Transit Girl. Jamie Shupak

reach for my bag on the floor.

      “Now go get that post taken down and then go home and get some sleep. You look worse than that train wreck this morning at Penn Station.”

      I keep my head down as I head for the door. “And eat something,” Joe calls after me. “Are you losing weight? I don’t want the viewers writing in about how you need to eat a cheeseburger.”

      A cheeseburger. What I wouldn’t give to be able to keep down a cheeseburger right now. My fiancé cheated on me with his assistant, whom he’s apparently in love with, I’m moving out of the apartment we’ve shared for almost five years now, and they’re worried about me eating a fucking cheeseburger? They’re worried what Banter is saying about me? One more peep and I’m fired? All I want to do is crawl under the covers and wallow in my hungover pity, but there’s no time for that now. For the first time in three days, I have a plan that I am in total control of: Get that video taken down. If there is one thing in this world I can do, it’s sweet-talk a guy into getting him to do what I want. When I would convince Adam and Richard to play the game I wanted in the backyard growing up, my Mom would always say, “You’ve got those boys around your finger, G.”

      Mom—shoot! I take out my iPhone as soon as I get out of the building and have full service again. I slip my sunglasses on and breathe in the fresh air. The traffic on Ninth Avenue is deafening—car horns, people shouting at one another for taxis, delivery trucks thumping over potholes, and bikers screaming at pedestrians clogging the lane dedicated to them. The home screen on my phone is no less chaotic, alerting me to forty-seven emails, five missed calls, twelve text messages, and fifty Twitter mentions. I have to get this post taken down.

      I pull up the Banter post on my phone. I need the byline so I know who to contact, but as soon as the page loads, the video starts playing. That song. That fucking song. JR’s favorite jam—everyone’s favorite jam—is emanating out of my phone like I’m holding a freakin’ personal Robin Thicke concert on Ninth Avenue.

      “I know you want it/You’re a good girl/Can’t let it get past me/You’re far from plastic/Talk about getting blasted/I hate these blurred lines …”

      So do I right now, Robin. Scroll up, scroll up, scroll up. My sweaty fingers are leaving greasy claw marks on the screen. I get to the top of the post and there I am, in that old T-shirt I left the apartment in. My hair looks as sweaty as it does when I leave spin class, tied up in a high, tight side ponytail. There’s a close-up, and for a second I forget what I’m looking at and think about how cute I look singing along, arms waving high above my head.

      “I know you want it/You’re a good girl/The way you grab me/Must wanna get nasty/Go ahead, get at me …”

      I hit pause as my shirt goes flying. I know what I look like in my neon pink bra. How do I pause this fucking thing? I need the byline. Who wrote this post? I’m scrolling, scrolling, and bingo! Ben Abrams. Ben sounds like such a nice name. Too bad he’s a total dick. I scroll further down the page. Does this dick have an email? Yep. Click here to email [email protected]. Tips! I can’t with the sliminess. I have a better idea though, a more direct way to get to him.

      I open Twitter, search his name, and there he is: @BanteringBen. Bio: Let’s Banter. What a creep. But he has 104,645 followers—almost triple what I have. And of course he’s following me, I should have known. I write myself a mental note: Pay more attention to who follows you on Twitter. I follow him back so I can message him privately. Now, what to say in 140 characters or less?

      Hi Ben, it’s Guiliana. No, that’s not going to work. My name takes up too many characters and he already knows who’s messaging him. Hi Ben, Eric and I are huge fans. We read your posts regularly. Random Q: are you in the office today?

      Perfect, 35 characters to spare. I hold my finger over the send button, knowing very well the future of my career might hang in the balance of this message. I reread it three times. Okay, send in three … two … one. I look down Ninth Avenue towards home. My old home, with JR and Zelda and all our stuff, is just a few blocks away. And my temporary home with Gemma and all her stuff is just a few blocks west of there.

      I turn east.

      I need to find a new home. I need a new apartment with all new stuff. But first I need to call Jason back and tell him about the ultimatum and see if he can pacify Maryann, Joe, and Sarah until I talk to someone at Banter. As I’m about to tap on his name to dial his office, a new message appears.

      One new message from Twitter.

      Direct message from: @BanteringBen: GUILIANA, HI. GLAD YOU AND ERIC ENJOY THE SITE. HE AND I GO WAY BACK. AND YEAH, WILL BE IN THE OFFICE ANOTHER HOUR OR SO. EVERYTHING OK?

      Hallelujah, he responded! And so quickly. Too bad he’s such a dick, he sounds kind of nice, and he didn’t even bring up the video. But man, am I going to use that video to my advantage. He thinks I have sex appeal—just wait until I show him real sex appeal. I’ll do whatever it takes to get my job security back. I toggle back into Google and type “Banter office, NYC” into the search bar. I throw my arm in the air to hail the next cab coming down Ninth Avenue and jump in. “Elizabeth and Prince, please. As fast as you can!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

      I click the bright orange button next to the door that says OPEN and it does just that, sliding to the left like something out of Back to the Future, revealing a space as bright as an operating room. I might just need the Ray-Ban sunglasses that are holding my hair back like a headband to do their actual job and shield my sensitive, hungover eyes from all this light.

      “Yes?”

      The young hipster girl behind the receptionist desk blows her wispy, side-swept bangs out of her eyes and watches me take in the vast newsroom. She reminds me of Courtney—they both have those long, ridiculous bangs. Gross. Behind her are floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides of the room. The remaining wall is covered with giant, flashy flat-screen monitors, all tuned to various news outlets. CNN, ABC, NBC. I see the faces of my competitors. But what’s on that one in the middle? I squint to try and decipher the cascade of text, scrolling down the main monitor. Oh. My. God. It’s the Twitter feed of every newscaster in New York City. It’s like TMZ, but the stars are people like … me. Are they freakin’ serious? I think as I take it all in.

      Just past reception, there’s a central pod of desks that looks more like a trading floor than a blog office. Occupying the pod are several pairs of black-rimmed glasses buried into Mac keyboards, all typing furiously. Above them, screens monitor Banter’s top stories. I’d heard about this—Maryann brought it up at a meeting a couple months ago. That as a post gets more clicks, it moves to the top of the list. It was a way to make their writers more competitive, she told us, like the endless favorites they get on their tweets aren’t enough motivation.

      “Um, excuse me. Can I help you?”

      I realize I haven’t said anything to Courtney’s clone yet. Actually, I’m not sure what to say—I’d planned on practicing something in the cab ride over here, but I’d been too busy replying to texts and emails to even make a real plan. Now, under the bright lights, storming into Banter’s office and wielding demands didn’t seem like the best idea. I scan the room, hoping something will come to me quickly. A group of guys is in the far corner of the room, surrounding something that I can’t quite make out from here. Oh, but wait.

      “Is that a Ping-Pong table?”

      “Yes.” Fake Courtney looks annoyed. “Excuse me, who are you here to see?”

      I am about to say Bantering Ben, but I realize that’s not his real name. I fumble with my phone to find what is.

      “I … one sec.” I flash her a smile and she blows her bangs