Nic Tatano - Twitter Girl

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.”

“True. Though I think any final decision would be his. Let’s put it this way. If I don’t get him, I hope you do.”

“Same here, dear friend. It just doesn’t need to be like that time during senior year.”

She’s right. We were a couple of immature teenagers throwing ourselves at the star quarterback, and the competition strained our friendship for a short time. Of course, he ended up with the girl known as the head cheerleader anyway. (She wasn’t even on the squad, so you can probably guess the origin of her nickname.) So the flaunting of our wares went for naught. By the way, I googled said quarterback after that Christmas Eve dinner, and he’s now a bald, fat used car salesman. Gotta love it when the universe evens things up.

“He’ll go for you anyway,” says Ripley, “I don’t stand a chance if you wear a short skirt with those legs up to your neck.”

“Oh, bullshit. Have you forgotten you put yourself through college as a bikini model?”

“That was years ago.”

“And I’ll bet they still fit.”

Ripley smiles and sticks her nose in the air. “Of course they do. But you’ve got that gorgeous red hair and those cute freckles that make you look like a little girl. And you haven’t gained an ounce since high school either. You’re still skinny.”

“I needed to gain a few ounces above the waist. Just once I’d like to say My eyes are up here . Men never talk to my boobs. They have a complete conversation with yours.”

“You may be thin but you got the perfect mile long legs, so don’t complain. You can’t have everything.”

“You have everything.”

She shrugs. “Don’t have Mister Right. So are we going to spend the rest of New Year’s Eve arguing about how beautiful we are?”

“Don’t think we have enough booze. Tell you what, how about we do the opposite of what we did back then?”

“What, ignore him?”

“Ripley, you know that men always want what they can’t have. That’s one thing we have learned since high school.”

“Very true. So therefore he would have to make the first move.”

“Exactly. And then there would be no hard feelings between us.”

Ripley slowly nods and extends her glass. “Very well. May the lucky girl win.”

I clink her glass as the ball starts to descend in Times Square. “Just hope it’s one of us.”

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl

Say bye to this hashtag, cause the bitch is back, joining Senator Becker’s campaign! #HIREtheRedheadBitch!

@TwitterGirl

About to meet my new boss, Senator (and next President) Will Becker…

“Welcome,” says Frank Delavan, extending his hand as I get up from the couch in the sparsely furnished lobby. “Great to have you on board.”

“Happy to be here,” I say, as I shake hands.

“Great timing, as we just opened this office. The Senator is very excited about meeting you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Mutual, hell. I’ll bet his heart isn’t hung up on his tonsils.

Frank leads me out of the lobby, down a hallway and through the campaign headquarters, a beehive of activity filled with mostly twentysomethings on phones dressed in jeans, probably volunteers. A few people are busy hanging political posters while a couple of teenagers are stuffing envelopes. I see several men in shirts and ties and a few women in expensive dresses moving about and figure them for the paid staff. Every one of the women gives me the once-over as I walk through the office.

Well, more than a once-over. More like a glare.

They see me as competition. They want the same guy I do.

Fine. Bring it.

For my first impression I’ve chosen a conservative long sleeved emerald green dress that matches my eyes with a hemline that hits just above the knee. My shoes take me up to six-three. I know a lot of tall women try to minimize their height, but hey, why should I pass up on great shoes just because I’m an amazon? Had my hair done this morning, so my red tangles bounce as I power walk, dusting my shoulders. I didn’t go overboard on the makeup as I don’t really have cheekbones to be accented anyway and I don’t like to cover up my freckles. Like Ripley says, they’re handy when I wanna play the little innocent girl card. (Okay, maybe not so innocent, but you get my drift. Add a pout to the freckles and it’s game over.)