Authors: Brianna Baker
Little White Lies (2 page)
And so here we were.
“You’re right; that was a long time ago, Karl. And now I’ve got a job for you.” Alex was back to all business.
I groaned, even though I’d been waiting for her to get to the point. “Another job? I got enough jobs already!”
“Oh, I know you do, believe me. You’re King Twit, Dark Lord of the Twitterverse.” Alex probably thought she was massaging my massive ego. “But this isn’t just another ghost-tweet gig.”
I sprang up on the big silver exercise ball that functioned as my office chair. “Now you’re talking.”
“I know you’re suffering from some form of Twitter exhaustion, Karl. I can see it in your tweets.”
I quickly turned defensive. “Have there been complaints?”
“No, Karl. No complaints from clients. Not lately.” Alex took on a reassuring tone. “But I know you’ve been wanting to get back into longer-form writing. And besides, Twitter is not exactly the future.”
“It’s a lot trickier to ghost an Instagram.”
“Not that there won’t be tweeting involved with this new gig,” Alex continued. “But if you play your cards right, you may be able to let the rest of your top twits go.”
“You mean, only work for this one client? You know I don’t do exclusives.”
“Well, I’m sure you would consider it if I could only tell you who’s footing the bill.” Alex switched into smug mode. “She’s richer than God.”
“Who is it?”
“Sorry, can’t tell you.”
“What does she do?”
“She owns her own network.”
Before I could utter,
“Oh,”
Alex cut me off.
“
Not
Oprah.”
“
Not
Oprah?” I was at a loss. “Who else could it be?”
“You know I can’t tell you, Karl. All I can say is,
not
Oprah.”
“Okaaaayyyy. So Noprah, that’s cool. Can’t tell me who the client is, not a problem. Richer than God? I’m in.”
“Great. Now we’ve just got to put you in touch with Coretta …”
Given who Noprah probably was, my mind only went to one place. “Coretta White?” I asked.
Alex laughed. “You’ve heard of her?” Now
she
was surprised.
“Of course I’ve heard of her.
Little White Lies
. That’s my shit!”
Coretta (September 9–10, 2013)
tumblr
.
LITTLE WHITE LIES
September 9, 2013
Little White Lie of the Day:
Dante de Blasio, the fifteen-year-old son of New York mayoral candidate Bill de Blasio, should “really shave that Afro down if he knows what is good for him and for his father’s campaign.”
Dear Friends, Countrymen, and Strangers,
Today I write from my dining room table. It is 7:15
A.M
. on a humid Monday morning in Brooklyn. Now you might ask yourself, why is it so damn humid in Brooklyn today? And why is a well-adjusted seventeen-year-old girl hastily blogging for the first time in her life?
While I can’t speak to the weather, though global warming is likely to blame, I’m writing this because I’ve been pushed to the brink this morning. Pushed to the brink of my sanity by the ones that brought me into this world.
While I do still hold to the notion that (most) parents (usually) know best, I do think there are (A LOT of) exceptions.
I can no longer idly sit by and consume the Little White Lies that my parents tell me each and every day.
I know they don’t mean any harm, just as Miley Cyrus doesn’t when she walks outside each and every day without pants. Nonetheless, the harm is still being done.
Today, while I squeezed frosting onto a nutritionally void, overcooked, yet somehow also half-frozen toaster strudel, a political ad featuring Dante de Blasio appeared on our kitchen TV.
Dante is the handsome, fifteen-year-old (biracial) son of the white (errr … Caucasian) New York mayoral candidate Bill de Blasio. In the ad, Dante sports a rather fierce Afro and speaks against the NYPD stop-and-frisk policy.
If you don’t know the ad, get with the program and YouTube it.
My father’s response? Dante “really should shave that Afro if he knows what is good for him and for his father’s campaign.”
My mother’s response? She agreed with him.
Their justification: a fifteen-year-old’s Afro provides a reason for the city of New York (Bloomberg and the Snooze Brigade) to defend the NYPD police officers’ right to profile (based on Afros, of course), and to “stop and frisk” anyone at any time for any reason. Including Afros.
I can’t. I just can’t.
I would like us all to take a moment and ask ourselves a very important question: Is this what Rosa Parks would have done? Would she have said, “Hey, you know what? You’re right; I think I
will
give up my seat on the bus after all. It makes sense because Montgomery did pass a city ordinance in 1900, a city I’m not even allowed to vote in, that said bus drivers can make me give up my seat to white (err … Caucasian) people.”
In case you’re Googling: 1.) No, she did not say that. 2.) You’re an idiot. 3.) Throw your computer out the window, because nothing can save you. 4.) I’m paraphrasing above, but yes, Montgomery (the state capital of Alabama) did pass such an ordinance in 1900.
It may be 2013, and I might have the right to sit in a pee-ridden MTA seat just like anybody else, but the issue remains the same. Dante’s Afro isn’t just a handy excuse to get fondled by the police. It’s a bus seat in Montgomery, Alabama. People need to see this white mayoral candidate in a commercial with his (dare I say) handsome African-American son.
WITH HIS AFRO.
They need to see that this young man is smart. He is aware that his father is a white politician, and he is also aware that when he is not with his father, he is just another young black man.
That
is what’s good for Dante’s father—and for his campaign. That is where progress and change are born. It is inspiring. In fact, it makes me want to have an Afro of my own.
Disclaimer: I would have to shave my head to grow a respectable Afro, because I would need to get the perm out of my hair first (African-American perm, not Julia Roberts perm). This isn’t something I can tackle my senior year of high school, but know that it’s now on my list
.
What are the takeaways from this early morning rant?
1. Eat something for breakfast that wasn’t created in a lab.
2. Loving your parents doesn’t mean they can’t be wrong.
3. Roll your eyes like no one is watching. But they always are.
4. Dante de Blasio, call me in five years.
5. And for God’s sake, make sure that your subway seat isn’t wet before you sit down.
It wasn’t even 8
A.M
., and I’d already commented on five Facebook statuses, eaten a garbage breakfast, and written my very first blog post. All while my parents sat at the table and stared at their iPads. Ah, modern technology, you’ve really let the family unit disconnect from each other. Something every teenager is supremely grateful for.
Keys, homework, gum, phone, laptop. According to Google Maps, I had six minutes to get to the train, which really meant I had five.
“Gotta go. See you guys tonight,” I mumbled, halfway to the door.
My father is not a fan of my “I’m a teen on the go” routine. He watched me fumble with my backpack, smirking. My parents, you see, don’t fumble with anything. They are clean-cut and put together. Everything that they do, they do with purpose. I knew Dad had already been up for two hours, worked out, ironed his new suit, and made breakfast, all while looking like a J.Crew model. Ahem, an old J.Crew model, of course.
“Coretta, do you have anything you’d like to say before you just march out of the house?” he asked.
“Umm … bye?”
“Very funny,” my mother chimed in. “When are you coming home? What do you have after school?”
“I have Spanish club from three to four, and I’m volunteering at SKOOLS 4 ALL from four to six. And yes, I’ll be riding the train with Rachel tonight, so don’t worry.”
Both my mother and father were aware that “volunteering at SKOOLS 4 ALL” was code for “hanging out with
my boyfriend Mike.” It’s not that we
weren’t
doing volunteer work or anything; it’s just that we were also doing a fair amount of making out basically anywhere we could. Either way, it was going on my college applications. (Not the making-out part.) Call it a draw.
“I really do have to go, though,” I said.
My mother really,
really
isn’t a fan of my “I’m a teen on the go” routine.
People always tell me I look like her, but I don’t think my eyebrows have the power of judgment that hers do. She’s not J.Crew striking. She could be pulled from a JCPenney catalogue: pretty, poised, and maybe milquetoast. This is misleading. Get my mother into a debate, and you will lose.
“You know, Coretta, you should wake up earlier if you need more time to get organized in the morning,” she said. She finally lifted her eyes from her iPad.
Right after she glared at me, she gazed at my dad, all gooey like they were my age. I could tell she thought he looked cute in his new suit. Gross.
And let’s all take into account that my mother has tried to get me to wake up earlier since I was in preschool. It’s not in the cards.
“I know, I know, I love you both dearly. I’ll be home at six thirty.”
I’m supposed to hate Mondays, but there is secretly a part of me that loves them. There, I said it. I love going back to school after a weekend away. I love
school
. I love succeeding. I love excelling. I love being in clubs. I love studying ruthlessly for an exam and showing up knowing I’m going to destroy it. Furthermore, I love being handed back said exam and looking at the “A+” scribbled in red pen next to my name.
I wouldn’t say I’m the smartest kid at Booker T. Washington High, not even close. But I can’t think of anyone who works harder. For that, I can thank Martin and Felicia White. They instilled in me the satisfaction that comes with earning success. They also taught me that the first thing one should do when one wakes up is brush one’s teeth. Like them, I don’t understand waiting until after you eat. It’s just gross.
I beelined to my locker as the first bell rang.
Waiting for me was my girl Rachel Bernstein in her usual uniform. By that I mean she looked like she was wearing an
actual school uniform
. Rachel had an inexplicable obsession with polos and khaki skirts, all terrible, no matter what the color or style. You’d think I would’ve given her hell about her clothing choices, but I’ve learned to choose my battles. I won the hair war. Three years ago, with some gentle persuasion from me, Rachel agreed that her Jew-fro could use a little taming. Unlike Dante de Blasio’s, that was a ’fro I could get up in arms about. It was definitely not good for her or her future.
Rachel and I have been friends since we were born, as much as babies can be friends. Her parents met my parents at a town hall meeting about stop signs during the Dinkins administration. They have our family over for Hanukkah celebrations, and we invite them over for Christmas. We had a Kwanzaa celebration one year, but we were all a little confused and decided to just not do that ever again.
Uniformed Rachel got right into it: “I thought you were going to be late or something, and I was going to just go to class, but then I thought that maybe you wouldn’t be late. Then I was going to text you, but then I thought I’d just wait.”
She has a tendency to ramble, especially on a Monday
morning. But she was chewing on one of her ringlets of hair. So she was nervous about
something
.
“Mondays, right?” I don’t know why I insist on saying contrived phrases in a semi-serious way.
“So … are you going to talk about this post, or what?”
“Post of …”
“Oh, come on, the
Little White Lies
Tumblr! I mean, you didn’t tell me you were starting a blog! Then I thought that maybe you were doing it for college applications.”
Wait, how did she know about
Little White Lies
? I’d
just
posted that.
I must have been frowning because she smiled. “Coretta, it’s really, really good. What made you write that?”
I shrugged. “My parents were getting on my nerves. I don’t know, it’s probably stupid.” Let’s be very clear, I did not think the
Little White Lies
post was stupid in any way. But I also didn’t really know what to say about it. I honestly didn’t think anyone would read it. I’d just needed to vent.
“Stupid? Are you kidding me? It’s amazing. It’s funny. And dare I say … poignant?”
Coming from anyone else, this would sound like bullshit. But Rachel has a tendency to
attempt
to soften blows. In eighth grade, I made a papier-mâché art project that went a bit off the rails: an ode to the underappreciated earthworm. It ended up looking like male genitalia. When I voiced my concerns to her, she said I was crazy. “Of course it looks like an earthworm!” Yet for some middle school idiots, I was Coretta Cock-Ring for the rest of the year.
I managed to smile back. “Well, thanks, girl.”
“Coretta, you already have five hundred followers on your Tumblr. I’ve been writing a fashion blog for two years, and I have thirty-seven.” (As you might imagine, her “fashion”
blog is a topic of conversation I prefer to avoid.) She pulled out her phone and started scrolling through the list. “Oh, and I sent it to Mike.”
Another trait of Rachel’s: she has a tendency to overshare, especially with things that aren’t hers to share. She is one of those wonderful people born without a filter. I think this is the main reason she’s never had a boyfriend. (Not that I’ve shared that with her. I
do
have a filter.)
As if on cue, my boyfriend turned the corner with his harem of cheerleaders and crew of jocks.
Here I must offer another contrived phrase in a semi-serious way: Mike Cornelius is tall, dark, and handsome. There’s no better way to put it. He’s the kind of guy who would be cast as a vampire in a teen movie. And as much as I’m against Barbie and the message she sends to young children, Mike would be the prototype for a Ken doll. A black Ken doll.