Text Wars - Whitney Dineen Page 0,3

my chair, holding the receiver to my ear and nodding for good measure in case she looks back. After all, I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I’m liable to scream if I hear the words “anal sac” again.

Through the glass wall, I see Alec giving me a dirty look as Carla descends upon his desk. I offer him a satisfied smile, then type Sorry, not sorry in our private chat. He sends back a middle finger emoji in return.

I’m about to reply with a GIF of Han Solo shrugging when my boss, Dev Grover, walks in and shuts the door. “Good God, you’d think she would just take the dog to the vet already. Wow, just wow,” he says, sitting down on the opposite side of my desk. “Speaking of wow — I’ve got the opportunity of a lifetime for you.”

“Really?” I ask, not liking the look on his face, which is a cross between trepidation and excitement.

Giving one firm nod, he says, “You know how we’re always lamenting the fact that we missed NASA’s glory days, when the entire nation would stop everything to watch a shuttle launch?”

“Yes …” I already hate where this is going.

“And you know how, when you took this position, I mentioned you’d be the face of our department when we needed to drum up publicity?”

“I also recall you saying that particular scenario would likely never come to fruitition since no one is interested in space exploration anymore.” I don’t know why I think pointing this out will change what he’s about to say, but I suddenly feel exceedingly nervous.

“Yes, well, it turns out, all of that is about to change!” he says with a wide grin. “A Caelum Supercluster-sized opportunity has popped up and we’ve finally got a chance to earn back the love of the masses.” His face morphs into something more sinister as he adds, “We might actually be able to steal some of the attention away from those Mars bastards.”

Dev’s a little bitter that he wasn’t put on the Mars team when it got started. He’s been one of NASA’s top astrophysicists for close to thirty years, so he should have been a shoo-in for the team. Somehow, a certain congressman’s son-in-law was given the last spot, so Dev wound up here in New York working at the Goddard Institute on a project that will likely not be completed in his lifetime. Or mine, possibly. People think marathons are long, but they’ve got nothing on space exploration.

I wait patiently for my boss to tell me exactly what this huge opportunity is. “You, my young friend, are going to be a guest on Wake Up America! next week.” Raising and lowering his eyebrows like an old-time comedian, he says, “Exciting, right?”

There are a lot of words I’d use to describe what he’s asking me to do — most of them are four letters and not considered polite. Exciting is not one of them. “Why not get Carla to do it?” I suggest.

Dev tilts his head in a you must be kidding sort of way. “We need someone with stage presence. Charisma!”

I take off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose. “Have you ever heard anyone describe me as charismatic?”

“Me. Just now,” Dev says. “Remember the speech you gave at Clarissa Henderson’s retirement party? You had ’em rolling in the aisles.”

“That was because a bee landed on my hand and I screamed like a little girl for ten seconds straight.”

“Hmm … I don’t remember the bee, but I do remember the laughter.”

“So do I. That’s why I’m not going to do the show.” I glance out at the bullpen and say, “Pick someone else. Ewan would be great. He could do his C-3P0 impression. The audience will eat it up.”

Dev turns around and looks at the team. They’re all tapping away on their keyboards, looking totally engrossed in their work. Ewan picks up his nasal spray, parks it halfway up his nose and takes a whiff. Turning back to me, Dev says, “Him?”

“Maybe not, but also … not me.”

Dev makes a little clicking sound with his tongue. “Sorry, my friend. You’re the best-looking one of the bunch, and if there’s anything we know about regular humans, it’s that they’re far more likely to listen to good-looking people.”

Sliding my glasses back on, I contort my features, doing my best to look less attractive. “What about you? You’re good-looking-ish.”

“Tell that to my wife,” he answers with a wry grin. Then, shaking