Convincing viewers I loved the Sunup fam was the job. I would continue to do it each and every morning and every single time I spoke to the press, forever and ever, without complaint. But I had just about reached my limit on concealing the disdain I felt every time they made me say the word fam. One time—one time!—two years ago I had read what was on the prompter, not realizing they had abbreviated what they actually intended for me to say: “Happy holidays from our family to yours.” Ever since, #SunupFam had been our official hashtag, sunupfam.com was our website, the Sunup Fam Reunion was the name of our annual fan gathering in Washington Square Park, and you could purchase One Big Happy Fam shirts in the network store.
Fine. But did we really have to work it into every sentence?
“She really is, Brynn. And I speak for all of us—our little fam here and the entire extended Sunup fam—when I say we’re so glad Hayley made her way to Sunup3 and that you’ve made your way to hours one and two.”
“Aww, thanks. I certainly have big shoes to fill.” Considering my predecessor, Shauna Magwell-Moray, seemed to give birth every ten months, it seemed likely that was a physiological fact. Though, from what I heard, it wasn’t her ever-swollen ankles that had caused her to be replaced so much as the fact that she and Mark had the on-screen chemistry of a piece of chalk and a marshmallow.
“We’ll certainly miss Shauna around here, but our loss is Trevor and the kids’ gain. Shauna texted me just this morning to say how nice it was to join Trevor in the school drop-offs all week.”
Okay, yeah. Sure she had. Former Miss America Shauna Magwell-Moray had texted Mark Irvine, with whom she had worked unhappily for all of six months, to tell him she and her NHL goalie husband—who, I was pretty sure, lived on the road this time of year—were running their kids to school together every morning.
There was just a certain suspension of disbelief that accompanied being a devoted Sunup viewer.
“That’s so nice for them, Mark.”
I glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen next to Orly at camera one. Six minutes? We still had six minutes left? How much more schmaltzy tripe were they going to make us subject America to on a Friday morning?
Mark shifted toward me and camera three. “We have a surprise for you, Brynn. This won’t be on newsstands until next week, but the verdict is in.” He held up an advance copy of People magazine. “‘America’s Ray of Sunshine: Shining Brighter Than Ever,’” he said, reading the title superimposed above my photo.
Ugh. “America’s Ray of Sunshine.” There was nothing in life that I simultaneously treasured and loathed as much as that designation. It’s not like it was clever or original in any way, shape, or form. But for whatever reason, it had stuck. It was how I’d been introduced at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, it was the title of a memoir I’d been paid six figures to write (of which I had yet to write a single word, incidentally), and it would probably be the epitaph on my headstone. America loved me and felt like they knew me. Fantastic. If there was anyone left who didn’t love me, surely reminding them over and over that I was just a happier version of them—People magazine, White House Correspondents’ Dinner, and six-figure book deal aside, of course—would do the trick. Right?
“Would you look at that?” I pretended to humbly marvel at the “surprise” magazine cover that I had posed for. “Thanks, People magazine. And thank you, Mark. I have to admit, after some of the rustier bits this week, I thought you might want to cart me off to a less public hour of Sunup. I really think we’re missing out on a key middle-of-the-night demographic, come to think of it. Don’t you think I would kill as the host of Sunup2am?”
There it was. That was what made me “America’s Ray of Sunshine” in the minds of the network suits. The gleeful, good-humored self-deprecation that made everyone believe I was just happy to be there. That was my trademark. As if I ever had the opportunity to say a single word that wasn’t written for me. As long as they scripted me as self-deprecating, that’s who I was. No matter that, as a result, I never got to draw attention to my own accomplishments and instead had to act embarrassed whenever someone else pointed them out. No matter that Sunup seemed to have perfected a business model that had apparently been crafted while June Cleaver was cleaning the house in heels. It worked. Viewers across all mediums were insisting on diversity. They were rallying around strong, independent women. But here at Sunup, our favorite pastime was choosing not to care how Little Ricky was conceived from two separate twin beds.
“You’re being too hard on yourself!” Mark replied with a laugh. “As for the ‘rustier bits,’ some of those names are really difficult to pronounce.”
My eyes caught the monitor, which was currently focused in on the death glare I had received from Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdogan when I’d pronounced his name with all the enunciation skills of a drive-thru window.
Of course. They were going to wrap up my first week as the cohost of the number one morning show in the world with a blooper reel. Why not? What could be better than humiliating me for the sake of uniting three and a half million live viewers—not to mention another ten million or so later online—in laughter? Laughter that they no doubt believed would further endear me to America but that I suspected would inch me ever closer to the role of lovable-but-inconsequential morning dingbat.
Mark adjusted his position on the couch next to me so he could offer me a good-humored sideways glance. “It is true, though, that it hasn’t all been smooth sailing this week.”
In response I covered my eyes with both hands and shook my head dramatically. I also laughed, of course. I had no choice but to laugh.
“Oh no,” I groaned and then took a moment to silently rehearse the next two words from the teleprompter before saying them aloud. “Chiwetel Ejiofor has forgiven me, Mark.” Nailed it. “Don’t you think the noble thing would be for you to let me off the hook as well?”
“Noble, yes,” Mark replied. “But not nearly as fun.”
The red light on the camera directly in front of us shut off as a monitor began rolling footage of the multitude of blunders I had made in five short days.
“Don’t worry,” Mark whispered to me and straightened his tie once we were no longer being filmed. “Audiences eat this stuff up. Your mistakes make them see you as human. And once they see you as human, they can decide whether or not they trust you and want to spend time with you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered.
“You’ve just got to be a good sport.”
I looked down at the hemline of my skirt and made a small adjustment. Just enough to keep my eyes concealed while I rolled them into the back of my head.
“Oh, I think I’ve got the good-sport thing down. No worries there.”
“There it is.” Mark chuckled as the clip of me stepping into a mountain of elephant dung at the Central Park Zoo flashed across the screen. “That’s my favorite.”
At least Chiwetel Ejiofor had laughed and charmingly insisted I continue to call him Chai-WET-ul for the remainder of the interview. My Jimmy Choos and I had yet to make amends.
“Fifteen seconds,” the new production assistant shadowing Carl at camera two called out. Carl whacked the production assistant on the shoulder and pointed to the clock, causing him to yell out, “Five seconds! Sorry!”