Free The List by Karin Tanabe Page A

kindergarten,
     but my pencil skirt really compromised my range of motion. So instead I nodded my
     head encouragingly, trying to look brave but feeling the way I did just before my
     sister shoved me off a ski lift in Gstaad. I had known her mitten-covered hand was
     going for the small of my back before I felt the firm shove and heard the cackle of
     joy, but there was nothing I could do about it. I flew through the crisp Swiss air
     in my pink snowsuit complete with rabbit ears and crash-landed onto a family of five
     frightened Germans. UnlessI drugged Rachel and shoved her in a filing cabinet, there was probably nothing I
     could do about her departure, either.
    Deep in mourning about the loss of Rachel, we stayed mum for much of the afternoon,
     only looking up when someone stopped in front of our bank of desks in the very back.
     Though there were five of us seated in the corner that I had dubbed the Outback, Upton
     liked to use the space just in front of our desks as a little conference area, oblivious
     that we were sitting there with working ears. There were plenty of glass-walled conference
     rooms in the newsroom, but if given the chance, staffers preferred to have desk-side
     chats with Upton to show their close personal relationships off to the rest of us.
    A few hours after Rachel dropped her “ta-ta suckers!” bomb on us, Upton, Cushing,
     two of the deputy editors, and Olivia Campo all gathered in front of our desks holding Capitolist coffee mugs. I hadn’t seen very much of Olivia since the night I spotted her in Middleburg.
     I’d learned she was a senior White House reporter who spent most of her time on Pennsylvania
     Avenue—and I had never been this close to her. I lifted my head, trying to look like
     a girl casually engrossed in The Situation Room, playing on the TV closest to them.
    “I think we go big with Hu Jintao,” Olivia said, getting into details about the Chinese
     president’s imminent visit. She really was very thin, and her skin was kind of magical
     looking. It was so pale that I was pretty convinced that with the help of a flashlight
     and some reading glasses, I could actually see the blood coursing through her veins.
    “Olivia’s right,” said Cushing. “That should be tomorrow’s lead. Olivia, their meeting
     is open press?”
    “It’s not,” she replied, shifting her thin legs to lean in closer to Cushing. “But
     Kelson will give me ten minutes.”
    “Are you sure?” asked Clark, the deputy managing editor foronline. “Why would POTUS’s press sec give you ten minutes on such a busy day?” Upton
     and Olivia both smirked and looked at each other knowingly.
    Gross. Was Olivia lap-dancing for the president’s press flack or was she really that
     much better of a reporter than everyone else? I looked at her, all thin and pale with
     her limp red hair and gray wool pantsuit, and didn’t see anything so extraordinary
     about her. She didn’t look like she could bend kryptonite with her teeth; she just
     looked like a girl who liked frowning. In a few months, I had learned that part of
     making it big at the List was acting like you owned the building. Few had the temerity to do it, especially
     the women and definitely not me. But Olivia did and it was kind of amazing to watch.
    When it was all sorted that Olivia would save the day with her close, nearly familial
     connection to the president’s press secretary, the little group broke up, leaving
     only Upton and Olivia to finish their coffee and pretend the Style section didn’t
     exist.
    “Olivia, I’m sending Mike to follow the president and his delegation to India next
     week. I know I’ve had you in a holding pattern for pool duty, so I wanted you to know
     you can clear your schedule,” Upton said, draining his coffee and shifting his tall
     slender frame.
    Olivia’s pale face was suddenly not so pale anymore.
    “Upton! You can’t put Mike on that trip. He doesn’t have the foreign policy