1
ELLIE
The moderator leans closer, the smile in his voice curving dangerously near patronizing, "Ellie, could you share a little about your journey toward embracing your visibility? How do you navigate taking up space, both literally and figuratively, in the media world?"
Don’t let this jackass see he’s gotten to you.
"Well, it’s a work in progress. Like a long-term investigative project, but the subject is considerably less cooperative."
The audience chuckles, the laughter jagged but warming slightly. Continuing, I press on with deliberate precision, "There’s this pervasive notion that confidence is a switch you can just flip one day. Reality is much less neat and tidy. You trip over it, stumble around in the dark, then light a match just in time to see you’re on the edge of a precipice."
The moderator clears his throat. “Ellie, how could the media better represent diverse body types?”
I blink, shifting to performative formality. “Ah, yes. The million-dollar question.” I smile, a reflex from years at magazine launches. “Step outside stereotypes. Hire models who take longer than ten minutes for lunch.”
The audience chuckles; it’s low-hanging fruit, but they bite. “But surely,” she presses, “as a journalist…”
I suppress a sigh. “I’m the one who says, ‘Hey, the emperor’s not wearing clothes, and we don’t all look the same.”
Laughter and applause ripple. Despite the phones raised to capture me, I somehow manage to keep my presence.
As the dialogue volleys like hand grenades, a warm feeling settles in. No more invisibility shields. “Ellie,” a voice from the front row interrupts, “what’s your main advice for someone on a similar journey?”
“Embrace visibility.” My words linger longer than intended. “At least if you're nervous, you'll still be honest.”
Cameras flash like electric fireflies. I’m exposed, but isn’t visibility how the unseen become unforgettable?
After the interview concludes, swarms of people approach. Compliments drip like honey, rich and sincere. It conjures a dangerous feeling that I would be easy to get used to. It’s a feeling I can only imagine might have been experienced by Cleopatra as she was fanned on her litter while being fed grapes.
Somewhere in the crowd, two women engage with my words like they're pieces of an unsheltered puzzle offering clarity. "She’s inspiring," says one, in awe. “Bold," adds the other, affirming.
—
Dick Wallace leans against his desk. I can tell he’s going for some kind of chummy energy that is meant to soften the blow of something, and I’m already bracing for whatever the blow is going to be.
"Chin up, Ellie. The photo isn’t as bad as you think."
I glance up from my notes. "Huh? What photo?"
He chuckles, masking a frown. "Christ, you haven’t seen it?"
"Seen what?"
"This photo,” he says, holding up his phone to display a horrific image of me stuffing my face with the club sandwich I had on my lunch break. “It’s spreading faster than coffee in the newsroom."
I cringe inwardly and search for humor in his weathered face. "A picture of me mid-sandwich isn’t newsworthy."
His smile falters. "Fame’s unpredictable. This image has gone viral. I’m sorry, but if you weren’t excited about the reasons for your growing fame yesterday, you’re going to hate them today."
"My days as the lunchroom laughingstock ended in high school."
The hum of fluorescent lights in my editor's office buzzes as I sit with my notebook clutched to my chest like a life preserver. He waves off my concern, hoping that the display on his computer monitor will distract me. Dick points at engagement numbers like a proud hunter/gatherer of statistics.
"You know," he starts, gesturing with an oily enthusiasm, "the response to your last piece was phenomenal. People really connected with you."
Dick leans back in his chair and smiles a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Ellie, you're making waves," he begins, tapping a finger against the tabletop. "The higher-ups are buzzing."