It’s not just another night in the newsroom. Instead of being in their own pods, at their workstations, the staffers of all the shows are gathered together, watching the enormous wall of TV screens. While normally they would be tuned to Fox, CNN, and MSNBC, keeping an eye on the competition, right then every one is tuned to INN.
Ty’s glowering. He’s just detailed an exclusive pay-to-play mixer between heads of corporations and the heads of Senate committees. “And no one wants to tell the story of how our government really operates, how it’s bought and paid for?” he bellows. “Every other network is too afraid that they’ll lose access, that if they alienate the politicians, they’ll get frozen out. So they tell stories the politicians want told; they’re distributing the government’s press releases like a bunch of lackeys. Not me.
“This is a story about access. It’s about way too much access. What it’s not about is partisanship. The elite on both sides of the aisle are having their legislation written for them by corporations while they line their own pockets and fill their reelection coffers. There were high-ranking Republicans and high-ranking Democrats in that room. They’re pigs wallowing in the same muck, and the media is turning a blind eye. Well, I’m not blind. Don’t you be either.”
The screen goes to commercial, and everyone explodes into applause and whoops. As the high fiving and hugging commence, everyone keeps saying, “Only in!,” and I think, Only in America? Then I get it: only INN. INN is the only news network that would do something like Ty just did. The pride borders on jingoistic, but it’s also contagious.
Someone grabs me around the waist, spinning me around into an embrace. It’s one of the male VJs, I can’t recall his name or even his show. I hug him back, happy to ride the wave right along with the rest of them. I’ve been so separate, off in boot camp with Albie, but he told me to read at my workstation tonight. He must have known this was coming and saw the potential for bonding (and for ferreting out more enemies.)
“Come out with us,” the VJ says into my ear.
Tired as I am, I can’t turn down this chance. If they get to know the real me, we can push past so much of the bullshit. The way you reduce bigotry is to increase personal connection. I need to be humanized. I notice, with relief, that Luke is absent.
There’s discussion about which bar, and then that archetypally nerdy producer of Ty’s (I think his name is Graham?) enters the fray with his own suggestion. A few people exchange furtive incredulous glances. Someone says, “In the middle of Times Square?,” and Graham nods assertively. Decision made.
Times Square makes sense geographically, since INN is less than ten blocks away, but it feels farther given the almost overwhelming crush of people, like trying to swim upstream. I’ve never experienced population density like this, have never been suffocated on a hot, humid night, floating in the swamp of humanity. I’m afraid to lose the caravan, afraid to drift away.
My fear escalates when I’m recognized, loudly. The New Yorkers tend to ignore me like Edwin said, especially since I generally dress down on my way to and from work, my hair scraped back in a bun, but the Times Square tourists are a different breed. They came here for sightings, and they want their selfies. They have questions. What’s it like to be an overnight sensation? They’re standing way too close, and maybe that’s because everything’s too close. The tall buildings and the neon and all those people . . . It’s a paradox, how such magnitude can feel so claustrophobic.
I think of the diary, and of Rebecca Schaeffer and Marla Hanson, and gunshots and razor blades. I think of what can happen when you say no to a stranger. So I just keep saying yes. I’ll take another picture, I’ll answer another question. When you’re surrounded, don’t anger anyone. They all seem friendly, fortunately. No insults or threats. It’s compliments, autographs, selfies, and small talk. It’s like being in the reception line for a wedding that’s not yours, only everyone mistakes you for the bride.
When I can finally extricate myself, I realize I’ve been left behind. I don’t even remember the name of the bar. This was my chance to break through with my coworkers, and I’ve blown it.
I’m standing dead still in the middle of the pavement as everyone flows around me. I’m praying no one else will recognize me or want anything from me. I’m about to grab a cab and go home when Graham returns to rescue me.
“Come on,” he says, his voice businesslike. He takes me by the arm a bit roughly, but I’m grateful nonetheless. I eke out a thank-you that he seems not to hear.
He picked a piano bar. Framed in the front window, a man is playing a show tune I can’t place while scads of the exuberantly drunk belt out the lyrics. Well, that makes sense. We’re on Broadway.
The INN staff has already commandeered the farthest booths. Spirits are flowing and spirits are high. They’re all shouting over one another. I pick up that some people knew a lot more than others about Ty’s report, but the word got around today (to everyone but me) that something big was brewing and they all needed to tune in. Now they’re trading war stories, times they were in the thick of a big get on an adrenaline rush better than sex. I’m aware of how little I have to contribute, but I’m here, and that’s a start.
Despite my successful debut, I’m as invisible as I was during all the pitch meetings. Maybe they don’t care about fame; they care about people who’ve earned their stripes. One broadcast just isn’t enough.
I belly up to the bar for a drink. After five lonely minutes, the two brunette VJs from Breaking It Down elbow in on either side of me. While they’re styled like twins with the same low ponytails and dark-rimmed glasses, pale skin and brown eyes, one is actually much prettier than the other. The prettier one reintroduces herself: “I’m Nan.”
“I’m Belinda.”
“I’m Cheyenne.”
They laugh. “Yeah, we know,” Belinda says. “We wanted to say we think you’re doing a great job. The way we acted in the pitch meeting, that was just sucking up to Rayna. It was nothing personal against you.”
“I know,” I say. “How could it be personal? We just met.” I decide to take a chance. “Does Rayna ever come out for drinks? I’d love to talk to her in a less formal setting.”
They exchange a look. Then Nan gives me a don’t-you-worry smile. “Just let some time pass. Rayna was a sorority girl once upon a time. She’s still got that hazing mentality.”
“Sorority.” That word was used in the letter accompanying the diary. But it’s hard to imagine that came from Nan. It sounds like it was written by someone much older, a feminist who’d been in the trenches, who was disappointed to see how little had changed with the passage of time.
Or maybe that’s what someone wants me to think.
“So I just need to show her I can handle whatever she throws at me? That I’m here to stay?” I ask.
“Something like that,” Belinda says.
Nan expertly grabs the bartender’s attention, procures three shots, and places one in front of me. We knock them back in unison.
“Your social media is boss,” Belinda says. “You do it yourself?”
I hesitate. I’m not sure whether it’s a secret or not that Edwin has enlisted a PR team. “This is all new to me,” I say. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“You and Edwin have been having private meetings, huh?”
I feel myself stiffen slightly. That was the rumor about Professor Trent and me too. “Not many,” I answer. It was true then, and it’s true now.
Nan and Belinda look less than 100 percent convinced.
“I know that I jumped the queue,” I say. “I don’t blame anyone for, you know, not exactly welcoming me with open arms.”
Nan laughs. “There’s no queue.”
“Good genes are as valid as hard work,” Belinda confirms. “You use what you’ve got.”
“And we’re all about open arms.” Nan laughs again and calls my attention to the other end of the bar, where a female VJ from The Media Is the Message is making out brazenly with a male VJ from Breaking It Down. “We sleep with the enemy.”
“We work hard, and we stay late, and we have to burn off a little steam,” Belinda says. “You go in the next day like nothing ever happened.”
“Are there any actual couples, or is it all hookups?”
Belinda shakes her head. “No couples.”
“My boyfriend’s back in Palo Alto.”
“Chase is hot,” Belinda says to Nan.
I’m surprised. “You know him?”
“No, I just saw his picture earlier tonight. There was a piece on one of the blogs about conflicts of interest in journalism, who’s dating who in the news media, and they put up a picture of you and Chase.”
I’m confused. “What kind of conflict of interest?”
“He works for that start-up Until, right?” Belinda says. “There are rumors about that place. On AstroTurf, but still.”
“What’s AstroTurf?”
They both laugh, like my naiveté is charming. I don’t appreciate the condescension, but it’s better than standing alone, so obviously outside the circle.
“AstroTurf, as in, fake grassroots,” Nan explains. “As in, all those websites that are made to look legitimate, to make it seem like there’s a groundswell of support for some idea or initiative, but they’re just shilling for the government, or corporations, or even those other news organizations that INN’s already overtaken in the ratings after a year on the air.”
“On AstroTurf, people are talking about my relationship with Chase?”
“Don’t even worry about it,” Belinda says. “I shouldn’t have said anything. There’s no point stressing about rumors.”
“Though there are plenty of options here for stress relief.” Nan glances around and smiles. “Everyone’s totally cool. And discreet.”
Belinda and Nan are so different than they seemed in the pitch meeting. There, they were sharp and intimidating, entirely on their game. Now they’ve become a couple of gossipy twenty-somethings.
“Chase and I are pretty serious,” I say. “I’m not going to need any stress relief.”
Nan and Belinda smile at each other, like, That’s what they all say. I like that look about as much as I like the two of them.
“You know who’s into you already?” Belinda says. “Graham.”
“You could have fooled me.” I look over to where Graham’s currently surrounded by people laughing at whatever witticism he’s just dished up. He’s clearly the alpha; his stereotypical geekiness is intentional, an emblem.
“He’s in line to be EP on Ty’s show,” Nan says.
“Also, he’s good in bed,” Belinda says. “Or out of bed. In the bathroom or the closet, wherever.”
“He’s got plenty of women to vouch for him.” Nan laughs, and Belinda joins in.
Can Graham really be INN’s resident lothario? Or is this part of Rayna’s hazing, a practical joke being played so I’ll hit on him?
I’m glad when other staffers come over to join our trio. There are more shots. I feel looser and freer. The topic is no longer news, and I’m talking to whoever’s closest, animatedly. There’s some flirting but nothing more. I’ll call Chase for my stress relief later, after I get home.
Then Graham’s there, grinding into me from behind, his voice in my ear. “Come with me.”
I don’t feel like I can resist, or even ask questions. He’s that authoritative, and I’m that drunk.
Outside, we’re barraged by people, noise, and neon, even at this hour, whatever hour it is. I’ve lost track. Graham points, and I follow his finger.
“Holy . . . ,” I say, the next word dying on my lips.
I’m on the Jumbotron, larger than life. I’d felt silly at first when Edwin told me about the assignment, and even more so when a film crew was following me around the streets of Manhattan. There were multiple costume changes, with corresponding hair and makeup tweaks, but the footage they wound up using came right at the end, when I spun around in my trademark scuba dress, a cardigan thrown casually over my shoulder. The confident turn, that smile . . . I barely recognize that girl. No, that woman. That go-getter.
Writ large across the Jumbotron screen: The next face of news, Cheyenne Florian.
This is really happening. I’m fast approaching a million Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter followers. In the days since my debut, with INN refusing to leak where I’ll be next, the ratings for all the shows have had a boost overall, but most important, among the desired advertising demographic of eighteen- to thirty-five-year-olds. Meaning, people are watching for me.
I’m the next face of news, and the current face of Times Square.
As if from far away, I hear Graham saying that it’s going to run every hour, and that it’ll be all over TV and social media. It’s going to be a blitz. Edwin has gotten his millennials, and he intends to keep them.
People are pointing to me and pointing up. Then I’m signing autographs, taking pictures, and listening to congratulations, and unlike earlier, I’m reveling. I’ve arrived.
Graham stays nearby, like a bodyguard, which is funny because he couldn’t be less physically imposing. But he seems proprietary, and I’m sure that Edwin engineered this moment. It must be why Graham insisted on a Times Square bar.
Nan and Belinda were telling the truth. Graham is a power player.
But then, so am I.