“She went to Uncle Rob’s in McLean,” Wallis said. “It’s funny. All these months she told us that he cut off communication with her because of our father, but—” Wallis shrugged, turned to rest against the windowsill. “Actually, she had stopped talking to him. Was embarrassed. Anyway, I’m glad they’re talking again.”

“Me, too.” I pulled my computer onto my lap and patted the seat beside me. “Will you come sit with me? Might as well get this over with.”

As we snuggled into each other’s sides and went through my email and then my phone messages, I discovered that while I was on the receiving end of some vitriol (fat ugly skank), the vast majority were positive. Television producers had been trying to get in touch, each more enthused than the previous. Wallis and I weighed my options, did some research, watched clips, and returned the call of an especially persistent one, a young woman. Her show, too, was anchored by a woman. There were women on staff, and not just in hair and makeup.

The thought of facing a stranger, live, on-air, was already giving me heart palpitations, and I was still in my apartment building. Even being photographed, having just one woman and her camera focused on me, had been entirely discomfiting. But growth never came out of comfort. One interview, enough to face my fear and, if I didn’t screw up massively, articulate my message. And that would be it. There were too many more important issues, and women, who needed airtime.

Thirty-Nine

My sister, as usual, entered my apartment without knocking. Her hair was down, waves loose, dress flouncy and pink. “You ready?” she asked, plunking the gold hoop earrings I’d asked to borrow on the coffee table beside me.

I was sitting on the floor of my living room, still in my stage hair and makeup, painting my nails royal purple. We were celebrating, which is to say we were putting on nicer clothes and shoes that were not sneakers and going down the block for dinner, before my interview aired.

“Just about,” I told her as I put the finishing touches on my left pinky.

“Before we go, you need to come up and help Cricket choose which outfit to wear to dinner,” said Wallis.

I twisted the cap back on the polish, glancing at the clock on my cable box. “Isn’t the reservation at seven? We’re supposed to be leaving in three minutes.”

Wallis rolled her eyes. “You know Cricket.”

I did. Not wanting to be late, I stood and hustled into my room to grab my flat sandals and clutch, trying not to mess up my nails in the process.

“Excited for the show?” she asked once we were in the hall.