Little White Lies

by Brianna Baker

  As I stood on the sidewalk out front and pondered—while we all waited for Karl to remember where he was—I felt like I was in a really, really bad knockoff of Pretty Little Liars. Instead of four hot teens looking to solve a murder, we were four disgraced people looking for absolution. I also felt that pit in my stomach, the one I had felt when I heard Mike leave me that voicemail.

  Press on. Press on.

  My legs somehow carried me up to the door, and I knocked.

  Mike opened up and stood there in all his Black Ken Doll glory. He was in his sweats, meaning he’d been at the computer. He smiled. Behind his smile, there was something else. Sadness, guilt, pity? Maybe a mixture of all three. I went in for a hug, and he hugged me back. He hugged me back so hard that I didn’t feel bad for making the move.

  Do you know that feeling you get when you feel like someone may never look at you the same way again? Like they may never look at you like they knew you better than almost anyone? And the feeling you get when you see that it’s still there? That the knowing is still in their eyes? Yes, it was that.

  Alex cleared her throat. “As fun as this is, I’d love to hear why we’re here and get the hell off the porch with this smelly slob.”

  I felt embarrassed to be having this moment with Mike in front of this ragtag group, and then I quickly stopped caring. I realized that I needed to be okay with being more vulnerable. Why not start on the porch of the Cornelius residence? I know: big adult thoughts on my part.

  Mike pulled us inside and brought us into the living room. I remembered the last time I was there, before my fall. Having dinner, trying not to break all the collectibles with my eyes. He sat down on the couch. On the coffee table in front of him was a lime-green-and-blue laptop. It had rounded edges that appeared to be made out of rubber. It looked like a toy, almost—for a toddler.

  I sat on the other couch directly across from him, and as he opened it, I saw the illuminated words: “SKOOLS 4 ALL.”

  Shit.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Karl (March 30, 2014)

  I was starting to grow accustomed to Egyptian linens. Again I’d gone from dead sleep to splitting headache in a terrible instant. At least I was still ensconced in luxurious bedding. My first thought was that I was back in the company condo, that maybe my disastrous television debut was just a dream. Maybe today would be my big day to flail and fail for all to see.

  I looked up, honestly half-expecting to see the smiling Skool twins on the monitor above the bed. In its place was a large oil painting of a serene landscape in an understated gold frame.

  My eyes traversed the bedroom and its finery. This place was more tasteful than the new-money interior where I’d been waking up for the past two weeks (without ever remembering going to bed). Well, at least one thing remained consistent: I had no idea how I’d gotten here, my last memory being of a shrimp boat captain dissolving my black Amex card in a beaker of acid. Or was that a dream, too?

  Okay. Remain calm. Where am I? Where the f—?

  My heart began to race. It wasn’t just the after-effects of the bender. I was legitimately panicked. Where had the night gone? Maybe I had somehow parlayed my dismal fall from false grace into a drunken seduction and/or pity lay? Maybe I’d bedded a sympathetic rich girl. I’d settle for a cougar, though at my age the youngest eligible cougars tend to be in their sixties …

  But the more I looked around, the more I felt a guest-room vibe.

  I caught a whiff of expensive coffee. I saw my boots and the rest of my black wardrobe plopped by the side of the bed. This, too, suggested a reluctant yet dutiful removal rather than fitful undressing during a burst of passion. Plus I was still wearing my socks and boxers.

  After sliding out of bed, I pulled on my expensive failure pants, then donned my overpriced loser shirt. Put my trendy bum boots on, too, in case I needed to make a run for it. I looked out the mahogany-framed window. I could see a peaceful tree-lined block of brownstones—but far away, beyond a wide lawn and black gate. It could be Brooklyn Heights, Fort Greene, or some other respectable neighborhood where I’d never afford to own.

  I opened the door and padded softly into the hallway. A stately grandfather clock stood at the other end. I walked along a richly woven Persian runner, flanked by a dark wood banister and a wall of framed family photos.

  Aha! I thought, feeling like an amateur detective. Here were clues.

  The series began with a grainy black-and-white print of a proud young black couple standing in front of a simple wooden shack. It looked like it might have been taken during the Civil War. From there, the images progressed through the generations, its subjects growing older and more prosperous, their family expanding and giving way to new generations of attractive black folks who in turn appeared to progress and prosper more than the previous generations. Wedding photos begat baby pictures, which led to graduations, then more wedding photos, and on and on.

  I didn’t recognize anyone in the photos until I got to the framed color print at the end of the hall. It featured a middle-aged couple and their teenage son smiling on a sailboat with the Obamas. Yes, those Obamas: Barack*, Michelle, Sasha, and Malia. I recognized the Obamas, but not the other family. Although their teenage son looked vaguely familiar …

  The smell of coffee grew stronger, pulling me downstairs.

  When I hit the first-floor landing, I followed the sound of muffled voices into the formal dining room. Piano concerto music played softly in the background. There in the flesh was that attractive couple from the sailboat. They were looking over the shoulder of their handsome son as he sat at the middle of the table aggressively typing away on what looked like a toy laptop. Where one might expect to see a glowing Apple logo were the words “SKOOLS 4 ALL”—emblazoned in green letters against a bright blue background.

  Sitting on either side of the big kid at the little kid computer were Alex and Coretta. I swallowed. I suddenly wished I’d checked myself in the mirror.

  A nerdy white girl, about Coretta’s age, leaned against the back of Coretta’s chair. She looked vaguely familiar, as well …

  With expressions ranging from confusion to awe, everyone in the room appeared transfixed by the kiddie computer’s screen, hidden from my view.

  “Good morning?” I offered tentatively.

  Nerdy white girl registered a distinct ISS look; Coretta looked up and smiled tentatively; Alex accompanied the weary rolling of her eyes with a judgmental shaking of her head; the kid on the computer was too engrossed in what he was doing to look up; the same was true for his father.

  The only person who greeted me like a fellow human being was the nice lady from the sailboat photo. She clutched a steaming mug of coffee that I desperately coveted.

  “Well, good morning! You must be Karl,” she said cheerfully. She made her way around the table to greet me with a friendly handshake. “I’m Esther Cornelius. Welcome to our home. How did you sleep?”

  “Like a man disgraced,” I answered in my most boastful Errol Flynn voice.

  “That’s the spirit!” Mr. Cornelius boomed.

  I tried my best to smile. He was only a few years older than I was, but he was decades beyond me in experience, depth, and worldliness—not to mention wealth, power, and the weight of his wristwatch. He regarded me with a friendly smile. “How ’bout some coffee, Karl? How do you take it? Regular?”

  “I’ll get the coffee, dear,” Mrs. Cornelius insisted. “You all keep at it in here. Karl, how would you like your coffee?”

  “Cream, two sugars, please. Thank you.”

  “I respect a young man with good manners,” Mr. Cornelius added. “Now please forgive my bad ones. I’m Douglas Cornelius, and this is my son Mike. Karl, please come around to this side of the table so I can shake your hand and show you what we’ve got so far.”

  “Great. Um, can’t wait to see … what you’ve … got?” I paused before walking over. Alex, Coretta, and the other girl eyed me intently. “I’m sorry; did I meet you last n
ight? My memory has been compromised lately. Coretta, you must be Coretta. I mean, I know you are Coretta. I mean, I know you. You know … This is weird. I’m sorry. It’s just … This is weird.”

  Coretta smiled at my squirming. “What’s weird, Karl? Not remembering meeting me last night? Or being face-to-face with someone whom you’ve already literally attempted to embody? Or suffering the exact same disgrace that I suffered two weeks ago, then getting plastered and waking up in my boyfriend’s parents’ house?” She laughed.

  At the word “boyfriend,” the kid at the computer looked up for the first time. He was the same kid from the photos. It all made sense … at least the location part. I knew where I was, at least. I just didn’t know why or how or what the hell it meant. I made my way around the table to join the gang.

  Coretta pushed her chair back from the table and stood up to greet me. “I’m just messing with you, Karl.”

  She stepped forward. It appeared she was attempting to give me an awkward hug. Yes, this was happening.

  A hug.

  I was equally awkward in my attempt to reciprocate it. But when a hug comes, that’s what you do. I supposed I should be thankful. She could have punched me in the face. That would have been more appropriate, and certainly less unexpected. We ended up sort of patting the outsides of each other’s shoulders, then stepping back and looking each other curiously in the eyes.

  Weirder than the hug was finally meeting Coretta face-to-face after months of trying to write like her—capped off with the unsettling estrangement that ended our work arrangement.

  On the other hand, I had a queasy inkling we’d met before. For better or worse, I was growing accustomed to a blank memory on any given morning in regard to the people and events of the previous night.

  Mike stood up to formally shake my hand. “I’m Mike Cornelius, Coretta’s boyfriend.” He flashed a glance at Coretta as if for reassurance that it was okay to echo her word choice.

  “Yep, that’s my boyfriend,” Coretta chirped. “But until this morning I had no concept of his true computer genius.”

  “Well, he had us all fooled.” Douglas Cornelius gave his son’s shoulders a playful squeeze. “Didn’t you, son?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Mike shrugged modestly before taking his seat and returning his attention to the kiddie laptop.

  Esther entered the room, handed me a giant mug of coffee, and winked. “When we came home last night, we figured he was playing video games. Or looking at porn.”

  “Mom!” Mike groaned.

  His mother shot me a grin. “But it turns out we’ve had a real-life computer hacker living under our roof this entire time.”

  “And lucky for us,” Douglas added gravely, his smile fading. He turned to his wife. “We were so stupid. To think, Esther, that we both hold positions on the board of directors of their SKOOLS 4 ALL foundation—”

  “Dad, you guys are not stupid!” Mike protested. “These people had a lot of folks fooled. Including me!”

  “Including my parents,” Nerd Girl interjected. “They hold a seat on the board, too.”

  I assumed that Nerd Girl was Coretta’s best friend (Rebecca? Ruthie?), the one she always talked about letting down, but I wanted to make sure. I also wondered if introducing myself might make her ease up on the hostile eye-daggers she kept aiming my way. “Hi, I’m Karl, by the way.” I extended a hand. “You must be Coretta’s friend …”

  “Rachel.” She shook my hand mechanically. Her lip was still curled in a frown, her nose slightly wrinkled. (Like I said, pure ISS.) “We actually met last night. But I guess you don’t remember. You were pretty wasted.”

  “Yeah, I guess I was. Sorry about that. Rough night.”

  “You might also know me as ‘Noprah,’ ” she added with a smirk.

  I shot Alex a look, which she answered with a smirk of her own. It told me, not now. Best to address the group. “Um, well, I figured the Skools were up to no good. But they’re really criminals?”

  Douglas Cornelius took a deep breath and blew it out emphatically, as if there were a lit birthday cake in front of his face. “You have no idea. So far it looks like bank and securities fraud, bribery and extortion, illegal government contracts, Privacy Act violations … the list goes on.”

  “And those are just crimes that are on the books,” Esther added. “Some of the things they’ve been doing with their so-called ‘charter school’ program are even more insidious. It’s difficult to imagine a motive.”

  “Well, money might have something to do with it,” Alex deadpanned.

  “They stand to make a fortune from state school vouchers alone,” Mike confirmed. “Especially once their cyber-schools become licensed and approved. But you want to know what led me down this crazy rabbit hole to start with? It was you guys. I mean, the blog. The viral sensation that was Little White Lies.”

  I squinted at this nice young man and shook my head in confusion.

  “I hacked their emails. Which was ridiculously easy. It’s their Achilles heel. But it turns out they were setting up false accounts to boost the followers of Little White Lies from the beginning. They helped it go viral. And it was all to get the audience for the show they really wanted all along: Takin’ U to Skool.”

  After my second cup of coffee, I was no longer confused. Well, I was. But I was mostly angry. And hungry. Still, mostly angry.

  Not so much about how the Skools had manipulated Coretta’s social media status. I would have loved her Tumblr if she’d had seventy followers. So would everyone else; it would have gone viral eventually. They’d wasted their time with that. No, it was that these sociopathic clowns believed that they had the charisma to host a TV show for teens.

  Of course, that wasn’t their original plan. They’d intended for Coretta to host for a while. They’d hoped to brainwash her. But the emails Mike had hacked also made plain that Coretta’s confession—about her, about me, about AllYou™—provided the perfect excuse to fast-track Takin’ U to Skool … whatever the hell that show was going to be.

  “You’re disgusted with the Skools, aren’t you, Karl?” Esther Cornelius said, reading my ISS expression. “I share your disgust at how they plan to subvert our very educational system with school vouchers. It offends me, too.”

  Oh. Right. That.

  I nodded.

  “Let me fill you in on some of the particulars, Karl.” Douglas glanced down at Mike. “Do you mind, son? Or would you rather tell him?”

  “Go ahead, Dad.” Mike barely paused from his furious keystroking on the little laptop. “I need to concentrate on this right now. I think I’m onto something here.”

  I noticed Coretta staring at Mike with gooey eyes. I tried to remember my own adolescence, if I’d ever looked at a girl that way. Nope. I’d never even looked at Alex that way.

  “The Skools have been developing a cyber-school program,” Douglas explained. “Your cyber-bullying post was prescient, Karl. They’re very close to being certified as an alternative, quote-unquote ‘charter school’ in a number of states. As such, the Skools will be eligible to receive state-issued education vouchers to the tune of thousands of dollars per child for providing an alternative to public education. And to drive their enrollment up, they’re offering kickbacks of up to fifty percent of the voucher value to the parents—or administrators—who enroll their kids in the school.”

  “Administrators?” He’d fully captured my interest. The plan sounded diabolical.

  “They’re targeting incarcerated youth.” Esther looked at me, her expression dark. “As well as children in foster homes.”

  I began to feel queasier.

  “That way they can rack up multiple vouchers at one time,” Coretta added.

  “Oh, wow.” In spite of their lax email security, the Skools were starting to seem smarter and more purely evil than I’d ever imagined.

  “And check out these crazy lesson plans they’re teaching in their crazy cyber school!” Rachel blurted out. “Mike, show
him. It’s completely insane! They’ve got this entire unit for world history on Leopold the Second, ‘Builder King.’ Do you know who Leopold the Second is?”

  “Yeah, he’s that crazy Belgian king who started the Free Congo State so he could chop everyone’s hands off,” I heard myself say.

  Not bad, Karl, I thought. Even Douglas and Esther seemed impressed. I didn’t admit that I’d learned of Leopold II of Belgium from the teachings of Star (of Star and Buc Wild*) aka Troi Torain, the infamous hip-hop shock jock who coined the philosophy Objective Hate. That wasn’t my Harvard education talking.

  “Exactly!” Rachel seemed happy to make an intellectual connection with me, and I was glad to oblige. “He took his own private army into Africa and enslaved, mutilated, and murdered an entire indigenous population. And these sick weirdos are presenting him to children as some great man who beautified Belgium. A shining example of European beneficence.”

  “Why would they be teaching that?!” I demanded. “What are they, his grandkids or something?”

  “Did you say Free Congo State?” Mike looked up from his key-tapping with what seemed like a delayed reaction. “One of the Skools’ subsidiaries in Africa is called Free Congo …”

  In spite of my hangover—or maybe because of it—a thought occurred to me. I texted Kris and Sarah:

  PLEASE FIND OUT IF SKOOLS ARE DESCENDENTS OF KING LEOPOLD II OF BELGIUM

  “Babe, remember that cyber-bullying post you wrote?” Mike said. “Kinda hard-core. You were pretty freaked out about it when it stirred up so much controversy. I remember you saying that you weren’t yourself when you wrote it.”

  “She was actually me when she wrote that one,” I said.

  “Right, Karl. I got that.” Mike’s voice was flat, but I noticed his father shoot him a stern side-eye, which softened his delivery. “Anyway, there was that thing at the end about SKOOLS 4 ALL. I thought there was something really weird about distributing satellite-connected laptops to children in rural Africa. So I started looking into—” Mike paused and looked down at the laptop. “Hold on a sec. This script is almost finished.”