Nic Tatano - Twitter Girl

“It might if I had one. My boyfriend left skid marks last night. Apparently an attorney cannot have a girlfriend who has attained national redhead bitch status.”

“My, how supportive.”

“He shoulda just broken up with me on Twitter. I’m thinking of writing a book. Dumping your significant other in 140 characters or less .”

“Was this a serious relationship?”

“I thought it was. You would think a lawyer would have a set of brass ones and stand up for his girl. But I got even. The coward forgot he’d left a whole bunch of legal documents at my house for some cases he was working on. It made wonderful kindling for the Yule log.”

“I’d better not get on your bad side. Sounds like you’re not exactly broken up over it.”

“Hey, better I find out now than when I’m walking down the aisle. Sam had warned me about him and turned out to be right again. Anyway, that catch of yours is no problem. I am unattached and not ready for another relationship, even if it was Will Becker.” (Yes, my fingers are crossed behind my back. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I lied through my teeth while thinking about having sex with my new boss.)

He nods and smiles.

C’mon, we’ve gotten all the details out of the way. Get to the good part. How much?

“You seriously want to pay me just to be sarcastic? Travel with the campaign and play on Twitter? That’s all?”

He nods. “That’s all. And we’re prepared to pay you fifty percent more than you were making at the network.” He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out an envelope and slides it across the table.

I open it, take out a small sheet of paper and my eyes bug out at the figure, which is exactly fifty percent more than I was making. “How the hell did you know what my salary was?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Really, Cassidy? I do work in politics. Your tax dollars at work. By the way, your return shows you’re very generous with your charitable dollars.”

“Right, I forgot Big Brother knows all.” I pick up the ketchup bottle and look underneath it.

“Problem?”

“Just checking to make sure the condiments aren’t bugged.” I look at the slip of paper again, knowing this is the only lifeline I’m about to be thrown and someone actually wants to pay me a ton of money to be, well, my snarky self online. I can work for Will Becker. I agree on some of his issues and don’t on others, but I wouldn’t have a problem if he were President. I like him better than the current reptilian occupant of the White House. And, of course, there’s that little thing about him eventually needing a First Lady and perhaps he might like a skinny, spunky redhead for that position. “Okay.”

“That mean you’ll do it?”

“Yep. But I don’t want to be VP of Snark. I want to be the CEO.”

“Done.” We shake and I pull out my cell.

“Calling your brother with the news?”

“Not yet. Right now Twitter Girl’s gotta dish out some payback.” I quickly tap the keys on my phone.

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl The bitch is back. Stay tuned.

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl

Returning to work in January! Details coming up!

@TwitterGirl

Eating lobster, shrimp, scallops, calamari, crab, sole and crawfish. Merry Christmas Eve!

“Can I be your intern?”

I knew the question was coming.

“It can be my Christmas gift. You don’t even have to wrap it.”

“That’s because you simply want to un wrap it,” I say.

“Hey, ‘tis the season.”

My best friend Ripley DeAngelo is drooling at the dinner table, and it’s not over the massive amount of seafood available at her family’s traditional Christmas Eve dinner.

She wants a shot at my new boss and the possibility of becoming the next First Lady.

Honey, take a number.

“Haven’t even met the guy yet, but I’ll see what I can do,” I say, as I reach toward the middle of the table and ladle another round of shrimp scampi onto my plate. “Boy, I really love this Italian tradition, Feast of the Seven Fishes.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she says, her caramel eyes narrowing as they fill with lust. “All I want for Christmas is a chance at Will Becker. I’ll work nights, weekends.” She licks her lips and raises both eyebrows. “Overnights.”

Her mother gently slaps her on the shoulder. “Young lady! It’s Christmas Eve!” she says, busy clearing one empty dish and replacing it with another.

“Ma, I’m entitled to a Christmas list. Besides, I’ve been nice all year. I wanna be naughty for a change.”

Ripley’s mom rolls her eyes while her dad laughs. I really want to get back to stuffing my face with crustaceans, so I need to keep her at bay. I fold my arms like Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeannie and snap my head down. “Poof, you’re an intern!”

She shoves her hair behind her ears and smiles. “Thank you, dear friend.”

And dear friend she is since high school. The girl with the booze and food heritage (half Irish, half Italian, one hundred percent Catholic) is named after Sigourney Weaver’s kick-ass heroine and seriously has the balls to take on acid-bleeding aliens. And with her looks she might actually turn Will Becker’s head. A five-nine stunner with chestnut tangles just past her shoulders, classic high cheekbones and a slender, stacked Barbie doll body that would put a twenty year old to shame, she’s a girl who could have her pick of the litter. But Ripley is so damn particular, she remains, like me, unmarried at thirty-five. She spends more Saturday nights with me or a bottle of wine (or frequently, both) than out on a date, and I can tell it’s getting to her.

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.