Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,15

account for probably a million of those views.

“Can we ask for it to be taken down?” I ask, my voice carrying more of a plea than I had anticipated.

“We tried that, remember?” Dwayne says. I don’t think his frown can deepen any further, but I’m mistaken.

He’s right. We did try that last time, with the first video, but by then there had been so many shares, so many mirror sites playing it, that even if we had been able to get it taken down, the damage was already done.

Whoever said that all publicity is good publicity never dropped an f-bomb on the midday news.

Dwayne stares at me, and I wonder if this is it. If this is the end of my career on Channel 4. I imagine myself with a box of my things being escorted out of the building by Davis, the muscly security guard with the nice smile, and Moriarty blasting “Another One Bites the Dust” as I leave.

If this were Moriarty, would the station have reacted the same way? Would people have even complained as much? She’s treated much differently than I—by the execs and the viewers—and I can’t help wondering if it has to with my mammoth size compared to her petite little devil-fairy one.

Dwayne sighs. “I just need to make sure—for the record—that this wasn’t your doing.”

I feel my eyes going wide, my jaw dropping. “What?”

“You wouldn’t be the first person to leak something for exposure.”

“No,” I say emphatically. “I would never.” I shake my head, hoping that if I jumble it around like a game of Boggle, it will shake out into words that will make sense of what he’s just implied.

“There have been some rumors that you were behind all of it.”

I feel sarcastic words hanging on my tongue wanting to spill out like a barrel down a waterfall. Is he insinuating that I somehow paid an intern to scare me in front of a bunch of children so badly that one of the most offensive words in the English language fell out of my mouth, making some of said children start to cry while their mothers covered their ears trying to undo the damage? And that I did this on purpose, knowing full well that the older demographic who watches the midday news would be super upset about it, and call for my immediate firing? Apologizing on air, admitting my shame to everyone watching wasn’t enough—no, I then decided that putting the clip on YouTube would be the best career move ever.

Instead, I say: “I promise you that I had nothing to do with any of it. I don’t know where any of those rumors are coming from.” Even as I say that, I’d be willing to bet all of my earthly possessions that Moriarty was behind it. Someday I will reach my limit and I’ll rip one of the extensions out of her stupid, smug head. It will be a straight-up girl fight with slapping and everything.

Dwayne stares at me. I stare back. It’s my second staring showdown today. But I need him to see in my eyes that I had nothing to do with this blooper reel. I will him to see it.

He lets his gaze drop. “Okay, then. We’ll just have to see what happens.”

I feel the tension drain out of my shoulders. I won’t be losing my job today. But tomorrow is a new day. Who knows what could happen.

I walk back to my desk, feeling like everyone’s watching me. They probably are. If Dwayne had to ask me if I’m the one who leaked the video, then I’m sure others are wondering the same thing.

Thank goodness my day is over. I can go work on furniture or go home, sit on my bed, and write my name with Henry’s last name . . . except I don’t know what his last name is. I didn’t want to give him mine since I don’t want him to Google me just yet. He never asked, and I had to bite my tongue anytime my mouth almost asked for his, since I was wanting to Google him myself. But you can’t ask somebody’s last name and not offer yours. I’m sure it’s considered rude. And worrisome.

Just as I get to my cubicle, the door to the audio booth—which is directly behind my desk—opens, and out walks Brady.

“Hey,” he says as he follows me.

I take a seat, and he leans up against the desk, one foot crossing over the other. Brady