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@TwitterGirl

President Turner in NYC today. Over/under on gaffes is four. Bet the mortgage on the over.

“Cassidy. All is not as it seems. You’re still a reporter. Start digging.”

The text did not list a sender. In fact, when I hit reply button I saw something I’d never seen before.

Sender unknown.

This of course had made for a very stressful plane ride home.

After my blood pressure calmed down, I considered the possibilities. The text was from someone in another campaign. It was from a former employee of the Senator who had an ax to grind. Those were the most likely.

Or the worst possibility, it was someone who knew the truth. What that truth might be was anyone’s guess.

But when journalism gets in your blood, it’s as addictive as any drug. Tell a reporter there might be a story, and the reporter will always check it out, no matter how lame the tip might seem. The thought of another reporter getting a scoop because you didn’t bother to do a little legwork drives everyone in the news business. It’s not fear of failure, but fear of getting beaten.

My brother Sam, who is also a digital whiz, said the text was obviously from what is known as a “burner phone” which is disposable and therefore untraceable. He also thinks it’s from someone in another campaign, but wants me to keep my eyes open. Gotta love my brother, he’s always trying to protect me.

Between that text and the quick end to my dinner with Becker’s deputy campaign manager, my reporter radar is up. I’m going to start quietly poking around.

Is Will Becker all that he seems?

Inquiring minds wanna know.

***

Meanwhile, after the “Will Becker is off the table rollercoaster” I went through last week thanks to a combination of my own suspicions and Frank’s practical joke, Ripley and I are officially kicking off our own campaign to turn the Senator’s head by ignoring him. My best friend had been disappointed after hearing that he was spoken for, but she perked up when I told her that he was not in a relationship with his niece. (Of course, had they been from Arkansas, an actual uncle–niece romance would not have raised an eyebrow.)

Anyway, Ripley is dressed to the nines (as far as office attire is concerned) as I lead her into the Manhattan campaign headquarters for her first day as a “volunteer.” She removes her coat with a flourish and this brings every male in the room to a screeching halt. Jaws drop and eyes widen as they lock on her like a heat-seeking missile. The women who had simply glared at me give her the death stare. She follows me toward Becker’s office, sashaying in a form-fitting red dress that shows off her bikini-perfect body even though it has a high neck, long sleeves and a knee-length hemline. Cut-out shoulders offer a little tease of perfectly toned skin while four-inch matching stilettos complete the package. Her outfit is sort of a combination between conservative and slutty, which only Ripley can pull off. I’m thinking I wasted my head start. She has taken ignoring a man to a new level, as no red-blooded male could possible feel indifferent looking at her in that outfit.

Becker’s office door is open and he’s on the phone as we arrive. “Yeah, I think we have more work to do in New Hamp…(long pause) shire…”

Said long pause was caused as he looked up and saw Ripley. She flashes a smile at him as his eyes bug out and jaw drops.

Yep, I’ve seen it before. He’s been hit by the DeAngelo thunderbolt, which renders men momentarily speechless and unable to function, like some sexual Star Trek phaser set on stun.

I hear a voice on the other end of the phone. “Will? Will, are you still there?”

“Huh? Oh yeah,” he says, as he turns his attention back to the phone call. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon as soon as I run this by the staff. Talk to you then. Bye.” He tries to hang up the phone but misses the cradle.

I turn to Ripley and roll my eyes. She bats her lashes and smiles.

Round one to my best friend, no contest. A knockout by a knockout. The judges are unanimous.

Becker hangs up, moves around his desk toward us and extends his hand toward Ripley. “You must be Cassidy’s advertising friend I’ve heard so much about.”

She shakes his hand as I handle introductions. “Senator, this is Ripley DeAngelo. Ripley, Senator Becker.”

“Great to meet you,” she says. “I really admire what you’re doing and hope I can contribute in a small way.”

“Hey, it’s great to have another person to brainstorm with our team,” he says, eyes locked on her as he still hasn’t let go of her hand. He places his other hand on top. “Should help to have someone who’s not in politics. Sometimes we’re too close the problem. I really appreciate you volunteering.”

“Well, my agency can spare me from time to time. Of course, you can do that if you own it.”

“I guess so.” He turns to me. “Oh, Cassidy, Tyler is waiting for you in the conference room. Wants to run some stuff by you this morning.”

“Sure.”

He turns back to Ripley and gives her that famous smile. “And I’ll give our newest volunteer a tour.”

They head out the door as I watch for a moment before I’m off to see Tyler. I have to admit, they look like a couple on the top of a wedding cake right off the bat. There’s some obvious sexual attraction there by the Senator.

Hey, she’s my best friend. I’m happy for her.

Yeah, let’s go with that.

***

“T.G., welcome home!” Tyler’s face lights up as I enter the conference room. “You kicked ass in Iowa.”

“Thank you, but it was the Senator who kicked ass in the debate.”

“Yeah, but you started closing the lid on Marvin Hensler’s coffin. A few more tweets like that and he’ll be dead and buried.”

“Hell, Tyler, he doesn’t have a shot anyway.”

“Yeah, but the best way to wake up his followers is to show that he’s stupid.”

“I think he does that on his own quite well.”

“But you help take it to another level. You’ve heard the term national joke?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“That’s what you’re doing to candidates like him. Some of the late night talk shows used your line. You should demand royalties.”

“Hey, a job in the White House would be payment enough. So what are you up to this morning?”

“Wanted to go over some homework for you.”

“Homework?”

Tyler reaches over to the next chair and grabs a bunch of manila folders stuffed with papers. “The staff has compiled all the stupid things the other candidates and the President have said over the years.” He plops them down in front of me.

“I would think it would fill an entire library.”

“Good point. Perhaps if Top Dog gets in office we can get a pork barrel project for that. National Museum of Idiocy. Anyway, familiarize yourself with this because you can make these little sound bites rear their ugly heads and nip the candidates in the ass.”

“Okay, it’s a lot of reading but it will be fun.”

He pulls a zip drive out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Here’s your travel version. I printed it out so you can make notes in case you’re old school.”

“Actually, I am when it comes to journalism. I may be Twitter Girl but I’m like Robert Redford in All the President’s Men when it comes to investigating a story.”

“I love that movie! That scene where he works the phones and writes stuff on the legal pad—”

“That’s me. And that’s the most accurate film you’ll ever see about how reporters actually work.”

He nods and pulls his laptop in front of him. “Now to something fun. Do you have any plans Sunday afternoon?”

“Well, like most New Yorkers I was gonna sit down and watch the Giants playoff game. Why, do you guys need me to come in?”

“No, not at all. So you like football?”

“I love football.”

“Great. I’ll put you on the ticket list.”

My eyes light up. “You guys actually have playoff tickets?”

“Top Dog is a season ticket holder and he likes to take the staff on outings. A team building sort of thing to get away from the campaign.”

“But I just started here. Surely some people who have been here awhile are entitled to them.”

“Most of our people aren’t from this area. Not a whole lot of Giant fans on staff so the ticket is yours. By the way, this isn’t a private box, so you’ll be sitting out in the cold.”

“Fine with me. After Iowa it will feel like the beach. You going?”

“Unfortunately I have to go to a wedding.”

“Who the hell gets married on a Sunday during playoff season?”

“Jets fans. They knew their team would be awful, as always. Anyway, I’m taping the game so don’t you dare call me and tell me how it went. Big Blue all the way.”

***

Sam rolls toward the dining room table on this Saturday night carrying a bunch of dishes like a seasoned waiter along with a bottle of wine in his lap. I lick my lips as he slides a plate of cajun seafood Alfredo in front of me. Ripley already has her fork and spoon at the ready as she adores his cooking. Sam leans over and starts carpet bombing her fettuccine with freshly grated parmesan, as he knows she’s a cheese fanatic. She digs in immediately, twirls a ball of pasta with a shrimp and pops it in her mouth. She closes her eyes as she savors it and licks her lips like a cat. “God, that’s better than sex. Sam, you’ll make someone a great wife.”

“Cute,” he says, as he moves to the head of the table. I’m older but he’s the man of the house, so he sits at the head. I like tradition that way. By the way, Sam has had a major crush on Ripley since he hit puberty and says he would die if she ever knew. Of course it’s so obvious the way he dotes on her that she figured it out long ago, but thankfully he doesn’t know she knows. (Even my brother the genius is a typical man in that when it comes to women he misses the obvious.) I’ve always wondered if there weren’t such an age difference if those two would make a good couple.

“So,” says Sam, grabbing the bottle opener, “how’s the political version of The Bachelor going? Has there been a rose ceremony yet?”

I cock my head at Ripley. “She’s out of the gate like Secretariat,” I say, just before I stuff my face with pasta.

Sam turns toward Ripley as he pops the cork on the wine and beings pouring her a glass. “Ah, do tell.”

“Nothing to tell,” says Ripley, too busy shoveling food in her mouth to bother looking up from her plate.

“Horseshit,” I say. “Becker nearly tripped over his tongue when he saw her in that red dress.”

“The one with the high neck and the cut-out shoulders?” asks Sam. I nod. “She looks great in that. Of course, she looks great in everything.”

Ripley looks up and smiles at him. “You’re sweet,” she says, talking through the pasta, though it comes out, “Yur sreet.”

I point my fork at her. “Becker gave her a personal tour of the office.”

“And that’s all it was,” said Ripley, coming up for air and a sip of wine.

“Oh, come on, I could tell you two had a connection.”

“Maybe so. But all he did was ask about you.”

My fork is suddenly suspended in mid-air inches from my mouth.

“And the plot thickens,” says Sam.

“Continue,” I say. “What did he ask?”

She puts her utensils down and dabs her lips with a napkin. “Let’s see… has Cassidy ever been married? Is she seeing anyone? What does she like to do for fun?”

“You serious?”

Ripley nods. “Yep. Anyway, I didn’t react in a jealous high school manner because I am keeping the pact.”

“You two have a pact?” asks Sam, putting down his utensils and resting his chin on his hands. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear the details of this.”

“We’re both supposed to ignore him,” says Ripley.

Sam furrows his brow. “I don’t understand. I thought this guy was the ultimate catch for you guys. Why would you both ignore him?”

“Men always want what they can’t have,” I say, reaching for a piece of hot Italian bread. “Dating 101.”

“Yeah, you have a point,” says Sam. “But you two aren’t exactly shrinking violets. What constitutes ignoring him? Grabbing his ass only once a day?”

“Hush, little brother.”

“I’d agree to that,” says Ripley, “if you wanna amend the pact.” She goes back to attacking her food. “I almost forgot. After I basically gave him a dossier on the care and feeding of Twitter Girl he did invite me to the football game this weekend.”

I drop my fork. “You’re going to the Giants game? You hate football.”

She shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Hell, Ripley,” says Sam, “you think a tight end is one of your requirements for a boyfriend.”

“That’s why I got this,” she says, as she leans down, reaches into her purse and pulls out a paperback titled NFL Football for Dummies. “I’ll be cramming tomorrow morning.”

I roll my eyes. “You can’t become a football fan in a day. Name one of the Giants.”

She searches the heavens for an answer, then looks at me and smiles. “Frank Gifford!”

“He retired in the sixties and he’s eighty years old! You only know him ’cause he’s married to Kathie Lee.”

“You said name one Giant and I named one. So there.”

“Name a current one.”

“I’ll know them all tomorrow.”

“Really. How much is a touchdown worth?”

“Uh… ten thousand dollars?”

Sam shakes his head and laughs. “Man, I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you talk football with Senator Becker.”

“I’ll record it on my cell,” I say. “I can sell it to ESPN for a fortune.”

***

The cold wind slaps us in the face as Ripley and I head down the concourse toward our seats. One look at her face tells me my best friend is not at all wild about dealing with the elements in pursuit of the ultimate catch. (Her idea of camping out is taking a nap on the sun porch in May.)

“Why couldn’t we have gone to a Broadway show?” she asks. “At least there’d be heat.”

“You can go home if you like, I’ll tell him you weren’t feeling well.”

“Hell no, dear friend. I’ll freeze my ass off for a shot at Becker’s.”

“Thought so. We’ll get you some hot chocolate when we get to our seats.”

“I think I’ll need a stronger antifreeze,” she says, pulling her suede coat tighter around her. “Couple of dirty martinis should warm me up.”

I stop and turn to face her. “Oh, would you like some paté to go with it?”

“Great idea—”

“You’re at a friggin’ football game in New Jersey! You can have a hot dog and a beer!”

She face tightens. “Really? There’s no place serving hot hors d’oeurves?”

I roll my eyes and continue toward our section, which is around the forty yard line. I pull the tickets out of my pocket and see we’re both in odd numbered seats. “Hey, we’re not sitting together. We’ve got seats nine and eleven.”

She shoves her hands in her pockets and adjusts her hat. “Let’s just get there.”

We turn into the tunnel and I hand my tickets to an usher who points to our row. We head down the steps and I see the seat between nine and eleven is occupied.

By the Senator.

I stop, grab Ripley’s arm and lean over to whisper in her ear. “Becker’s sitting between us.”

“Really? Hmmm, interesting. You think he planned it or that’s just the tickets we got?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

“Maybe he wants a three-way with the hottest members of his staff.”

“Yeah, that will get him elected.”

We head down the steps to our row. The Senator spots us as we arrive and stands up. “Hey, you made it. Hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle getting here.”

“Nah, no big deal,” I say, as I slide past him and grab seat number nine as Ripley plops down in number eleven. I turn to face Becker and take in his outfit. Jeans, Giants ski jacket, stocking cap, wire-rimmed glasses. “You dress down really well.”

“I can blend when I have to. If I sat in a private box people would bend my ear for three hours and I’d never get to watch the game.”

“I never would have recognized you,” says Ripley.

“By the way, we’ll have a limo to get you guys home.”

We’re interrupted by two new arrivals, Andrew and another hot guy I haven’t seen. Ripley hasn’t met either one, and when she looks at me I gather by her “tell” (according to my brother) that she’s not at all disappointed by the runner-ups.

The Senator introduces them. The new contestant in hot guy roulette is a political consultant named Vinnie Franco and looks as Italian as his name. Tall with black hair, deep-set dark brown eyes, a rugged face. One of those guys with a heavy beard who always looks like he has a five o’clock shadow. The jury’s out on the rest of him until I see what’s under the goose down parka. Vinnie grabs the seat next to Ripley while Andrew slides by and sits next to me.

This is one helluva hot guy sandwich for two gals from Staten Island.

Ripley no longer looks cold.

***

The Giants are up by ten as we get close to halftime. I don’t think Ripley’s watched one single play (not that I expected her to) as she’s bounced her conversation between Becker and Vinnie. She’s also managed to hide her lack of football knowledge by jumping up and cheering whenever everyone else does. I’ve been talking football with the Senator and Andrew as the game hits the two minute warning.

“Okay,” says Becker, eyes riveted on the field, “if they can just avoid a mistake in the last two minutes.” He’s obviously a true fan as he hasn’t mentioned politics once.

“Wow, the game is going fast,” says Ripley.

“Not too much passing in this wind,” says Vinnie. “Ground game eats up the clock.”

“True,” says Ripley. She looks at me and shrugs.

I give her an eye roll and she shoots back a Cheshire cat grin. She’s actually pulling it off. As we say in television news, if you can fake sincerity you’ve got it made.

“Oh, we’re going out to eat after the game,” says Becker. “A friend of mine has a restaurant with a private back room. Hope you girls like Italian.”

“Who doesn’t?” I say.

“Cassidy, you want a snack during halftime?” asks Andrew.

“Hey, I’m a growing girl. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Long as it’s something hot.”

The Giants are stuck deep in their own territory as the game resumes and decide to run out the clock for the first half with three straight runs. The gun sounds and the crowd cheers as they head into the locker room with a ten point lead.

And then Ripley blows her cover as she jumps up and yells, “Yay, they won!”

The guys start laughing and I’m biting my lip. “Ripley, it’s just halftime,” says Vinnie.

She sits down. “Oh, right. I knew that.”

But the men aren’t buying it.

“Ripley,” says Becker, turning to face her as he tries to hold back a grin. “Look at me.”

She turns to face him and smiles.

“Who are the Giants playing? And don’t look at the scoreboard.” He puts up his hand to block her view.

Her smile slowly fades. “They’re… obviously playing a team that isn’t worth a damn.”

“Who are they playing? Name the team.”

“Thuuhhhhhh… Red Sox?”

We all double over in laughter as her face turns red. “Sweetie, the Red Sox play baseball,” I say.

“Oh.”

“You’ve never watched a football game?” asks Becker.

She thrusts out her lower lip in a pout and extends her arms like she’s waiting to be handcuffed. “Guilty as charged.” (Of course, when she uses this bad little girl look it turns men into quivering globs of flesh.)

“Not a problem,” says Becker, now smiling at her, obviously charmed by this.

Another eye roll from me.

“Thought I’d try something new and get to know everyone a little better,” she says, doing some damage control. (The girl is in advertising, after all.)

“I think this might be a good time for a trip to the ladies room,” I say as I squeeze by Becker, grab Ripley’s hand and lead her up the stairs. When we’re out of earshot I stop and turn to face her. “I thought you were gonna read that book?”

“I did, but it was confusing. I mean, a fly pattern is in a Simplicity catalog, what’s it doing in football?”

“What’s even more bizarre is the guys think it’s so cute.”

“Part of my charm, as you like to say.”

***

Ten minutes later we return to our seats and find two of the guys have played musical chairs. Andrew and Vinnie have switched seats.

“Excuse me, Sir, may I see your ticket stub,” I say to Vinnie as I sit down.

“Hey, not fair for Andrew to hog you the whole game. Besides, he needed to get to know Ripley and I wanted to spend some time with you.” He locks those dark eyes with me and my heart flutters.

Day-umm.

I glance over at Ripley and she’s beaming. And after being her best friend for so long, I know what she’s thinking.

Can this get any better?

And after the game, it does.

***

We’re in good spirits after the Giants win, and need some real spirits because we’re all frozen. A limo is waiting outside the stadium, exhaust coming out of the tailpipe and a chauffeur standing by the door. He smiles and holds the door as Ripley and I quickly get inside. We take seats on opposite sides as the guys slide in next to us. Thankfully the thing is toasty warm with the heat blowing full blast and we both whip off our gloves and hold our hands next to the vents while I eye the fully stocked bar. Becker and Andrew are on my side with the Senator next to me while Vinnie grabs a seat next to Ripley.

“Little cramped on this side,” says Andrew, the only guy stuck not sitting next to a woman. He moves across the compartment and sits on the other side of Ripley, leaving her between two cute guys while I share my side with Becker, who starts taking drink orders. He leans over to play bartender as the limo pulls away. Ripley and I lock eyes for a moment, exchanging non-verbal best friend communication as we both do our best not to beam.

Three hot guys, two girls. Do the math.