White Collar Girl Read Free Page A

journalistic royalty. He was a brilliant reporter and an eloquent writer, and not all journalists could be both. I took a moment to observe the great master in action, how he kept his thick black glasses propped up on his forehead just above his eyebrows and gripped a pencil between his teeth as if it were an ear of corn. His necktie was tossed over his shoulder and his shirtsleeves were rolled halfway up his hairless arms. He dropped his glasses to the bridge of his nose and looked at M for a second before his eyes landed on me.
    â€œMr. Sinclair”—I reached out to shake his hand—“it’s an honor. I’m a huge fan.” My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I could hardly believe it.
I’m meeting Marty Sinclair
.
    He removed the pencil from his mouth and studied my face. I thought I detected the hint of a smile thawing on his lips, and it thrilled me.
    But before he could respond, Mr. Copeland, the city editor, shouted for him from the horseshoe. “Sinclair—over here!”
    â€œJesus Christ. What now?” Marty shook his head.
    The spell between us was broken. He shoved himself away from his desk and went to the horseshoe to talk to Mr. Copeland and Mr. Ellsworth, the managing editor, who oversaw all the desks: the national, foreign, financial and city. I kept glancing back at the horseshoe. Marty’s arms were flailing. So were Mr. Ellsworth’s. Mr. Ellsworth was tall and lanky with a tidy beard and enough gray in his hair to suggest he’d paid his dues in the business. Marty Sinclairmay have been the
Tribune
’s star reporter, but Mr. Ellsworth was the man behind the man. He controlled the center desk, and that was the heart and soul of the paper.
    Mr. Ellsworth had interviewed me two weeks before. I assumed he’d been expecting a man, because he glanced at my résumé and said, “Jordan, huh?” When he ignored my clips, I knew he wasn’t interested in bringing a girl onto the city desk, especially one straight out of school. Didn’t matter that I’d been the deputy editor of the
Daily Northwestern
or that I’d graduated Phi Beta Kappa from the Medill School of Journalism. Less than five minutes into our meeting, he’d sent me over to Mr. Pearson. A couple of girls in the features department had recently gotten married and quit, so Mr. Pearson had agreed to give me a break, writing for society news. During my interview I had told him that I’d like to work on some other types of stories, too.
    â€œI have some ideas for feature stories and—”
    Mr. Pearson had given me a look that stopped me mid-sentence. With his bristly brows knitted together, he said, “Society news. That’s the job, missy. Take it or leave it.”
    I took it, having already been shot down for the city desk job at the
Daily News
and the
Chicago American
. The City News Bureau and the
Sun-Times
never called me back for a second interview. I knew what Eliot would say if he were still alive:
Just get your foot in the door. You’ll work your way onto the city desk
. And that was exactly what I intended to do.
    Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Copeland were still going at it with Marty. I was dying to know what they were arguing about because I was curious by nature. Always asking too many questions, sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. My father used to say, “Curiosity is the curse of a good journalist.” He also used to say, “Keep your ears open. People love to tell their secrets.”
    The last person M introduced me to was Benny, a younggeneral assignment reporter, who was eighteen but looked about twelve. He had red hair and freckles and reminded me of Howdy Doody. Unlike the others, he was friendly, if not downright chatty. While I got situated at my desk and filled out the new-employee forms for Mrs. Angelo, Benny told me about his breakfast that morning.
    â€œI had a double-yolk egg.” The look on his face said
, I