Little White Lies (10 page)

Coretta: Nice tweet.

Karl: Thanks. Any reason we aren’t Gchatting?

Coretta: Any reason you didn’t run that tweet by me first?

Karl: OMG, sorry! I totally spaced! Hope it wasn’t a problem.

Coretta: Not a problem, just not the protocol we agreed upon.

Karl: You are correct. My bad. Won’t happen again.

Coretta: Thank you.

Karl: Is anything else bothering you?

Coretta: Nope.

Karl: Okay. you sure?

Coretta: Yep.

Karl: Okay. Now that we’re texting, I wanted to ask you: was that Mandela post based on something your parents said at breakfast?

Coretta: Gotta go, Karl.

I’m looking at myself in the mirror, and while I think I look like the same girl that started this school year, I feel different. Same hair, same eyes, same resting bitch face, but not the same, either. Today is not like any other day. Today is the day that I will be going to meet with the Skool twins at Pulse TV … gulp. It’s always been my dream to be able to miss school for something cool, something more legitimate than my precious education
.

And suddenly here I am
.

My parents not only are allowing me to miss school today, they actually insisted upon it. So if today is so special and such a big step in my life, why do I still feel like barfing into the sink? Nerves? Elation? The sinking feeling that I’m taking a royal crap on my friendship with Rachel? Whatever; I have things to do, and I will right this with Rachel in time. Maybe she can become my cohost or something. On second thought, national television might not be the best platform for her. But hey, I hear Ellen is a neurotic perfectionist, too, so who knows?

You know that feeling you get when you lie to someone about something, like they’re going to show up at any
moment? Well, I keep thinking Karl and/or Rachel are about to knock on my front door. Then I’d have to explain where I was going, and I’d start some stupid lie, and my parents would just blurt out the truth, and I’d be relieved and simultaneously mortified. Anyhoo …

I decided that to look the part, I needed to dress the part. Seeing as I was seventeen, I knew it wasn’t necessary to wear a suit to have the Skool twins take me seriously. But my usual uniform of skinny jeans, combat boots, and a slanky sweater just wasn’t going to cut it. I also didn’t want to look overeager, like this was a college admissions interview or something.

Initially I tried on the dress that I wore to my sophomore year homecoming dance. My father thought it projected a young woman of class and grace … aka it had a neckline that looked straight out of the Renaissance period. Much more appropriate for a TV development meeting than a dance. Turned out I was not the same
size
girl as sophomore year, because there was absolutely no way my boobs were fitting into that dress anymore. It felt like I was being strapped in to go to space.

Aha!
The dress that I wore to my cousin Derek’s graduation from Brown last spring. Perfect. It was green, which spoke to prosperity. (Which made it Karl’s favorite color for the same reason.
Hmm
. But at least it wasn’t money green.) It was tailored, so I’d look professional. It was above the knee, and at my age, all dresses should be above my knee. And most importantly, my chest didn’t look like a saran-wrapped deli sandwich.

Once I picked the dress, I took longer than usual to get ready, mostly to avoid talking to my parents. They were almost too excited about all of this. Don’t get me wrong; I
was excited myself. But parents’ excitement feels weird, like it’s going to jinx good things.

After that very strange dinner at Mike’s house, I’d come home and told my parents about
his
parents’ surreal proposition. It all came out in one big jumble, pretty much in one continuous breath. Mostly I remembered their faces glazing over with joy. I also remembered thinking,
You do understand that this is only happening because thousands of strangers are laughing at you and your breakfast-time foolishness. Or did you conveniently forget that?

Maybe they had, because they snapped right into takecharge mode. They called Esther and Douglas Cornelius to thank them, and the four decided on the phone right then and there to accompany me to meet Anders and Karin Skool at the Pulse TV headquarters. (Which was only appropriate, like my tailored dress.) Mike wasn’t able to get the day off from school, which was a bummer, but what can ya do?

All right, I’d restyled my hair about five times. Time to go out to the breakfast table. They were already waiting. My mother gave me a quick once-over. She had that same glazed look of joy once again. She just couldn’t help herself, of course.

“I seem to remember that dress,” she said, beaming. “It was for a certain graduation of a family member at a certain prestigious institution. I think that’s good luck, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were superstitious, Mom.” I was being slightly passive-aggressive. I do that when I’m nervous. Not my best quality.

“Well, I’m usually not, and I know you don’t need luck today. I think you look very put together. Fierce, if I say so.”

Why did she have to say “fierce”? Why did it bother
me? I know she was just being sweet and supportive, and if that’s my biggest complaint, I should probably just shut up. So I did.

My dad cleared his throat.

“Now, Coretta …” I could tell he was going into a speech here. “I want to let you know that we’re very excited to be a part of this venture with you. You’ve really grown into the woman we dreamed you to be, and then some.”

Oh God, he’s calling me a “woman” now. And if he only knew how much I’d let Rachel down, or that Karl even existed, he proooobably wouldn’t be saying this.

Well, he didn’t know. Only I knew the whole truth, and that was fine. It was fine. It was fine.

The more I say this to myself, the truer it becomes, right?

My father made his special pancakes for breakfast. My mother fixed her “special” bacon. She has mastered the art of crisping bacon—just for me. It’s the little things in life. My parents let me drink coffee that morning, too. Dress the part, drink the part. I was the young woman of their dreams.

We took the train from Brooklyn to Manhattan. As I sat there, smushed between them, I realized that I hadn’t taken the train into Manhattan with my parents in a while. I went with Rachel all the time. Well, not in recent months, but we used to go shopping, or just pretend we were twenty-three. Mike and I would go every few weeks, sometimes just to get a cookie from Levain Bakery. Using the word
cookie
is an understatement. If you haven’t had one, get your life right.

So while I was feeling more grown-up than ever, I was also transported back in time. The nostalgia made my throat tighten and my eyes sting.
Not good
. But the memories kept shoving their way in: going in to see the ballet or a musical, or
to gawk at the Christmas windows as a little girl. My parents might have been thinking the same thing, because they kept giving each other little smiles, and then smiling at me.

I smiled back. At least I wasn’t crying.

The Skools’ office was located in the heart of Times Square, generally a place I liked to avoid. Flashing lights, TV screens, and glass-plated TV studios were everywhere. My father (and his iPhone) navigated us through the masses of people (tourists with iPhones). A huge purple LED sign illuminated the outside of their headquarters:
PULSE TV
.

We walked into the lobby of the building where Esther and Douglas Cornelius were waiting for us, and so was … 
Mike
?

Yes, that was him, planted next to his parents smiling at me. For a crazy moment, I felt like I was walking down the aisle (minus the nightmare of being married at the end). He stood in a sleek gray suit with a plaid tie and brown wingtip shoes. Damn, the boy cleaned up well. Apparently he thought it was the day for surprises.

I was glad he was there, but I wasn’t looking for curveballs. I mean, the floor was made of marble, and I was wearing heels for the third time in my life. Baby steps.

We all checked in with the security guard, showed our IDs, and waited to be beckoned. As I tuned out my parents’ and the Corneliuses’ small talk, I no longer wanted to barf. In fact, I was feeling like I was right where I was supposed to be. The last time I’d felt this way was in the fifth grade, when I was spelling the final word for the Kings County spelling bee. I knew I was lucky to get
hypothalamus
, and I knew I was going to crush it. I did. (I also flubbed
episiotomy
at the state spelling bee, because I asked for a definition. Bad idea.)

Before I could dwell any more on past failures, a very tiny
twenty-something man in a suit and bow tie approached. His hair was so blond it almost looked white.

“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
.