by Holly Brown
I should be offended, yet strangely, I’m not. Edwin said that it’s my turn to reap the benefits, and it’s an enticing idea. I didn’t like being silenced.
“I’ll keep you safe, Cheyenne. You’re not just going to be a star; you’re going to be an influencer. You’re going to change the world.”
This is too heady. I need to talk to someone. My father, or Chase.
“Come to New York,” Edwin says.
“When?”
“Now. I’ll take you straight to the studio and show you around.”
“So I’d have to move to New York. I mean, if I took the job.”
“Yes.”
“I have a boyfriend.” As soon as it leaves my mouth, I realize how stupid it sounds. A boyfriend is not a mission. Chase has his own mission. He’d never give it up for me, and I’d never ask him to.
Edwin doesn’t even dignify my comment.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Chapter 2
Dad, can you hear me?” I’m in a bathroom stall, and though no one else is in the room, I’m whispering. If anyone tries the locked outer handle, I can apologize and say it was an accident. Fumbling fingers, first-day jitters, though it’s not really true; it’s not a job yet, just the world’s strangest job interview, more seduction than interrogation. It’s like I have nothing to prove, already, and somehow, as the day has worn on, that’s become scarier than the inverse. Edwin the Billionaire has already bought shares in my stock, and he’s the one trying to demonstrate that INN is a sound investment. The whole thing is—well, surreal is an understatement. I have to invent a new word. Transreal.
That’s why I need my dad, the most levelheaded, best man I could ever hope to know.
But first, I have to ask. “How are you feeling?” I always get slight butterflies before his answer.
“It’s a good day,” he says.
“No pain?”
“Not much. I’m breathing easy. Got the energy of a man only twice my age.” He chuckles. He’s had it rough and yet he’s so appreciative of everything, and—he tells me often—most of all for me. His beautiful, brilliant daughter.
His words, not mine. But suddenly, they’ve been pretty much echoed by a mogul. I lean my head against the cool silver partition between stalls. It’s just too much.
“And how’s your day?”
Deep breath. “Well, you’re not going to believe this. I still don’t believe it, but . . .”
Even with no one around, I lower my voice further. It’s superstition, a knock on wood. It’s the same way I tell people that Dad’s cancer is well controlled by the clinical trial.
I try to convey the initial conversation with Edwin, his offer, and the five-hour plane ride that followed where we were basically hanging out. Our conversation was wide-ranging, and included my experiences at Stanford and his (much earlier) at Yale, and then we relaxed into where we grew up, and after that it was places he’d traveled and where I want to travel, which is everywhere, a list I’ve never been able to even start because of my father (though of course I don’t relay that part; Dad already feels guilty enough about how his illness has impacted my life). Edwin found my desire to experience everything to be a reasonable ambition, one that he intimated he could help me fulfill. Then the plane was landing, and I could have vomited with anticipation. What if I don’t want to buy what he’s selling? What if I do, desperately? Then there’s the fact that New York is so much farther from Montana than California. Not to mention it’s so much larger than Tulip or Palo Alto, the only places I’ve ever lived. So many people, so much danger.
“So you’re dating your future boss?” Dad sounds bemused. Or maybe he’s just as thrown by all this as I am. As smart as he is, he’s not exactly worldly. He’s never been to New York City. I’m pretty sure he’s never watched INN.
“It definitely wasn’t a date.”
“It doesn’t sound like any job interview I’ve ever heard of. Is this really how things are done?”
“I have no idea how things are done.”
“Do you have time to find out? Can you slow this down?”
I don’t know what the rules are. I just know that Edwin is giving me the shot of all shots. “What if while I’m taking more time, he has a change of heart?”
“Then it wasn’t meant to be.” But he doesn’t sound convinced.
“He says he sees something in me, Dad. He really thinks I can do this.”
“You can do anything. The question is, do you want to do this? It’s not like you’ve been talking about being on TV your whole life.”
“I made those videos on my own. I mean, I was moved to do that.” It could be that there really is a divine plan, and everything does happen for a reason, like those über-religious people used to say in the waiting room of the oncology center.
Growing up, I’d suspected a certain preordination of the nonreligious variety. In Tulip, everything had come easy to me. Effortlessly, I did well in school, both academically and athletically; I was popular with people my age and with authority figures. Everyone thought I’d go on to do something big, even though I never had a clear notion of what that would be. College was where I planned to figure it out. Life felt like a smooth conveyor belt, delivering me to Stanford. But once I arrived, I found out what I was really up against, and my faith was sorely tested.
I met people whose entire existences had been focused on getting into Stanford, who’d attended high schools where everyone shared that same goal. They were used to intense competition, while I’d gotten inured to being unparalleled (no one else from my high school had even applied to schools the caliber of Stanford). In my dorm, there was a guy who admitted, without shame, to doing something called “rednecking”: his family moved from their Silicon Valley neighborhood to an uncompetitive school in Nowhere California so that he could become the valedictorian, and then they moved back to their multimillion-dollar house just in time for him to be an incoming college freshman. I was the only one who found that shocking.
At Stanford, I felt like a wet stray among the Westminster show dogs. I was woefully underprepared—not only for the academic material, though there was that, but also for the competition. Everyone seemed to fall into a rank and order immediately, and I was a marked woman. People could be scathing once they decided you didn’t belong, that you’d stolen the spot from someone more qualified, and for the first time in my life, it was hard for me to find friends. While it might have been a matter of acquiring better study skills and applying myself, it felt like I simply wasn’t good enough. All my life I’d been lulled into a false sense of security, and now the lie had been exposed.
I had no practice being an underdog. The only thing that buoyed me was Chase. He was a golden boy, and he didn’t just like me for how I looked; it became much more than that.
I should call Chase. His start-up, Until, is a darling of Silicon Valley, which is where Edwin made his first billion, and Chase is the darling of Until. He’s a unicorn, the rarest of the rare: a brilliant computer programmer who’s also great with people. Chase knows how to handle himself around the rich and powerful, around anyone. He’d be much better for advice than Dad, honestly.
But somehow, I can’t bring myself to call him.
“Did Edwin give you a tour?” Dad asks.
“Yes.”
The newsroom is an ocean of workstations with no barriers between them, and when Edwin and I had first walked in, everyone had been talking on their phones. The hubbub was incredible. I have no idea how anyone hears themselves, or the person on the other end.
There are offices surrounding the newsroom that belong to the executive producers of each show and to the anchors. The broadcasting studios are on another floor.
As we walked through, people barely looked up at Edwin, they were so engrossed in their tasks. “At other cable news networks,” Edwin explained, “shows are trying to scoop each other. Their staffs are often at each other’s throats. Here, there’s teamwork. We all rise and
fall together. We fail or succeed together, as a network. So the staff shares leads and follows them down. There’s openness and transparency, as there should be in other industries like, say, government.”
It’s a utopian ideal, but I think of what I learned at Stanford about people who are that intelligent and that driven. They’re not built to pool their resources.
Edwin took out his cell and sent an email or a text or some form of alert, because within five minutes, everyone was hanging up their phones and filing into the glass-walled conference room abutting the newsroom. Edwin was shaking hands and slapping backs.
There were fifty or sixty staffers in a conference room meant to hold a quarter of that number. The whole scene looked like a fire hazard, some sort of disaster waiting to happen, or maybe that was just my anxiety talking. The enormity of the situation had hit me hard, and while I knew what Edwin thought of me, his staff was another matter. They were packed in, standing, with an air of blasé anticipation. Most didn’t seem much older than me, but they were rumpled in a hip/intellectual way. They wore the right glasses.
How many of these people have seen me naked?
My fifteen minutes of fame were a while ago, but these are the type of people who would remember. The viral video, like all my vlogs, was basically an opinion piece with some research behind it; I’ve never claimed to be a journalist. I don’t know if that works for or against me in their eyes.
“This is Cheyenne Florian,” Edwin began, “and she’s going to be a star. INN wants in.” Oh, Lord. “I just sprang all this on Cheyenne this morning. I had her meet me at an airstrip, propositioned her, and flew her here. She’s handled it with great aplomb, but if she looks a little shell-shocked, well, you know why, and you know who to blame.” They all laughed, like they were familiar with Edwin’s antics, as if this was how he got all his correspondents. I would have preferred if he’d used a different word than “propositioned.”
“One of the things I like most about Cheyenne,” Edwin continued, “one of the things I like most about anyone, is raw, untutored presence. I like a lack of calculation. All our on-air personalities radiate authenticity and integrity. They’re not afraid to be emphatic and to take a position against dishonesty and corruption. I’ve kept Cheyenne a little off-kilter today because to me, that reveals character, and she gave it right back to me, which also reveals character.” So the day’s been an audition after all. “She’s everything we value at INN. Cheyenne”—he turned to me—“would you like to say a few words?”
Another test. I forced myself to look out at the expectant faces. Some were more frankly evaluating than others, but not in a sexualized way. I detected no hostility, or even wariness. They must trust Edwin, and that helped me relax just the tiniest bit.
Time to picture all of them naked.
I started with a smile. “It’s great to meet you. Since this is a place for people to be real, I’ll tell you that I didn’t major in broadcast journalism, but the future of this country is deeply important to me. I believe that facts are nonpartisan. I believe that independent and critical thinking is vital. I believe in INN’s mission. If I get the chance to work alongside all of you, I’ll be honored, I really will. Thank you.”
It wasn’t incredible oratory, but it was competently delivered. It was sincere. In my peripheral vision, I could see Edwin’s approval. He stepped forward and said, “Cheyenne hasn’t officially accepted my offer”—that grin again—“but I’m going to do my best to persuade her. Until her debut, I want absolute silence. Secrecy. Loyalty. You know, the usual.” He turned serious. “I’ve got a plan, and there will be no leaks.” He surveyed the room, making eye contact with various people in turn.
Then he clapped his hands together. “Meeting adjourned! Thanks for your time! And as Cheyenne walks around, she’s going to be asking questions. Answer them, with total honesty. If she’s going to be one of us, she needs to know what she’s signing up for.” That garnered the biggest laugh yet.
Edwin and I formed a sort of receiving line as everyone filed out. There were predominantly warm handshakes, words of welcome, and smiles, but was I imagining the glint of knowing in a few people’s eyes, contempt in the eyes of others? That could spread through the office in a terrible contagion. Edwin talked about the controversy I’d generate outside INN, but what about inside? He’d asked for loyalty until my debut, but I wasn’t sure what would come after that.
Edwin took me down a floor to the studios. As I looked around, my body hummed with excitement. I wanted this. I want this.
There were four fully built sets. Ty Fordham, Beth Linford (of Truthiness), and Khalif Turner (of Outside INN) each had their own, decorated in their individual styles. Khalif’s had hip-hop letters and an overall bright energy, while Beth’s was designed with softer colors and expensive tapestries that portrayed touchability, and Ty’s was straight, bold lines and a lot of crimson, a reflection of the angry energy that has been resonating so strongly with viewers. The fourth studio was the most generic, what you’d see at a typical nightly news broadcast, and Edwin told me that it was used by various other anchors throughout the day, for shows like The Media Is the Message and the live call-in show Breaking It Down. What stood out on all the sets was the proliferation of American flags, with stars and stripes worked in throughout.
“Love of country is not a conservative value,” Edwin said. “It’s an American one.”
“I agree, completely.” Then I took another look around. “Do you have another studio?”
“No. This is it.”
“So where are you broadcasting from now?”
“We’re not,” he said. “For twenty-four-hour news, you need a billion-dollar infrastructure. With citizen journalism, Twitter, YouTube, you name it, we’ve got images in real time. I don’t want to pay to have correspondents stationed all around the world only to be scooped by a kid with an iPhone.” He gestured with his hand. “Come on.”
He led me into the empty control room for Ty’s show. It was three bleacher-type rows overlooking the set. Built into the wall was a bank of televisions. At the moment, they were all tuned to the same program.
“That’s what INN is showing right now,” Edwin said. “It’s The Newsroom. Have you seen it?” I shook my head. “It was on HBO from 2012 to 2014. Greatest TV show ever. Aaron Sorkin’s best work.
“The first scene features a panel discussion, and there’s an anchor who’s strongly identified as independent—who’s staunchly refused to reveal his political affiliations—and he comes unglued when he’s pressed to say why America is the greatest country in the world. He decides to tell the truth. He says America’s not the greatest country, that we lead in only three categories: number of incarcerated citizens per capita, number of adults who believe angels are real, and defense spending.
“But he knows—like I know—that America can lead again, with a clear moral compass and the right priorities. So he changes his mission, with the help of his ex-love, who also happens to be a bang-up producer.” He grinned. “Sure, it’s soapy, but the point is, news used to be about something other than profit. It supported democracy by providing accurate information to the electorate. We’re talking Edward R. Murrow here, and Walter Cronkite. Those people were before your time, and my time, too, but I’m educating myself. I didn’t major in broadcast journalism either.”
“So Aaron Sorkin was talking about the importance of truth and integrity?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“But wasn’t The Social Network pretty much a fabrication? Like, Mark Zuckerberg didn’t start Facebook to impress a girl. He was already in a relationship with Priscilla Chan, who became his wife.”
Edwin waved a hand. “Semantics. I’ve never liked that movie. But I love The Newsroom.”
I ask Dad now, “Have you seen The Newsroom?”
“Never heard of it.”
“You’ve heard of Edward R. Murrow, though, right?”
“Name rings a bell. None of this is ex
actly my area of expertise, Chey.”
“What do I do, Daddy?” I haven’t called him Daddy in a while. Not since I had to take a year off from school because it looked like that was all we’d have left together.
“What’s your gut telling you?”
“That I can’t walk away. This kind of chance is never going to come around again.”
“So that’s fear talking?”
“I’m afraid to miss out. But I’m also afraid to expose myself. The blowback from one viral video is nothing compared to being on a major news network. Last time, they released my pictures.” One of the worst parts of the whole nightmare had been when someone emailed those photos to my father. “I don’t have any other skeletons in my closet, but who knows what else they can do? What they can make up?”
“And you’d be on your own in New York. You don’t know anyone there.”
“Edwin says he’ll take care of me.” Hearing how it sounds, I add quickly, “I mean, he’ll make sure I’m taken care of. INN has top-notch security, and he said that if I need it, I can have someone assigned only to me.”
“I can’t lie. It worries me.”
“It worries me too. But do I want to hide out my whole life? What if I can really do something great, like Edwin thinks?”
He’s quiet, considering. “I guess you can live small and hope no one hurts you, or you can live big.”
“Even if I’m living small, they can still hurt me. People get targeted for all kinds of reasons. This way, I’m targeting them too.”
“I think you’re trying to sell me.”
I let out a shuddering breath. “I want to say yes, which scares the shit out of me.”
“So say yes. Now’s the time to take a chance. You just graduated. If you don’t like it, you quit.”
“I’d be signing a contract. I couldn’t just quit.”
“You can stick anything out for a year.”
That’s when someone tries the door.
“Just a second!” I yell. Then I say in a rapid whisper, “I’m about to go around the newsroom and talk to people one-on-one. What should I ask?”
