Little White Lies

by Brianna Baker

  In case you can’t, I’ll spell it out in excruciating detail.

  First a quick montage of me in various stages of undress at my “new home,” accompanied by generic circus music. I had no memory of any of it. Then came embarrassing shots from my oeuvre of low-budget rap videos: MC Expensive Meal draped with bacon; MCEM being straddled by an Amy Winehouse lookalike; MCEM fighting over Viagra in an old folks’ home and then creeping through the bedrooms.

  The videos had seemed innocent and funny when I’d made them.

  In this context, however, I looked like an out-of-control idiot.

  When the video ended, the stage glowed red, and the regular stage lights came up in front of me. I heard Anders before I saw him.

  “And these are just the highlights, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced gleefully. I didn’t need to spot Karin to know that the Skool twins were repeating the flanking maneuver they’d pulled with Coretta. Soon enough they were at my side, each placing a gentle hand on a respective elbow.

  I jerked away and crossed my arms in defiance. I stared directly into the camera, trying to muster as much self-confidence as possible. Mostly I was trying not to cry on TV. I knew there was nothing I could say, even if I did have a live microphone. And any attempt to snatch a mic from the Skools—any physical outburst—would only make me look like more of a fool.

  So I listened.

  Or pretended to. It was something about balancing the scales between me and Coretta … the importance of exposing frauds in our midst, including Coretta White, Karl Ristoff, and Alex Melrose of AllYou™, the fraudulent business that was largely responsible for this entire mess … the vapidity of gossip and the insanity of conspiracy theorists … the cancellation of Real White Lies (duh) and the announcement of a brand-new program to take its place—devoted to their SKOOLS 4 ALL initiative …

  When they finished their public scolding/promo spiel, the lights went down.

  Finally, something else I’d rehearsed for: the show had cut to commercials. The Skools attempted to escort me off the stage, offering vague apologies mixed with stern rebukes and threats of lawyers, tabloids—and most important, the police. But I knew better than to hang around and protest. I broke free and somehow found my way to the street below.

  I didn’t bother trying to return to my “new home.” No doubt they’d already changed the locks. Instead I opted for the nearest bar, which happened to be inside a Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. I ordered a large Lt. Dan’s Punch and slid my titanium Amex card over to the bartender. I had just made it to the bottom of my punch when the bartender approached me with a regretful look.

  “I’m sorry, but your card’s been declined,” he said. He didn’t sound apologetic. He sounded oddly like Bill O’Reilly. “I’m required by American Express to destroy it.”

  From beneath the counter, he pulled out a pair of thick bright orange rubber gloves, a large, long-neck beaker full of clear liquid, and a smaller cylindrical beaker. After he donned the gloves, he carefully poured the liquid into the smaller beaker. “Hydrofluoric acid,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Sorry, this is company policy.”

  When he dropped my card into the beaker, it disintegrated before my eyes without so much as a fizzle. The liquid remained clear.

  “That’ll be fourteen dollars for the punch,” he said, putting everything away. “And we do take cash. Would you like another?”

  I shoved my hand into the front pocket of my expensive jeans, pulled out my last crumpled twenty, and laid it on the bar. Then I shuffled out of Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and headed to a bar where the bartender knew my name. At least there I’d be able to drink on credit.

  Part III: Spring 2014

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Coretta (March 29–30, 2014)

  I sat in front of my computer, not knowing what to do.

  I had just finished watching the livestream of Karl Ristoff’s first “Real” White Lies (ha!). I’d just been subjected to that horror show.

  Yes, I was still furious with Karl for agreeing to take over the hosting duties after I had been crucified for all to see. (I know I said I wouldn’t use the word “crucify,” but I couldn’t resist any longer.) And yet it was still painful—beyond painful— to watch him suffer exactly the same fate. To explode on national television, thanks to the Skool twins.

  Did I say explode? I meant implode.

  It was worse for him, too. I knew that. I was seventeen years old. I was a kid who was an idiot. I could come back from this. I would come back from this. But Karl was old enough to be my father. He was a dude who made a living ghost-tweeting for celebrities and politicians. He used to be anonymous, but the Skool twins ruined that for him. Now there was a face to the name. I admit it: even in the midst of all of my self-pity, I felt bad for the guy.

  I tried calling him repeatedly. He didn’t pick up. I didn’t know Karl well enough to know how he would handle this all, but if I were a betting woman, I wouldn’t put my money on a happy ending. I texted him. I knew he had an aversion to phone conversations, but I hoped he would respond to a text.

  I know you probably don’t want to talk right now, and believe me, I can completely relate, but I just wanted to check in on you and see how you’re doing. I probably should have done a better job of warning you about the Skool twins. I’m sorry. We’ve really made quite the situation for ourselves, haven’t we? Call me, K?

  I stared at my phone waiting for the little ellipses to pop up. He’d always been prompt in responding. Just then, a text message from Rachel appeared.

  I’m at your door. Long story. Sorry I didn’t call before.

  Apparently my parents let Rachel in, because right as I was opening the door to go downstairs, she burst into my room. She slammed the door behind her and sat down on my bed, then put her head between her hands.

  “Hey, Coretta, yeah, so I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was stopping over. I just—I watched Karl, and I had to get over here. I didn’t know what to say …” Her voice was strained. She sounded as if she were about to cry. “Coretta, I’ve gotta be up front with you—”

  “Rachel, I’ve had plenty of people tell me that I really shit the bed on this one, and I—”

  “Shut up!” she snapped, glaring up at me. “I came here to tell you how I know Alex Melrose.”

  That got my attention. It was the one crucial piece of the puzzle that was missing. I nodded and sat down beside her. “I’m listening.”

  “My parents … my parents hired Alex last year to help them deal with some family issues. I don’t even really know what she helped them with. I just know it had to do with my dad’s law practice, and it was a big deal, and they were freaking out.”

  I stared at Rachel to see if she was telling the truth. Her face wasn’t twitching. “Go on,” I murmured.

  “I found out about Alex only because I heard my mom on the phone with a friend who recommended Alex and AllYou™” Rachel said. “They said she was discreet and could help anyone with anything. So when you started to slack on stuff, I started to think that maybe she could help you. Then when you had your breakdown—the first one—I thought it was a good idea.” She paused, unable to meet my eyes. “I paid for the whole thing, Coretta. I was going to surprise you and tell you on your eighteenth birthday. It was my early birthday present to you.”

  My mind raced as I pondered the implications of what she was saying. I wondered if she could ask AllYou™ for her money back. Probably not. It couldn’t have been cheap, this early birthday present …

  “Now I feel like I led you down this path of destruction,” she went on. “I’m so sorry, Coretta. I don’t even feel like that means anything at this point, but I am.” Rachel buried her face in her hands again and wept. That verb is deliberate: She wasn’t crying, she was weeping.

  I laid my head on my friend’s shoulder.

  “Rach, I know you only wanted the best for me,” I said. “Who else but you would do something so generous? And if my head had been a little less up my ass, I
could’ve asked you for a life preserver. Instead, I thought I could handle the sharks on my own. All we can do is deal with the present, okay? Not your present to me; I mean the present, like, now.”

  Rachel nodded.

  “Good. Because now I need you to put all of that aside, because I need your help. Are you ready? I need you to say that you are ready to help me.”

  She took a deep breath, sniffed, and wiped her eyes, “I am ready to help you.”

  “Good, because I need to find Karl Ristoff.”

  Rachel figured the best way to find Karl was to start with his boss. She punched Alex Melrose’s number into my landline.

  “Hello?” a gruff woman’s voice answered.

  “Hi, can I please speak with Alex?”

  “Listen, if you’re a reporter, I have no comment on Karl Ristoff or—”

  “Alex, it’s Coretta White.”

  A pause, then a sigh. “Look, kid, I’m really sorry about everything that has happened, but I’ve got my own problems right now. AllYou™ has seen better days. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t give this number out to anybody.”

  “It’s not that,” I said quickly. “I’m not here to give you up to the media or anything. I’m calling because I need to talk to Karl, and I’m worried because I haven’t heard so much as a snotty peep from him. Have you?”

  She laughed sadly. “No, Karl hasn’t picked up either of his stupid phones or answered any of my texts or emails. Not even when I tried to bait him.”

  “Ummm … bait him?”

  “We’ve known each other a long time. Never mind. If Karl hasn’t changed, he should be at one of three places …” Her voice swelled; she suddenly started to sound confident, like Esther Cornelius. “You know, this is good. Can you meet me in front of the deli on Thirty-Second Street and Ninth Avenue at 10 P.M.?”

  “Yes, but I’m bringing my friend.”

  “This isn’t a field trip.”

  “Ma’am, I’m seventeen, and the friend is Rachel Bernstein. I believe you’re acquainted.”

  “Touché. See you in one hour.”

  As Rachel and I approached the deli, I spotted Alex immediately. She was just as I expected her. Rail thin, long dark hair, wearing only black, and rocking three-inch Louboutins. Judging from the circles under her eyes, she hadn’t been lying; she had definitely seen better days. Then again, we all had.

  “Hi, Alex. I’m Coretta, and this is Rachel.”

  Alex looked both of us up and down. “Hello, girls,” she said quietly. “You know, I don’t usually meet my clients on the street at night. I guess there’s a first for everything. Okay, so there is a dive bar around the corner, and that’s where Karl usually goes if he’s feeling particularly self-destructive.”

  Rachel, being Rachel, brought up the obvious. “Umm, we are minors. We can’t go into a bar.”

  “Honey, I could bring a six-year-old into this place if I wore these shoes.”

  I could tell that Rachel wasn’t quite sure what Alex meant by that—neither was I, honestly—but she zipped it nonetheless.

  We walked up to the bar. It had a battered wooden door under a flashing red sign that read WALT’S. As we walked in, I kind of felt like the three of us were a busted knockoff of Charlie’s Angels. The place smelled of pee and beer. I wasn’t sure which odor was stronger. Alex scanned the room and beelined to a rumpled, slouched figure in the corner. Rachel grabbed my hand, trying not to slip on the beer- (and pee-?) soaked floor.

  “Karl,” Alex hissed in his ear. “Karl, wake up. Karl, it’s Alex!” She pushed back and forth on his shoulder with both of her hands until he finally came to. I placed the Karl I saw on TV next to the Karl slumped at that table, and all I can say is that TV works wonders. This dude looked like shit. His hair (what was left of it) was greased down on his scalp, which was clammy and red. He had nice clothes on, but they looked like he pulled them from a pile of dirty laundry.

  A fitting introduction for us, I thought.

  “Huh?” he croaked. He rubbed his beady red eyes. “What are you doing here, Alex? Haven’t you done enough? God. Just let a man mourn the downfall of his empire.” As Karl blinked, his gaze landed on Rachel and me. “What the f—Alex! Why did you bring—Coretta and—and … some other seemingly young woman to Walt’s?!”

  “Because they were worried about you, asshole. I’m worried about you. And news flash, suspicions confirmed. You’re choosing to cope in an unhealthy way. How many beers have you even had?”

  “Sorry I don’t cope by means of mud masks and chakra cleansings, Little Miss Priss. Oh, and thank you so much for giving the Skool twins all the information they needed to destroy my entire life.”

  “I didn’t tell them anything about you! Don’t flatter yourself—”

  “Oh, really? Then who is this alleged ‘Noprah’ person, huh? You can drop the nondisclosure bull—”

  “Noprah? Noprah isn’t real. I made her up because I know you’re like a child, and you need incentives to do work you should be doing anyway. The person you are asking about is this one right here.” Alex pointed to Rachel.

  Karl tried his best to focus on Rachel. I could see it washing over his heavily lined face. I could see it in his scowl. This skinny, curly-haired, somewhat nerdy Jewish girl was the one who had come to Alex for help? Not possible.

  Rachel must have felt compelled to say something. “Hi. This one is Rachel. Nice to meet you.”

  Karl turned back to Alex. “Noprah?” he spat.

  “Yes, Karl—”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Rachel and I backed off.

  Alex and Karl kept bickering in a way that I’ve never seen adults do. Watching two forty-somethings fight in a place like this was somehow even sadder than one might imagine. They were making actual faces at each other, and I’m pretty sure they were referencing things that happened in college—maybe some of which the Skools had broadcast tonight on TV.

  This had to stop.

  “Excuse me! Can you two shut up?” I didn’t mean to scream so loud, but it worked. The entire bar fell silent. “Can you guys let go of your baggage?” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t you think it’s strange that the Skool twins know so much about all of us, and none of us told them anything? Who are they getting their information from? And why? Why are we people that they would even want to bring down? We’re nobodies! If anything, they should thank me! I volunteered for their nonprofit!”

  That worked. Karl and Alex fell silent, too.

  “Coretta has a point,” Rachel said quietly. “Not to burst any of your egos, but you aren’t exactly la crème de la crème. And you’re right; it is weird about the nonprofit, isn’t it?”

  Karl’s accusing bloodshot eyes turned to Alex. Alex’s eyes turned to Rachel. Rachel’s eyes turned to me. We all shrugged.

  Rachel kept looking at me. “Not to add salt to the injury, but do you think Mike could’ve told them anything about you? I mean, maybe he has access to your computer or emails or I don’t know … Aren’t Mike and his parents pretty close to the Skools?”

  “I mean, they don’t brunch together, but his parents are on their board. I mean, we met at their fundraiser—you know that. Mike was all starry-eyed about how the Skools were ‘the masters of data collection.’ And how they were using that data for good. But I can’t believe Mike would hurt me on purpose.”

  Karl jolted up from the table. “Then let’s go before the turn cools!” he slurred.

  We all stared at him. What did that even mean? Whatever.

  I reached for my phone and pulled up Mike’s contact. I stared at his little thumbnail picture. For a second, I hesitated, remembering the days when I would call or text him all the time. It felt weird to be looking at his tiny face again. But I took a deep breath and tapped the screen.

  “Hey, I’m so glad you called,” he answered instantly, breathlessly.

  I frowned. “You are? Mike, it’s Coretta, you know that right?”

  “Ye
s, of course I know it’s you. I was just about to call you.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I can’t really get into it on the phone, but I shouldn’t have defended the Skools without really knowing what I was talking about. I turned my back on you, and I am so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  “Can I …?” I had a flash of that same alternate-reality hallucinatory feeling I’d experienced when the Skools first forgave me for the letter. It set off alarm bells. “Of course I forgive you. But why would I have to? Listen, Mike, I’m calling because I wanted to know more about—”

  “The Skools,” he interrupted. “I know. When I watched what happened to that guy Karl, I started doing some research, and I found something. Something big. We can’t talk on the phone; we’ve gotta meet in person. My parents aren’t home right now. Can you meet me here at my house? Or I can meet you?”

  “Meet me?” I looked around the bar, then at Rachel and these strange middle-aged people who were suddenly a part of my life. “No, you can’t meet me. My parents are home, so we can’t go there.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Don’t look at me. My family is always home,” she said. “If not my parents, my bubbi will be.” She jerked her shoulder toward Karl. “And this guy isn’t going near there.”

  Alex rolled her eyes. “Tell your boyfriend we’re coming over, and to try to find a nice red wine lying around the house. Let’s move.”

  I knew that I shouldn’t be excited about going to meet my ex-boyfriend. Especially not with my best friend, whom I conveniently forgot about during my rise to the top. And let’s not forget accompanied by a drunk forty-something white man and a malnourished forty-something white woman. But what can I say? Desperate times call for desperate effing measures.

  And besides, Mike had forgiven me, too.

  We all poured out of a cab in front of Mike’s estate. “Home” does not describe it well enough. Honestly, it looked like a mini White House. The house was all white, prestigious pillars at the forefront, the black gate keeping all commoners out (in theory)—a house of means. The Corneliuses were my Barack and Michelle, and I was about to go ask the First Son if he could help me go on a witch hunt. In my defense, he’d volunteered. And he’d invited us here, which did not speak well for his judgment.