The First Counsel

* * *

Almost an hour and a half later, I'm back in my office, attempting to sort through the nightly pile of mail. I beeped Pam two more times. She hasn't answered. Trying to squash the migraine that's ricocheting through my skull, I open my top drawer and finger through my collection of medicines: Maalox, Sudafed, cetirizine . . . always prepared. I grab a plastic bottle of Tylenol and fight with the childproof lid. In no mood to get water, I tilt my head back and swallow them on the spot. They don't go down easily.

"C'mon, campers, it's time for a sing-along!" Trey shouts as he kicks open the door to my office. "Spell it out, Annette! Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me? T-R-E Y-Y-Y Y-Y-Y-Y-Y!"

"Can't stop with the Disney references, can you?"

"Not when they're this good. And, boy, is this Kingdom Magic! Did you see how well that event went over? Already on CNN. Cued up for the nightlies. Nancie's predicting front page of the Style section. And in less than an hour--live on Dateline. Can I get any better? No! No, sir, I cannot!"

"Trey, I'm thrilled that you and your necromancers were able to brainwash half the nation, but please . . ." I stare at my pencil cup and lose my thought. It's all unimportant.

"Don't give me that pouty face," he scolds, taking a seat in front of my desk. "What's wrong?"

"I just . . . I don't know. The whole event left a bad taste in my mouth."

"It's supposed to leave a bad taste--that's how you know it's good! The more syrup, the better. It's what America eats for breakfast."

"It wasn't just the sappy parts. You saw when she got the present. Nora picked out a beautiful gift for her mother. And what does the First Lady do? She thanks the camera instead of her daughter."

"I swear, right there, I cried."

"It's not funny, Trey. It's pathetic."

"Can you please jump off the high horse? We both know the real reason you're cranky."

"Stop telling me how to feel! You're not the master of my thought process!"

Silently sitting back in his seat, he gives me a second to calm down. "Don't take it out on me, Michael. It's not my fault you didn't find Pam."

"Oh, so you're not the one who crowded two hundred wannabes behind the vanilla-frosted Pied Piper?"

"It wasn't frosting; it was icing. There's a difference."

"There's no difference!"

"There could be a difference--we just don't know it."

"Stop fucking around, Trey! You're starting to piss me off!"

Rather than shout back, he gives me the rub. It's a medium one, done more as a way to restrain himself. A lesser friend would head for the door. Trey stays right where he is.

Eventually, I look across the desk. "I didn't mean to . . ."

He lowers his gaze to his lap and pulls something from his belt. His pager's going off.

"Anything important?" I ask.

"One hour till Dateline--they want me over there to do the run-through."

I nod, and he heads for the anteroom.

"When I get back, we'll sit down and figure it out," he offers.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll be okay."

Stopping at the door, Trey turns around. "I never said you wouldn't."