Twitter Girl

by Nic Tatano

  “You serious?”

  Ripley nods. “Yep. Anyway, I didn’t react in a jealous high school manner because I am keeping the pact.”

  “You two have a pact?” asks Sam, putting down his utensils and resting his chin on his hands. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear the details of this.”

  “We’re both supposed to ignore him,” says Ripley.

  Sam furrows his brow. “I don’t understand. I thought this guy was the ultimate catch for you guys. Why would you both ignore him?”

  “Men always want what they can’t have,” I say, reaching for a piece of hot Italian bread. “Dating 101.”

  “Yeah, you have a point,” says Sam. “But you two aren’t exactly shrinking violets. What constitutes ignoring him? Grabbing his ass only once a day?”

  “Hush, little brother.”

  “I’d agree to that,” says Ripley, “if you wanna amend the pact.” She goes back to attacking her food. “I almost forgot. After I basically gave him a dossier on the care and feeding of Twitter Girl he did invite me to the football game this weekend.”

  I drop my fork. “You’re going to the Giants game? You hate football.”

  She shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

  “Hell, Ripley,” says Sam, “you think a tight end is one of your requirements for a boyfriend.”

  “That’s why I got this,” she says, as she leans down, reaches into her purse and pulls out a paperback titled NFL Football for Dummies. “I’ll be cramming tomorrow morning.”

  I roll my eyes. “You can’t become a football fan in a day. Name one of the Giants.”

  She searches the heavens for an answer, then looks at me and smiles. “Frank Gifford!”

  “He retired in the sixties and he’s eighty years old! You only know him ’cause he’s married to Kathie Lee.”

  “You said name one Giant and I named one. So there.”

  “Name a current one.”

  “I’ll know them all tomorrow.”

  “Really. How much is a touchdown worth?”

  “Uh… ten thousand dollars?”

  Sam shakes his head and laughs. “Man, I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you talk football with Senator Becker.”

  “I’ll record it on my cell,” I say. “I can sell it to ESPN for a fortune.”

  ***

  The cold wind slaps us in the face as Ripley and I head down the concourse toward our seats. One look at her face tells me my best friend is not at all wild about dealing with the elements in pursuit of the ultimate catch. (Her idea of camping out is taking a nap on the sun porch in May.)

  “Why couldn’t we have gone to a Broadway show?” she asks. “At least there’d be heat.”

  “You can go home if you like, I’ll tell him you weren’t feeling well.”

  “Hell no, dear friend. I’ll freeze my ass off for a shot at Becker’s.”

  “Thought so. We’ll get you some hot chocolate when we get to our seats.”

  “I think I’ll need a stronger antifreeze,” she says, pulling her suede coat tighter around her. “Couple of dirty martinis should warm me up.”

  I stop and turn to face her. “Oh, would you like some paté to go with it?”

  “Great idea—”

  “You’re at a friggin’ football game in New Jersey! You can have a hot dog and a beer!”

  She face tightens. “Really? There’s no place serving hot hors d’oeurves?”

  I roll my eyes and continue toward our section, which is around the forty yard line. I pull the tickets out of my pocket and see we’re both in odd numbered seats. “Hey, we’re not sitting together. We’ve got seats nine and eleven.”

  She shoves her hands in her pockets and adjusts her hat. “Let’s just get there.”

  We turn into the tunnel and I hand my tickets to an usher who points to our row. We head down the steps and I see the seat between nine and eleven is occupied.

  By the Senator.

  I stop, grab Ripley’s arm and lean over to whisper in her ear. “Becker’s sitting between us.”

  “Really? Hmmm, interesting. You think he planned it or that’s just the tickets we got?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  “Maybe he wants a three-way with the hottest members of his staff.”

  “Yeah, that will get him elected.”

  We head down the steps to our row. The Senator spots us as we arrive and stands up. “Hey, you made it. Hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle getting here.”

  “Nah, no big deal,” I say, as I slide past him and grab seat number nine as Ripley plops down in number eleven. I turn to face Becker and take in his outfit. Jeans, Giants ski jacket, stocking cap, wire-rimmed glasses. “You dress down really well.”

  “I can blend when I have to. If I sat in a private box people would bend my ear for three hours and I’d never get to watch the game.”

  “I never would have recognized you,” says Ripley.

  “By the way, we’ll have a limo to get you guys home.”

  We’re interrupted by two new arrivals, Andrew and another hot guy I haven’t seen. Ripley hasn’t met either one, and when she looks at me I gather by her “tell” (according to my brother) that she’s not at all disappointed by the runner-ups.

  The Senator introduces them. The new contestant in hot guy roulette is a political consultant named Vinnie Franco and looks as Italian as his name. Tall with black hair, deep-set dark brown eyes, a rugged face. One of those guys with a heavy beard who always looks like he has a five o’clock shadow. The jury’s out on the rest of him until I see what’s under the goose down parka. Vinnie grabs the seat next to Ripley while Andrew slides by and sits next to me.

  This is one helluva hot guy sandwich for two gals from Staten Island.

  Ripley no longer looks cold.

  ***

  The Giants are up by ten as we get close to halftime. I don’t think Ripley’s watched one single play (not that I expected her to) as she’s bounced her conversation between Becker and Vinnie. She’s also managed to hide her lack of football knowledge by jumping up and cheering whenever everyone else does. I’ve been talking football with the Senator and Andrew as the game hits the two minute warning.

  “Okay,” says Becker, eyes riveted on the field, “if they can just avoid a mistake in the last two minutes.” He’s obviously a true fan as he hasn’t mentioned politics once.

  “Wow, the game is going fast,” says Ripley.

  “Not too much passing in this wind,” says Vinnie. “Ground game eats up the clock.”

  “True,” says Ripley. She looks at me and shrugs.

  I give her an eye roll and she shoots back a Cheshire cat grin. She’s actually pulling it off. As we say in television news, if you can fake sincerity you’ve got it made.

  “Oh, we’re going out to eat after the game,” says Becker. “A friend of mine has a restaurant with a private back room. Hope you girls like Italian.”

  “Who doesn’t?” I say.

  “Cassidy, you want a snack during halftime?” asks Andrew.

  “Hey, I’m a growing girl. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Long as it’s something hot.”

  The Giants are stuck deep in their own territory as the game resumes and decide to run out the clock for the first half with three straight runs. The gun sounds and the crowd cheers as they head into the locker room with a ten point lead.

  And then Ripley blows her cover as she jumps up and yells, “Yay, they won!”

  The guys start laughing and I’m biting my lip. “Ripley, it’s just halftime,” says Vinnie.

  She sits down. “Oh, right. I knew that.”

  But the men aren’t buying it.

  “Ripley,” says Becker, turning to face her as he tries to hold back a grin. “Look at me.”

  She turns to face him and smiles.

  “Who are the Giants playing? And don’t look at the scoreboard.” He puts up his hand to block her view.

  Her smile slowly fades. “They’
re… obviously playing a team that isn’t worth a damn.”

  “Who are they playing? Name the team.”

  “Thuuhhhhhh… Red Sox?”

  We all double over in laughter as her face turns red. “Sweetie, the Red Sox play baseball,” I say.

  “Oh.”

  “You’ve never watched a football game?” asks Becker.

  She thrusts out her lower lip in a pout and extends her arms like she’s waiting to be handcuffed. “Guilty as charged.” (Of course, when she uses this bad little girl look it turns men into quivering globs of flesh.)

  “Not a problem,” says Becker, now smiling at her, obviously charmed by this.

  Another eye roll from me.

  “Thought I’d try something new and get to know everyone a little better,” she says, doing some damage control. (The girl is in advertising, after all.)

  “I think this might be a good time for a trip to the ladies room,” I say as I squeeze by Becker, grab Ripley’s hand and lead her up the stairs. When we’re out of earshot I stop and turn to face her. “I thought you were gonna read that book?”

  “I did, but it was confusing. I mean, a fly pattern is in a Simplicity catalog, what’s it doing in football?”

  “What’s even more bizarre is the guys think it’s so cute.”

  “Part of my charm, as you like to say.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later we return to our seats and find two of the guys have played musical chairs. Andrew and Vinnie have switched seats.

  “Excuse me, Sir, may I see your ticket stub,” I say to Vinnie as I sit down.

  “Hey, not fair for Andrew to hog you the whole game. Besides, he needed to get to know Ripley and I wanted to spend some time with you.” He locks those dark eyes with me and my heart flutters.

  Day-umm.

  I glance over at Ripley and she’s beaming. And after being her best friend for so long, I know what she’s thinking.

  Can this get any better?

  And after the game, it does.

  ***

  We’re in good spirits after the Giants win, and need some real spirits because we’re all frozen. A limo is waiting outside the stadium, exhaust coming out of the tailpipe and a chauffeur standing by the door. He smiles and holds the door as Ripley and I quickly get inside. We take seats on opposite sides as the guys slide in next to us. Thankfully the thing is toasty warm with the heat blowing full blast and we both whip off our gloves and hold our hands next to the vents while I eye the fully stocked bar. Becker and Andrew are on my side with the Senator next to me while Vinnie grabs a seat next to Ripley.

  “Little cramped on this side,” says Andrew, the only guy stuck not sitting next to a woman. He moves across the compartment and sits on the other side of Ripley, leaving her between two cute guys while I share my side with Becker, who starts taking drink orders. He leans over to play bartender as the limo pulls away. Ripley and I lock eyes for a moment, exchanging non-verbal best friend communication as we both do our best not to beam.

  Three hot guys, two girls. Do the math.

  CHAPTER SIX

  @TwitterGirl

  Air Becker off to frozen New Hampshire this week. Will try to convince Marvin Hensler to stick his tongue to a flagpole.

  There’s a definite spring in my step on this Monday morning. The Giants won, Ripley and I had a great dinner and drinks with three very eligible men last night. (Vinnie and Andrew helped pour us out of the limo when they dropped us off at my place. Becker couldn’t exactly do it, as he didn’t need to take a chance of ending up on the Page Six of The Post helping a couple of drunken staffers to the door.) Vinnie, whose body did not disappoint when he removed his parka at the restaurant, asked for my phone number while Andrew got Ripley’s. So even though we’re still in the Becker sweepstakes, our dance cards are not empty.

  However, this semi-intoxicated conversation after we got inside had Sam howling:

  Ripley: “So, you got a date with Vinnie?”

  Me: “And you got a date with Andrew.”

  Ripley: “Who do you like the best?”

  Me: “Of the three guys? All of ’em.”

  Ripley: “Yeah. I like them all too.”

  Me: “And I think they all like both of us.”

  At this point Sam interrupted by saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to America’s newest dating show… Caligula’s Palace!”

  While this three guys and two girls romance polygon sounds like some sort of sixties commune, right now it makes for a very pleasant working environment.

  Ah yes, back to the task of getting Becker elected president. This job, as you may have noticed, could seriously play havoc with my social life.

  Frank wants me to check in first thing every Monday with Tyler, so I bounce into the conference room where I find him slumped in a chair yawning. “Late night?”

  “Yeah, T.G. Didn’t get done watching the game till one. Wedding went on forever.”

  “How was it?”

  “The over and under is two years. Though I personally give it nine months.”

  “That bad of a couple, huh?”

  “Well, not many people know it but she got herself knocked up to trap him into marrying her.”

  “I thought women were past that.”

  “Most are, the bride was not. If you knew her, you’d understand.”

  “Let me guess… bitchy and unattractive?”

  “Correct on both points. One of her cousins was at my table and referred to her as Hannibal Lecter with boobs.”

  “Why do men put up with that?”

  He smiles, flicks his wrist and makes a whip noise.

  “Oh, that.”

  “And, as you would say, she has a good face for radio. You oughta see her complexion. Had to apply makeup with a paint roller. I think she was goalie on her high school dart team.”

  I crack up at that line as he offers a soft smile. His eyes are a little droopy, and I can tell he’s not his usual upbeat self. “If you don’t feel well I can come back after lunch—”

  “Nah, I’m okay. I’ll just pace myself today. I’ve been through this before. But I always remind myself it’s a blessing.”

  “What’s a blessing?”

  “My condition.”

  “Not sure I understand, Tyler.”

  He sits up straight and his eyes get a little misty. “My first job was in lower Manhattan, in the World Trade Center. On my usual Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule. The 9/11 attacks were on a Tuesday. That’s the only reason I’m still around. I had always wondered why God gave me this condition and that day I got my answer. Ever since, I’ve known He put me here to make a difference. If I’d been born with a normal metabolism I’d be dead like a lot of the friends I lost that day.” He gives me a soulful look that makes my eyes well up a bit.

  “Well, they say God works in mysterious ways. You have such a positive way of dealing with challenges, Tyler. You’re a lot like my brother.”

  “Mine is no big deal compared to your brother, from what I read. Anyway, we all have certain gifts, even if we don’t know they’re good for us sometimes. Maybe God blessed you with sarcasm to change the direction of the country.”

  “Interesting way of looking at things.”

  “Speaking of which, that little town hall thing up in the Live Free or Die state offers all sorts of possibilities.” He hands me a manila folder with two sheets of paper inside. “We’ve got a few plants in the audience and those are the questions they’ve been given.”

  “You planted gotcha questions?”

  “Hell, everyone does that. I call ’em button questions.”

  “Huh?”

  “Our questions are designed to push people’s buttons.”

  I take a minute to review the papers and see each question is not a gotcha question but about a hot button issue that at least one candidate is passionate about. Or one which might send said candidate off the rails on a rant that could prove damaging. “These are all designed to get
some wild, opinionated responses from different candidates.”

  “Right, we stay away from the usual economy, health care and foreign policy questions which bore the living shit out of the voters. If we’re lucky we’ll get one or two of those asked, so familiarize yourself with those and be ready with some clever tweets.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. I can work on those in advance. I gotta admit, Tyler, this is pretty devious.”

  He smiles and leans back, folding his hands behind his head. “Thank you, T.G., I take that as a compliment.”

  My phone dings, telling me I have a text. I take a quick look and see it’s another from my unknown source.

  Good Monday, Cassidy. The postman always knocks and knocks.

  I furrow my brow as I try to figure this one out.

  “Problem?” asks Tyler.

  “Nah, just some friend playing a game of treasure hunt with me.” I slide my phone back into my purse. The postman obviously means I need to check my mail. “By the way, do I have a mailbox here for letters and memos and stuff?”

  “Sure, just outside the break room.”

  “Thanks. Anything else today?”

  “Check back at four this afternoon. We’ll do some FaceTime with Frank and Andrew.”

  “Frank’s not here?”

  “He went to New Hampshire to scope out the site for the Town Hall meeting.” He reaches across the table, grabs an envelope, and hands it to me. “Oh, almost forgot. He told me to make sure to give you this.”

  I open the envelope and take out a memo:

  Cassidy,

  One of the higher-ups in the campaign wishes to meet you. Dinner is at Tre Bella at six. Ask for Mister Harris. Keep this confidential.

  -Frank

  I fold the note and put it in my purse.

  “Anyway,” says Tyler, “those button questions should keep you busy for awhile.”

  It will, but not all day. Which gives me a little time to start snooping.

  ***

  I smile at the staffers who are buzzing around the office as I head toward the break room. I see an old fashioned wood set of cubbyholes with letters and manila envelopes crammed inside. I stop and scan the boxes to find my name.