How Far She's Come

by Holly Brown

  I don’t want to be rude, and Reese is just so damned excited, so I let her accompany me to the studio. After a little while, I forget she’s even there. This is high stakes, my first live broadcast, and I can’t allow any distractions.

  Albie starts with a daunting amount of feedback, but as I do take after take, he’s falling silent. That’s a good sign. He’s running out of criticism. Finally, it’s time to get to wardrobe.

  I send Reese out to pick up a salad. I could use some sustenance, and also, I don’t really want an observer when I’m crowbarred into my sheath dress. It’s royal blue tonight.

  While my hair is being put through its paces, Beth swings by to ask how I am and to wish me luck. She seems as genuine and maternal as she did in the pitch meeting. “I’ll be gentle, don’t worry.” It’s probably a reference to the piranha moments she has in some of her interviews. We share a smile, and then the next time we see each other is on-set.

  I’m less nervous than I would have expected because Beth and I have an instant connection. Sure, I’m delivering lines from a script, but it feels like a real conversation, like we’ve known each other forever. Plus, there are no pervert directors on Beth’s show; the staff and crew are almost entirely female. It’s like everyone is pulling for me to succeed, like what Edwin had told me about INN is really true: that we all rise or fall together, and tonight, I’m being lifted.

  I’m doing a follow-up to my first story about Tag, though it’s broadened to include the rest of the social media sites. It’s about the difference in their responsiveness when they receive complaints of bullying from a typical user and a celebrity user. The kinder level of discourse I’ve been experiencing this time around isn’t because the world has evolved in the past four months and people have rediscovered empathy; it’s that I’m now in another category. When INN alerts the social media sites about abusive threads, they’re pulled immediately, as they were with Leslie Jones from Saturday Night Live. The response time is very different for ordinary citizens, even those who can demonstrate an egregious pattern of abuse.

  The story is well researched, with proof that inaction on the part of social media companies is not about the occasional dropped ball but rather about systematic, programmatic decisions being made and implemented. Cutting off abusers is bad for business, and business trumps individual human rights, mental health, and personal safety.

  The report hasn’t been thrown together hastily since my first broadcast. It’s been in the works for some time, because Edwin knew exactly how this would play out. I was part of a plan to entrap the social media companies. But I’m okay with that. It’s in the public good, and that was one of the main reasons I joined INN.

  The segment is proceeding so well that I barely need to glance at the teleprompter.

  Until I do, and see that it’s blank. My mind goes blank too.

  I should know what I’m supposed to say; I’ve certainly practiced enough. Again and again and again, that’s Albie’s way.

  Where is he? Why isn’t he feeding me the next line?

  From inside the booth, he can’t see that the teleprompter is blank.

  Beth gives a surreptitious glance and realizes what’s happened. She says, “This story reminds me of . . .” She goes into an anecdotal ad-lib that gives me a chance to regroup.

  I’m able to recite the rest from memory, and then we’re headed to commercial. I exhale loudly. “Thank you so much,” I say. “I was panicking for a second there.”

  “That stuff happens.”

  “Technical glitches?”

  “Sabotage. There was a woman who used to stay in the makeup chair for an ungodly long time just to make sure I wouldn’t get my fair share. Phony HR complaints. Rumors. Bad-mouthing to the higher-ups. And keep your drink in your hand at all times so no one spikes it.”

  She says it so casually, like it’s common knowledge. I’m speechless.

  “It’s the cost of doing business.”

  I glance around the set, at all the seemingly supportive faces. One of them is a saboteur. I had hoped it stopped with Rayna and Luke.

  “I want you to know,” Beth says, “that I loved having you on my show tonight.”

  “I loved being here. It was like”—I’m mortified to realize there are tears in my eyes—“coming home.”

  “Good. INN is your home now.”

  This close up, I notice just how green Beth’s eyes are. Not exactly the color of mine—Beth’s are more verdant, a little more fake green—but then, people sometimes think I’m wearing colored contacts. That’s a whole thread on social media.

  “You need to be very mindful,” Beth says, “because your looks will open doors, but they can close quickly. You’re going to have to outsmart some very smart people. I’m a woman of a certain age, and that requires a different skill set entirely than the one I’m about to share with you.”

  I lean in.

  “Young beautiful women used to play a certain game. They’d let men believe the ideas were theirs; they’d encourage men to think with their little heads, while the women used their big ones.”

  Like in Elyse’s diary. “It’s good that women don’t have to do that anymore,” I say.

  “You don’t have to, but you might want to consider it.” I stare at her, surprised. “It’s just a tool in the arsenal, one of many. Being able to match the tool to the job—not using a sledgehammer when a smile or a hint of cleavage will do—is the single most important form of intelligence for a woman who looks like you. It’s the definition of working smarter, not harder.”

  I like that Beth is taking such an interest in me, but it’s definitely not what I wanted to hear.

  “I can tell you, those strategies are undervalued these days, but they’re not antifeminist. Antifeminist is four years in an Ivy League school, being told you’re just as good as any man, and then going and erasing another woman’s teleprompter.”

  I look up toward the control room. Reese is sitting in the bleachers and gives a wave.

  Beth probably doesn’t mean Reese. INN is stacked with Ivy Leaguers.

  They’re everywhere.

  Chapter 14

  Hot as shit . . . hot as shit . . . hot as shit,” Reese says. She lays one letter after another on the desk. “Let’s just call this the HAS pile.” It turns out to be, by far, the largest pile of my fan mail.

  On the one hand, I’m relieved. Although there are people who don’t like me or “what I stand for” (whatever they think that is), no one has sounded too unhinged or threatening. On the other hand . . .

  “So much for being taken seriously,” I say. “I’m pretty much Broadcast Barbie.”

  “What do you think Megyn Kelly’s piles looked like when she started? This is a good sign, Cheyenne. You’re a woman in broadcast news. Even when you get letters from other women, they’ll often ask where you got your shoes or give you a word of advice about your eye makeup. Maybe twenty-five percent of your mail is going to be about what you actually said, and that’s on a good day.”

  “It seems so retrograde.” So 1991.

  “Yup.” Reese smiles. “But you’re here. You’ve got a three-year contract and a platform. People would kill for your level of exposure. They’d kill for this chance.” She sounds inordinately sunny. But she doesn’t know about the teleprompter.

  Unless she does.

  I like Reese. I hope that she’ll turn out to be a friend. But for now, I need to keep my eyes open and my drinks in my hand. As Beth said, it’s the cost of doing business. It’s a small price to pay for a three-year contract and a platform. For a mission.

  “So we’ll just need to figure out what you want me to do with the different piles of letters, and with your emails,” Reese is saying. “We can identify some broad categories, so I’ll know what gets a form response, what you want to handle yourself, and where you want me to get creative. We need a system.”

  “There isn’t just a standard way stuff is done?”

  “All you stars h
ave your preferences.” Another smile. Reese is good at skirting the edges of sycophancy, lacing it with irony or good-natured envy but never seeming resentful.

  I want Beth for a mother, but I really could use a friend. I have Chase and my dad, but it’s not the same. They’re not right here, for one thing. They don’t know this business, for another, though Chase tends to think he knows something about everything.

  “Do whatever’s easiest for you,” I say. She’s here so I can focus on the important things like studying the old episodes of INN, reading my curriculum, and practicing scripts until my eyes cross. The PR team handles social media; Reese will handle the fans; and I can just do the real work.

  “I’m on it.” She goes back to the main pile and then holds up a manila envelope with my name on it. “This one looks internal.” She starts to open it, but I tell her no, when she gets those, she can give them straight to me. I ignore the curiosity in her face, taking the envelope and sliding it inside one of my books from Albie. I smile, feigning nonchalance.

  There’s an awkward pause. I’m not volunteering, and Reese wants to ask but knows better.

  She looks around the office. “We should decorate in here.”

  I appreciate the subject change. “Like put my diploma up?”

  “No way! Unless it’s an Emmy or Peabody or something huge, you don’t want cred up on the walls. It reeks of insecurity. I mean, let’s bring in some personality. We could go shopping together. Art, pillows, tapestries—a nice mix of high and low. Like, something from a SoHo gallery next to something from HomeGoods. Want to go this weekend?”

  “I’m flying to Montana to see my dad.”

  “He’s so awesome! I follow him on Twitter.”

  Dad’s embraced social media in a big way. He live-tweeted Beth’s show when I was on. I wish he’d lie low, knowing that trolls don’t confine their hostility to their target; they radiate outward. But he says so far, everyone’s playing nice. I’ve asked Edwin to make sure that INN monitors Dad’s accounts and intervenes if necessary, and he agreed.

  “My father’s having more fun with this than I am,” I say. As soon as I do, I regret it. It’s too revealing when I don’t yet know if I can trust Reese.

  Reese assumes a sympathetic expression. “Oh, no! You looked like you were having a great time on Beth’s show.”

  “I have a lot to learn, that’s all. Khalif’s up next, and then Ty.” Just saying his name is anxiety-provoking. Not to mention that there are INN staffers who are not only rooting against me, like Rayna and Luke, but someone is actively engaged in sabotage.

  “I can help,” Reese says firmly. “You’re an It Girl, and you’re going to enjoy it. Fuck anyone who tries to stand in your way.”

  I get this feeling she knows what happened with the teleprompter, though I didn’t tell her. It could be a rumor going around, people congratulating themselves on their hazing (that’s the word Belinda and Nan used).

  “There’s always backbiting, Cheyenne. The male staff are thrilled to have someone new, young, and hot around, but some of the women—not so much. You want me to try to find out which ones really have it out for you so you can stay clear?”

  “Or win them over.”

  Reese shakes her head. “Bad place to put your energy. But listen, I went to school with Belinda. She was a senior when I was a freshman, so that’s a connection. I can make more of them. All I have to do is hang out and when I sense something, I let them think that I’m on their team instead of yours, that I’m pissed you got the big break.”

  “Are you?”

  Reese smiles. “No way. You’re my big break.”

  There’s something refreshing about her naked ambition. Reese isn’t going to bite the hand that feeds her, and right now, that hand belongs to me.

  “Do it,” I say. “Be my spy.”

  Chapter 15

  Finally, the lives of the real Cheyenne Florian and @theRealCheyenneFlorian have converged.

  I’m standing on the red carpet of one of the premier New York galas of the year, not ten feet away from Sarah Jessica Parker, fielding questions about what I’m wearing when what I’m wearing is a red couture Valentino gown, flamenco meets Park Avenue wedding, my hair in a chignon that took two hours to achieve by a professional, not to mention the eye makeup and bright red lips that took nearly that long. Chase is beside me, in a tux. He held my arm as we walked up the hundred steps to the museum, to this red carpet. It’s not my version of a fairy tale, but I do, indeed, feel like a princess, and I wouldn’t have imagined I’d like it this much.

  Some of the celebrities on the red carpet are much less conventionally attired. Glow-in-the-dark dresses, superhero shapes (Rihanna is actually holding a John Galliano scepter), unusually placed cutouts, gold-encrusted pantsuits—it’s dizzying. I missed the Met gala by a few months, so this is August hangover, but still, it’s pretty spectacular. It’s ostensibly to benefit those who don’t have enough to eat, though really, it’s to benefit those who want to be seen in their couture finery before Labor Day. Lady Gaga is here, subdued for her in what looks like a black lace unitard with dragon wings. There are at least four Kardashians. Tom Brady and Gisele, Chrissy Teigen and John Legend, George Clooney and Amal . . . and Chase and me. If the reporters find that bizarre, they hide it well.

  Katy Perry, in some sort of ninja garb, approaches to say she’s already a fan. The cameras flash away, recording the moment.

  Chase introduces himself and says that he’s representing Until. Representing? I fight my embarrassment, though Katy couldn’t be nicer about it. She even asks questions about Until, and as Chase describes how he’s going to make the world safer, stopping crimes before they happen when they’re just a thought in someone’s mind, Katy manages to look impressed. Maybe she really is. I always was. But right then, I’m frustrated. Can’t he, just once, be eye candy?

  I shouldn’t complain, not even in my mind (it’s occurred to me before that someday, courtesy of Until, Chase might be able to see every internal eye roll). He did fly in on incredibly short notice, and except for this moment, I’ve loved seeing him and having him steady me in such a disorienting setting.

  The only bummer is that I had to cancel my trip to Tulip. Dad was supportive, as I knew he would be, but that only made me feel worse. I miss him, and it’s not like I can go out any weekend. If he’s just had his treatment, he’ll be exhausted, and he doesn’t like me to see him like that. So rescheduling for next weekend is out. It’ll be at least two weeks before I can curl up on the couch next to him and watch a movie. I could use a dose of normalcy. Though I’m enjoying tonight, which couldn’t be more abnormal.

  Reese says I ought to get used to it, that I could easily become a regular on the New York social scene. It’s not a world I’m eager to inhabit; the occasional visit is plenty. It’s clear that Reese would want it all. But that doesn’t make me uncomfortable anymore. Instead, it makes me appreciate my life more. As I’m looking around the gala, I’m thinking of all the things I can report back to Reese, imagining the vicarious pleasure she will take in every detail.

  Then I remember: I need to actually capture this moment. I start snapping shots of the room and ask Chase to take some pics of me with celebrities. I jot some notes in my phone and send them off to my PR team, who’ll then take the observations and turn them into social media magic.

  Chase is watching, not saying a word. It could be that he’s respecting my work, such as it is, but I sense a hint of judgment. After each of my appearances on INN, he’s said all the right things. He expressed his pride. He sent flowers. He humble-brags on social media and retweets me (well, not the real me, but still, it’s the thought that counts). Yet I can’t help thinking that in his mind, I’m not a broadcaster, I just play one on TV.

  That could be my own insecurity. Two successful appearances, ratings-wise, and I’m still waiting to be somehow certified legitimate. Edwin says the media will come around on me, that the leg-crossing counts will stop trendin
g soon. I just need to break a big story, and he has one in the works.

  During the cocktail hour, Chase and I camp out at a table in the museum’s atrium. It looks like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. There’s crystal-studded netting suspended from the dark ceiling, and kaleidoscopic pink and purple lights rove the room. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I say.

  Chase makes a noncommittal noise. I’ve never seen him so determinedly unimpressed. When I accompany him to Silicon Valley parties, he points out heads of start-ups with little-boy energy.

  Reese tutored me in the New York social circuit, highlighting central figures, so that I’ll be able to say something reasonably intelligent. So far, the celebrities seem much more interested in me than the old money. I would have expected to be the one fawning, but no, they’re all expressing their admiration. Maybe they’re sucking up because they think that someday they’ll need me. Crazy.

  “You’ll get your show,” Kanye West tells me with a finger point. “Count on it.”

  At least Chase didn’t tell Kanye about Until.

  I polish off a glass of champagne, and a server appears with another on a tray. Chase becomes his usual personable self. I talk about Reese, and how much fun we had shopping for office decorations. It might be the champagne, but I feel myself starting to gush. The truth is, Reese is the kind of person I wish had respected me at Stanford. I know that Reese is paid to like me, but it’s not necessarily an act. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that nobody’s after you.

  Chase looks a little bored, which is irritating. I’ve listened to him well past the point of interest before. It’s just what you do for someone you love.

  I take a long swig of champagne. That’s when Chloë Sevigny comes up in an outfit that is understated and cool and outrageous at once, like a pirate marooned in Brooklyn. I make sure that Chase gets a picture as I tell her how much I loved American Horror Story.

  “I know how it is in Hollywood,” Chloë says, “the way directors can ask what you’re doing afterward, and how you respond determines a lot of your future.” Her back is partially turned to Chase. This is a women-only conversation. “What’s it like over where you are?”