Little White Lies

by Brianna Baker

  K: Anyway, I prefer speakerphone. To tell you the truth, I live in this basement apartment—it’s not really a basement, it’s only, like, two steps down from street level. It’s actually really nice—but for whatever reason, I have the worst cell service. And I never liked talking on the phone to begin with.

  C: It’s okay. I don’t mind the speakerphone. And I can hear you fine.

  K: Is it cool if I call you Coretta? You can call me Karl if you want. Or if we’re texting or emailing, you can call me K. Or really you don’t have to call me anything at all. You’ll know you’re writing to me, and of course I’ll know it’s to me, and I’ll know it’s from you, so once we get this thing going, we really won’t have to call each other anything, okay?

  C: Okayyy.

  K: So, Coretta, it’s not often that I am put in direct contact with a client. But since that is our arrangement, I would like very much to take advantage of this rare opportunity to hear from you directly. What do you expect of me?

  C: [silence]

  K: Coretta?

  C: You don’t sound as black as I thought you would.

  K: You do realize I’m not black, don’t you? I mean, you knew that, right?

  C: Honestly, it didn’t really come up. I think I assumed you were white? But I still thought you might have, like, a blacker-sounding voice or something. Is that racist?

  K: Black people can’t be racist.

  C: Yes, they can.

  K: Let’s not get too deep into that shit just yet, all right? I mean, unless you want to.

  C: Okayyy.

  K: You do realize that I am also a man, don’t you?

  C: Yes.

  K: And how does that make you feel, Coretta?

  C: Excuse me?

  K: Um, that was sort of meant as a joke. I was trying to sound like a therapist. I doubt you’re in therapy. Yet. You seem well-adjusted. But I’m sure you’ve seen that stuff on TV, and I imagine half your friends are in therapy, or will be before you know it. Anyway, dumb joke, but I guess the question still stands: How do you feel about hiring a middle-aged white man to help you write your blog? And as long as we’re at it, here’s the follow-up question—

  C: Whoa, hold on.

  K: Sorry. I tend to ramble. On the phone. Which is why I hate it. Not in my work, of course.

  C: Do you not want this job, Karl?

  K: I just can’t help wondering why you think you need me. You appear to be doing just fine on your own. Winning, in fact. Better than just about anyone out there. Little White Lies is a thing of beauty. Your voice is pitch-perfect. Your followers are engaged and adoring. I mean, sure, I could help you out with a few organizational things—just some formatting shit, really. This is, like … Kanye territory for me. You’re someone special, Coretta. That sounded completely corny the way that came out, but it’s true. And by the way, I think your Kanye coverage has been as cogent and insightful and amusing as anything I’ve read about him on the web or in print anywhere.

  C: Well, thank you.

  K: Well, you’re welcome. Now don’t go Kanye Krazy on me! Stay grounded.

  C: Don’t worry. That’s what I’m trying to do.

  K: The question remains, Coretta. Whaddya need me for?

  C: I need help. I just can’t do this on my own anymore. This whole thing has gotten way too big, and I don’t see it getting any smaller. I’m still in high school. And I want to go to college. A really good college. Like Harvard or Stanford.

  K: Forget college.

  C: Excuse me?

  K: Forget about college for now. Don’t bother with the applications. Finish high school, yes. But at the rate you’re going, you’re not even going to need college. Ride this thing out, Coretta. See where it takes you. In one year’s time you won’t even need to fill out the applications. You can go to Harvard and Stanford. At the same time. Go all James Franco if you want.

  C: Wow, Karl. You sound not at all like my parents. Or like someone who actually went to Harvard.

  K: Well you can always defer for a year if you get in.

  C: Thank you. Now to answer your question. How do I feel about hiring a middle-aged white man to help me write my black girl blog? I feel weird about it.

  K: Me, too.

  C: More than weird. I feel deeply unsettled.

  K: Me, too. But the world isn’t as black and white as it used to be, is it? Look around. It’s pretty much full spectrum. Black and white still matters, of course—more than it ever should, though not as much as it used to. The best I can do is honor your voice. All that being said, I can totally understand if this is an issue for you. It would be strange if it wasn’t.

  C: It is an issue. Of course it’s an issue. It’s unethical, it’s scandalous, and I’m more than slightly uncomfortable about the level of secrecy surrounding our arrangement. But secrecy aside, there’s something about hiring you that feels safe in a way.

  K: That’s good. That’s a relief, actually.

  C: Because say I enlisted a young woman, especially a young black woman, to take on my voice, I would have to trust that she wouldn’t take over my voice, usurp my followers, highjack my identity … or worse, expose me as a fraud. Oh my God! Listen to me. I sound like Lady Macbeth. See what I mean? I’m, like, losing my mind.

  K: You are not losing your mind, Coretta. You are wise to be cautious and concerned. This is a big deal. So that brings me back to my first question. Let’s talk about what you want me to do for you.

  C: Well, for starters, thank you. It’s just good to be able to talk about all this stuff with someone.

  K: Someone besides Noprah?

  C: Huh?

  K: Never mind. We can discuss that later. You’re welcome. Now let’s put me to work on Little White Lies.

  C: Okay. Yes. First of all, if you have some ideas for better organization or formatting, I’d love to hear those. And I’m sure I could use some tips on Twitter. Tweeting is definitely not my forte.

  K: Did you just use the word “forte”?

  C: And I can use ideas for my big posts, although I guess that hasn’t really been a problem so far. And well, you’re a ghostwriter, right? That’s what you do. You write for other people. So I guess I’d like you to do that. I mean, I would have to approve whatever you wrote before it went up on the blog.

  K: Exactly.

  C: And I would want to approve whatever you planned on writing before you wrote it.

  K: Okay.

  C: And of course I’ll have the option to edit or alter anything you write before posting it.

  K: Of course. Coretta, Little White Lies will always belong to you. It’s your creation, and you should have the final word on whatever goes in it. My sole purpose is to support you. Whatever I write for you will be written for you. And it’ll be your prerogative to alter, edit, change, delete, or obliterate anything I submit.

  C: Oh. Okay. Cool. Oh, hey, can I call you back in a second?

  K: Ha, okay. That was abrupt.

  C: My mom wants something. I’m a kid, as much as I try to forget. She needs me to take out the garbage. Okay, I’ll call you right back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Coretta (December 3, 2013)

  I was lying. My mom didn’t need me to take out the garbage; she wasn’t even home. I just got overwhelmed on the phone with Karl. I was talking to a real-life adult man about helping me with my blog.

  Did I say white man? We wanna say it doesn’t matter, but like he said, we know it does.

  I was also overwhelmed because I didn’t know whether to tell Karl about Pulse TV. I felt like if he knew about all that, it would make me more vulnerable to him. I’m not sure how, but it just would. He was a grown-up. He knew things that I didn’t. He seemed like a nice guy, but he was a ghostwriter, and that seemed weird in general, right?

  Okay, it was decided: I wouldn’t tell him about Pulse TV. I mean, if I wasn’t telling Rachel Bernstein—the girl who’d hooked me up with Karl in the first place via her mysterious connection wit
h AllYou™, the girl with whom I became blood sisters at age eleven (while using a dull-as-hell pocket knife to cut our palms)—I surely wasn’t telling Karl Whoever.

  I took a few deep breaths, got a coconut water from the fridge, and returned to my room to call him back.

  Note from Coretta: To Karl’s credit, I, too, will use his abbreviations for the sake of expediency.

  K: Yellow.

  C: Okay, sorry ’bout that.

  K: No problem. Now what else?

  C: Well, if you could help me with the “Dear Coretta” letters … I mean, I wish I could answer all of them, but there’s so many coming in that I barely have time to read them.

  K: I could give that a shot. Let’s hear one.

  C: Right now? On the phone?

  K: Yeah. Right now. On the phone.

  C: I thought you hated the phone.

  K: I do. But this isn’t so bad. And it’s relevant to how I work.

  C: Okay. Here’s one that just came in today.

  Dear Coretta,

  I’m a white boy, aged sixteen, and I live in New Jersey. I recently changed schools from a mostly-white school to one that’s more mixed. For some reason most of my friends at my new school happen to be black. I honestly don’t know why. It just kind of happened. I don’t try to act black. I like rap music and stuff, but everyone does. Well, some of my new friends have started saying I’m a quote-unquote “honorary N-i-asterisk-asterisk-a.” Sometimes they even call me that, as in, quote, “What up, N-i-asterisk-asterisk-a?” end quote, or quote, “What up, N-word!” end quote.

  My question: does my new honorary N-word status give me the right to start using that word when I’m hanging out with my black friends?

  Yours truly,

  Honored

  K: Really? That’s a real letter you got from a reader?

  C: Yes, an email.

  K: Is he saying that his black friends are calling him “nigga,” or are they calling him “N-word”?

  C: Um, I think, both?

  K: Like, the actual N-word, or are they literally calling out, “Hey, N-word!”?

  C: I’m not sure?

  K: Okay, here we go.

  Dear Honored,

  In a word: no.

  Now that’s an n-word we can all feel comfortable using. And “N-word”—as stupid as that sounds—is exactly how you should refer to the word in question, even when using quotation marks. No asterisks, no alternative spellings.

  I am sorry, esteemed white people (honorary N-words included), but you are not allowed to use the N-word under any circumstances. It’s really not up for discussion.

  Furthermore, you have no jurisdiction over usage of the N-word by We the Black People, so please refrain from any discussions regarding when it is and is not appropriate for the N-word to be used by us.

  With compassion,

  Coretta White

  P.S. Please remove the word “wigger” from your colloquial vocabulary as well. Thank you.

  C: Hey, that’s not bad. I like the “We the Black People” part.

  K: It’s yours. If you forward me the kid’s letter, I can type it in for you. What else you got?

  C. Wow. You are good.

  K: Thanks. It’s fun. How many of these letters do you get a day, anyway?

  C: Usually between seventy-five and a hundred. That’s after they go through this automated trash and authentication filter.

  K: Every day? And you read them all?

  C: I try to, yes.

  K: Well, that has to stop.

  C: What?

  K: Coretta, you can’t be required to read about the individual problems of a hundred troubled teens every single day. Not to mention feeling compelled to give them advice.

  C: I know. It has gotten out of hand. I don’t know what I was thinking when I started answering them. I guess I just wanted to help. You wanna try another?

  K: Really? Sure.

  Dear Coretta,

  I’m a freshman girl, and I just got asked out by a really hot senior guy. When I told my mom about the date, she said I wasn’t allowed to go out with a senior. I told her she was being a hypocrite, since she is ten years younger than my dad, and that I’m old enough to make my own decisions, so I’m going out with him anyway. Am I right?

  —Fourteen and Fierce

  K: Fourteen and Fierce, huh?

  C: That’s her name.

  K: Okay.

  Dear F & F,

  No, you are not right. You’re fourteen years old. You should be old enough to make many of your own decisions, maybe even most of them. But not all of them—especially as long as you’re living under your parents’ roof. I’m not able to make all of my own decisions without consulting my parents first, and I’ve got three years on you. And I’m the one you’re writing for advice.

  First of all, the older you get, the more entitled you are to being a hypocrite. And having kids basically grants you a lifetime license to practice hypocrisy. So forget about playing the hypocrite card.

  Now if you really thought you were entitled to date any guy you please no matter his age, then you probably wouldn’t have told your mom about the date in the first place. Unless you thought she would approve, given your parents’ vast age difference? Hmmmm …

  Time is relative, F & F. My father is ten years older than my mother, too, but they met when he was thirty-eight and she was twenty-eight—she was twice your age and had ten-plus years of dating experience. Senior guys who date freshman girls are at worst predators and at best losers. And it’s not always easy for a freshman girl to recognize that.

  So, F & F, if I were you, I would try to think of your mom’s rule as good advice and stick to dating guys your own age, at least until your second year of college. Then anything goes, right, Mom?

  With love,

  Coretta

  C: Hey, that wasn’t bad. Very earnest. And you even knew my parents’ exact age difference …

  K: I’m just riffing. But yes, I’m diligent. And that’s how I write—fast. I can tell that’s how you write, too. Which is good. And like I said, everything I write will go through you first before it gets posted.

  C: Okay. So how will that work?

  K: I’ll send everything to you, you make whatever changes you want, and you post it yourself.

  C: Sounds simple enough.

  K: And if for any reason you want me to post something, I’ll send it to you for approval first. You can tell me whatever changes you want, and then I’ll put it up.

  C: Great.

  K: Anything else?

  C: I barely have time to read other people’s tweets, let alone retweet them.

  K: Perfect. I can keep my eye on Twitter for you, and when I see something you should like or retweet, I’ll send you the link. I’d also like to see you more involved with Black Twitter.

  C: Black Twitter?

  K: You don’t know Black Twitter?

  C: Is that a hashtag or a community?

  K: Oh, it’s both. And girl, you need to get yourself to Black Twitter right now!

  C: I’ll definitely check it out. By the way, you kinda sounded a little bit black just then. Oh, and slightly gay.

  K: So you’re a racist and a homophobe.

  C: Impossible. My best friend is white.

  K: All right, then. It was nice talking with you. Call me anytime, day or night. But I much prefer text or email.

  C: Got it! Anything else?

  K: One more thing: the level of secrecy you mentioned? It’s absolutely essential for our arrangement to succeed. Now I’m sure that AllYou™ had you sign a nondisclosure agreement. That shit is for real. You cannot tell anyone that I or anyone else is helping you with Little White Lies. ANYONE. Understand?

  C: Yes, sir!

  K: I’m sorry to get all heavy at the end here. If you do ever feel the need to reveal anything about our arrangement, just make sure you consult with AllYou™ before you do. Same if you want to terminate our arrangement. As long as you’re prof
essional about it, I’m not going to take it personally. The most important thing is for you to stay true to yourself. I’m here to help, that’s all.

  C: Thank you.

  K: Thank you, Coretta. See you in the cloud.

  C: Bye, Karl.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Coretta and Karl (December 13–18, 2013)

  Fri, Dec 13, 2013; 12:03 a.m.

  K: you awake?

  C: yes

  K: why?

  C: writing a paper

  K: due tomorrow?

  C: of course. Just started it.

  K: on what?

  C: civil war in Syria. For my geopolitics seminar

  K: check Instagram

  C: for what?

  K: Beyoncé

  C: what?

  K: just have a look, please. Over & out.

  tumblr.

  LITTLE WHITE LIES

  December 13, 2013

  Little White Lie of the Day: “Beyoncé is middle management at the Bank of Satan and recruiting teenagers for summer internships.”—The Five Most Popular Beyoncé Conspiracy Theories (mashable.com)

  THE BEYONCÉ CONSPIRACY has nothing to do with the Illuminati, a Dutch Giant, Jay Z, or baby Blue Ivy (although Jay and Blue are definitely involved).

  While you were sleeping, Beyoncé—under the cover of darkness, like a beautiful brown bootylicious Banksy—unleashed her latest creation upon the world. No press, no promo, no leaks. Just 14 new songs and 17 new videos, all part of her new “visual album” simply titled Beyoncé.

  While I do possess an open mind and a healthy dose of skepticism, I have not yet fallen prey to any of the leading conspiracy theories of our time. But if the most popular entertainer alive can make an entire album (including 17 videos!) without anyone spilling the beans, well then, for all I know, 9/11 may have been an inside job after all. I’m kidding about 9/11; please don’t write me about it.

  Mom and Dad claim that my first words were “mama” and “dada”—in that order—but that’s not something I remember. However, I do recall that the first pop song I ever sang along to was “Say My Name” by Destiny’s Child. The associated image of my mother rolling her eyes and wearily shaking her head will be forever etched in my memory. She didn’t get Beyoncé then, and she still doesn’t get her now. Which may be one reason I’ve stayed so loyal to Bey. Of course I love my mother dearly; I respect her; hell, I even like her. But I was never the sort of kid to suffer the humiliation of being chaperoned to see my favorite singer in concert. Some things just aren’t meant to be shared with one’s parents.