Little White Lies

by Brianna Baker

  I’d almost forgotten where I was. I almost felt like I was there, with her.

  As Anders started pressing numbers, the touch tones became audible to the audience. Then Pink Floyd kicked in. Not on Pulse TV, in my apartment. Tony Robbins smiled from his post on the communications table. I reached for R$$P. I slid my finger to answer the call and instinctively engaged the speakerphone. A garble of feedback bounced from my computer speakers, causing me to lunge for the mute button on my keyboard. “Hello.” I tried to sound as wide awake as possible.

  “Hello,” Anders replied. I gazed into his ice-blue eyes as he greeted me from the set of Little White Lies. There was an odd delay, maybe a second or two, between the movement of his lips and his voice in my ear.

  It felt as if he could see me, too, even though I knew he couldn’t. “Is this Karl Ristoff, the real and genuine voice behind the Little White Lies blog?”

  “This is Karl,” I replied simply.

  Two seconds passed before onscreen Anders heard the answer.

  “Well, Karl,” he finally asked with a shit-eating grin, “how would you like to host your own TV show?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Coretta (March 15–18, 2014)

  As I stood in front of the cameras, sandwiched between these Antichrist twins, I knew only one thing: nobody could help me.

  My escape from the set was a blur. Within seconds, I found myself spilling into the never-ending chaos of Times Square. I felt like I was in Tokyo or something. All of the lights, all of the noises—it seemed like everyone was speaking a different language. I couldn’t breathe. As I hustled down the street, I clutched my purse. I was afraid to look at my phone. I didn’t want anyone to call me, or text me, or—OH GOD—leave a voicemail.

  Soon I was on the subway platform, relieved to be underground. I stood staring at the tracks, and while I wasn’t really thinking of killing myself, I’d be lying if I said the thought of jumping in front of the next train didn’t cross my mind.

  You really want the truth as to why I didn’t? The TRUTH? I didn’t want to ruin the cutest outfit I’d worn in a long time, especially not my brand-new Steve Madden combat boots. (And now you can shut up.)

  Nobody was home when I arrived. My parents were still trying to find me, in or around what had become the ground zero of my former self. I couldn’t text them to say I was okay. I was beyond mortified, beyond humiliated; I was at a point where I wished I could simply erase my existence.

  I curled up on my bed, in all my clothes, and pulled the covers over my face, as if that would provide a buffer against the blanket of shame that smothered me. While the shame was familiar, it was also different, more panic-inducing.

  I had been scared of what would happen if everyone found out. That’s why I wrote the letter. This time, there was nothing I could do to escape.

  All I could do was cry. Cry and wait to hear what people had to say about me, and what I did, and how I let them down. I guess I deserved it. This was the price I had to pay for thinking I could cheat the system.

  In the two days since Rome (my life) fell, I didn’t leave my room for anything but a bodily function. While most people probably thought it was simply because I couldn’t bear the thought of people looking at me, I was actually sick. I had a fever, headache, chills, plus a series of nightmares that would make American Horror Story look like Dora the Explorer: the Skool twins, Karl, my parents, Mike, Mike’s parents, and Tokyo, all somehow tied to Little White Lies.

  The Tokyo part is a bit confusing to me as well, but I think it’s because of the Times Square lights … You get it.

  My parents knew that I needed my space. Still, the day after the show, they did make me listen to a brief lecture. I had to hand it to them: they kept it under five minutes. And they let me stay in bed. I didn’t really even listen. The specifics didn’t matter. They sat on the edge of my mattress and expressed general disappointment. They acknowledged that I likely had enough regret to last an eternity and reminded me that I shouldn’t give up on myself.

  Mostly I wondered why they weren’t yelling. I almost felt worse because they were so quiet. There was a sadness in their eyes that I hadn’t seen since we went to my grandfather’s funeral when I was eleven. And it occurred to me that I’d never again see that glazed joy I’d started to take for granted, that had annoyed me so much. Ever.

  The next morning—realizing that I’d lived through wanting to jump out the window as my parents periodically appeared in my room to sit on my bed and squeeze my feet as a measure of support—I somehow mustered the courage to turn my phone back on. Lord Jesus, I had fifty text messages.

  Only three voicemails, though. I decided to tackle the voicemails first.

  Mike Cornelius (Mobile), Yesterday, 45 seconds:

  “Hey, Coretta, it’s Mike. I mean, you know that, because you’re seeing my name, and hearing my voice. But ummm … yeah, I would’ve done this in person, but your parents say you’re sick, and by the way I hope you feel better, and I would’ve called you. Well, I am calling you, but you’re not picking up. Anyways, I know you have a lot on your plate, and I do still think you’re a good person who wants to do the right thing, but … ummm … yeah, I think that we should stop seeing each other for a while. This really is hard for me, Coretta, and I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you, but I just really need to take some time, and I think you do, too. Oh, and you don’t need to call me back. Just focus on you right now. Okay, take care. Bye.

  Well, some might have classified that as a tough pill to swallow.

  As I listened to Mike’s words, I closed my eyes. I felt as if I was back on the train platform, staring at my freshly shined combat boots. The worst part of Mike breaking up with me wasn’t even that I liked him so much—and in fact, had grown to like him more than ever—and would really miss him. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t kiss me again, that he wouldn’t be waiting at my locker in the mornings, that he would no longer look at me with that pride he had when he first heard about Little White Lies. No, the worst part was that I knew he didn’t really have a choice. I’d humiliated his entire family. I wouldn’t go out with me anymore, either.

  Next, a voicemail from Skool 1. Hadn’t they had enough fun kicking me while I was down, and, ahem, on national television? Did they really need to call and leave a voicemail?

  KARIN or ANDERS SKOOL, I don’t know which (mobile), 55 seconds:

  “Hello, Coretta, it is Karin and Anders. Karin speaking right now. We really are so sorry about how things had to happen the other night. Our network is founded on certain principles, and while we wanted to believe that protecting you fell under that rubric—while uncomfortable—we came to the conclusion that it would be both legally and ethically compromising.

  “Anders speaking now. Coretta, per your contract, you are no longer allowed on the premises of Pulse TV Inc. And while I wish you well, and this may be painful to hear, we own the name and branding concept for Little White Lies. I’m sure your parents’ lawyers have filled you in, but: you violate your contract; we retain the rights. So sorry about that, truly. You will receive one check for the first show. Even though you walked off set, we still feel that you should get paid for that. Finally, we both want to add: You are so bright and talented and young, and we know that you will have many successes. This is a bump in your road. Cheers.”

  Well, that was as expected. Incredibly disheartening and laced with intrinsic evil, yes, but as expected. Lucky for them, simply reading the words “Little White Lies” made me want to vomit, so having them usurp my brand wasn’t as devastating as you might imagine. And they always sounded overly polished and rehearsed.

  Besides, I was taking quite a bit of NyQuil.

  But that voicemail was more unsettling even than the mental imagery I had burned into my brain of those two in the white suits, white ties, and their translucent hair. I mean, seriously, who does that?

  The third voicemail was from a number I didn’t recognize. I guess if I lived
through the first two, I could take another hit.

  (212) 555-7367 (UNKNOWN) 40 seconds:

  “Hi, Coretta, it’s Esther Cornelius, Michael’s mother. I just wanted to let you know that you could’ve come to us if you needed help. You really put us in a compromising spot by having us vouch for you. The Skool twins are such good people, and you put them in a terrible position. I know you’re probably aware of all of this, but I just needed to say that, and I probably shouldn’t be leaving this voicemail, but I know you’re better than this. You’ll learn from this, Coretta, if you really want to. Take care.”

  Esther Cornelius was someone I truly, really, honestly admired—unlike anyone else involved in this whole fiasco. So hearing her ramble, her voice cracking the entire time, was in some ways even harder than having to hear her son break up with me via voicemail. I’d let her down that much? She cared about me enough to cry about all of this? I’d only had dinner at their house once! Was there no rest for the weary? How much more of this could I take?

  My Facebook had 212 personal messages, mostly from outraged strangers, and most too obscene or disturbed to make me feel threatened. Reading their posts, it would be safe to assume that I murdered their family members or threw their pets into oncoming traffic.

  Then there were the Google Alerts. My name kept popping up in some new story on some different website. The Skool twins were doing their best to drag my name through the mud, set it on fire, and then put it on a cross in the town square that is the Internet.

  I was no longer able to log in on Twitter as @LittleWhiteLies, but I had a look at the feed anyway. My number of followers had been cut in half; I wasn’t sure if I’d been deserted for being a phony, or if these un-followers withdrew their support from the show because of my ousting. Maybe the mass exodus was more due to the latter, but I more suspected the former. I didn’t risk reading any of the actual tweets.

  There were a handful of people that messaged me privately to say that everyone messes up, and that I should keep my head up and yada yada, but a small number. Insignificant. Okay, exactly three people, all of whom had less than ten followers on any social media platform. Combined.

  The general message was loud and clear: I was now one of those people you had to hate. You’d be missing out if you didn’t hate me.

  Day three after the Chernobyl of my life, I was still sick but thinking more clearly. Perhaps it was that I was taking less NyQuil, but I also had some questions.

  I started to wonder how Rachel’s parents knew Alex Melrose.

  I know it’s not cute to try to deflect responsibility from oneself, but I never would’ve gotten into this specific mess without Rachel introducing me to Alex and her services.

  That very afternoon, seventy-two hours after the Pulse TV Hindenburg, Rachie-Rach texted me:

  Hey- I want you to know I’m thinking about you, but I know how you are and want to give you some space. When you want to talk, please call me. I love you. I ruff you. You know this. We will get through this

  I called her immediately.

  “Hey, Coretta!”

  “Hey, Rach.” My voice sounded weird. Hoarse and gravelly. Maybe because I hadn’t used it in three days.

  “I’m so glad you called, Coretta. I’ve been really worried about you.” She spoke even more quickly than usual. “I made sure all of the teachers emailed you your homework assignments.”

  “Thanks for that. I’m kind of glad that I’m sick. Everyone at school must be talking about me. Right? Hello, are they talking about me?”

  “No! I mean, yes, of course they are, but it’s high school. Who cares? Everyone is talking about everyone all the time. Hey, I heard that Mike broke up with you. I imagine that combined with … well, everything else … I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve definitely seen better times, Rach. Yeah, I can’t blame Mike right now. That said, I am still feeling like he threw the baby out with the bathwater.”

  “What?! You’re pregnant? You had an abortion? What?”

  “No, it’s an expression. You know, throwing the baby out with the bathwater?” (Every time Rachel didn’t know a common phrase like this—often—I felt like I should explain it to her, and then I would instantly regret it. She had a 31 ACT score, I mean, come on.) “Rachel! It’s saying you’re giving up on everything when one thing goes wrong. Never mind, that’s not why I called. It’s just … all of a sudden it occurred to me that I don’t know how your parents know Alex Melrose. I bet my own parents are wondering, too. You just told me to trust you, and the next thing I know, I’m Gchatting Karl Ristoff. And I’m not blaming you or your parents or anyone. I’m just trying to make sense of this shit salad that I’ve created.”

  Rachel didn’t answer right away. Silence hung between us.

  “Everyone has secrets,” she finally said. “Everyone needs catering to every once in a while.”

  “That’s a very vague answer, Rach. I need concrete answers. To questions like, did you ever think about who is paying Alex? Or who is paying Karl? How did your parents know to call her? Do we even know who she really is? Because I know I don’t really know who Karl is, and I just think that the way everything came into play was a little too well-played—”

  “Coretta,” Rachel interrupted, “you know that this is coming from me as a friend, okay? I think you just really need to focus on putting this all behind you.”

  Have you ever had something go down between yourself and someone you trust? And then the next time you talk, that person looks at you or talks to you like you’ve never met? It’s a terrible feeling, and I heard it in Rachel’s voice.

  “Stop bullshitting me, Rach,” I said. Because why not?

  She sniffed. “Coretta, believe me, I’m sorry that this all played out this way. I really wish I could make it all go away, but trust me; I think that we should just move on. Okay? Coretta? Are you there?”

  I sat in silence on the other end.

  Should we move on, Rachel? Should we? Where did Rachel get off using the term we? She was not on this sinking ship with me. She asked me to trust her: she set me up with someone who could assist me in being the captain of my ship, and that cocaptain and I ended up lighting the ship on fire. Now that ship was at the bottom of the ocean. It was not our ship. It was my ship—and my skipper Karl’s. True to form, like a good captain, I sank with my vessel.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Karl (March 15–29, 2014)

  When someone offers you your own TV show—even if that someone has just publicly humiliated and destroyed the reputation of a person you care about, even if that someone likely wants to destroy you, too—you accept the offer.

  More specifically, if this offer is made via telephone during a live TV broadcast (immediately after the aforementioned character assassination) you answer with an exuberant “Oh, HELL, yes!”

  Then you literally kiss your iPhone, inadvertently ending the call, and you guzzle the remainder of your beer.

  Then, because you’ve already been drinking heavily for more consecutive weeks than you care to remember, you crack open another.

  You tell yourself you’re celebrating. Half of the beer gushes all over your floor. You are toasting your new success with the only person who really matters—you. But you know at a deeper level that you are pounding down cartoonish amounts of alcohol for a very different reason.

  That reason is simple. Fear.

  When the phone rings again—long after Pulse TV has replaced what was supposed to be the debut of teen sensation Coretta White’s Little White Lies with a very long infomercial about SKOOLS 4 ALL—you’re three sheets to the wind. You’ve forgotten your fear. Or at least buried it. Lowercased it. Which is easy when the shovel is the Skool twins’ promise of a Mercedes limo bus (pronounced “boose”) waiting outside your door.

  I left my apartment with my two phones and the clothes on my body and walked unsteadily to the waiting Mercedes limo “boose.”

  It was more like a limo van. But less creepy sounding.
“Limo van” sounds like a high-class rape wagon. “Limo bus” sounds like a giant limousine full of wealthy old people. At least to me, it does.

  This limo bus was virtually empty, except for an attractive young woman wearing a gray skirt and purple blouse, with blonde hair several shades darker than that of the Skools. Her outfit and demeanor suggested a cross between paralegal and flight attendant. The limo was like a dance club right before it opens. My own private disco, with a wraparound leather bench, hypnotic floor-to-ceiling LED lighting, a fully stocked bar, and the requisite flatscreen TV emblazoned with the Pulse TV logo. “Juicy” by Biggie Smalls blasted from the sound system. It had the comforting effect that some clever Belgian had likely anticipated.

  Kudos, Karin and Anders, I thought with a silly smile.

  “Mr. Ristoff, welcome to Pulse TV!” the woman said. Her accent was ambiguously French. “Please have a seat. My name is Chloe, and I’m here to make your ride to company headquarters as comfortable as possible. Would you care for a drink?”

  I sank into the cushy couch at the back. “Gin and juice?”

  “C’est bon! Gin et juice. Like Snoop Dogg.”

  I have to say, hearing a beautiful woman with an ambiguously French accent name-check Uncle Snoop made me feel pretty great.

  That was the last I saw of Chloe for quite some time.

  And then I woke up.

  Or did I? Was I still dreaming?

  Turns out I did wake up, but these questions were consistent with the night before and the weeks that would follow. This phase of my life quickly became more and more dreamlike. And by dreamlike, I mean confusing, hyperbolic, surreal, amazing, terrifying, and beyond reason. Oh, and quite blurry; I remembered very little of it.

  “Good morning, Karl! How are you feeling today?”

  I opened my eyes at the sound of newly familiar voices speaking in unison. First I noticed that I wasn’t home, and that the bedding was exceptionally fine. I had no time to guesstimate the thread count, since I next noticed that the Skool twins were addressing me from a large flatscreen positioned just above the foot of this strange bed.