How Far She's Come

by Holly Brown

  When I can finally extricate myself, I realize I’ve been left behind. I don’t even remember the name of the bar. This was my chance to break through with my coworkers, and I’ve blown it.

  I’m standing dead still in the middle of the pavement as everyone flows around me. I’m praying no one else will recognize me or want anything from me. I’m about to grab a cab and go home when Graham returns to rescue me.

  “Come on,” he says, his voice businesslike. He takes me by the arm a bit roughly, but I’m grateful nonetheless. I eke out a thank-you that he seems not to hear.

  He picked a piano bar. Framed in the front window, a man is playing a show tune I can’t place while scads of the exuberantly drunk belt out the lyrics. Well, that makes sense. We’re on Broadway.

  The INN staff has already commandeered the farthest booths. Spirits are flowing and spirits are high. They’re all shouting over one another. I pick up that some people knew a lot more than others about Ty’s report, but the word got around today (to everyone but me) that something big was brewing and they all needed to tune in. Now they’re trading war stories, times they were in the thick of a big get on an adrenaline rush better than sex. I’m aware of how little I have to contribute, but I’m here, and that’s a start.

  Despite my successful debut, I’m as invisible as I was during all the pitch meetings. Maybe they don’t care about fame; they care about people who’ve earned their stripes. One broadcast just isn’t enough.

  I belly up to the bar for a drink. After five lonely minutes, the two brunette VJs from Breaking It Down elbow in on either side of me. While they’re styled like twins with the same low ponytails and dark-rimmed glasses, pale skin and brown eyes, one is actually much prettier than the other. The prettier one reintroduces herself: “I’m Nan.”

  “I’m Belinda.”

  “I’m Cheyenne.”

  They laugh. “Yeah, we know,” Belinda says. “We wanted to say we think you’re doing a great job. The way we acted in the pitch meeting, that was just sucking up to Rayna. It was nothing personal against you.”

  “I know,” I say. “How could it be personal? We just met.” I decide to take a chance. “Does Rayna ever come out for drinks? I’d love to talk to her in a less formal setting.”

  They exchange a look. Then Nan gives me a don’t-you-worry smile. “Just let some time pass. Rayna was a sorority girl once upon a time. She’s still got that hazing mentality.”

  “Sorority.” That word was used in the letter accompanying the diary. But it’s hard to imagine that came from Nan. It sounds like it was written by someone much older, a feminist who’d been in the trenches, who was disappointed to see how little had changed with the passage of time.

  Or maybe that’s what someone wants me to think.

  “So I just need to show her I can handle whatever she throws at me? That I’m here to stay?” I ask.

  “Something like that,” Belinda says.

  Nan expertly grabs the bartender’s attention, procures three shots, and places one in front of me. We knock them back in unison.

  “Your social media is boss,” Belinda says. “You do it yourself?”

  I hesitate. I’m not sure whether it’s a secret or not that Edwin has enlisted a PR team. “This is all new to me,” I say. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “You and Edwin have been having private meetings, huh?”

  I feel myself stiffen slightly. That was the rumor about Professor Trent and me too. “Not many,” I answer. It was true then, and it’s true now.

  Nan and Belinda look less than 100 percent convinced.

  “I know that I jumped the queue,” I say. “I don’t blame anyone for, you know, not exactly welcoming me with open arms.”

  Nan laughs. “There’s no queue.”

  “Good genes are as valid as hard work,” Belinda confirms. “You use what you’ve got.”

  “And we’re all about open arms.” Nan laughs again and calls my attention to the other end of the bar, where a female VJ from The Media Is the Message is making out brazenly with a male VJ from Breaking It Down. “We sleep with the enemy.”

  “We work hard, and we stay late, and we have to burn off a little steam,” Belinda says. “You go in the next day like nothing ever happened.”

  “Are there any actual couples, or is it all hookups?”

  Belinda shakes her head. “No couples.”

  “My boyfriend’s back in Palo Alto.”

  “Chase is hot,” Belinda says to Nan.

  I’m surprised. “You know him?”

  “No, I just saw his picture earlier tonight. There was a piece on one of the blogs about conflicts of interest in journalism, who’s dating who in the news media, and they put up a picture of you and Chase.”

  I’m confused. “What kind of conflict of interest?”

  “He works for that start-up Until, right?” Belinda says. “There are rumors about that place. On AstroTurf, but still.”

  “What’s AstroTurf?”

  They both laugh, like my naiveté is charming. I don’t appreciate the condescension, but it’s better than standing alone, so obviously outside the circle.

  “AstroTurf, as in, fake grassroots,” Nan explains. “As in, all those websites that are made to look legitimate, to make it seem like there’s a groundswell of support for some idea or initiative, but they’re just shilling for the government, or corporations, or even those other news organizations that INN’s already overtaken in the ratings after a year on the air.”

  “On AstroTurf, people are talking about my relationship with Chase?”

  “Don’t even worry about it,” Belinda says. “I shouldn’t have said anything. There’s no point stressing about rumors.”

  “Though there are plenty of options here for stress relief.” Nan glances around and smiles. “Everyone’s totally cool. And discreet.”

  Belinda and Nan are so different than they seemed in the pitch meeting. There, they were sharp and intimidating, entirely on their game. Now they’ve become a couple of gossipy twenty-somethings.

  “Chase and I are pretty serious,” I say. “I’m not going to need any stress relief.”

  Nan and Belinda smile at each other, like, That’s what they all say. I like that look about as much as I like the two of them.

  “You know who’s into you already?” Belinda says. “Graham.”

  “You could have fooled me.” I look over to where Graham’s currently surrounded by people laughing at whatever witticism he’s just dished up. He’s clearly the alpha; his stereotypical geekiness is intentional, an emblem.

  “He’s in line to be EP on Ty’s show,” Nan says.

  “Also, he’s good in bed,” Belinda says. “Or out of bed. In the bathroom or the closet, wherever.”

  “He’s got plenty of women to vouch for him.” Nan laughs, and Belinda joins in.

  Can Graham really be INN’s resident lothario? Or is this part of Rayna’s hazing, a practical joke being played so I’ll hit on him?

  I’m glad when other staffers come over to join our trio. There are more shots. I feel looser and freer. The topic is no longer news, and I’m talking to whoever’s closest, animatedly. There’s some flirting but nothing more. I’ll call Chase for my stress relief later, after I get home.

  Then Graham’s there, grinding into me from behind, his voice in my ear. “Come with me.”

  I don’t feel like I can resist, or even ask questions. He’s that authoritative, and I’m that drunk.

  Outside, we’re barraged by people, noise, and neon, even at this hour, whatever hour it is. I’ve lost track. Graham points, and I follow his finger.

  “Holy . . . ,” I say, the next word dying on my lips.

  I’m on the Jumbotron, larger than life. I’d felt silly at first when Edwin told me about the assignment, and even more so when a film crew was following me around the streets of Manhattan. There were multiple costume changes, with corresponding hair and makeup tweaks, but the footage they woun
d up using came right at the end, when I spun around in my trademark scuba dress, a cardigan thrown casually over my shoulder. The confident turn, that smile . . . I barely recognize that girl. No, that woman. That go-getter.

  Writ large across the Jumbotron screen: The next face of news, Cheyenne Florian.

  This is really happening. I’m fast approaching a million Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter followers. In the days since my debut, with INN refusing to leak where I’ll be next, the ratings for all the shows have had a boost overall, but most important, among the desired advertising demographic of eighteen- to thirty-five-year-olds. Meaning, people are watching for me.

  I’m the next face of news, and the current face of Times Square.

  As if from far away, I hear Graham saying that it’s going to run every hour, and that it’ll be all over TV and social media. It’s going to be a blitz. Edwin has gotten his millennials, and he intends to keep them.

  People are pointing to me and pointing up. Then I’m signing autographs, taking pictures, and listening to congratulations, and unlike earlier, I’m reveling. I’ve arrived.

  Graham stays nearby, like a bodyguard, which is funny because he couldn’t be less physically imposing. But he seems proprietary, and I’m sure that Edwin engineered this moment. It must be why Graham insisted on a Times Square bar.

  Nan and Belinda were telling the truth. Graham is a power player.

  But then, so am I.

  Chapter 13

  I’m startled by the knock on my office door. In part, it’s that I’m not used to having an actual office, with an actual door. I wouldn’t have thought one broadcast would be so handsomely rewarded. I’m on Albie’s floor, far from the rest of the staff, though my office is twice the size of his.

  I’m feeling a rush of optimism. It’s the cumulative effect of Edwin’s approval, the Jumbotron, and INN’s ratings. On top of that, my evening with my colleagues went smoothly, with no hostile interactions or strange vibes at all. Plus, I’ve had a revelation. All the media talk about me being a closet conservative and a Tomi Lahren and having no business in the correspondent role is just a display of their own impotence; meanwhile, the attention keeps my star rising, even as their disparagement is an attempt for them to stay relevant. They want to ride my coattails. And while my social media is far from uniformly positive, it hasn’t been overrun by people calling for my rape and dismemberment. It practically verges on the civil.

  “Come in!” I call. Edwin opens the door, and I beam. It’s his first time stopping by. Then he angles his body and I see a young, pretty, very tall blonde, and my smile dims.

  “There’s someone I want you to meet,” he says.

  “I’m Reese Benson,” the blonde says, smiling widely, like she can’t even contain her excitement. “I’m your new assistant.”

  “Hi. Nice to meet you.” I smile back, then look inquiringly (and pointedly) at Edwin. I thought Edwin was going to consult me about matters that directly impact me, and hiring an assistant certainly qualifies. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with her. I’ve never been anyone’s boss.

  “The fan mail is picking up fast,” Edwin says. “You’ll need someone to help you handle that. Then there are all the tasks of daily life. She’ll make sure you’re not living on takeout and that your laundry’s done. She’ll be in charge of your social calendar.” I don’t do social; all I do is work. “She’ll be your liaison with PR and the other departments. There are some functions we’re going to need you to attend soon, so Reese will keep you on track with all that. She knows the city. She knows where you’ll want to shop and where you’ll want to be seen. She can recommend fun things to do in your rare off-hours. She’ll be your sounding board.”

  Like a paid friend? Or a role model?

  “Anything you need”—another grin from Reese—“I’ll make it happen. In my last year at Columbia, I had an internship with CNN. I just graduated, and I’m all yours.”

  I hope my smile doesn’t seem as forced as it is. I feel for Reese. It’s not her fault that she’s being sprung on me. Now I’m wondering if this is why I was given an office, so I could have tête-à-têtes with a Columbia grad. I’m fine with being schooled by Albie, but this is a whole different thing. Sure, Edwin’s talking about takeout and laundry, but if it was only that, my assistant wouldn’t be so pedigreed. Take her in the right direction, that’s what Daphne (or whoever) said in the hallway. I want to know what’s really going on here.

  “Welcome,” I say. “Could you just give Edwin and me a minute alone?” She’d said anything I need, and at the moment, what I need most is to confront Edwin.

  “Sure. I’ll just wait in the hall.”

  When she’s stepped out, I crook a finger to summon Edwin toward me. It’s a bold move with your boss, but I’m too annoyed to care.

  “I thought we agreed that you were going to include me in major decisions,” I say, just above a whisper.

  “This is hardly a major decision.”

  “She’s going to be my shadow!”

  “Not if you don’t want her to. She works for you. You decide how much distance you need.”

  “You didn’t think I’d want a say in who works for me?”

  He shakes his head slightly. “I can’t include you in everything, Cheyenne. You don’t have the time to spare.”

  It’s true, but still. He and I have radically different ideas about what constitute major decisions, and that’s worrisome. “Are you telling me the whole story?”

  “She’s here to assist, that’s all. It’s right in her job title.”

  “I wish you’d picked a different day. I’ve got a lot on my mind, preparing for Beth’s show tonight.” It’s my first live broadcast, and now I have to babysit my assistant. Or my assistant will be babysitting me. “I could just send her home, right? Tell her to start tomorrow?”

  “If that’s the tone you want to set, you can.”

  Now I need to be trained in how to treat my employee. “It just feels like more work that I don’t need.”

  “She’s here to make your life easier. I meant it as a gift.”

  As usual, I can feel Edwin’s sincerity, and it starts to wear me down. That, and his nearness. “People aren’t gifts, Edwin,” I say with a sigh.

  “I’m not so sure about that.” His smile is full of affection, and I feel myself blushing.

  “Will you be around tonight for the broadcast?” I’m not sure if I’ll be more nervous or less if he’s hovering around the studio.

  “I’ll be watching you on TV.”

  I have no right to be even a little disappointed, and yet . . .

  It’s better this way. Chase is three thousand miles away, and Edwin needs to keep his professional distance, just like Reese.

  I invite her back in. I sit behind my desk, and she sits in the chair opposite, managing to appear simultaneously relaxed and eager. It’s clear she’s much more comfortable in her role than I am in mine.

  Her blond hair is pulled back, and her skin is clear, with just a hint of makeup, enough to say she spent some time but that she didn’t really need to. She’s in a sheath dress, nowhere near as tight as the one I’ll wear tonight, and flats. With her height, she probably always is.

  “Is it totally cheesy to tell you that you’re even more beautiful in person?” Reese says.

  “Thanks.”

  “But it’s a little cheesy.”

  I smile and then hold my thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. She laughs. She seems so sweet and enthusiastic that I wish I didn’t feel like I do. “I have to be honest. I’m a little tongue-tied right now. I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “You thought I was starting a different day?”

  “I didn’t know I was getting an assistant.”

  “Oh. Well, surprise! It’s a girl!” We both laugh. “I promise you, I’m going to make your life so easy. You won’t have to worry about anything. You can focus on what you need to learn.”

  What does
Reese think that is? “What’s Edwin told you about my”—I hesitate—“background?”

  “Everyone knows you don’t have a journalism degree or any formal experience or training, but that just makes you more impressive. There aren’t many people who could get a million followers in a day.”

  Those people aren’t really following me; they’re following @theRealCheyenneFlorian. From my new and improved dummy account, I’ve been following, too, and I have to admit, @theRealCheyenneFlorian has great taste. She’s eating amazing food, shopping at awesome stores, and commenting intelligently on other people’s news blogs. I wouldn’t mind living her life.

  “I need to go,” I say. “My second broadcast is tonight, and Albie’s waiting for me in the studio to rehearse.” I feel like it would be polite to invite her, but I’m not sure I want any extra spectators.

  “Do you have anything you want me to do? I could run and pick up something for you to eat or drink. I can stock your fridge and get started on the laundry.” In response to my quizzical look, she adds, “Edwin gave me a key.”

  I know it’s not really my apartment; it’s INN’s. But still, for Edwin to just give away a copy of my key is invasive, and after all I’ve been through in the past, the last thing I want is the threat of invasion. I would have thought he’d be more sensitive to that, but he’s got a lot on his mind, and the reality is, I can’t expect anyone to truly understand unless they’ve experienced it themselves.

  “You won’t need the key,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I’ve got all that covered.”

  It’s a full-service building, with laundry and grocery delivery, but more than that, there are cameras everywhere, and the doormen are fully trained with concealed weapons. No visitor gets through without being screened. I’ve been told other celebrities live there, but not which ones. I’ve never seen anyone I recognized, though many of the residents exude VIP vibes. We all avert our eyes and wait for the next elevator.