station’s been sold.”

“Hey, that’s great,” I said. The station had been up for sale for months with no takers, and I knew that the current powers-that-be were getting a little antsy. New blood, new investors, meant bigger and better things for WKUP. “When did this happen?”

“It was finalized yesterday afternoon. That’s where I was during your party,” Joe said. Then he waved at the chair again. “
Sure
you don’t want to sit?”

“I’m fine. Tell me about the new owners. Anything new and exciting in the works?”

Joe groaned. “They’re Korean.”

Completely aside from the fact that I’d heard the terms “Korea” and “Korean” more times in the past two days than I had probably ever heard them before in my entire life (today’s program had contained even more Korean ads than yesterday’s), I was a bit surprised at his reaction to the nationality of our new owners. We had a pretty eclectic group of people working for the station, maybe not the typical employees of a country station in the South, but this
was
New York after all. Diversity was our middle name.

Then it hit me. Korean ads, Korean weather, Korean businessmen touring the building (they’d made a repeat appearance this morning, sitting in with Cleo through part of my show). I glanced back at the door and jerked a thumb in that direction. “The Soon Kim Group?” I guessed. Joe nodded grimly.

It
would
be different, I supposed, with Asian owners of a country radio station, but it probably wasn’t unheard of. Maybe.

“Is this a problem?” I asked, rising up on my toes, stretching out my calf muscles and thinking vaguely about my run. As much as I loved my job, by the time I was done with my shift my body screamed for exercise. And I needed to work off some of the nervous, excited energy my award and the anticipation of the interview were giving me. That reminded me that I also needed to schedule time off to fly to Nashville and L.A.

“Yeah,” Joe said, folding the reading glasses he still held in his hand, placing them gently on the blotter in front of him and picking up the neon-green stress ball he kept on the desk. Cleo had given it to him to replace the cigarettes he’d given up last year. He gave it a few fierce squeezes, and I wondered if it honestly did anything to relieve the stress. He still seemed to have a pulse beating beneath his balding pate, right smack in the middle of his forehead. “Yeah, it is a problem.”

“Why?”

“They’re dropping the country format. It’s going to be an all Korean Jazz station.”

“Pardon me?” I was sure I hadn’t heard him right. “Like Chick
Korea?
”

He smiled at my attempted levity, but then shook his head slowly and sadly. “They’re letting a lot of people go.”

My head snapped up. “But, why? Stations get bought out all the time and nothing changes. Things just go on as normal.”

“Not this time, I’m afraid.” Joe looked like he was ready to cry. I’d never seen him like this before and it scared me to death. I didn’t deal well with emotion.

Suddenly, my heart thudded to a complete stop, and I sank into the formerly proffered chair. “Oh no. Not you, Joe. Please say they didn’t fire you.”

If anything he looked even more miserable than moments before. He tossed down the stress ball and rearranged his glasses on the desk until they were precisely parallel to the edge of the magazine with my face staring up at him.

“No, not me.”

“Then who?”

“You.”