Page 4 of The Better Sister

“No, it’s a client. It’s Gentry.”

I knew he was under pressure at the firm to bring in business, and that his biggest client, the Gentry Group, was an important part of the picture. “So... how late do you think you’ll be?”

“Maybe not at all, but they’re flying in from London, and I’m supposed to meet them at some conference room near JFK. I’m pretty much at their whim.”

“But you’ll definitely be there?”

“I just don’t know, babe. I’ll try, though. You know how proud I am of you, right?”

He kissed my hand, reached for the nightstand, and turned off the light. I listened to his slow, relaxed breaths as I rehearsed my speech in the dark.

2

All my life, I have been a creature of habit. In college, when other students scoured the catalog for afternoon classes to accommodate their idiosyncratic sleep schedules, I was the one who set the alarm for seven so I could hit the gym and the commons before a 9:00 a.m. lecture. I handled bills on the sixth of the month, did laundry on Saturdays, and grocery shopped on Sundays. Even now, I almost always ordered the same two things for lunch—Greek salad with salmon and roast beef on rye—from the deli beneath my office, and rarely ate out unless it was at one of my five regular restaurants, where I sit at my regular tables and order my regular meals. No chaos, no drama. Boring? To some people, sure. But I was convinced that routines and rituals were the key to both my happiness and my productivity, which—let’s face it—were interrelated.

No surprise, then, that I followed a routine when it came to my work, too. Rare was the day when I wasn’t at my desk by eight thirty.

But the day I would be honored by Press for the People was, in fact, a rare day. That night would be a celebration of a free press and the First Amendment more generally. Thrown at the Natural History Museum and less fashion-centric than theVogueparty at the Met, it was informally known as the Geek Gala. I knew that if I went into theEveoffices, staff would be popping in all day with congratulations—some out of sincerity, plenty out of sycophancy. Plus I’d have to leave early in any event to get ready, so I decided to work from home.

Now here’s the thing about people who swear by routines. When they decide to break from the usual, they go big. The Greek salad is replaced by a large pepperoni pizza. The skipped day at the gym becomes a month of couch-potatoing. And working a half day from home meant that I was still lying in bed in my PJs at one o’clock, my legs pinned beneath the comforter by a nineteen-pound purring machine named Panda.

But my laptop was on lap duty, and I was getting more work done than if I’d suited up for the office. I had edited one article about the implications of recent health-care policy changes on birth-control access, and had moved on to a feature we were running on a female candidate who had recently become the youngest person ever elected to Congress. She had rocked the political establishment by dethroning a senior member of the Republican Party’s leadership during the primaries. Her opponent was so certain of his continued tenure that he had refused to debate her and, in fact, never spoke her name until she knocked him out of the race with a double-digit lead at the polls. Perhaps most shockingly, she won a heavily Republican district with a platform that patched together centrist economic policies, inclusive social views, and a full-throated attack on the influence of corporate money on the electoral process. In the aftermath of her shocking win, pundits were calling for both parties to revise their allegiance to tribal partisan dogma. Even a skeptic like me found myself hopeful as I read the feature. Maybe the next generation would find a way to unite a divided country.

My warm fuzzies were quickly drenched when I clicked on the Dropbox link from the photographer we’d hired for the photo shoot. Where was the candidate who had worn her hair in a ponytail at the base of her neck? What had become of the jeans and brightly colored sweaters she’d donned for knocking doors? This, after all, was a woman who had gone viral by retweeting and mocking every single sexist insult she had received after showing up at a town fair meet-and-greet without makeup. And now she filled my screen in over-the-top glamour shots. More than a hundred of them, all the same. Oscar-ready hair, smoky eyes, and glossy lips. I didn’t even want to ask where the clothes had come from. I recognized one of the jackets from this year’s Prada collection.

I could already picture the calls for a boycott ofEve. Canceled subscriptions. Tweets bemoaning the demise of one of the last feminist magazines still in print. Someone funnier than I was would start a meme satirizing the front cover of the magazine.

Each shot was more nauseating than the last. I stifled a scream when I got to the photo of her dressed like a sexy librarian in thick glasses. What the hell was the photographer thinking, and why had a congresswoman agreed to participate?

I clicked out of the photo editor and drafted an email message to Maggie Hart, the writer who had been assigned to the profile.Hey Maggie. I’m reviewing the photos of Sienna Hartley. Did you attend the shoot? The looks are problematic, no? Please see if the photog has other shots we can use. Thx.-CAT

Chloe Anna Taylor. The staff at the magazine was so familiar with the initials that concluded my nonstop emails that they referred to me as “Cat” when I wasn’t around.

I knew I should walk away from the computer while I waited for a reply, but I couldn’t help myself. After forty years of nursing primarily good habits, I had managed to develop an extremely bad habit as of late. As I did almost every day—multiple times a day, usually—I clicked over to Safari and looked at my mentions on Twitter. Just one little @ typed before my user name, and total strangers could get my attention.

In theory, I’d started using the site to interact directly withEvereaders. In today’s climate, a print monthly can’t survive on paper content alone. Our digital marketing department now made up 30 percent of the staff, and every singleEveemployee was expected to build and maintain an online presence consistent with the magazine’s branding efforts.

I clicked on the heart image for all the supportive posts, indicating that I had read and liked them.Thank you @EveEIC. U helped me find courage to call out my boss last night. Scared the shit out of him! #Themtoo #Metoo

@EveEIC. Felt like one of the thems, but now I’m a me too. Went to HR last week. Harassing coworker fired today! Time’s up!Followed by three applause-hand emoticons.

I retweeted the post with my own comment:We’re changing the world with our stories! Keep it up. Power in numbers. #Themtoo #Eve

But for every five atta-girls came one of the trolls.

@EveEIC Your just mad cuz your old vag is 2 dried up for any man to want it.

Can you imagine being married to @EveEIC? What a man-hating cunt.

My favorites were the ones who tried to pretend as if they knew something about me personally.@EveEIC You act like you don’t need a man, but I bet you let that cuck of a husband treat you like a dog at home.

But mostly they liked to tell me I’d be less of a feminist if I were hotter. @EveEIC You could stand to lose a few. Quit your job and go running.

That one got a reply from another user:She’s a little thick, but, man, I’d hate-fuck the shit out of that.

Then another, and another, and another. I’d seen it before. Once the nasty comments hit a tipping point, the thread transformed into a contest of sorts: Who could be the very worst human in 140 characters?

I want @EveEIC to have a daughter so I can rape both of them.

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