by Holly Brown
I felt a little nervous, since drunk men can be aggressive, but Dennis remained a gentleman. He dropped me off at my apartment, and I’ve been in a state of exhilaration ever since. I’m too happy to even think about the hang-up I got earlier.
It was a wrong number, I know it was.
Chapter 11
It’s already happening,” I tell Edwin.
“How about a drink?” he asks. He’s hovering near the bar in his office, a smile on his face. There’s a fresh scab on his chin, as if he’s just cut himself shaving. Otherwise, he looks like he did the first time. His ease is as attractive as ever. He couldn’t be any further from Dennis Graver if he tried. And I’m no Elyse. If Edwin started talking about penises, I’d be filing an HR complaint before dessert. I don’t need to bat my eyelashes to succeed.
I’m happy to see Edwin, yes, but I’ve got a lot on my mind. Since my first TV appearance I’ve been at the center of a media frenzy. My segment has gotten millions of hits on YouTube, with over thirty thousand comments. More are positive than I’d dared to anticipate, particularly from people who experienced bullying themselves and were grateful that I was bringing attention to what Tag had done or, rather, not done. Then there are plenty about how hot I am, and others about how undeserving I am of the current opportunity, that it’s only about the aforementioned hotness. I’d been ready for all the links to naked photos, and for cross-referencing to my viral video, which most declared boring. To my relief, the threats, the vitriol, and the chatter about rape have been minimal. So far.
Media blogs have gone crazy, too, since they didn’t have any advance warning that INN was getting a new correspondent, let alone an “explosively attractive one.” (Edwin loves the element of surprise.) The major networks, CNN, and Fox are all running with versions of the story “Who is Cheyenne Florian?” Some of their answers are none too flattering, citing my undistinguished Stanford career and hinting at an almost Machiavellian level of planning behind my overnight success. One journalist managed to excavate the comments that I’d turned off. Early on, when I was still trying to respond to people who seemed reasonable, I’d written, “I’m not a journalist,” and that’s become its own meme.
TV reporters have even shown up outside Dad’s co-op, and when they found out he’s not there much anymore, not since the cancer, they waited for him outside his house. He told them he’s proud of his brilliant, talented daughter. End quote.
Every word from my introductory speech has been analyzed. Some accuse me of plagiarizing from Daniel Patrick Moynihan about not being entitled to your own facts; others argue back that it often goes unattributed, I wasn’t pretending that I’d come up with it at the age of eight. My talk of color lines has drawn particular attention. Am I truly independent, or was that a dog whistle about race relations for the left, or for the right? Was the girl with the red-state name speaking in code to a hidden base, like the one that Trump really wound up having? What’s my true agenda?
Most feminist sites have been just as critical. They think I’m rewinding the movement every time I cross my legs on camera (one blog counts leg crosses per segment). One called me “an IINO (Independent in Name Only), manufactured and market researched, a wet dream of a broadcast journalist for a dumbed-down, oversexed viewership, who sets us all back by a hundred years, and a hundred thousand brain cells, and she comes, completely accessorized, with her own nude portfolio.” Salon, though, had a different take: “Cheyenne clearly had a personal investment and involvement in the story she was telling. Do we ask whether male correspondents have done all their own research and writing? I think you know the answer. Judged strictly on her performance, Cheyenne gets an A-.”
I have to hope everyone on INN’s staff reads Salon.
But I was ready for all that. What has my stomach churning is the hack. Another hack, after Edwin assured me that INN would keep me safe. “I had a secret social media account,” I say, “and someone’s gotten it shut down. I went to log in and—”
“You’re welcome.”
I stare at him. “You did that?”
“Your password was weak.”
“You knew about @fuzzysocksonmyhead?”
“Sure. You think I don’t do a background check before I make a job offer? I need to know that what you see is what you get. In your case, I couldn’t be more pleased.” He finishes mixing my drink. “An old-fashioned.” He thrusts it into my hand and then settles on the couch opposite me. “A toast, to the newest media It Girl. You brought it.” He clinks his glass against mine. I’m not clinking back.
“I said I didn’t want a drink,” I set it down on an end table. I flash on Dennis Graver ordering for Elyse. Making decisions for her without her input, but that was just a steak. What Edwin’s done is much bigger than that. “I can’t believe you shut down my account without talking to me first.”
“My bad. I thought I’d mentioned it.”
“Mentioned it? You should have asked.” Then I get it. “So the rest wasn’t a hack either. On Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, and who knows where else. @theRealCheyenneFlorian is you.”
“Not me. It’s you. But behind every great woman is a crack PR team. They’ve watched all your vlogs and read through all the social media you pulled down.” I don’t even want to know how they got their hands on that. It means what’s erased is never really erased. “They know your voice, and they’re going to make sure everything stays on brand.”
“This is not at all okay.”
“What’s not?”
It’s frightening that he even has to ask that, that he looks genuinely surprised by my reaction. “Where do I start? It’s not okay that you somehow got access to the material I’d already pulled down, or that you shut off the account I was actually using, or that you created this person, this brand, who’s supposed to be me, all without so much as a conversation.”
“You have more than enough on your plate. I knew the team would do a great job, and I didn’t want you to have any additional stress.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head, is that it?”
He grabs his phone and holds it out to me. “You’ve already got a million and a half followers on Facebook, and over a quarter of a million on Twitter and Instagram. Obviously you won’t have an account on Tag. And we’ll never compromise your safety because your photos will never be taken where you really are. If anything, this’ll keep you safer. We’ll throw any would-be stalkers off your scent.”
Perhaps this is how the industry works. Decisions get made by the higher-ups, and you just have to toe the line.
He’s saying I get to focus on the real work, which is what I want to do. And he’s right, I don’t have the time to handle my social media. It’s not like I even enjoy doing it anymore.
Still, it’s creepy to have a whole team of people impersonating me, without my consent.
I could ask Albie if this is just how things are done, if delegating social media to someone who can do it better is standard. But I’m not entirely sure I can trust his answer. Did he know this was going on and kept it from me? The fact is, Albie isn’t really mine. His loyalty is to Edwin, and maybe to that woman in the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” Edwin says. “I haven’t done a very good job of keeping you in the loop. I wanted to minimize your stress so you could prepare for your debut. I meant to get rid of the noise so you can do what really matters, but you’re right. I should have talked to you.”
It was an oversight, an error in judgment. I have no reason not to trust him. As I scroll through his phone, I like everything @theRealCheyenneFlorian is saying. She’s like me, only plugged into what I have no time for these days.
“If it’s about my image and how I’m being presented to the world, I want to know about it,” I say.
“From now on, you will. I’m going to give you a new dummy account with much higher security so that you can monitor social media. If you don’t like anything you’re seeing, let me know and we’ll take it down. You’re
in control.”
“Deal.” I smile. I don’t like being mad at Edwin. “Are you happy with how things are going?”
“Absolutely. You’re blowing up the interwebs.”
“A lot of the coverage is pretty negative.”
“If it wasn’t, no one would be talking. You need the backlash to have the frontlash. Listen, you’ve got it. That thing that everyone wants. We’re not making any excuses or any apologies. We’re not trying to say you’re anything you’re not. We don’t have to.”
“I did cut the line.” Something that is surely not escaping anyone’s notice, outside or INN.
He makes a face of utter dismissal. “People learn on the job. Your performance was stellar. You’re not just beautiful; you’re a star, like I knew you would be.”
My face warms. I’m thinking of Luke and all that footage to get my walk right. Then there’s the sloooooow leg cross.
Even Chase mainly commented on how I looked, that he wished he was there right then so he could . . .
My face gets even hotter thinking of that. Phone sex is pretty new to me, though it might end up being essential since I’m not sure when Chase and I will be able to see each other, between his work schedule and mine. He wanted to sext, but I couldn’t help thinking in terms of privacy in case of another phone hack. Sure, Edwin has given me a cell upgrade that’s supposed to be more secure, but nothing’s impenetrable, if someone (or a band of someones) is determined enough.
I reach for my old-fashioned and take a sip.
“It can be overwhelming at first,” Edwin says. “But this is going just like I planned. We want them talking. There’s nothing damaging for them to find, no dirt to dig up because you haven’t compromised yourself in this corrupt industry. You made some videos with the best of intentions, and you took sexy photos for your longtime boyfriend. So what? It was inevitable that you’d go viral. You’re the real deal. People want to look at you.” He didn’t say they want to listen to me. “They’re just curious about where you came from, that’s all. This country loves an origin story. You’re the woman who delayed Stanford—twice—to take care of your dying father. Who didn’t die! They’re going to love that.”
“I don’t want them to love that. Is it out there?”
“Not yet, but it will be. You’ll be the one to post about it on your social media.”
“No. Leave my father out of it.” I’m thinking of how someone got his email before, and what they might send him next.
“But he’s—”
“I said no!”
We both look a little stunned. Then we both take a drink.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just protective of him. There’s a lot I’m willing to do for this job, but you need to let me draw some lines, okay?”
“Okay.”
I need to calm down, that’s all. This is going according to plan. Edwin’s plan, our shared mission. I’ll deliver him the millennials, and together we’ll change the world.
“I like that you want to protect your father, but you really need to think about yourself,” Edwin says. “Every time you’re out, think of your image. Don’t do anything unless you want to be seen doing it. Because you never know who’s there, capturing it.”
There’s a knock on the door. Edwin opens it, but not far enough for me to see who’s there. “Well, hello,” he says, with a hint of flirtation.
“I thought I’d find you here,” the woman says. It’s a self-possessed voice, possibly the same one I heard in the hall the other night, though I can’t be sure.
“Cheyenne and I are talking about how well everything’s going.”
“Cheyenne?” the woman trills. “The next big thing? I want to meet her!”
Edwin opens the door farther, and she walks in. Tall, wrinkleless, and slim—forty, fifty? As with all of Edwin’s women, it’s hard to tell. Her hair is past her shoulders, in loose, lustrous curls. She moves with the willowy grace of Cate Blanchett, and she’s in an unlined green silk maxi dress. She’s smiling broadly at me, approaching with her hand outstretched. “I’m Daphne,” she says. “It’s an honor to meet you.” The words seem overblown, though the tone is sincere.
“You, too,” I say, though I have no idea who Daphne even is. But her manner says that I should know. I feel a stab of jealousy, which is silly. I have no claim on Edwin.
Daphne is the kind of woman who doesn’t just sit; she drapes herself attractively across the couch, one arm along the back. Edwin sits beside her, but he doesn’t lean back into the crook she’s created. Despite the intimacy in their voices, they haven’t touched each other at all.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Daphne says. She glances at my glass, which has only the barest trace of liquor left in it. “Old-fashioned?”
“It just felt right,” Edwin says. “It’s almost lunchtime. Would you like one?”
Daphne shakes her head. “I’ve been out since last night. I missed you.” She gives Edwin a look that’s more shrewd than it is sexual. So she was out all night, with another man? I can’t tell what’s really going on here.
Daphne’s gaze is back on me. Her features are pretty, but in a very basic way. She’s cheerleader pretty, seasoned by the years. She’s intimidating, though that doesn’t seem to be her intent. I just can’t imagine what I could say that would be of interest to this high-end creature before me, who’s still coming down from last night’s dinner and drinks with a rich boyfriend or visiting dignitary or Jay-Z, who knows.
“I’m so glad Edwin was able to lure you to INN,” Daphne says. “He showed me your videos, and I told him, yes, we have to get her.”
“Thank you.” The compliment adds to my confusion about who Daphne is. It’s almost like she’s the one who calls the shots.
I try to discreetly sniff at the air. Nothing. Whatever fragrance I smelled the other night, more like a man’s cologne than a woman’s perfume, is not currently emanating from Daphne.
“I’ve been where you are,” Daphne says. “I was once an It Girl, and while a lot has changed—and I mean, a lot—some things haven’t. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Is she the one who left me the diary?
“So,” Edwin says, “I have an assignment for you.”
Chapter 12
It’s not just another night in the newsroom. Instead of being in their own pods, at their workstations, the staffers of all the shows are gathered together, watching the enormous wall of TV screens. While normally they would be tuned to Fox, CNN, and MSNBC, keeping an eye on the competition, right then every one is tuned to INN.
Ty’s glowering. He’s just detailed an exclusive pay-to-play mixer between heads of corporations and the heads of Senate committees. “And no one wants to tell the story of how our government really operates, how it’s bought and paid for?” he bellows. “Every other network is too afraid that they’ll lose access, that if they alienate the politicians, they’ll get frozen out. So they tell stories the politicians want told; they’re distributing the government’s press releases like a bunch of lackeys. Not me.
“This is a story about access. It’s about way too much access. What it’s not about is partisanship. The elite on both sides of the aisle are having their legislation written for them by corporations while they line their own pockets and fill their reelection coffers. There were high-ranking Republicans and high-ranking Democrats in that room. They’re pigs wallowing in the same muck, and the media is turning a blind eye. Well, I’m not blind. Don’t you be either.”
The screen goes to commercial, and everyone explodes into applause and whoops. As the high fiving and hugging commence, everyone keeps saying, “Only in!,” and I think, Only in America? Then I get it: only INN. INN is the only news network that would do something like Ty just did. The pride borders on jingoistic, but it’s also contagious.
Someone grabs me around the waist, spinning me around into an embrace. It’s one of the male VJs, I can’t recall his name or even his show. I hug him back, happy to ride the wave rig
ht along with the rest of them. I’ve been so separate, off in boot camp with Albie, but he told me to read at my workstation tonight. He must have known this was coming and saw the potential for bonding (and for ferreting out more enemies.)
“Come out with us,” the VJ says into my ear.
Tired as I am, I can’t turn down this chance. If they get to know the real me, we can push past so much of the bullshit. The way you reduce bigotry is to increase personal connection. I need to be humanized. I notice, with relief, that Luke is absent.
There’s discussion about which bar, and then that archetypally nerdy producer of Ty’s (I think his name is Graham?) enters the fray with his own suggestion. A few people exchange furtive incredulous glances. Someone says, “In the middle of Times Square?,” and Graham nods assertively. Decision made.
Times Square makes sense geographically, since INN is less than ten blocks away, but it feels farther given the almost overwhelming crush of people, like trying to swim upstream. I’ve never experienced population density like this, have never been suffocated on a hot, humid night, floating in the swamp of humanity. I’m afraid to lose the caravan, afraid to drift away.
My fear escalates when I’m recognized, loudly. The New Yorkers tend to ignore me like Edwin said, especially since I generally dress down on my way to and from work, my hair scraped back in a bun, but the Times Square tourists are a different breed. They came here for sightings, and they want their selfies. They have questions. What’s it like to be an overnight sensation? They’re standing way too close, and maybe that’s because everything’s too close. The tall buildings and the neon and all those people . . . It’s a paradox, how such magnitude can feel so claustrophobic.
I think of the diary, and of Rebecca Schaeffer and Marla Hanson, and gunshots and razor blades. I think of what can happen when you say no to a stranger. So I just keep saying yes. I’ll take another picture, I’ll answer another question. When you’re surrounded, don’t anger anyone. They all seem friendly, fortunately. No insults or threats. It’s compliments, autographs, selfies, and small talk. It’s like being in the reception line for a wedding that’s not yours, only everyone mistakes you for the bride.
