Twitter Girl. Nic Tatano
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Will Becker would be the ultimate catch for Ripley.
And for me as well. (Okay, so I’ve been daydreaming about giving a TV tour of the White House a la Jackie Kennedy. So sue me.) But I’m not even remotely in her league in the looks department. I’ll have to bring my “A” game to a “B” (padded bra) to get the attention of the Senator around her.
For a brief moment I find myself flashing back to high school, with two girls fighting over the same guy. I quickly shove the thought away.
Until, right on cue, Sam thoughtfully brings it up. “I haven’t seen you two look like this since I was eight.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Ripley.
“Remember that crush you both had on the quarterback?”
Ripley blushes, my freckles light up. “Ancient history,” she says.
“Really, dear brother, we’ve grown up since then. The Senator is just another guy. It’s not like I’m practicing the signature Cassidy Becker on top of my homework.”
“Yeah, right. You both have tells when it comes to men.”
Ripley furrows her brow. “Tells? What are you talking about?”
“Rip, whenever you talk about a guy who interests you, your eyebrows do this little jump.” He turns to me. “And you start twirling your hair. Like you’re doing now.”
I immediately drop my hand. “It’s a nervous habit. I do it all the time.”
“Hell,” says Sam, “if Becker was here for dinner tonight, you’d end up with a perm.”
***
Wednesday has been poker night for a few years, and I’m always the lone filly at the table. Since this particular Wednesday falls two days after Christmas, the usual beer and chips have been replaced with wine and enough leftover cookies and cakes to send anyone into a sugar coma.
Anyway, Sam always sits across from me, and despite the fact that he’s my brother he turns into a gunslinger when we play cards and cuts me no slack. Two veteran fortysomething photographers from my (former) network, Kevin Frost and Jake Helper, take up two seats while the fifth chair belongs to fifty year old network correspondent and my mentor, Dale Carlin.
And while I don’t have a poker tell, everyone has picked up on the fact that I’m upbeat about my new mystery job.
“Pot’s right,” says Sam, as he starts to deal. “Five card stud.”
“I hate this game,” says Kevin, leaning back and stretching out his lean frame while he smooths his thinning brown hair.
“That’s because you never win,” says Sam. He flips a card in front of me and I gently pull up the corner and see a king of hearts.
Dale turns to me as he runs his hand through his thick salt and pepper hair. “So, you’re not even gonna tell your mentor about your new job?”
I shake my head. “I’m a vault. I’m not allowed to tell.”
“I can tell,” says Sam. “She got a gig as a celebrity greeter at Wal-Mart. She’s going to enforce a strict four tattoo minimum.”
I crinkle my nose at him. “Very funny, dear brother.”
Kevin turns to Jake. “You watch. She’s going to another network and gonna kick our asses every night.” They turn and both look at me, their eyes widening as they study my face for any possible confirmation.
I shake my head again as my second card arrives, another king. “You’re not getting anything from me. If you see me out on a story in January, you’ll know you’re right. If not, I’ll be somewhere else.”
“Wish you were coming with us this year,” says Jake, as the huge teddy bear of a man takes a bite out of a peanut butter cookie with a Hershey kiss in the middle.
“Fifty cents,” I say, as I toss two blue chips into the pot. (Real high stakes game, huh?) “Why, where are you guys going?”
“Eleven wonderful months on Air Hump One,” says Kevin.
Both of my eyebrows shoot up. “You guys got the President’s campaign?”
Both photogs nod while wearing a look of disgust. “I can hardly wait for next week,” says Jake. “My travel agent tells me Iowa’s lovely this time of year.”
“And there’s so much to see and do,” says Kevin. He elbows Jake in the ribs. “Look, Jake, another cornfield!”
Sam smiles as he adds to the pot. “They really call the President’s plane Air Hump One?”
Everyone laughs as I turn to my brother. “Sweetie, our Commander-in-Chief makes Clinton look like an altar boy.”
Dale tosses his cards into the center and folds. “Yeah, and thanks to your little tweet, I get to join them in lovely Dubuque next week.”
“It was gonna be my assignment?” I ask.
He nods as his face turns red. “Sorry, kid, that slipped out. I know how much you wanted to cover a presidential campaign.”
Sam shoots me a wide-eyed look like a parent that tells me not to react.
“Yeah,” I say. “But the job I have is still going to be very enjoyable.”
“Would have been fun to watch,” says Jake. “President comb-over has a thing for redheads and he’s a leg man. He woulda been all over you like a cheap suit.”
My face twists like a dishrag at the thought of being groped by a sixty year old fireplug. “Guys, please, the thought of doing Jabba the President will make me throw up on the cards.”
Then it hits me. I have three close friends who will be covering a President they can’t stand.
Three close friends who wouldn’t mind helping me out when they find out what I’m doing.
It will be better than bugging the Oval Office.
***
“So, are we gonna have any ground rules on our campaign to be the candidate’s permanent running mate?” asks Ripley, as she refills my glass of champagne.
“Ah, so we really are back in high school.” I glance at the living room clock and see it’s five minutes till the new year. (Yep, dateless again as the Times Square ball gets ready to drop.) “What do you mean, rules?”
“Well, we both want him, and neither of us is the type to share. That’s too creepy, even if the guy being shared is Will Becker.”