Little White Lies

by Brianna Baker

  “Coretta, everyone, my name is Ethan,” he said in the softest of voices. “I’m the Skools’ assistant. Anders and Karin are ready for you now.” With that, we all shuffled across the marble floors and headed into the elevator. The thirty-seventh floor. My ears popped.

  Here. We. Go.

  The doors opened on a mini version of the Pulse TV sign from out front. Whoever was in charge of decorating the office must have had short-term memory loss and needed to be reminded at every turn that they were still, in fact, at Pulse TV. We took a left and walked into what felt like a different world. There were no walls, no cubicles, only freestanding desks that were shared by lots of people—and everyone was wearing hoodies, skinny jeans, and combat boots. (Damn it, I could have worn my usual school clothes!) They were all smiling. Not what I imagined an office would be like.

  Ethan introduced us to some of the employees (all seemingly his age) as we passed what must have been the break area. They played ping-pong, drank lattes, perused the Internet, and prepared smoothies at the juice bar. It didn’t seem real. It felt like a movie set. Especially since when Ethan announced us, none of the employees offered their names in return. Everyone knew who we were. No, everyone knew who I was.

  I looked at Mike and mouthed the words “Oh, my God.”

  Ahead loomed two offices with glass walls. My heart began to thump. On the other side of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows sat the Skool twins.

  Karin and Anders were even more beautiful in person than on TV. Seriously, hauntingly so. Karin had grown out her blonde hair almost to the middle of her back. Anders’s own blond hair was still short, crisply parted, slicked back. They both wore dark suits, impeccably tailored to fit their long, lean figures. So this is what the Swedish Adam and Eve would look like. If they weren’t related, that is.

  The twins were talking and laughing about something, but the glass must have been soundproofed, because even standing at the door, we couldn’t hear a thing. Ethan knocked, and they both rose in unison.

  It sounds strange, but the way they moved almost looked like the start to an interpretive dance. And not some garbage dance, but the kind on So You Think You Can Dance, the kind of earnest performance that would make you stand up and applaud the television. Maybe even cry.

  I looked at Ethan. I had a terrible thought. They were so tall (Karin five-eleven? Anders six-four?), and Ethan was so small (five-one?), but they all had bright blond hair and striking, angular faces. He looked like their child. Their cute baby-man child. Don’t start giggling. Don’t make a fool of yourself. I drew myself out of my ridiculous brain and found myself shaking their hands.

  “Coretta, we are so pleased that you are able to meet with us today. Everyone in the office is so excited that you’re here.” Karin had such a low voice for a woman. It was wonderful, calming.

  I looked back through the glass to see that, in fact, everyone was excited. Staring, waving, smiling, saying things that I couldn’t hear.

  Anders chimed in. “Yes, we have been watching you for quite some time, ever since you two volunteered for our SKOOLS 4 ALL initiative. Everyone, please move with us into our conference room.” As we moved, we walked past a framed SKOOLS 4 ALL poster—life-size. It featured the twins posing with a special “S4A” laptop they’d created for cheap and global mass production.

  As I followed them through another glass door and into a hallway, Mike at my side, I tried to relax. In spite of their freakishly perfect dystopian Viking looks, these were nice people. Seriously; they gave laptops to poor African children, which apparently was like the Holy Grail of philanthropy (just ask my parents). And I’d first crossed their radar because of that. Maybe it even gave me cred. Maybe they really might think there was more to me than just my blog.

  We went through a glass door that was on the side of that office into an actual hallway enclosed in glass, walked through another glass door into another office (Anders’s), and then through another glass hallway and into a conference room. This room had a long, white, oval table. A ginormous TV with a perimeter of slightly smaller TVs surrounding it. A mini kitchen. The windows were floor to ceiling and looked out over Times Square. Breathe.

  We all sat at the table, baby Ethan last. Without missing a beat, Karin resumed the discussion. “Coretta, my brother Anders and I are very impressed with your prose. We see you becoming a voice of your generation.”

  I had to sneak a glance at my mother. She made an ohhh face. Her eyes were watering.

  “We were particularly impressed with your Mandela piece,” Karin added.

  “Yes!” Anders exclaimed. “And your post on Beyoncé! That was the clincher! Extraordinary!”

  Everyone started laughing. I’m not sure what was funny, but I started laughing, too. Anders looked me in the eye. “The insight that you had on that album and all of those videos, and on the phenomenon that is Beyoncé is unprecedented, especially for a seventeen-year-old. Coretta, my dear, we envision Pulse TV as a platform for you to speak to your generation, your millennials.”

  Are the millennials mine? I wondered.

  “We think you are the teen Oprah meets Dr. Phil meets Nikki Finke—with sass, smarts, and heart.”

  I bit my lip. I half-expected everyone to burst out laughing again, but Anders was straight-faced. Was that a preplanned line? I wasn’t particularly taken by that description, but from the looks on everyone else’s faces, I was the only dissenter.

  Anders went on to explain that each episode of the TV version of Little White Lies would start with a Little White Lie, just like the blog. “Now what will be different is that all of the lies need to be approved by Pulse TV, and your parents if they like.” Everyone once again erupted into laughter immediately after Anders did. A mini laugh track, only I was the only one not getting the cue. “We want to use these ‘lies,’ or subject starters, as the jumping-off point to segue into social commentary, and more specifically into the personal one-on-one counseling that you do so well. Your response to the girl who was bullied had Karin, Ethan, and me crying.”

  The three of them nodded in unison.

  Karin grabbed my hand in both of hers. Mine was cold and damp with sweat, in contrast to hers, which were warm, smooth, and perfectly moisturized without feeling the least bit clammy. She looked into my eyes. “Coretta, we don’t want the world to have to wait any longer to see you and hear from you. We would like to announce Little White Lies as soon as possible. This will generate even more buzz for your blog, which will trigger even more buzz for the TV show. We want to start shooting mid-February. How does that sound?”

  I started to formulate a response. Before I could, my dearest mother chimed in. “Perfect, as Coretta will have already heard from colleges by then!”

  I looked at her to signal back off, Mom, but quickly took control of my face so as not to appear stressed. “It all sounds wonderful! Where do I sign?” I meant that as a joke, but Ethan started to shuffle out like a svelte Aryan hobbit. Apparently my absurd comments did not generate the laugh track.

  Only then did it occur to me that Ethan was leaving the room to grab an actual contract.

  My jaw must have dropped, because the twins stressed that I had nothing to worry about. I was about to become rich and famous whether I liked it or not. They said I just needed to keep doing what I’ve been doing. The only difference was that once I signed “the agreement,” I (and now secretly Karl) would have to run every single post by them for approval. And those posts—while true to my voice (err … and Karl’s?)—would need to focus on messages that would elevate teenagers in today’s world: anti-bullying, acceptance of diversity, voter registration, and blah, blah, blah …

  As I felt my eyes starting to cross and fought resting bitch face with all my might, my mother addressed the Skools. “Karin, Anders, thank you so much for having us all here today. I have to say, you have come to the right young woman to help elevate teenagers. Coretta, as I’m sure you found when she volunteered with SKOOLS 4 ALL, is an exce
ptional young woman with a unique vision for this world.”

  And just where did that come from? Had she rehearsed her lines, too? Whatever—it all sounded simple enough, provided nobody found out about Karl. All good things come at a cost, right? Isn’t that what The Lord of the Rings is about?

  Wait, how does that end? I didn’t see them all. Who cares? I needed this. Colleges would see this and want me, 3.7 GPA notwithstanding (it might have slipped to 3.5, but I can’t bear to look).

  Ethan shimmied back in and placed two contracts in front of me. They were several pages thick, written in tiny font. Ethan quickly flipped to the last page, nearly blank except for four signature lines: one for me, one for my legal guardian, one for each Skool. The twins each slid a pen across the table.

  Karin said, “One contract is for you to keep; the other is for us. Both pens are yours.”

  I picked up one of the pens and signed.

  After that I got lost in a cacophony of congratulations. Mike kissed my cheek and thanked his parents for orchestrating the deal. They kicked into Pulse TV–board-member mode and started to talk up my parents to the Skool twins. My parents were playing shy. My dad had his arm around my shoulder while he talked about me but not to me.

  I was right where I was supposed to be, wasn’t I? I deserved to be here. Sure, I didn’t write the Beyoncé post, but I could have. And I wasn’t in this room for that post, anyway. I was in here for the blog I created. Yes, I was receiving much-needed help. But even Oprah had help, tons of it.

  Okay, if I was being honest, there was a teensy part of me that thought about the other place that I should be, could be. Rachel was single-handedly hosting the student council regional meeting. Everyone knew why I wasn’t there, and nobody (but Rachel) was (or at least pretended to be) anything but happy for me. I’d texted her good luck before I left this morning.

  Radio silence. Not even a response to wish me luck.

  Now I had to go on a tour of the studio and meet the staff.

  We had to start clipping along. It was fine. It was FINE. I knew she could handle it, so I probably didn’t need to feel bad.

  But, damn … I sure did.

  Part Two: Winter 2014

  CHAPTER TEN

  Karl (January 6, 2014)

  I woke up to a text from Alex. She told me to check my email. I hate it when people text me telling me to check my email. Who does this? (That’s a rhetorical question. Alex Melrose does this.) If it’s so urgent, just skip the email and send me a text in the first place!

  And by the way, I get emails on my phone. So there’s really no need to text me telling me about an email.

  Anyway, was I cranky? Yes, I was cranky.

  The email contained a link and nothing else. No “hi,” no “hello,” no “best,” no “bye.” No “Karl,” no “Alex,” no “K,” no “A.”

  Really? This link is so urgent that you don’t even have the time to preface it with a simple pleasantry? Not a second to spare for some semblance of an introduction, or a hint as to why this vital URL may be relevant? No? Just send me the link. Yeah, that’s all you need to do. Because if it’s coming from you, then it must be important. So of course I’ll click on it IMMEDIATELY, no questions asked. I suppose you’re right, Alex. Let’s not waste our time with pleasantries.

  It was an item on Deadline Hollywood, a site I visit every morning to take note of the latest undeserving prick to strike it rich with a rom-com screenplay about the loss of intimacy in the digital age. So I would have stumbled upon the piece within fifteen minutes, anyway. But hey, it was nice to be tipped off by someone I know and adore. And owe and abhor.

  Teen Phenom Inks Deal with Pulse TV for Little White Lies

  By THE DEADLINE TEAM | Monday, January 6, 2014 @ 7:30 a.m. EDT

  Tags: Pulse TV, Coretta White, Little White Lies, Skool Twins

  Coretta White, the 17-year-old web star behind the breakout teen blog Little White Lies, inspired by her Brooklyn power-couple parents Martin and Felicia White, has just signed an undisclosed deal with upstart cable/web network Pulse TV to create and develop a weekly television show based on the blog.

  A press release from Pulse TV’s co-CEOs Anders and Karin Skool, the 28-year-old billionaire twins renowned as much for their philanthropic efforts as for their aggressive business tactics, stated, “We are thrilled to welcome Coretta White into our growing family of young thinkers and doers, and we look forward to bringing Little White Lies to life for an even broader audience.”

  Good for her! So Coretta finally signed her deal with Pulse TV. Even though she claimed she didn’t even watch Pulse TV. Had she been lying to me about that? Did it matter? Did any of this matter? Maybe not, but this was the moment we had all been waiting for. Given that the deal was being reported first thing Monday morning, the contracts had obviously been signed the previous Friday at the latest.

  Well. It would have been nice if Coretta had wanted to share the news with me directly. It would have been nice if she’d even mentioned that this was a possibility way back when. Maybe when Alex had first discussed it with her? Maybe even Friday, as soon as she’d signed her first TV deal for the blog that I was writing? Or maybe as soon as she got home and popped the champagne—err, sparkling cider? Or at some point over the weekend?

  No? No time to call Karl and tell him the good news?

  Alex sent a second text. This one asked me to call Coretta ASAP to let her know that I knew the news. And to congratulate her.

  Okie dokie.

  True, I was The Help. I’d gone in knowing as much. How convenient, too; now I had the answer to the self-pitying identity crisis I’d suffered when I took this job. Who was Karl Ristoff? What was Karl Ristoff? Easy. The Help. This was my professional (and let’s face it) personal identity. And as of late, I had to admit I hadn’t been much help at all.

  I’m not sure why I’d thought I could offer something more. It’s not like Coretta and I were going to be pals. Or friends. We’d decided as much. Had I thought I could be some kind of mentor to this girl? Why would she want to follow the advice of a forty-one-year-old ghostwriter who sat on a silver yoga ball and trawled the web all day looking for memes?

  If Coretta didn’t want to explore serious issues beyond her own comfort zone, that was her prerogative. If she didn’t want to grow and expand her audience, I’m sure she had her reasons. And they were probably good ones. The kid seemed smarter than me for sure—a lot smarter than I was at her age. If she wanted grown-ups telling her what to do, she could do a lot better than the Dark Lord of the Twittersphere. Her parents, for instance. Her dad was like Matthew Knowles, if he traded his God complex for a Harvard Law degree and a conscience, and her mother was Brooklyn’s answer to Michelle Obama.

  So it was just another job. And if I wanted to keep it, I had better schmooze my client.

  I knew what I had to do (well, what Alex had commanded me to do), and I wasn’t happy about it. It had been more than two years since I had actually initiated a phone call that wasn’t for tech support or pizza. The last time was after I mistakenly tweeted as Alec Baldwin a photo of his thenfiancée, doing yoga. It was a big misunderstanding, and we later sorted it all out. (Though, come to think of it, I haven’t worked for a Baldwin since.) But that call had to be made, per Alex’s command, and so did this one.

  Since it was her first day back at school after the winter break, I waited until the afternoon.

  At 3:04 P.M., I picked up R$$P. Coretta answered right away.

  C: Karl?

  K: Congratulations!

  C: Oh. Um. Thanks.

  K: Oh, come on. Don’t be so nonchalant. Your first TV contract! This is a big deal! I hope you’ve been celebrating.

  C: A little. I drank a glass of champagne with Mike and our parents after we finished up at Pulse on Friday. And Mike took me to an amazing dinner at Per Se on Saturday. So yeah, I guess I’ve celebrated some.

  K: Champagne and dinner at Per Se. I’d say that qualifies. Don’t get me w
rong; I would have been celebrating, too, if anyone had bothered to tell me about it. I had to read the deal report in Deadline Hollywood this morning.

  C: Oh, Karl! I’m sorry. I totally should have shared the news with you. But I was so caught up in the weirdness of everything—the bigness, the strangeness of it all—the way everyone was treating me at Pulse. Like I was a cross between their newfound savior and their latest acquisition. Like I was their fancy new toy, and they couldn’t wait to get me out of the package and start playing with me.

  K: Wow. Pretty awesome.

  C: Well, it would be a lot more awesome if I could get in touch with Rachel. I’ve been so rotten to her lately, and now she’s not returning my calls or texts OR my emails, and she wasn’t even at school today—

  K: Coretta, I’m really not the person to talk to about Rachel. But like I said, congratulations. I mean that. And don’t worry about not telling me sooner. I mean, at all.

  C: Are you okay? You sound mad or something.

  K: Not mad in the least.

  C: Really? Because I’m sorry, what more can I say? Between the insanity of Friday, and spending all weekend being worried sick about my best friend, I’ve been a little distracted, okay?

  K: No, really. It’s fine. This isn’t about me. It’s about YOU.

  C: Thank you. And I’m glad you said that. I still need your help, Karl.

  K: You sure about that?

  C: What do you mean? Of course I still want you to help me. Everyone at Pulse loved your Beyoncé post.

  K: Oh? Well, that’s nice.

  C: I’m serious, Karl. I still need you. But things are on a whole new level now. From today forward, I can’t have you posting anything without getting my approval first. Understand?

  K: We already had this conversation, didn’t we?

  C: Well, yeah … but things are different now. Everything that goes on the blog or on Twitter has to go through the proper channels at Pulse TV first.