Donors made a choice to grab an envelope—any envelope at all—numbered 1 through 550—and donate that amount to the Foundation at a complimentary black-tie cocktail hour that served up cheap wine, pigs in a blanket, and gratitude. The $3 donor ate and drank alongside the $462 donor. There was something tremendously comforting about equalizing everyone’s generosity.
The envelopes were filled with promises to pay the generosity forward, including baking cookies for the local fire fighters and helping moms with dishes. These hope-filled envelopes were bartered for donations that went to help the Foundation meet its budget every year, and even a little surplus that was usually earmarked for after-school activities or workshops for the single moms of the group.
I stood in front of my board mock-up and thought about the Foundation’s population—the children that I helped fund programming for. I rearranged post-its on one quadrant of the Board that would house the envelopes that came in through Corelle’s group, and I smiled.
Corelle was a success story, a “graduate” of one of the first after-school programs sponsored by the Foundation. Now she was a high school senior, had recently turned 18, and was leading one of the younger groups on her own. I’d noticed that she had a special relatability with the kids in her group and I’d asked her if she had ever considered teaching or social work. She’d shaken off the suggestions at first.
“I’m too ugly to get kids to listen to me,” she said. I’d taken her by the shoulders then and demanded she tell me who had ever put such a ridiculous idea in her head.
She’d shrugged it off. “Ah, Don’t worry about me, Miss Aby. I’m just having a bad day.”
But I’d watched her a little more carefully after that. And her group had turned in the most beautiful pay it forward envelopes and promises.
I liked to believe I knew our after-school groups inside and out. But that wasn’t true. I knew bits and pieces. I knew them as they came here, participated in programming here. Stepped outside of their comfort zones to come to the Foundation’s programming. But I didn’t know who they were before they came to the Foundation. I was always pretending the past didn’t matter. That you only needed to keep your eyes facing forward. I said that to every new donor group that passed through the Foundation doors.
The past doesn’t matter.
The only thing that matters now are the choices you make from here on out.
I turned away from my mock-up board, took out a key and unlocked a drawer on the right-hand side of my desk. I’d asked Mena for a desk with a locking drawer “for those times I need to store a last-minute donor or vendor check after bank hours.” She’d agreed without questioning and I’d gratefully begun storing a few documents in the drawer that I didn’t feel comfortable leaving in the home I now shared with Jude.
A photo of my mother, Madelyn Boyle, and her obituary printed in the local paper from back home was at the top of the pile.
Beloved local waitress, affectionately nicknamed the “Mayor of Little River” lost her battle with cancer on January 4, 2014. Thousands show up to mourn the woman who was known for her small acts of kindnesses throughout town.
“When Madelyn found out my husband lost his job, miraculously my electric bill was paid the following month.”
“When I joined AA, Madelyn served me free coffee every night from 7 pm-11 pm for a month, and talked to me in between her other tables to distract me while I’d jones for a real nightcap.”
“She was a fairy godmother.”
Jude and Mena knew the version of my story that included a mother involved in local politics. I felt that was a modest stretching of the truth, not a full-on lie.
But the story that my mother had taken her own life, after a scandal—that was blatant lie, fabricated in Sol’s advisor’s office while he tried to come up with a creative version of my meager resume to ultimately present to Mena, and I was too hungry and too grief-stricken to correct him.
Somewhere I’d read a story advising to fake it until you make it. And I thought, if I wanted to be like my mother—truly like her—and carry on her legacy of goodness, I was going to have to leave behind my sordid dark past, and move the hell on. Ever since I arrived in D.C. on one tank of gas, and read the story about Philomena Treese’s mission, I thought my mother had sort of led me there.
Here.
And I stuck to that story ever since. So much so, that occasionally, I had to take out the truth and look it in the eye. The real truth was that my mother had fought a battle against cancer with every ounce of her strength, with every intention of staying on this earth as long as possible for one reason and one reason alone: to keep me from lying again.
My mother’s face looked up at me from the obituary and I stared at her uncomfortably for a few minutes before locking her back in the drawer and turning back to my fundraiser’s mock-up board.
“The past doesn’t matter.” I said aloud.
And then I whispered a half-hearted apology to my mother into the air.
Because the truth? The truth was I knew I would keep perpetuating that lie given the chance.
When I got home that night, it was late, and Jude was already home from the day’s campaign strategy session with Laila.
I apologized again for my bad behavior the day before.
“I don’t know why I was so jealous of Laila, Jude. It’s silly when I think about it. I’ve never been insecure with you. Why was I being so insecure? I’m sorry.”
“You weren’t being silly, Aby.”
“I wasn’t?”
“Of course not. She’s beautiful and smart and ambitious. And she’s helping me. She’s focused on one goal—helping me achieve something I want so damn badly. Your jealousy is completely understandable.”
I sunk low into one of the flamingo pillows, my eyes welling up with tears, no longer feeling on the same side of Jude’s table at all.
“My God, Jude. Really? What about me? What am I even doing here if you feel all those things about Laila?”
“Well you’re all those things, too, Aby. Smart and beautiful and ambitious. But in a different way. In a way that doesn’t revolve around me. And that’s why even though I need Laila for this election, I love you, Aby. You’re my life. You’re my future. I need Laila to win this election. But I need you forever.”
“Oh,” I conceded with gratitude.
“So don’t ask me to get rid of Laila again, ok? At least not for the duration of this election.”
“And afterward?”
“Aby, come on. I’ve known Laila since law school. She’s good people. Don’t ask me to abandon my friends because you’re feeling jealous. Isn’t this all a little too High School Musical for you?” Jude winked at me and I nodded a concession and excused myself for bed, wishing that maybe Jude could have lied. Just a little bit.
Lying in bed waiting for Jude to come up, I scrolled through my emails relating to the Pay It Forward fundraiser. I loved that project. It was full of authenticity and the kids got behind it with earnestness. They were vested in it and that’s what made it so successful. I felt warmed by the imminent success of the fundraiser and my role in it. Something about the warm fuzzy glow I was feeling made me draft an email to Laila that I figured I’d never send.
Thanks for all your hard work. The Out The Bullies angle is definitely interesting. I look forward to brainstorming more about it with you.
And then, before, I could stop myself, I hit send.
The next day, Laila summoned me—and just me—to a meeting..
Aby, I really need to talk to you. Woman to woman. Can you meet me at Pete’s Diner in Southeast after work today?
Pete’s Diner was a no-frills place near Capitol Hill, nowhere near my Georgetown office. I thought Laila probably wanted to meet in between some meetings or work-related research. Still the invitation to a place so out of the way for me seemed presumptuous.
I didn’t really want to meet Laila without Jude, or outside the campaign office, but calling him to te
ll on Laila felt like just that: “telling on her.” And I decided to be the bigger person.
I can’t be there until 6:30. Will that work?
Yes.
Ten minutes into the meeting, things already felt hostile. “Aby, listen. We need more money. Plain and simple.”
“So now you suddenly want my Boss’s tainted money? Why the change of heart?”
I looked down at my coffee instead of meeting Laila’s cold gaze. I irrationally hoped Laila would leave while I was still looking down, and that I would not have to bother saying another word to her that day or any other day, for that matter.
“I absolutely do not want a dime from Philomena Treese. No. I got your email. You’re right. It’s time to green light Out The Bullies.”
I winced. In some ways, this was all predictable. I hadn’t suggested we take Out The Bullies money in my email—or green light their super-PAC spending, but I was thinking it. And now Laila was making me backpedal with her direct confrontation.
“I’m still not sure, Laila. And more importantly, Jude’s not sure.”
“Aby, it’s this or Jude will lose. Rutter and Innovative Media are outspending us on every front. They will win at this pace. Did you hear me? Jude will lose. They will win.”
I looked up from my thick diner coffee, startled by Laila’s frankness and by the fact that I wasn’t able to conjure her disappearance by staring intently at floating coffee grinds.
I was unsettled by more than the mere fact that Laila had asked me to meet with her. It wasn’t altogether unheard of for a campaign manager to want to talk with her client’s partner, but I was uncomfortable with the fact that Laila needed to meet in person. And only with me. Most of our communication up to that point had taken place through Jude. Or while Jude was also in the room. It made me uncomfortable—this clan-destine meeting that Laila had arranged. It made me feel dishonest agreeing to meet with her. And now, not long into the actual meeting, Laila had me feeling like an accomplice to something gruesome. I thought about asking her.
What was it?
What happened between you and Jude to make you so angry?
But the words stuck in my throat. I drank more coffee trying to wash them down. Pete’s Diner was not unfamiliar to me. In fact, we had been in this very booth—all three of us—the day Laila agreed to run Jude’s campaign nearly a year earlier. Jude had included me in the initial meetings; insisted that I be included, and I was grateful for that. I wanted Jude to have this newly created seat. I was surprised at how badly I wanted it. Sometimes I wondered how much my mother’s legacy played into all this. If my mother was somehow divining this path, or whether it was less supernatural, and more selfish. But regardless, I wanted Jude to run. And I wanted him to win. There was no point in wanting one without the other. Laila had talked about money at that initial meeting, too, of course.
“How will you pay for this campaign?”
I knew what Laila was really asking was: How will you pay for me?
“Jude has lots of pledged support already,” I had jumped in.
“We have sources. And we’re not afraid to ask for money.”
“Yes, neither am I,” Laila had replied. “Then again, we can try this on a shoestring budget. That might be refreshing.”
In the end, it had felt as though Laila was doing the interviewing. We had practically begged her to run Jude’s campaign. Well, Jude had, at any rate.
“Please, Laila, we need you on the team. We can’t do this without you.”
I didn’t agree then, and later, I certainly wished we were doing this without Laila. Wished we had at least tried. And now I was back at Pete’s Diner, and I didn’t feel any more in control of Laila than I had at that first meeting.
“How does Out The Bullies even fit into the picture here without making Jude look like a hypocrite, Laila?” I was asking a sincere question. Jude had established early on that his high-profile internet privacy victory would be part of his platform. In fact, Jude was running on a platform that included—among other progressive points—a tough stance against cyber-bullying and legislation to protect its victims.
Laila leaned in hungrily. “Well that’s just it, Aby. They’ve finally gotten their app to market, and it’s doing incredibly well in beta. And it’s precisely on point with Jude’s platform.”
I felt nervous sweat drip down my armpits and down my sides.
“How so?”
“Out The Bullies has trademarked an app used to identify and “out” cyber-bullies through anonymous posts in which victims can choose to be identified only by their chosen “username.” The anonymous posts are voted up and down in the home page newsfeed (similar to Reddit), but unlike Reddit, users can pay to “boost” posts outing certain notorious bullies they want to make sure appear on the home page. Certain celebrities have come forward in the beta stage to “boost” posts detailing bullying by Hollywood insiders, raising the profile of both the app, and the bullies themselves. There’s money here. They want to spend it on ads supporting Jude and outing Innovative Media as the real bullies here.”
I rubbed my temples. I know about the beta app. I tried to keep my mouth closed tightly to keep from conceding this point to Laila. But one thing occurred to me as I heard Laila talk.
“Isn’t it a problem, Laila, that Out The Bullies is playing on the vulnerabilities of bullying victims? And trying to make a tremendous amount of money in the process?”
She shook her head. “You’re overthinking things.”
“I don’t know about this, Laila. It feels like we’re merely getting into bed with another bad guy if we let them support Jude’s campaign. If you ask me, it sounds like Out The Bullies is itself a controversial app that is as much a form of bullying as the traditional social media apps, including Innovative Media’s LessThan. Why would we align with them?”
“Oh, Aby. Sometimes the end truly does justify the means. Don’t you believe that Jude’s the good guy?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then we need to let them do this. We need to let them broadcast their ads outing Innovative Media as the real bullies in this campaign. Their support and money can make the difference between winning and losing if you can only convince Jude. They want to make sure we are on board with this before they run the ads. They want an appearance of a united front even though they can’t communicate with the candidate himself. That’s why I wanted to meet only with you today. Without Jude.”
Of course. Federal campaign finance laws were such that Out The Bullies could spend whatever they wanted. As long as it was clear they were working separately from the candidate himself. What they were offering to do was exactly what Innovative Media was doing for Kylie Rutter—helping the campaign through a super PAC that would buy ads and broadcast compelling messages in support of Jude and against Kylie Rutter. They could spend as much as they wanted. Jude couldn’t stop them. But it wouldn’t be worth it to them if Jude was going to come out and publicly denounce the company. He wasn’t technically allowed to green light their proposal, but that’s what they were looking for before agreeing to spend the money. Jude would have to be convinced.
But first Laila would have to finish convincing me. I was nervous that I’d somehow sullied the campaign with my own actions. Actions I wasn’t ready to reveal to Laila. Or anyone else for that matter.
“But why Jude? Why does Out The Bullies suddenly want to be on his team?”
“It’s not Jude, Aby. It’s strategic. They’re trying to raise the price of this campaign.”
“I don’t understand.”
Laila looked frustrated at the amount of explaining I required. “They know Jude has sworn to keep going after Innovative Media and Out The Bullies also knows that Innovative Media has a lot to lose if Jude is in any position of power, local or otherwise. Out The Bullies is hoping if they inject more money into this campaign, Innovative Media, and more specifically, their key investor, Dominic Treese, will keep spending. And the more money spent o
n the campaign, the less money they have for product development.”
My heart—and my conscience—sank.
“Oh no. Are you telling me, Out The Bullies doesn’t even care if Jude wins or not? They just want to trap Innovative Media into gambling even more money against him?”
“Bingo.”
I shook my head aggressively and confidently. I didn’t summon Out The Bullies with my carelessness. They were in this because of greed. “There’s got to be another way. We can’t play this game.”
Laila shook her head. “There’s not, Aby. It doesn’t matter whether or not Out The Bullies thinks Jude can win or not. I think he can. But only with their infusion of money. We’re out of choices at this point. And if Jude is going to win, he needs to green-light this.”
“Frankly, Laila, I’m sort of disappointed with your concession of defeat. We’re paying you a lot of money to find other ways than selling out.”
I sat up a little taller. I was pleasantly surprised to learn I could stand up to Laila. If pressed prior to that coffee meeting that day, I might have said I didn’t think I could do that. I reveled in the moment until Laila snapped me out of it with frank words.
“No, Aby. You don’t pay me a lot of money and you don’t pay me to find other ways. You pay me exactly what I deserve and you pay me to help Jude win. If that means thinking like the enemy, then by God, I’ll do it. The only way Jude is going to beat Innovative Media and that snake of an investor, Dominic Treese, is by green-lighting Out The Bullies to spend that super PAC money now.”
I felt slapped by Laila and sat back sharply in my seat. Laila seemed more interested in beating Innovative Media than Jude’s actual adversary—Kylie Rutter—in that moment. In fact, Kylie’s name had not been mentioned since I sat down at Pete’s Diner.
Laila seemed to realize her overstepping. “I’m sorry, Aby. I’m trying to be honest with you here.” She sat back deeply in the booth, and I thought I saw a flicker of unraveling in her eyes. Laila always seemed so confident, so measured. Seeing her waver on the edge of confidence and discovering my own surprising responses empowered me, even if—as I was a bit ashamed to realize—Laila’s wavering was in connection with the current viability of Jude’s campaign.
Why We Lie Page 13