by Holly Brown
The report is going well, but now I need to move from the macro to the micro level, from the larger culture to my own experience. I turn toward the touch screen, using it as an opportunity to take a deep breath.
The screen fills with a sample of the nastiness I lived through before I terminated my Tag account. Fortunately, I only have to read the last one aloud: “Future rape victim.” My breath has sped up, and my stomach is clenched in another bodily memory of the past. I’d thought Albie and I had exorcised it through repetition, but it’s been rekindled by the knowledge that this will be seen by millions. And some of those millions are trolls. Some could be right here in this city. The city.
But when I speak, my voice is strong. “This aggression was in response to a think-piece video I’d made while I was a senior at Stanford University. I questioned the procedures of college disciplinary tribunals on sexual assaults. I made the case that rape is a very real problem that deserves our best solutions. It deserves justice. And nearly a third of the time, those tribunals result in the innocent being found guilty. That’s not justice for anyone.
“I stand by my right to question the system, despite what came afterward. Despite the ad hominem attacks and threats and insults. Despite the character assassination and the impugning of my motives. Despite the hacking of my phone, which led to my private photos being stolen and distributed all over the internet. Despite the Tag thread that allowed people to keep tabs on my whereabouts in real time, that abetted unwanted confrontations and stalking and intimidation, and that was not shut down despite my repeated complaints.
“I still believe in justice. I believe in free speech, and positions that are neither knee-jerk liberal nor knee-jerk conservative, but are evidence based. I believe in thoughtful exploration and consideration and facts. I believe in reforming systems that don’t work as they should, for accusers or the accused. I believe in asking questions.”
Another deep breath. Remember, suppressed emotion is always better.
“But at the time, I was in my last few months of college, and I was under incredible stress. I caved. At the recommendation of police, I took down my videos and shut down all my social media. Retreating was the only way to feel safe again. They broke me, and I thought I could heal only in silence.
“I’ve since realized that there are more important things than feeling safe. That’s why I’m here. To shine light on the behavior of Tag, and the impact it has on ordinary people. Like Nicole Bertolucci.” I touch the screen. “And Clayton White.” I touch again. “And . . .” I continue the list, with photos, and then say, “These are just some of the Tag users who have killed themselves, allegedly after repeated harassment. They complained to the website, but those complaints went unanswered.” I turn to Rayna and Quill. “Those lawsuits have yet to be settled.”
I did it! I didn’t merely get through; I killed it. This is the beginning. I have the backing of INN, and I won’t be silenced again.
Then comes the walk from the touch screen to the round table area. That’s where I stumble.
Not really. That is, I don’t trip or anything. But Luke tells me, plainly, that it’s not sexy enough. I’ll need to do it again. I can’t know if that’s really to get the best cut for the viewers, or for his own benefit.
It’s very different to hear Luke say, “Again,” and “Again,” and “Again,” than it is to hear it from Albie. I know Albie is trying to improve me. Luke is likely doing it to humiliate me, and it’s working. With each take, I’m thinking of those crew members who were watching and smirking at me. They have their game faces on now, but I can only imagine the impure thoughts they’re having.
It’s even worse because I’m coming off what is obviously a triumph (after all, Luke didn’t have me redo the report itself ), so I’m forced to face the possibility that the work won’t matter. They’ll still have their nasty thoughts about me, and I can’t do anything to stop them. I can’t do anything to stop Luke right now, who’s leaning into the glass of the control room, practically fogging it up. Is he getting off on how I look or on the power of bullying, right after my topic was anti-bullying? I wish Edwin were here. He wouldn’t stand for this. But because Edwin isn’t here to witness, I can’t tell him about it later. It would be my word against Luke’s, and those aren’t the kind of waves I want to make after my first stand-up.
Albie’s saying nothing. If he disagrees with Luke—and he must, feminist that he is—he’s not in a position to speak up. He’s just a freelancer, really. Edwin promised me protection, but right now, I have none.
On the eleventh try, Luke declares me good enough. Everyone explodes into applause. My face is on fire under the pancake makeup. I head for the bathroom and run my hands under cold water, fighting to calm down. There’s another segment to get through, and I can’t let this—can’t let Luke—derail me. It was going so well. I can finish strong.
Returning to the set, I take my spot on a blue chair, the one designated for me, carefully placed so that the viewer at home will have the best vantage point on my crossed legs. My makeup gets a touch-up. Then it’s time to film the segment with Quill and Rayna.
They lob questions, and my every answer is scripted. It’s harder to sound natural in conversation than it was during the stand-up. We have to do it three times, and while Rayna’s face is impassive, I can imagine the internal judgment.
I hear Albie in my ear: “Cross your legs.” They’re already crossed. “Again,” he hisses. What he means is, do it conspicuously. Draw the viewers’ eyes to my newly spray-tanned legs.
I want to ignore him, because it’s borderline offensive, but I know it’s not really Albie talking. Albie has shown no interest in any of my body parts in the time we’ve spent together. He’s following orders—Luke’s? Edwin’s?—and I need to do the same.
Slowly. Sexy, like my walk. Oh God, don’t let them make me do this eleven times.
Rayna’s eyes narrow. She gets what’s going on, and it’s clear she doesn’t like it. But it feels like she doesn’t like me. Doesn’t she know I would never choose this?
Maybe she doesn’t, because she doesn’t know me. She could believe what some people were saying online about me being like Tomi Lahren, and that my every move has been calculated to take me to this point, opposite her. Meanwhile, she’s a real journalist, having cut her teeth in the White House press corps. Of course she resents my presence.
“Could you tell us more about your sources on this?” Rayna asks. “How did you get the documents about Tag’s parent company and the discrimination complaints?”
It’s a deviation from the script. I have no idea how to answer; I don’t know how the story was constructed. I didn’t even participate in telling my own side. It hadn’t even occurred to me until that moment how strange that was: that I wasn’t one of the sources. Really, I’m just a newsreader, like Elyse.
Quill jumps in to ask, “Have they requested anonymity?” He’s trying to bail me out.
I don’t want to lie. This is supposed to be the news.
Albie whispers in my ear, “We’ll edit it out later. Just go ahead and say yes.”
“Yes,” I say, “they requested anonymity.”
“You’re new to INN,” Quill says. So we’re back on script. “What should our viewers know about you?”
“I grew up in Tulip, Montana. Fewer than a thousand people live there. There were plenty of differences between us, but we treated one another with respect, and we disagreed with heart. My father owns a co-op, and he sold everything from wagyu beef to seitan. I was arguing issues with progressives and conservatives before I knew what either of those was. Since I was eight years old I’ve believed that you’re entitled to your own opinions but not your own facts. And I intend to tell the truth here at INN, no matter who it inflames. Because frankly, I couldn’t care less about sides. I’ve got a red-state name, but I’m not going to adhere to any color lines, and I’ll always admit mistakes but I won’t be silenced.”
Quill an
d Rayna exchange a choreographed smile, like a marital seal of approval, and then they turn to the camera to say how happy they are to have me beside them.
I know I could have done better with the speech, and Luke agrees. I’m just glad there’s no more walking. I can feel my delivery getting stronger, my conviction deepening, and the words becoming mine with each attempt. Then it’s a wrap.
“You were great,” Rayna says curtly, like it’s the end of a conversation rather than the start.
“Everything I said was true,” I tell her. What I mean is, Learn what I’m really about; it’s not what you seem to think.
“I never said you were a liar.” Her tone suggests she’s said other things about me. I can fill in the blank (untalented, opportunist, manipulator, attention whore, or just plain whore . . .)
Not to mention, she tried to sabotage me.
Well, sort of. She knew it would get edited out. So she was sending me a message, a shot across the bow. But whose bow? Mine, or Edwin’s? Edwin is, after all, the one pushing me, hard.
Rayna and Luke can think whatever they want. I killed it. That’s all Edwin will see, and at the end of the day, he’s the one who matters. Edwin, and all of America.
All of America. That’s what I wanted, right? So why does the thought give me such a chill?
Chapter 10
July 3, 1991
York has had a bad impact on my routines for the last couple of days. Each morning, instead of walking to the subway, I’m reliant on the doorman to hail me a cab. He doesn’t react like it’s anything out of the ordinary, it’s just his job. But for me, it feels like a defeat, that I’m back to needing men to watch out for me. This is a good neighborhood, the Upper East Side, close to Central Park. I shouldn’t be afraid.
From the sanctity of the taxi’s vinyl interior, I always scan the street. It’s five a.m. and still mostly dark. There usually aren’t many pedestrians, just a few joggers and dog walkers. I haven’t laid eyes on York again, but my experience is changed just having met him. I know that you don’t have to see people for them to see you.
A few more days without any sightings and I’ll go back to taking the subway, maybe. I refuse to live in fear. But vigilance—that’s been a regular feature of my mental landscape ever since college.
York is probably just who he says he is. He’s an agent who wants to represent me. It should be flattering, not frightening.
But he knows where to find me, and there are probably more where he came from. Men who think they know me because I’m on their TV screen, who won’t take no for an answer. They don’t even ask the question; they just assume that I’m somehow theirs. The scariest part about being on a morning show is that everyone knows where it’s filmed. Anyone could be lying in wait outside the studio, just beyond the metal barricades, amid all the I LOVE YOU, SCOTT AND TRISH! placards and signs.
This is what I signed up for. And really, how often does anything truly bad happen to someone in the public eye?
An image comes immediately, unbidden: Rebecca Schaeffer, the curly-headed sitcom actress with the ready smile, was murdered in the doorway of her own home by a deranged fan. It happens. Stalkers can kill you.
I don’t have a stalker, currently. York Diamond is an agent, that’s all. I wish there was an easy way to verify that he is who he said. Maybe I could look in the Yellow Pages? I did a story about something called the World Wide Web that just launched, and supposedly, someday it will let people find out all sorts of information with a few keystrokes. I’m not sure how I feel about that. If I can find out about other people, couldn’t they also find out about me?
When I arrived at the studio, it was still dark out. People hadn’t started gathering out front yet to meet Trish, Scott, and Conrad, the meteorologist. The fact is, any one of those “fans” could have a gun. Anyone could push through the metal barricade, if they were so inclined. There are no police officers, no metal detectors, and the security is fairly minimal. Not that security could do much. With Rebecca Schaeffer, it was over in seconds.
I went inside, got my hair and makeup done, reviewed my copy, and did a great show. Scott even gave me a thumbs-up from over on his couch. On my way out of the building afterward, eight people wanted my autograph. That’s not many compared to the throngs that were still waiting for Trish and Scott, holding placards with their names, not mine. But those eight people weren’t just overflow from the others; they seemed excited to meet me. I’m gaining ground.
I finished signing, and then I paused, debating whether to go to the subway or take another cab. That’s when someone grabbed my elbow. Without thinking, I yanked it away, and then I saw that the person doing the grabbing was Dennis Graver.
“Oh, sorry!” I said. “I just . . .” I was flustered, having treated the head of network news like a mugger.
He was unflappable, and impeccable, as always, in his expensive suit. “Glad I caught you before the holiday weekend,” he said. “I’m headed to the Hamptons later, but how about lunch?”
Before I could answer, he had his hand on my back and was ushering me forward, into a waiting limousine. Who was I to say no, really?
Besides, I was grateful that he’d made my decision for me. Cab or subway—no, it would be a limo. It felt paternal, though he’s only fifteen years older than me, and his manner isn’t precisely fatherly. But then, he’s not my dad; he’s my boss.
He’s not bad-looking—he’s tall and confident, he has all his light brown hair—except for the port wine birthmark near his temple. If he were a woman, it might be better for him, since he could try to cover it with makeup. But maybe it’s better that he’s a man because even without flesh-colored camouflage, that birthmark doesn’t hold him back at all.
The thought of concealing makeup makes me think of Dermablend, and its spokesperson, Marla Hanson, the model whose face was slashed with a razor blade after she refused the advances of her landlord.
I turned York down, and I imagine there will be other men in this town who I need to rebuff. There are men who’ll get the wrong idea just seeing a woman on their TV screen, men who will nurse fantasies and try to make them come true, regardless of what the object of their affection actually wants.
I have to remember that Lyndon is back in State College, Pennsylvania. He didn’t even bother me while I was in Pittsburgh, only when I was in his backyard. There’s no way he’s coming to New York.
Of course, if he couldn’t find me in Pittsburgh, it’s actually easier now. I’ve gone national. Besides, Lyndon isn’t the only sicko in the world.
For lunch, Dennis took me to the same steakhouse where we went after the tryout, when he let me know that the network would be making an offer. That was one of the best nights of my life. Once again, Dennis didn’t open the menu, and when the waiter came, he ordered for both of us. Also like last time, he added a bottle of red wine, with a slightly ostentatious French accent.
“I’ve got to tell you,” he said, “I like what I’ve been seeing so far. There aren’t that many times in my career when someone has delivered so big so soon.”
The wine arrived, and I let him fill my glass. I don’t normally drink, but it was almost a holiday.
“Morning shows are cutthroat, they really are.” Dennis held his glass up by the stem and contemplated the ruby liquid inside. “Viewers can be fickle. Even if you’re on top, you’re worried about who’s coming up behind you. I tell you, if I hear Katie Fucking Couric’s name one more time . . .” He smiled, but there was bitterness around the edges. “Her Q score is off the charts while she’s home breastfeeding.”
“What’s a Q score?”
He laughed. “That’s what I love about you, Elyse. It’s all new. You’re not jaded yet.” He took a big swallow of wine. “A Q score is likability plus recognizability. Just between us, Scott’s is significantly higher than Trish’s.”
“Oh?” I tried not to sound too interested.
“You’re headed for big things, but you’ve got to be s
mart about it. You’ve got to be feminine but not in that wily way, if you know what I mean. Not like some females in this industry.” His face darkened. “Don’t be a manipulator, Elyse, okay? Not with me.”
“I’m not a manipulator with anyone.”
Apropos of nothing I could detect, he said, “You know I’ve got a son, right?”
I like kids. “How old is he?”
“Fifteen. My ex gives me shit all the time about my parenting. She says I act too much like his friend. But there are things he has to know. I keep telling him that it’s not the same as it was when I was young, back when you just took a shot of penicillin or whatever. Now, you’ve got to worry about catching AIDS. Now sex can kill you. I tell him, he’s got to wear his jimmy hat, every time. I try to use the kids’ language, you know? You’ve got to wrap it up.”
I just blinked at him in disbelief. Fortunately, the food arrived, and like last time, Dennis went silent for prime rib. He talks before, and he talks after, and in between, he inhales his food like someone might try to steal it from him.
When he was finished, he moved back to a more palatable topic. “With your looks and your personality, I think you’d be a perfect fit as a morning show host.”
I couldn’t help it, the smile just overtook my face. I don’t want to knife Trish in the back, but I want a future too.
“It’s too early to make any moves. You’ve got to ease into these things gradually. Think Katie Couric, how they gave her a bigger correspondent role for a whole year before she elbowed Deborah Norville out of the way.” He poured another glass of wine for himself, and for me. I hadn’t even noticed I’d finished the last one. “We have to be strategic. But just know that you’re on my radar.” He drank the entire glass in one swig. “Shall we go?”
