“I’ve been talking to a lot of people at the station over the course of this week,” Torrance continues, “and it’s come to my attention that some newer staff feel like they aren’t getting the support they need. I’ve discussed this with Seth and with Fred, and we’ve decided to launch a mentorship program.”
A wave of chatter spreads around the room, as though the words Torrance Hale and mentorship program used in the same context do not compute.
She goes on to explain that it’ll be a three-tiered program: a senior staff member matched with someone who’s been here for a few years, who’s then matched with an intern or a student. The whole time she’s explaining it, I just stare. I love this idea, and the fact that she came up with it as a result of what I told her during our girls’ night . . . I’m incredibly touched.
Her boots click across the floor as she walks over to my chair, dropping a hand on my shoulder. “And Ari, who helped give me the idea for this program, is going to be my first protégé.”
The rest of the staff looks like they’re not quite sure how to react, but eventually Hannah starts clapping and everyone else joins in. Torrance gestures to me, as though wanting me to say something.
I clear my throat, completely unprepared. “Thank you. I—I’m really excited about this, and I’m honored to be mentored by Torrance.”
When the meeting’s over, Torrance catches me before I leave, promising she has one more thing she wants to discuss with me in her office. Despite having worked here for three years, I’ve mainly been in Torrance’s office to turn off her lights and tidy up. Times I’ve been invited? Not even in the double digits.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” she says once she drops into her chair, pushing aside a couple empty coffee mugs, maybe in an attempt to make her desk look like less of a hellscape. “But if I’m going to be your mentor, which I’m really looking forward to, then I can’t be your boss, too.”
“Are you . . . firing me?”
“Firing my first mentee? No, definitely not. I just want to reorganize the weather team a bit. Make us feel more like a team instead of a hierarchy. Your new boss would be Caroline.” Caroline Zielinski: our assistant news director.
“I like Caroline.”
“Great,” she says. “We’ll start the transition Monday.”
It’s almost too much good news to process in so little time. At least, until I leave her office and notice the sign on the inside of her door. Garamond font.
Your smile is my favorite thing in the world. Especially when I get to see it first thing in the morning. —SHH
* * *
? ? ?
“USUALLY IT’S A little . . . stormier.” My interview subject gives me a pointed look, as though it’s my fault the weather isn’t cooperating.
It’s a calm, almost windless Thursday at a beach in Lake Stevens, about thirty-five miles north of Seattle. My forecast yesterday called for the opposite.
“You know what they say about meteorologists,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “We’re never right.”
“Patience is an important quality for a storm chaser to have,” says Pacific Northwest Weather Chasers president Tyler “Typhoon” Watts—really. He insisted that be on his chyron. He strikes me a bit like someone preparing for an apocalypse, and he’s one of the more oddball characters I’ve interviewed: a thirtysomething dressed all in black, shaggy dark hair and shaggier beard, equipped with a tool belt and a massive backpack that isn’t doing his posture any favors. Getting him mic’d up was a Process. “It’s a lot of hours spent in the car driving. Sometimes you can’t even take a bathroom break—you can’t give the storm a chance to chase you.”
A few weeks ago, Seth suggested sports and weather collaborate on this story. I leaped at the chance to do some field reporting, especially with Russell. He’s both my field producer and camera operator today, because when you major in journalism, you have to learn how to do everything, and he’s just as easygoing and encouraging as he is the rest of the time. Maybe we trade a few more smiles than usual, but aside from that, he’s a true professional.
“And it’s worth it?” I ask Tyler.
“I probably don’t have to convince you of that,” he says, wincing as he adjusts the front strap on his backpack. When we arrived, I told him he could take it off, but he wanted to make sure we shot him in his full getup. “It absolutely is. Every time.” In his tool belt, his phone rings. “Hold up. I think I’m getting a lead on a storm out east. Do you mind if I make a call?”
“Go ahead,” I say.
Russell takes some B-roll of the lake and beach while Tyler speaks forcefully into the phone ten yards away.
“He seems like he might be a while.” Russell stops shooting and gives me a hopeful, hesitant look. “I hate to ask this, but I’m covering a hockey game tomorrow, kind of last minute, and Elodie’s mom is away on business. She’s usually fine without a babysitter, but I’ve always been a little nervous, leaving her alone at home for too long. So I was wondering . . . if maybe you’d be able to stop by and grab dinner with her? I can leave some money.”
When I’m quiet a beat too long, he seems to interpret it as disinterest. “You don’t have to stay long. Just dinner, just to check on her. And you’re, like, one of the only responsible people I know,” he continues, “and you have your niece and nephew, so I figured you probably aren’t too terrible with kids.”
“I think I’m flattered?” I say with a laugh, which serves to mask whatever else I’m feeling. Fear, maybe. Affection, definitely. “I’d love to. Really.”
“She’ll probably just want to run lines, maybe practice her Torah portion. She’s a super easy kid.” As though that’s the reason I wouldn’t want to do it, the only thing stopping me from giving him an immediate yes. “I don’t want it to mess with your sleep schedule or anything.”
I wave this off. “I’ll nap beforehand. We can watch bootleg Broadway tapings all night.”
A soft exhale. Relief. “Good. Thank you.” He steps closer, grazing my wrist with a few fingertips, and I savor this brief at-work physical contact.
Tyler/Typhoon hangs up and heads back toward us, backpack swaying.
“Okay,” he says, shoving the phone back into his belt. “So it looks like I’m going to be heading out to Darrington. Wanna tag along?”
As we pack up, my mind wanders away from storms and wind patterns and air pressure. Spending time with Russell’s daughter is a huge step, and the fact that he asked me to fills me with a mix of warmth and anxiety.
I just have to hope I don’t screw it up.
23
FORECAST:
One hundred percent chance of show tunes
“YOU HAVE TO agree that Janis is the real star of the show,” Elodie says, tucking a strand of dark hair back into her haphazard bun before reaching for a bottle of glittery gold nail polish. “Her voice. The way she brings that character to life.”
“I’ll give you that. But don’t you think part of it is that she’s given the better songs?”