Puddin'(2)

Now if I could only just figure out a way to explain that to my mom. And then, watch out, world! Millicent Michalchuk, trusted news anchor, is coming to a television screen near you.

But first I’ve gotta finish this dang personal statement for the Broadcast Journalism Boot Camp at the University of Texas in Austin.

I know it’s going to take more than summer camp or even a degree. We’re talking internships and years of grunt work. But I’m willing to do all that, because I want to be the face people come home to every night—a voice they can trust. A voice that will inspire. And maybe even change the world. I guess that’s a silly thing to expect from a news anchor, but my grandparents are as religious about the local news as they are about, well, religion!

I hear them talking about things people have said on the news channels they watch, and there are times that I don’t even think we’re living in the same world. It’s got me thinking that sometimes it’s about more than the facts. Sometimes it’s about how and which facts are presented. Like, when same-sex marriage was legalized, all the news outlets I pay attention to online treated it like a celebration, because it was! I went over to my grandparents’ house, and by the sound of their television, you would have thought we’d been invaded by a hostile enemy.

Maybe it’s different for everybody, but people like my grandparents? Their opinion of the world is shaped by the person who delivers their news. That’s real responsibility, and I don’t take that lightly.

I know. They don’t put fat girls on the news. Well, they didn’t let fat girls win runner-up in the Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant either. But everything happens for the first time at some point, so why can’t that first time be me?

After I’ve removed all my curlers, I reach for the black leggings and mint sweatshirt I laid out for myself last night. The sweatshirt is the result of a Mother-Daughter Crafturday Saturday—a fading monthly tradition, now that I’m working for Uncle Vernon—and has a fabric-paint-lined iron-on transfer of a puppy with a butterfly on its nose. (It’s as adorable as it sounds.)

I add a touch of light pink lip gloss and close my laptop, leaving Harry and Sally behind. Lastly, I get the coffeepot started for my parents before driving to work.

At 5:45 in the morning, Clover City is just barely buzzing awake. The only evidence of life is the flickering light that spills into the street from Daybreak Donuts and Coffee and the handful of runners I see before pulling into the parking lot of Down for the Count, my uncle Vernon and aunt Inga’s boxing gym.

Dad tried telling them that the name of the gym felt a little defeatist, but they weren’t hearing it. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Inga connected on a Rocky fan-club message board. Inga was a recent transplant from Russia living in Philadelphia, and they met for the first time at the top of the infamous Rocky steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. (Against my entire family’s protest, because no one in my family except me can really wrap their head around falling in love on the internet.)

I’ve never been to Philly, but Inga has promised me that we’ll go after graduation—a true girls’ trip. I just hope it won’t take climbing all seventy-two Rocky steps for me to get the happy ending to my own love story.

I park in the spot right in front of the gym. Inga always nags Vernon and I for us both parking in the front spaces, but I like to think of it as my employee-of-the-month parking. Even if I am their only employee. Hey, the pay is crummy. I’ve got to take my perks where I can find them.

Stretching above the windows in our corner of the shopping center is our light-up sign. It reads DOWN FOR THE COUNT with a set of boxing gloves hanging next to it. Below that I can still see the shadow of letters where it once read LIFE CLUB FITNESS.

Bells jingle above my head as I open the front door and run behind the counter to turn off the alarm.

I go through my opening duties: counting out the register, sharpening pencils, printing off new member applications, checking the locker rooms for towels and toilet paper, and doing a quick walk-through and equipment check. I make a game of weaving in and out of the punching bags and tugging on each of them to make sure they’re just as sturdy as they were yesterday morning. Bouncing on my toes, I give the last bag a quick one-two punch.

The bell above the door rings, letting me know someone’s come in.

“Looking good, Millie!”

Sheepishly, I glance over my shoulder. “Morning, Vernon.” My uncle was once the kind of guy parents begged their daughters to stay away from. Thick muscles and sandy-colored curls. But these days he’s more sleep-deprived dad than small-town bad boy. He’s got a few clusters of white in his reddish-blond beard, and his smile lines are more deep set now, but he’s just as sturdy as I always remember him being.

“Your stance is getting pretty solid,” he says. “I don’t think I’d want to mess with you in a dark alleyway.”

I shake out my hands. “I’m just messing around,” I tell him as I head over to the counter and grab my car keys. Learning how to box for real is on my long-term to-do list, after getting into broadcast camp and making out with a boy. (Hey, Oprah says to name your goals, and she’s never led me astray.)

He shrugs. The circles under his eyes and his day-old T-shirt tell me he was up all night with the twins. Not only that, but the gym is really up against the ropes at the moment. (Pun totally intended.) Up until last month, this place was part of the Life Club Fitness franchise, which has specialty gyms (tennis clubs, CrossFit, indoor soccer) all over the country. This meant we had additional resources for marketing and equipment and even doing things like sponsoring local sports teams.