The Herd(12)

My mind hurtled after it like a drowning person spotting a hole in the ice: another brilliant fucking book to write instead. I bit my lip, sifting through the articles I’d written over the last few years. Tired-eyed Trump supporters who’d voted for Obama eight years earlier, hooking their hopes on the promise of change. Weary poll workers who’d tottered out of retirement to check in registered voters, less interested in the democratic process than the $9.50-per-hour paycheck. Ruddy-nosed men at local rallies, wearing misogynist T-shirts and spitting as they spoke: “You’re too pretty to be a part of the fake media. You’re actually fuckable.”

UGLY CUNTS on the beautiful pinstripe paper, my reporter spider sense tingling at the sight.

There are a lot of angry men in the world.

Hana had said it, just an hour ago. And just before that—

I said it without thinking, the idea booming out of me like a cannonball.

“Eleanor Walsh.”

Erin raised an eyebrow. “The Herd founder?”

“And beauty magnate. She’s fascinating, right? And incredibly private.”

She’s a huge deal. People are kind of obsessed with her. Hana had said that too.

Erin propped her elbows on her knees. “What about her?”

“I know her well. Since high school. I’m joining the Herd—I signed the paperwork today.” An exaggeration, but only a small, convenient one.

She cocked her head. “What are you saying?” Her eyes grew wide. “An authorized biography of Eleanor Walsh? Would she let you do that?”

“Maybe more of, like, an oral history of the Herd?” I tilted forward, buoyed by her interest. “I could talk to Eleanor and everyone else involved in its creation. People are enchanted by her. And it. There are forums online that strategize about getting in and make guesses about her personal life based on her Instagrams and stuff. And some people hate Eleanor and the Herd.” I balled my hands into fists. “There’s an online community called the Antiherd. And apparently angry dudes send her death threats and stuff. Oh, and today there was graffiti on the wall in one of the rooms that said ‘ugly cunts.’ No one knows who broke in to do it, or how. I could do a part memoir, part investigation, part unauthorized oral history starting with this weird hateful tagging on my very first day—I can try to figure out who did it and trace the Herd’s history back to its creation. It could be super of-the-minute.”

Erin was nodding, slowly at first, then with fervor. “I could sell that, Katie,” she announced. “I could sell the shit out of that. But are you sure you want it to be unauthorized? I mean, I’ll take juicy over sanitized and PR-friendly any day, but we also don’t want you to suddenly get, like, a cease-and-desist.”

“Good point. We should slow down.” Guilt plunged through me. The last thing I wanted was to piss off Eleanor…or Hana, or Mikki, or anyone, really. But the way Erin was looking at me, the excitement in her eyes—this was my shot, the escape route out of the mess I’d made. And I couldn’t ask Eleanor now, on my first damn day as a Herder. Er, applicant.

“Let me do some poking around,” I said. “I’ve only been there one day—I’ll do some observing and background reporting and I’ll start thinking about how to organize it.”

“I like the idea of looking into these threats against her,” Erin said. “Like, what happens when you’re so beloved by women that men hate you, maybe even want to kill you?”

I nodded, remembering with a harpoon of shame how Hana had described Eleanor’s calculated dismissal of her haters. She’d said the worst thing you can give an attention-seeker is attention, and here I was, about to throw a floodlight on the haters. Hana and Eleanor would come to understand, wouldn’t they? I was desperate. “She’s very buttoned-up, so I want to approach this carefully.” Teleanor—that’s the only side she showed the media. For this to work, I’d have to bust beneath the shiny veneer.

“Would it help to say there’s interest from a major publisher? Because I can call Faith tomorrow. Off the record, of course.”

“Maybe. As long as it’s totally, totally off the record.” Faith, the editor who’d offered on my book proposal, scared me. The idea of Erin enthusiastically steering her away from the reality-manipulation book (working title: Infopocalypse) eased my panic, even as this new guilt rushed in. “I’ll do some research and, when I have a better sense of what I want to do, I’ll talk to my sister. She does their PR and she’s best friends with Eleanor, so she’ll know how to handle it.” She’d know how to sell this to Eleanor as an opportunity, not an affront. She had to. Eleanor was kind and good and understanding.

This has to work.

“Perfect,” Erin said, sitting up. “Well, good thing I stalked you. I left you, like, three voicemails today, Katie.”

“Four,” I replied, rising to see her out.



* * *



—

Once she’d left I rummaged around for a notebook, determined to act before the obnoxious angel over my shoulder could whisper it aloud: This is a terrible idea.

Unmasking the Herd, we could call it. Or just Inside the Herd—that was better. Or Unmasking Eleanor? I found a pen and pressed a half-used notebook open, rifling for an empty page.