Authors: Brianna Baker
Little White Lies (7 page)
“At this point, no.” Alex accepted her fresh martini from our ancient waiter and took a long deliberate sip. “This is really meant as a temporary measure to get her through a rough period.”
“Temporary?” I ignored my own fresh cocktail. “I thought you said this could turn into something long-term and exclusive. And lucrative.”
“It could, Karl.” Alex set down her drink. “The blog isn’t going away. She’s going to need it to drive the popularity of the new show. Once she finishes her negotiations with Pulse TV, I’ll be able to renegotiate the terms of your contract.”
“And what are those terms?” I wondered.
Alex laughed. In that brief instant, in the way she forgot herself except to cover her mouth from spewing martini, I caught a glimpse of the girl I knew from college. But then she was gone.
“Since when does Karl Ristoff concern himself with the terms of his contracts? Aren’t you working on your next mixtape or something?” Alex ignored my reaction to her cheap shot and took another sip. “Don’t you worry about the money. That’ll start pouring in as soon as you complete your first blog post. But things are going to run a bit differently with this client. Rather than go through me, you will be dealing directly with Miss White. Like in your PowerPoint days. Remember those?”
“She’s Miss White now?”
“Coretta White. Whatever. She’s a kid, Karl.”
I recognized that tone. Alex called me a kid, too. She was calling me one right now. “Okay, that’s cool,” I said. But I was lying. Strange, but for the first time ever—really, the first time since Alex and I had begun our arrangement—I felt anxious about a new client. I’d never felt this way before, not with any of the countless big shots, celebrities, or power brokers I had impersonated in the past. They were part of an elite I envied and resented and knew deep down I’d never become, or even mingle with. But this was different. This was interfacing with and passing myself off as a seventeen-year-old girl. One I respected (i.e., not Selena Gomez).
Alex polished off her second martini. “Great. I’m setting up a phone call between the two of you for early next week.”
“Phone call? Why a phone call? Can’t we just email?”
“I need her to be comfortable with you, Karl,” Alex
explained. “This is a big deal for her. And I think it will help if she hears your voice.”
“Isn’t my writing enough?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you think I can adequately reassure her with the written word?” I asked flatly.
Alex rolled her eyes. “She wants to be sure that you’re not some forty-year-old wigger who failed as a rapper yet still insists on steeping himself in black culture.”
I dropped my fork on my plate. “Please do not use the W-word, Alex.” I wasn’t joking. “I hate that word. It’s patently offensive, and white people should not be allowed to use it any more than they should the N-word. And if Coretta uses—”
“It was my choice of words,” Alex interrupted with a sigh. “Coretta did not say ‘wigger.’ She probably wants to be sure you don’t think you have the ability to write ‘black’ just because you’ve been listening to Lil Wayne* for the past ten years and you know who Killer Mike* is.”
I glared at the woman I once thought I could love. There was no reason to remind her that I’d tweeted for Birdman*, and he’d practically raised Lil Wayne as his son; Alex was no doubt running through the same list in her mind, the list she’d helped facilitate.
“I think the real question is not whether I can write ‘black’ but whether or not I can write
Coretta White
,” I said.
“I have apprised her of your bona fides,” Alex answered, her voice back to the All-Business Boss Lady 2013 edition. “Now just take the call when she rings. And don’t put her on speakerphone.”
The following Tuesday afternoon, I sat at my communications table, bouncing gently on BSB. I anticipated the familiar
sounds of Pink Floyd, and the toothy grin of Tony Robbins to appear on trusty R$$P.
Our phone appointment was for 3
P.M
. sharp. At 3:04 the cash register chimed, and Tony’s face lit up—his smile reflecting mine, yet considerably brighter.
Props for Coretta: I love it when people are a few minutes late for appointments. I’ve always interpreted the promptness of others as a personal affront. That being said, I make it a point to always be on time myself—no offense intended. Once the bass line kicked in, I pressed the green bar. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Karl?” The voice was not young and fresh, or really anything close to what I’d been expecting. I detected a hint of weariness, a healthy dose of wariness. She sounded like Alex, minus about five years.
“Yes, is this Coretta?” I tried to convey the casual confidence likely endorsed by Tony Robbins. “I hope you don’t mind speakerphone. My ears don’t accommodate those little earbuds.”
“Okayyy.” Coretta drew out the second syllable. Then we got into it.
Note from Karl:
In order to present this initial phone meeting, I will dispense with the tedious he said/she said of traditional prose narrative and its attendant adverbs and adjectives. For the sake of abbreviation, K will stand for Karl, and C will signify Coretta
.
K:
Anyway, I prefer speakerphone. To tell you the truth, I live in this basement apartment—it’s not really a basement, it’s only, like, two steps down from street level. It’s actually really nice—but for whatever reason, I have the worst cell service. And I never liked talking on the phone to begin with.
C:
It’s okay. I don’t mind the speakerphone. And I can hear you fine.
K:
Is it cool if I call you Coretta? You can call me Karl if you want. Or if we’re texting or emailing, you can call me K. Or really you don’t have to call me anything at all. You’ll know you’re writing to me, and of course I’ll know it’s to me, and I’ll know it’s from you, so once we get this thing going, we really won’t have to call each other anything, okay?
C:
Okayyy.
K:
So, Coretta, it’s not often that I am put in direct contact with a client. But since that is our arrangement, I would like very much to take advantage of this rare opportunity to hear from you directly. What do you expect of me?
C:
[silence]
K:
Coretta?
C:
You don’t sound as black as I thought you would.
K:
You do realize I’m not black, don’t you? I mean, you knew that, right?
C:
Honestly, it didn’t really come up. I think I assumed you were white? But I still thought you might have, like, a blacker-sounding voice or something. Is that racist?
K:
Black people can’t be racist.
C:
Yes, they can.
K:
Let’s not get too deep into that shit just yet, all right? I mean, unless you want to.
C:
Okayyy.
K:
You do realize that I am also a man, don’t you?
C:
Yes.
K:
And how does that make you feel, Coretta?
C:
Excuse me?
K:
Um, that was sort of meant as a joke. I was trying to sound like a therapist. I doubt you’re in therapy. Yet. You seem well-adjusted. But I’m sure you’ve seen that stuff on TV, and I imagine half your friends are in therapy, or will be before you know it. Anyway, dumb joke, but I guess the question still stands: How
do
you feel about hiring a middle-aged white man to help you write your blog? And as long as we’re at it, here’s the follow-up question—
C:
Whoa, hold on.
K:
Sorry. I tend to ramble. On the phone. Which is why I hate it. Not in my work, of course.
C:
Do you
not
want this job, Karl?
K:
I just can’t help wondering why you think you need me. You appear to be doing just fine on your own. Winning, in fact. Better than just about anyone out there.
Little White Lies
is a thing of beauty. Your voice is pitch-perfect. Your followers are engaged and adoring. I mean, sure, I could help you out with a few organizational things—just some formatting shit, really. This is, like … Kanye territory for me. You’re someone special, Coretta. That sounded completely corny the way that came out, but it’s true. And by the way, I think your Kanye coverage has been as cogent and insightful and amusing as anything I’ve read about him on the web or in print anywhere.
C:
Well, thank you.
K:
Well, you’re welcome. Now don’t go Kanye Krazy on me! Stay grounded.
C:
Don’t worry. That’s what I’m trying to do.
K:
The question remains, Coretta. Whaddya need me for?
C:
I need help. I just can’t do this on my own anymore. This whole thing has gotten way too big, and I don’t see it getting any smaller. I’m still in high school. And I want to go to college. A really good college. Like Harvard or Stanford.
K:
Forget college.
C:
Excuse me?
K:
Forget about college for now. Don’t bother with the applications. Finish high school, yes. But at the rate you’re going, you’re not even going to need college. Ride this thing out, Coretta. See where it takes you. In one year’s time you won’t even need to fill out the applications. You can go to Harvard
and
Stanford. At the same time. Go all James Franco if you want.
C:
Wow, Karl. You sound
not at all
like my parents. Or like someone who actually went to Harvard.
K:
Well you can always defer for a year if you get in.
C:
Thank you. Now to answer your question. How do I feel about hiring a middle-aged white man to help me write my black girl blog? I feel weird about it.
K:
Me, too.
C:
More than weird. I feel deeply unsettled.
K:
Me, too. But the world isn’t as black and white as it used to be, is it? Look around. It’s pretty much full spectrum. Black and white still matters, of course—more than it ever should, though not as much as it used to. The best I can do is honor your voice. All that being said, I can totally understand if this is an issue for you. It would be strange if it wasn’t.
C:
It is an issue. Of course it’s an issue. It’s unethical, it’s scandalous, and I’m more than slightly uncomfortable about the level of secrecy surrounding our arrangement. But secrecy aside, there’s something about hiring you that feels safe in a way.
K:
That’s good. That’s a relief, actually.
C:
Because say I enlisted a young woman, especially a young black woman, to take on my voice, I would have to trust that she wouldn’t take
over
my voice, usurp my followers, highjack my identity … or worse, expose me as a fraud. Oh my God! Listen to me. I sound like Lady Macbeth. See what I mean? I’m, like, losing my mind.
K:
You are not losing your mind, Coretta. You are wise to be cautious and concerned. This is a big deal. So that brings me back to my first question. Let’s talk about what you want me to do for you.
C:
Well, for starters, thank you. It’s just good to be able to talk about all this stuff with someone.
K:
Someone besides Noprah?
C:
Huh?
K:
Never mind. We can discuss that later. You’re welcome. Now let’s put me to work on
Little White Lies
.
C:
Okay. Yes. First of all, if you have some ideas for better organization or formatting, I’d love to hear those.
And I’m sure I could use some tips on Twitter. Tweeting is definitely not my forte.
K:
Did you just use the word “forte”?
C:
And I can use ideas for my big posts, although I guess that hasn’t really been a problem so far. And well, you’re a ghostwriter, right? That’s what you do. You write for other people. So I guess I’d like you to do that. I mean, I would have to approve whatever you wrote before it went up on the blog.
K:
Exactly.
C:
And I would want to approve whatever you planned on writing before you wrote it.
K:
Okay.
C:
And of course I’ll have the option to edit or alter anything you write before posting it.
K:
Of course. Coretta,
Little White Lies
will always belong to you. It’s your creation, and you should have the final word on whatever goes in it. My sole purpose is to support you. Whatever I write for you will be written for
you
. And it’ll be your prerogative to alter, edit, change, delete, or obliterate anything I submit.
C:
Oh. Okay. Cool. Oh, hey, can I call you back in a second?
K:
Ha, okay. That was abrupt.
C:
My mom wants something. I’m a kid, as much as I try to forget. She needs me to take out the garbage. Okay, I’ll call you right back.
Coretta (December 3, 2013)
I was lying. My mom didn’t need me to take out the garbage; she wasn’t even home. I just got overwhelmed on the phone with Karl. I was talking to a real-life adult man about helping me with my blog.
Did I say white man? We wanna say it doesn’t matter, but like he said, we know it does.
I was also overwhelmed because I didn’t know whether to tell Karl about Pulse TV. I felt like if he knew about all that, it would make me more vulnerable to him. I’m not sure how, but it just would. He was a grown-up. He knew things that I didn’t. He seemed like a nice guy, but he was a ghostwriter, and that seemed weird in general, right?
Okay, it was decided: I wouldn’t tell him about Pulse TV. I mean, if I wasn’t telling Rachel Bernstein—the girl who’d hooked me up with Karl in the first place via her mysterious connection with AllYou™, the girl with whom I became blood sisters at age eleven (while using a dull-as-hell pocket knife to cut our palms)—I surely wasn’t telling Karl Whoever.