I practiced saying her name in the shower so I would sound enthusiastic when I met her, but my voice cannot hide my real emotions. I’m ashamed of how I treated Lisa in college and embarrassed my career has landed me here.

“Sonny!” she yelps.

Lisa throws her arms around me as if I’m a long-lost sister.

I can hear my mom’s voice from the other night. I think she reminded you too much of Joncee. She was so energetic. So smart. So willing to wear her heart on her sleeve.

Is that why I’ve always been so distanced from her? As icy as the wind off the lake? I’m not a bully at heart.

She wanted friends.

Now I hear my therapist’s voice. “All coping mechanisms,” she is saying. “Just the wrong ones.”

Lisa holds me at arm’s length. “You look even more amazing in person!” she gushes.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank goodness you’re not wearing your readers.”

She laughs.

“You look the same, too,” I say.

“Thank you!” she says.

Lisa truly looks like she did in college, save for her unruly, curly hair. It’s gone gray at the roots, and her ringlets are tinged in silver. She has kept on the “freshmen fifteen” she gained her first year in college—from the late-night pizzas and the cereal bar and free ice cream at the cafeteria—and even retained a similar, albeit hipper, style of her signature cat eye frames. Lisa is wearing a pantsuit over which she’s draped a long sweater, which has given her the look of someone who’s just parachuted into the newsroom.

And forgotten to remove the parachute.

Stop it! I think to myself. Stop being so catty. Your life and your past have nothing to do with her. She’s the one being so kind. She’s the one saving your career.

“It’s good to see you again, Amberrose…” She stops. “I mean, Sonny. Sorry…habit. How has your transition been going?”

“It’s been going,” I say. “Nothing like moving home to live with Mom,” I joke.

“I adore your mother,” she says.

“You remember her?”

“Of course! I’ve seen her a few times. And everyone in town adores her, too. She’s a true Steel Magnolia. Although I prefer to call her our Cherry Queen.”

In the summer, Traverse City is famous for its cherries, and its National Cherry Festival draws tourists from all around the world.

“I prefer to call her something else,” I say completely out of nervousness. “I don’t know why I said that. I love my mom, too.”

“Well, you’ll need to hit your edit button more often in these parts. A wicked sense of humor doesn’t play well up here.” She starts to walk. “Follow me.”

The news station is an open work space enclosed by brick walls and tall, paned windows. Light flows in, and my heart floats. Sunshine always makes me feel better. Reporters talk on the phone and scribble notes, while others tap on laptops.

“I like this space,” I say. “I thought the station was still on the other side of town.”

“Just moved here. Big changes, like I told you. I thought we needed to be centered in town, be part of the community and part of the action.”

Lisa pushes through double doors and leads me directly into a small studio, where the noon news is about to finish. The set doesn’t look any more impressive in person than it did from the couch this morning. The midday anchors, who look as if they need to be put down for a nap, are showing footage of a black bear that wandered through downtown Traverse this morning, stopping to look in storefront windows as if it were out for a day of leisurely shopping.

“I think I know what he’s looking for,” one of the anchors says. “Gummy bears.”

I groan out loud.

“And it looks like it will be a bear of a week coming up, too,” Polly Sue adds, using that pointing stick again as if she’s an Olympic fencer. “A massive cold front will move in from Canada, bringing loads of snow and a big drop in temperatures. Enjoy the thirties while you can.”

I feel dizzy and have to grab Lisa’s arm for support.

“Are you okay?” she whispers.

“Blood sugar,” I say.

Lisa pulls a sleeve of Oreos from her sweater pocket. “That’s why I carry these,” she says. “Want one?”

I shake my head.

“Of course not,” she says, shoving one into her mouth. “Let’s introduce you to Polly Sue.”

“And we’re clear,” a director calls.

Lisa pulls me toward a young woman with electric red hair wearing a bright blue dress. My instinct is to salute her.

“Polly Sue Van Kampen, this is Sonny Dunes. Sonny, Polly.”

I extend my hand, and Polly grabs it and then drops it quickly, as if I’m holding a grenade.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “I have so many ideas to share with the team about making us the best station in Michigan.”

“Team?” Polly Sue looks at me and gestures around with the pointer in her other hand. “It’s just us, Sonny.”

She makes my name sound like a dirty word.

“Just us?” I ask.

“Merle is retiring,” Lisa explains. “Polly is our morning, noon and weekend meteorologist. Icicle handles all the behind-the-scenes stuff. He’s our part-time cameraman, part-time graphics editor, part-time news writer, part-time researcher, guy Friday.”

“Icicle?” I ask.

“Ron Lanier. Icicle is his nickname,” Lisa says matter-of-factly.

I look at her. “And?” I ask. “With a nickname like that, there has to be more to the story.”

“Oh,” she continues. “He was shooting a bad traffic accident one morning and was standing under a building’s overhang when a hospital helicopter buzzed overhead. It was coming to the scene to transfer the injured driver.”

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” Lisa says. “About a hundred icicles came flying off the building. Nearly every one missed his body. It was a miracle.”

“Nearly every one?” I ask.

“He survived.” Lisa shrugs. “And we got it all on tape. Made for a great story. Our ratings shot up overnight.”

I try not to shake my head, but I can’t help it.

“It’s winter in Michigan,” Lisa says. “Get used to it. Oh, there’s Icicle now! Let me grab him to introduce you.”

As soon as Lisa is out of earshot, Polly Sue turns to me. “Let me be clear, Amberrose. I’ve worked here five years. This was supposed to be my gig. Lisa either felt sorry for you, or knew your pathetic story would be good for a quick ratings boost. But we don’t like outsiders around here. Viewers know a fraud and a turncoat when they see one. They know when someone is just using this as a launching pad for another job. We’re the station for the old-timers around here. They won’t take to you at all.”

I feel my face morph into a look of shock and then barely hidden rage.

“I’m not an outsider. I was born and raised here. And let me be clear: you work for me.” I take a breath. “Listen, I know we’re both under a lot of pressure here, but I want this to work, okay?”

“You were replaced by a virtual meteorologist,” Polly Sue says. “What’s that say about how your so-called career is going?”

I look at her and think about grabbing the pointer she’s still holding in her hands. I picture myself saying, “PS. It’s not 1972. Nobody uses these pointers anymore,” and then snapping it in half and handing it back to her, but I don’t. I’ve had great mentors in the past, and they’ve all treated me like gold. I will try to do the same with this wannabe villain.

“Glad you two had a chance to talk,” Lisa says.

“Me, too!” I say, my voice a virtual bird’s chirp.

“Good, good,” Lisa says. “Sonny, this is Icicle. Icicle, Sonny.”

Icicle looks a lot like one of the adorably cute but dorky actors in a teenage comedy film, the smart, science nerd who falls head over heels with the beautiful cheerleader and ends up making her fall in love with him by giving her a magic potion he invented. He’s impossibly tall and lanky—like a human pogo stick—with a mop of hair that he’s parted and slicked down, like he started playing with his grandfather’s Brylcreem and used the entire jar. And yet there is something goofily appealing about him, like your best friend’s kid brother who really wants to hang around with the older crowd.

“Hi, Sonny! It’s so nice to meet you.”

“You, too, Icicle.” I stammer over his nickname, and he laughs. “Nice to break the ice.”

“Speaking of which, everyone always wants to know how bad the accident was after hearing about my nickname.” Icicle pulls up the sleeves of his shirt and shows off two horrible scars where the sharp ice pierced his skin even through a sweater and jacket. It looks like he was attacked by that black bear on TV. “Just got nicked here and here. Who knew icicles were so sharp?”

“Nicked?” I ask. “You poor thing. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

“Thank you,” he says. “That’s very nice of you to say. It certainly was not my best day, but you know what that’s like.”

His face immediately reddens. “Oh, my gosh. I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I do.”

“I’m a survivor,” he says, his gold eyes darting to the floor. “You know what that’s like, too.”

This time, my face reddens. And then it hits me.

“Oh, my gosh. Ron Lanier. You’re Julie Smith’s son, aren’t you? I mean Julie Lanier.”

He nods. I went to high school with Julie. She married her high school sweetheart, who played college hockey at Michigan. I haven’t spoken to Julie in forever. Because I never returned her calls. Like all of the ones I got from Cliff and Eva. Why do I never look back? Why do I never ask for help?

“Wow, I feel old,” I continue.

I can see Polly Sue nod imperceptibly.

“Well, as I said, Icicle does it all around here,” Lisa says.

“I’d really like to be a weatherman one day,” he says.

“That’ll be the day,” Polly Sue blurts.

Icicle ducks his head.

“So, Sonny, I have your first assignment,” Lisa says. She lifts her head from her notes. She has missed the whole incident.

“Today? I thought this was a day of introductions.”

“It was,” Lisa says. “That’s over. Let’s go to my office, and I’ll tell you about it.”

“It was so nice to meet you, Polly Sue,” I say. “I look forward to working with you.”

Polly beams as if all is A-OK. “Me, too!”

“Ice, meet us in five, okay?” Lisa says.

Lisa walks me into her tiny office and shuts the door. The chaos of the newsroom goes away, and it’s suddenly just the two of us. Her office is filled with photos of politicians, celebrities and VIPs who have come through town—for the Michael Moore Film Festival, the Cherry Festival, or even just vacation—and stopped for an interview. Her office is filled with Northwestern memorabilia too, a swath of purple running along the brick walls. A bookshelf is lined with biographies of Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite and Barbara Walters. And then I see a photo propped in a corner of one shelf, leaning against a stuffed wildcat: it’s a group of freshman girls. The photo was taken in the hallway the day we moved into the dorms, and boxes are stacked around us. My arm is around Lisa, and her head is on my shoulder. She’s flashing a #1 sign.

I don’t even remember that photo being taken.

“Let me be as straightforward as I can,” Lisa says. “You’re the highest paid employee at TRVC, and you’re a meteorologist. I’ve ruffled a lot of feathers to bring you here. The anchors are furious. Polly Sue already hates you…”

My eyes widen.

“Yes, I know. I know everything, so don’t act surprised,” she continues. “I saw you two arguing. The whole newsroom did. And that’s probably a good move on your part to put her in her place. It puts everyone on their toes. Now, I realize folks aren’t happy you’re here. I realize you’re not happy you’re here. I still don’t know if I’m happy you’re here. But…” Lisa takes a deep breath and adjusts her glasses. “It’s TV. I don’t give a rat’s patootie. My job is on the line. And I am going to turn this station’s ratings around, and you’re going to help me do it.”

I remember her in college, running not only NNN—Northwestern News Network, the student-run news channel on campus—but also nearly every other student organization.

Did she annoy me so much because she was always so serious, or because I was only serious about having fun in order to run from my past?

My eyes skew to the window. Snow gently falls. I am back at Northwestern, pinned against the soda machine by Lisa.

“Amberrose, two students have been injured this year walking on the ice on Lake Michigan. Two! And we can do something to prevent that. I want to do a story on the need to mark those areas as unsafe. You want to be a meteorologist, you could do a wonderful angle on the exact science of why the lake is so unsafe even though students may think otherwise. They see ice, they think it’s okay.”

I remembered Joncee, the bay, the ice, and I clung to the soda machine to hold me upright.

“That sounds completely lame,” I remember saying. “No one cares about that, Lisa.”

“I care!” she had yelled. “You should, too! You just can’t be a part of NNN to bolster your résumé and not do a damn thing.”

“I’m planning Winter Formal for the sorority,” I had said. “That takes priority.”

Lisa began to walk away, but turned at the last minute. “I’m trying to help you,” she said in a voice so sad it still breaks my heart. “I’m trying to be your friend.”

“So, here’s my game plan,” Lisa says, knocking me back into the present. “I want people to see Sonny in the winter. In fact, that’s the name of your new winter segment: Sonny in the Winter. I want the hometown girl back home doing the winter things she loves: sledding, snowshoeing, making snowmen, ice fishing, skiing, participating in all the winter festivals, including the Winter Ice Sculpture Contest.”

“I’m more of an in-studio personality,” I say. “I love brainstorming…”

“So do I!” Lisa’s tone makes me sit up straighter. “I know you’re used to perfect weather all the time. I remember you complaining about all the cold, snow and wind in Evanston and Chicago. Well, too bad. Act like you love it. I’m taking you live, all the time. Viewers want to see how the desert rat does in the winter snow. Viewers want to see the hometown girl come home.” Lisa stops, and a small smile comes over her face. She tightens her long sweater around her as if she has to contain her enthusiasm. “Most of all, people want to see if you have another breakdown.”

“Lisa,” I say, my voice shaking. “That’s not nice to say.”

“That’s TV, Sonny. You know that.” She walks around her desk to stand beside my chair. “You’re under contract for a year. If you fail, your career’s over. If you fail, my career’s over. We both have a lot riding on this little winter adventure.”

Lisa continues, “Today, you’re going to meet Mason Carrier. He’s head of the chamber of commerce for Grand Traverse and Leelanau County. Mason organizes nearly every event in northern Michigan, winter, spring, summer and fall. TRVC is sponsoring most of the winter events this year. My idea, because of you! And you’re going to be participating in every one.”

“What?”

“Starting today.” Lisa grabs my arm and pulls me from my chair. “Off we go.”

“Wait, what am I supposed to be doing?”

“Icicle will show you. You can follow him to Suttons Bay,” she says. “Mason is the perfect person to toss you into the snowbank, as it were.”

I turn to look at her, as she nearly pushes me out the door into the lobby.

“Polly Sue says it’s going to be a looong winter,” Lisa continues. “I can’t wait!”

And, just like that, she is gone.

“Ready?”

I jump. Icicle is tapping on his cell.

“Sorry,” he says. “I do that all the time. Sometimes I make the best company anyway.” He looks at me and smiles before standing and lugging the camera and equipment onto his shoulder. “Want to follow me over to Suttons Bay?”

“My mother drove me,” I say. “Oh, my God, I sound like I’m twelve years old.”

“I still live with my parents,” he says with a nod. “It’s cool.”

“Can you drop me off at my house later?” I ask.

“No problem.”

I text my mom to tell her that I’m leaving the car keys for her at the reception desk, and that I already have my first assignment. I also tell her that I’m sorry for being such a jerk earlier. Then I pull on my coat and gloves, wrap the scarf around my neck and follow Icicle to the news van.

I make it halfway through the parking lot, before my heels slide across the pavement and my feet fly out from underneath me. I land with a resounding thud.

“Are you okay?” Icicle asks. He sets his equipment down and helps me off the ground. “My grandma broke a hip doing that.”

My day could not get any worse.

I brush the ice and snow off my butt. I glance around to see if anyone saw, in that embarrassed way we all do when we fall. In the window, I see a woman lift her latte in a silent salute saying Cheers!

It’s my mother.

I give her the finger.

“My mom,” I say to Icicle, as if that’s the only explanation needed.

“My mom would so ground me if I did that to her,” he says.

“Aren’t you like twenty-five?” I ask, doing the math in my head, remembering when I heard Julie was pregnant so long ago.

“That’s a really good point,” he says.

I hurry back to my mother’s car to retrieve my boots, having already learned my lesson.

My tailbone aches, and I already know I’m going to have a massive bruise by tonight.

But that’s nothing in comparison to the one on my ego right now.