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Thursday September 19, 8:15 a.m.
“And since when are you an ‘internationally recognized journalist’? Where did that one come from?” Allison was steaming mad. After a sleepless and anxiety-filled night, we were both still reeling from the impact of the show.
CTV had apparently sold their footage of my impromptu interview on my parents’ lawn. Thanks to cunning editing, I came across like a mega concert promoter: Steve McCartney was a superstar, even though no one had ever heard of him before, his world tour had hit every major city, even though no arena would ever find records of those concerts, and Hamilton, Ontario was about to experience the biggest, most life-changing event in its history.
Even I would have believed it. Those damn editors were that good.
As I sat staring at my soggy Bran Flakes, Allison’s angry drone in the background, something happened inside of me. It occurred to me that I felt calm. My paralyzing weeks of terror had suddenly morphed into a new sensation.
I was going to do something about all this.
