The Atmospherians by Alex McElroy (reading fiction .TXT) 📗

“That’s not what I heard,” I said, in a voice like a smirk. I should’ve broken the news to her then, but I placed a hand on her shoulder, imitating Kandace: “Tell us, Cassandra. How can meditation keep you looking healthy and young?”

Cassandra lived in a Midtown two-bedroom overlooking the sculpture garden at MoMA. Every day that week, I showed up at her building after my lunch shift intent on telling her she wouldn’t appear in the segment, that if it were my decision she would get a full ten minutes, but every day she greeted me brimming with fresh suggestions for how we might make our stories more compelling, how we ought to enunciate, what to do with our hands when we weren’t speaking, and, of course, what to wear. She put so much energy into the segment it seemed possible, even likely, she might rocket herself onscreen through sheer will.

On the morning of the Wake Up! America segment, in the car to the studio, Cassandra’s confidence blunted my nerves. I assumed total faith in her charisma—they could never turn Cassandra Hanson away—pretending that I wasn’t leading her into a grand humiliation.

A brown-haired sparrow of a production assistant holding a clipboard met Cassandra and me in the lobby. “Which one of you is Sasha?” she asked.

I raised my hand like a child in class. There was a crumbling sensation at the back of my throat. The assistant led us inside. She addressed Cassandra at the studio doors. “Friends and family must wait in the green room.”

“I’m Cassandra Hanson,” she said.

“And you’re welcome to wait in the green room.”

“I’m neither friend nor family,” she said. “I’m Cassandra Hanson, a meditation guide, partners with Sasha, and I’m supposed to appear on the show.”

The woman looked at the clipboard. “Today’s show?”

“Sasha, say something.”

“She’s Cassandra Hanson,” I mumbled through the dust in my throat.

“Thank you for clearing that up,” said the woman ironically. “We should get going.”

Cassandra barely made herself up that morning, assuming they’d touch her up before taping. Her feelings had nowhere to hide. The self-assurance that normally brightened her features drained off her face as if someone were spraying her with a hose. I waited for her to lash out at me. I wanted her to shout at me—but that wasn’t her way.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you might get to come on with me.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “You never did and it’s fine: I forgive you.”

“It could’ve happened. There could’ve been time at the end and maybe they—”

“This is a wonderful opportunity for you. I want this for you.” She clasped my hands and leaned close, whispered the cruelest thing she could: “Your future is riding on this. You owe it to both of us. Don’t you dare mess up.” She kissed my cheeks and gave me a hug before leaving.

Two hours later, I stood in the center of a forest of cameras and an audience of women and attachable husbands. On a blue cocktail table beside me were cue cards featuring tips from my regimen. My face felt frosted after sitting in makeup. I wore an outfit Kandace had selected: a knee-length wrap the color of pine and heels one size too big. “You don’t have to wear them for long,” I was told by the stylist when I asked to switch shoes. It hurt me to be here without Cassandra. The image of her drifting out of the lobby kept crashing into me as I practiced my story for Kandace.

“I’m Kandace Heather,” said Kandace Heather. She placed her hands in my palm like a gift. She was, in that moment, the tallest woman alive, sun-blindingly blond, with skin softer than the underside of a kitten. “Your program has done wonders for my daughter—I wish you could see how she used to look, the improvements she’s made.”

“I don’t like to think in befores and afters,” I said. “I help people become who they are.”

“It doesn’t make any sense to me—I’m told you don’t have anything to promote.”

“I care too much about my clients to promote misleading and dangerous products.”

“How do you eat?”

“There’s a subscription service. Still growing. And I host at a restaurant downtown.”

“Not after today.” She stepped away to talk with the audience.

The production assistant pinned a mic to my collar. “Have you done live TV before?”

“I hold live sessions online every week.”

“That’s an answer,” she said, shaking her head. “Just know that sometimes callers get emotional on Q and A. We’ll cut the line if you’re in trouble. There’s nothing to worry about.” She raised her hand and shouted, “Ten seconds!” Ten fingers became five became one.

Kandace and I stood on either side of the cocktail table. “Welcome back,” she said to the camera. “Well, move over, Korean Skincare and Goop. Today I’m here with Sasha Marcus, founder of The ABANDON Regimen, this spring’s hottest skin-care routine. And Sasha’s here today to tell us how to ABANDON yourself.” Kandace looked at me. “You have some tips for our viewers today.”

“That’s right,” I said, stilled by guilt over Cassandra.

“Would you like to go through them?”

If you watch the video of our conversation—a video that, very soon, would become the highest-watched clip on the Wake Up! America website, before they took it down—you can see the nerves burn out of my system as I awaken to the gravity of the moment. “Your entire career is riding on this,” I can be seen mumbling. “Don’t you dare mess up.”

“We’ll absolutely get to the advice, Kandace.” I led her to the cue cards as if it were my show. “But first I want to talk to your viewers about what called me to this work. I want to talk about a friend of mine, Dyson, my oldest friend, and the reason I started ABANDON.” I shared my story of friendship and sacrifice, a story in which I devoted myself to designing a program to help my best friend feel more confident in his appearance. At