SUBMIT

1. CLOUT

"Next, you're on Frank Rosenbaum," Angel casually says to me at lunch.

I nearly spit the leftover spaghetti from last night back into my bowl. It takes considerable effort to swallow it. "The Frank Rosenbaum? Like, multi-millionaire Frank Rosenbaum with two kids and a helicopter?"

"Those were oddly specific details," Angel says. His pearly white teeth sparkle with his smile. "You got passed up on that Malia Obama story last month. Consider it my olive branch."

I'm still annoyed about that Malia story. I had my notes already written and everything. But I shrug it off like it's no big deal, the way I've been doing since it happened. "Yeah, whatever."

We're sitting in the café at my work. The hum of conversation around us, a few full tables, and the soft sound of Robert Palmer playing over the speakers act as our companions. The overhead lights glare, almost too bright, and I keep my eyes on my bowl.

"So. Frank Rosenbaum." Angel phrases the name like a question, raising his bushy eyebrows and shifting his head from side to side. A light flush has spread out over his warm brown skin.

"What's the story?" That's always my first question, no matter how big the celebrity. What's my angle? I've had to learn to ask that the hard way, after my disastrous interview-or-not with 50 Cent. I still cringe every time I think about it.

"Profile piece. What's going on in his life right now? You interview him, get him to answer some really controversial questions that'll get us some clicks, and bam. We've got a story." Angel talks so fast, his words run together sometimes. With that and his thick Spanish accent, it took me years to be able to understand him. Even now, there's times where I make him say things twice.

"Okay, but what questions?"

Angel shrugs. "You're the journalist. You figure it out."

It's true. I work well under pressure, as long as I have guidelines. And Angel's at least given me something to start with. I nod, feeling a little flutter of excitement in my stomach. I might actually get the chance to interview Frank Freaking Rosenbaum. "Is he coming to the city, or do I have to travel?"

"Oh, he'll be here," says Angel. "He's going to that gala honoring all the famous basketball players this weekend, and he's scheduled for a few other events, so you've got a window. Try to get in contact with his publicist, find out what hotel he's staying at. Do the interview there."

That will be the hard part. Getting the interview to happen. But I can do it. I will do it.

This'll be one of the biggest interviews of my career. I've been in a little bit of a rut lately, forced to interview third-stringers, like Miley Cyrus's guitar player from 2006 or a girl who danced with Beyoncé ten years ago. Nothing against them, but they're not going to get me the kind of clout Frank Rosenbaum will.

And that's what I want. Clout. Fame. I want to write a tell-all on Rihanna or Elon Musk or freaking Oprah. And I want it to be such a huge hit they give me the spot on MSNBC I've been dreaming of since high school. And then maybe my own TV show, like Mona Scott...

I'm daydreaming again. I blink, shaking my head as if to clear it. "Do we have the publicist's contact info?"

"Yes," Angel says, lifting up his phone, which ninety-seven percent of the time is glued to his hand. As it should be with any good journalist—a story could break at any moment. "I'm forwarding you all email addresses, phone numbers and fax numbers linked to her right now." Just as the now leaves his lips, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. "Go down the line. Track numbers and search offices. Scan license plates. Blow someone if you have to. Just get that interview by any means necessary."