Prologue
There had to be more exciting things in the world than an extra-giant squash. I was convinced and could rattle off a handful without prompting. However, everything in my demeanor screamed with enthusiasm as I held the mic and addressed the camera on my live shot from Tanner Peak’s annual Squash Square Off. Cue the squash-shaped confetti.
It was midspring, and that meant the growers were out in force, celebrating their season and showing off their oversized successes in the annual competition. Today was the squash portion of the competition, and I made sure to turn up the wattage on my smile, which my small TV station’s handful of viewers had listed as their favorite thing about my work on the official survey.
“We weren’t sure he could pull it off, but Paul Bloomfield has done it again, ladies and gentlemen, securing the top prize at this year’s Squash Square Off with this beauty right here.” I grinned and gestured to Paul at my right as he proudly held up the forty-five-and-a-half pound butternut squash that had sealed his win. “Paul, I’m told you’ve named your squash. Can you share with us what you call it?”
Paul nodded. “It’s actually a her, Skyler.” He beamed at the folks at home. “I call her Lucy Jane after my high school sweetheart.”
I placed a hand over my heart, pretending not to boil in my matching pants and jacket beneath the sweltering hot sun. “That’s so sweet. The real-life Lucy Jane must be so proud.”
His head swiveled back to me, his smile dimming. “I’m not allowed to contact her, but I bet so.”
What the what? I blinked and looked straight into the camera. “And we’ll leave it right there. This is Skyler Ruiz from the Squash Square Off. I know what I’m having for dinner. Felipé?”
I listened to Felipé’s banter in my IFB earpiece. “Well, be sure to save some for us, Skyler.”
“No promises.” I grinned happily into the lens and held it.
“And we’re clear,” Greg, my cameraman, said and stepped out from his tripod. He sent me a look that said Are you kidding me right now? I sent one back that said Paul might murder us and our families. Greg was my guy, the person I could communicate with wordlessly. But shoots like today’s made me long for the kind of journalism I’d been dreaming about since my first telecommunications class at UC San Diego. Actual news that made a difference. Giant squash were fun, but they weren’t about to change the world. Unless scary Paul found his way to Lucy Jane, and that meant another kind of unfortunate coverage entirely. Speaking of drama, where was the real news? Crime, politics, breaking stuff. Nowhere to be found out here in the sticks. Yet, here I was. Stuck, shuffling from one small-time event to the next through the series of small towns that fed into my station’s coverage area. Last night’s lead story? Who was putting those ugly plastic flamingos in everyone’s yard, and would that rascal one day be caught? That was my life, and nothing about it signaled change anywhere on the horizon.
“Thanks for speaking with us today, Paul,” I said graciously.
He placed his thumbs under the straps of his overalls. “Anytime. And I’d be happy to sign anything for you or your viewers if they’d like an autograph. I don’t mind. I’ll even sign a vegetable. I don’t have a single hang-up about that and have given it a lot of thought.”
“Oh wow. Very generous of you.” I glanced around for who these autograph clamorers might be and found no one. “I’ll remember that. You have a good one, and don’t get too crazy celebrating your win. No streaking across Main Street this year.”
“I gotta be me.” He gestured behind him as an idea hit. “Hey, now. Bunch of us are heading over to Lonesome’s for a few brews. Real good bar. Feel free to stop on by. First round is on me.”
Oh, a lovely bullet to dodge. “You’re very kind, Paul, but I’ve gotta head back to the station and then home. Long day.” The truth, but I tossed in a wince like a respectable human. My feet ached like a bitch, and I wasn’t in the market to take out any kind of restraining order of my own.
“Suit yourself. But it’s always crazy on Squash Square Off day.” He laughed, and his eyes went big. “Like, a lot.”
“How could it not be?” I asked good-naturedly and slid beneath my leather cross-body bag. A signal that I was out of there. Take the signal, Paul.
“Let’s go, boys. Grab a table close to the jukebox.”
Yes, Lonesome’s actually had one of those. I’d seen it. Paul shot me finger-guns and dashed off with his blue ribbon, prize money, and giant squash cradled to his chest like an adored newborn.
Still wearing my work heels, I trudged to the truck with Greg, drained and dissatisfied. I was thirty years old, eight years out of college, and still working at a fledgling TV news station, covering a handful of small towns along a highway in rural California. Emphasis on rural. As one of three reporters on staff, I reported softball games, city council meetings, and—yes, wait for it!—more fruit and vegetable growing competitions than I cared to count. Why were there so many? And don’t get me started on those damn plastic flamingo invasions.
“We’ll be back here next week for the Peak of Berries Festival,” Greg reminded me with a raise of his eyebrows. He pulled the ball cap off his mop of curly blond hair and gave it a tousle. “Hope you’re ready to get your strawberry on.”
I paused before hopping into the truck. Tanner Peak was a nice enough town, but I couldn’t help hoping something remarkable would happen at that festival. “What are the odds someone runs off with a cash box, or a swarm of aggressive birds invades the square dancing pavilion and flies off with the mayor like the monkeys did with the Scarecrow in Wizard of Oz?” I nodded. “Really hoping for that monkey–mayor part.”
“One can dream,” Paul said with an amused smile. “But I’m betting the most exciting thing to come out of that festival is annoying rain.”
“Tut-tut. Haul out the ye olde galoshes.”
“Fucking A.” Greg put the cap back on, silencing the curls, and slid the news van into gear. The bond between reporter and cameraperson was a unique one. You worked as a team and saw a lot of stuff together. Greg was my rock, but unlike me, he was happy with his job at the station. He got bored with the same old stories, but he didn’t have the same thirst to pick up and find something better. That was me.
We headed back to the station for the evening assignment meeting where I learned that the following morning I’d be covering an uptick in parking tickets across the region. How was I going to sleep tonight now, with a parking ticket mystery looming? I had to laugh.
Once home in my small cottage along the beautiful greenbelt that came complete with all sorts of alarming nature sounds—coyotes, giant frogs, and even a snuffling armadillo once—I did what I did every night, scrolled through the TV news trades, looking for job openings. Two weeks ago, I sent in my reel for the handful of regional gigs up for grabs, not at all picky about which city I might wind up in as long as it was a step forward. All I needed was a leg up. In fact, I wasn’t even particular. Any limb would do. The chance to learn from people more seasoned than I was would be fantastic. Or something where I could take on more responsibility. Extra-complicated assignments. Longer-form storytelling. I just ached for the chance to really sink my teeth into the grit and grime of breaking news, and the longer I stayed in this small-town rut, the harder it became to break out. The problem was my reel was watered down, perky and quaint at best. It lacked the killer content I needed to stand out in a sea of applicants. Plus, TV news was about who you knew, and I had to face it. I didn’t know anyone of major consequence. I was Skyler Ruiz, the daughter of a hardworking immigrant who’d given me every opportunity. Now, I needed to make my own.