Claudia Kishi, Live From WSTO! (4 page)

"Do you want a music show?" Ashley asked. "Or, like, call-ins and featured guests?" "Yes." Mr. Bullock laughed. "In other words, anything goes. It's your show. We have facilities for all of the above. I'll just ask that you submit a program sheet the day of the first show, and at least a day in advance for subsequent shows. Remember, the station is at your disposal. And I've assigned one of our interns to help you. His name is Bob At-kinson, and he did a show like this in New York when he was a teenager. Okay?" "Okay," I squeaked.
"Now, come on, let me show you around." Mr. Bullock led us back into the hallway. He pushed open the incredibly thick, padded door to Studio 1. Outside the door was a red light that said On Air. It was unlit.
Inside was a room with electronic equipment crammed in every corner. Shelves of tapes and CDs lined the walls and a rock song was playing loudly.
One wall was glass, from about waist up. Through it I could see a man sitting at a desk. He was young and skinny, and his hair was in a ponytail. He was wearing earphones, bopping along with the song, and scribbling something on a sheet of paper.
"That's one of our engineers, testing the equipment," Mr. Bullock said with a smile. "You'll be sitting in this big room with your guests, and the tech staff will work behind the soundproof glass." Wow. 1 was beginning to tingle. I could not wait to start.
Ashley was beaming, too.
The engineer caught a glimpse of us and waved his pencil. I waved back.
Mr. Bullock took us to a huge stockroom with nothing but shelves of records, tapes, and CDs. "Our library," he called it.
Next we saw the conference room. In there, a bearded, dark-blond-haired guy was putting labels on tapes while eating a donut.
"Bob, meet Claudia and Ashley," Mr. Bullock said.
"Heyyy, the two winners," he said, offering his hand. "Nice to meet you. Did Mr. Bullock manage to scare the daylights out of you yet?" Ashley and I laughed. Neither one of us dared to say yes.
"Well, I'll leave you three," Mr. Bullock said. "Come talk to me if you have questions." We said good-bye, and Bob pulled up a couple of folding chairs for us. I got three cups of water from a cooler in the corner. From under the piles of tapes, Bob pulled out a legal pad.
"Your first dangerous mission, should you accept it," he said, "will be finding two things: a title and a format. By format, I mean, how exactly are you going to divide up the hour? What kinds of features? How long? Will they be continuing? Varying from show to show? Stuff like that." Nod, nod, nod, nodded Ashley and I.
"At some point, you'll want to look at these notes," he said, pushing the legal pad toward us. "Just some stuff I did in New York. Like . . . 'Mr. Science/ a call-in show on which kids learn weird science facts from this wisecracking, street-smart character. Kids loved that. Then we had 'Book Talk.' Kids reviewed books and actually spoke to their favorite authors. You get the idea." He looked at his watch. "Now, I have a few things I need to do. Discuss amongst yourselves. I'll be back." He rose from his seat, shot out the door, and closed it behind him.
I was alone in the room with Ashley Wyeth.
Suddenly 1 wished I had decided on the tuba, after all.
"I, uh, didn't know you were interested in radio," I said, trying to be friendly.
Ashley shrugged. "The contest sounded fun. It was sort of, you know, spur of the moment." "But won't this take time away from your art?" I asked.
"I guess. But art isn't everything." I laughed. "1 never thought I'd hear you say that." "Yeah. I guess not. Well, people change, huh?" "Mm-hm. Sure. I guess." Ashley pulled the legal pad close to her. "Okay, let's see . . ." she said. "We can definitely do without this 'Mr. Science' thing." "Oh. I liked that idea." "Are you serious?" She raised her eyebrows. "Well, you're the boss, aren't you?" I did not like her tone of voice, but I let it pass. Instead I leaned over and read, " 'Tom the Taxi Driver' — special guest who answers kids' questions about feelings and behavioral issues." I burst out laughing. "Nahhh." "Really? I think that sounds perfect," Ashley said.
Slowly but surely, my heart was starting to feel like the Titanic. Sinking fast.
Chapter 5.
"How about 'For Kids Only,' " I suggested, taking a taco plate from the cafeteria display.
"I don't think we should have the word kids in the title." Ashley picked up a small sprouts salad, inspected it carefully, then finally put it on her lunch tray. "It's kind of patronizing." Patronizing? You patronize places, right? Restaurants and stores? I had no idea what she was talking about.
" 'The Young Adults Education Hour'?" I suggested.
"Please." " 'Yo, Dudes'?" Ashley furrowed her brow. "It might be too informal." "It was a joke, Ash." I smiled. Ashley smiled. I grabbed two bowls of chocolate pudding and headed into the lunch room.
Have you ever met anyone with absolutely no sense of humor? That's Ashley.
Our meeting at WSTO had been pretty much a disaster. We hadn't fought or anything. But we were in two different worlds. Immediately we'd forgotten Bob's instructions and started talking about features. Ashley would suggest something like "A Mozart Moment" or "Art Gallery Calendar," and I'd pretend to consider it. Then I'd come up with "Stoneybrook Top 40" or "Guest Movie Review," and she'd kind of snort and sniff and say, "Well, you're the boss." So I had to humor her dumb ideas, and feel bad about mine.
Then Bob had returned to the conference room and reminded us to concentrate on a title and format. He'd suggested we meet him the next day with some "concrete ideas." And here we were, the next day, and our concrete ideas were still in the mush stage.
" 'Something for Everyone,' " Ashley said as she sat at a table.
"Nice," I lied. "But that name could be for anything. Kids should hear the title and know what the show's about right away." Ashley scowled and fed herself a mound of sprouts.
I didn't want to spend the whole day bickering about the title. So I decided to change the subject.
I pulled a pen and legal pad out of my shoulder bag and set them on the table. On the top page of the pad, in big letters, I had written Format? Underneath were notes I had taken.
"I was thinking," I said, "that maybe we should divide the show into three segments — " "But what about a title?" Ashley insisted.
"We'll go back to that!" "Okay. You're the — " "What about making the first segment music?" I suggested. "That'll get us off to a good start." Ashley frowned. "I don't know. You can hear music on any station. I was thinking of having a feature, like current events or something school-related." Bo-ring! "What about a call-in segment?" I suggested.
Ashley thought about that for a moment. "Yeah, but you know some kids. They'll call up and act stupid." "Yeah. The Alan Gray factor," I said. Alan once came to an art show of mine and put wadded-up gum all over the floor. He would definitely call the radio show just to burp — or something worse. Still, it might work.
"What about themes?" Ashley asked. "Like, a theme for each show? And all the segments can have something to do with it?" A great idea from Ashley! I almost choked on my taco. "Uh~huh," I mumbled.
"We can play music related to the theme, interview people, maybe find some archival radio tapes." Archival radio tapes? Puh-leeze. "Uh, why not just have kid guests. I mean, guests our own ages? You know, hold auditions, have people sing, read aloud, tell stories, whatever." "Well, that could be part of it." Now 1 could see Kristy and Mary Anne heading our way. Mary Anne was eyeing us with caution. Kristy was more obvious. She looked completely disgusted.
Ashley, as I mentioned, is not beloved by the BSC.
"Oh, Ashley/' Kristy said, with the same tone of voice she might have used if she'd found Godzilla sitting next to me. "Hi," Ashley replied.
"Ash is my assistant on the show," I quickly explained to Mary Anne. I had told Kristy about her on the way home from WSTO. "You're doing an art show?" Mary Anne asked.
I carefully explained. I wanted to make sure Kristy and Mary Anne knew that Ashley wasn't up to her old tricks again.
I guess it worked. My friends sat with us and ate peacefully.
Well, at least Mary Anne did. Ashley and I had to put up with Kristy's constant questions. But by the end of lunch period, I had written down our tentative format: When I finished, I passed it across to Ash-ley.
Kristy was still spilling out ideas. "Now, the play about baby-sitting will not only be educational, but a good advertisement for us — " "Whoa, whoa," I said, "not so fast, Kristy. You're not on the show yet." "I'm not?" "Well, no. I mean, we haven't had auditions." "Piece of cake," Kristy replied. "Mary Anne, you could play — " "No," Mary Anne interrupted. "No way." As Kristy rambled on, Ashley pulled a pen from her backpack.
"What's that for?" 1 asked. "Your spelling," Ashley replied. "It's atrocious. And you also used the title we rejected." I grabbed the sheet out of her hands. "It's only a rough draft, Ashley. And it says, 'Working Title/ " Ashley just shrugged. "Well, 1 guess you don't really need my help, then." "What do you mean?" "You and Kristy seem to have the whole thing worked out." "You just called Claudia atrocious!" Kristy snapped.
"Not her — her spelling," Ashley replied.
"It's still not very nice," Mary Anne said quietly.
"Mm-hm. Okay. Well, excuse me." Ashley sniffed. "I was just trying to help." "Yeah?" Kristy muttered. "Well, try a little harder next time." "What?" Ashley said.
"Never mind." Ugh. This was not getting any better.
I wasn't optimistic as Mrs. Wyeth drove us to WSTO after school. Ashley and I were just not hitting it off.
Bob was ready for us. He brought Ashley and me into the conference room and read my list (which I had typed and Spellchecked on the Express computer).
"Excellent!" was his first comment. (Yeaaaa!) Next, he played some tapes of old shows he had worked on. In one of them, two kid hosts interviewed the author of a book called I Hate English, about a Chinese immigrant girl's trouble learning the English language. Then a panel of kids — some immigrants, some American-born — discussed the book. The show was incredible. I could have listened for hours.
Then we heard a call-in show about a book that some parents were trying to ban from a school library. Bob said that as a result of the show, the book was kept on the shelves.
A quiz show, book readings by guest actors, a comedy act . . . the tape was full of great stuff.
By the end of the tape I'd filled two pages with atrociously spelled notes.
"How do we get authors on the show?" I asked.
"Call or write their publishing company for information," Bob replied. Scribble, scribble, scribble. "What about auditions?" Ashley asked. "You know, for people our age?" "We can put an ad in the SMS Express," I suggested.
"And we'll run periodic announcements on the air," Bob said. "You can hold the auditions in the studio. We'll set everything up. Just remember one thing." "What's that?" 1 asked. Bob laughed. "Don't book anything that'll cost us. Remember why you guys are here." Ash and 1 looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Didn't Mr. Bullock tell you? About our financial state?" Ash and I glanced at each other and shrugged. "Nope," she said.
"Well, one of our sponsors has backed out," Bob explained. "One that funded a lot of shows, including the show that's in your time slot. So ... no sponsor, no money. The station Had to fire a dee jay and some of our staff. I'm amazed they kept me." "The station's not going to close down or anything, is it?" I asked.
"Not yet. But it doesn't look too great." "And that's why you had the contest?" Ash-ley said. "To get two unpaid staff members?" "Well, I wouldn't put it so bluntly/' Bob replied. "I mean, that was a consideration. But the station really believes in this concept. I believe in it. And I think you guys are going to be fantastic!" After our meeting with Bob, Ash was furious. As we waited outside for her mom, I could practically see the storm clouds gathering over her head. "I can't believe they're using us like this," she grumbled.
"Oh, Ash, what's the difference?" I said. "We're doing this for the experience, right? We're going to run a radio show. Who cares about that other junk?" Ashley grunted. I think she agreed with me. She just didn't want to admit it.
Chapter 6.
Boy, was Kristy determined to be on my show. I'd only seen her like this once before, when she'd tried to convince a TV news team to interview the BSC members. (Why? Because the baby-sitting club Dawn had joined when she was in California had been on TV out there.) Each day she seemed to have a new idea. On Wednesday she suggested running radio ads for the BSC (I'd open each show saying " 'For Kids Only/ sponsored by the Babysitters Club"!). Thursday she proposed a regular feature called "Thomas's Sitting Tips." Friday it was the "Krusher Scouting Report." I figured she'd take a break over the weekend.
I was wrong.
On Saturday, Kristy and Dawn were scheduled to sit for the seven Barrett/DeWitt kids. (Four of them are from Mr. DeWitt's first marriage, and three of them from Mrs. Barrett's.) By the time Dawn arrived, Kristy was already setting two things on the picnic table in the backyard. One was a baby monitor (Marnie Barrett and Ryan DeWitt, who are both two, were napping in the bedroom they share.) The other thing was a cassette recorder.
"Hi!" Dawn said. "What's the machine for?" "You'll see. You're in this, too." Before Dawn could reply, Mr. and Mrs. DeWitt bustled out the back door and said their good-byes.
" 'Bye/' yelled all the non-napping kids, who were playing freeze tag: Buddy Barrett and Lindsey DeWitt (who are eight), Taylor DeWitt (six), Suzi Barrett (five), and Madeleine DeWitt (four).
As the grown-ups headed toward their car, Kristy cupped her hands and called out: "Okay, how many of you guys want to audition for a radio show?" "Meeeeee!" Forget freeze tag. The five of them charged toward the picnic table.
Dawn rolled her eyes. "Claudia is going to kill you, Kristy." Kristy laughed. "Nahh. Too many witnesses. Besides, we're just auditioning." "Can I be the announcer?" Buddy cried out.
"No announcer," Kristy said. "This is a play, with parts for everybody." "Yeaaawa!" the kids screamed.
"Can we do Robin Hood?" Taylor asked. "I'm Robin!" "I'm the Sheriff!" Suzi called out.
"You're a girl," Buddy sneered.
"So?" "So who am I supposed to play, Maid Marion?" Lindsey shrieked with laughter. "Buddy's Maid Marion, Buddy's Maid Marion." "Heyyyyy - " Phweeet! Kristy is the only girl I know who owns a referee's whistle. She takes it with her on baby-sitting jobs sometimes. It makes one of the loudest noises I have ever heard. I don't know why Mamie and Ryan didn't start shrieking from inside.