No. I may be a ditz about proper social protocol, or how to sit across from your crush without offending him, but money was something that I was focused on and serious about. I knew what I was getting paid, I knew what I signed, and this… this wasn’t it. I looked back at the check, which was payable to Vidal Entertainment, and stood. Twisting to the mirror, I quickly grabbed a fresh cotton ball, dragged it through Vaseline, and cleaned up my other eye. I dressed in record time, tossed my items into my painfully expensive but necessary Birkin bag, then pushed sunglasses on, grabbed the check, and went to find the set coordinator.
As I stepped around the camera setup and over lighting rigs, I considered my options. By the time I found her, my decision had been made. I handed her back the envelope, with just the check inside, the contract now safe inside my bag.
“I realized this is payable to my manager,” I told her breezily, as if I hadn’t just discovered he was taking a gigantic slice off of the top, as if my heart wasn’t cracking inside of my chest. He was supposed to earn twenty percent of everything—twenty percent that I thought would be coming out of an eight thousand dollar paycheck. “Can you mail it to his office instead?”
“Oh.” She flushed. “Absolutely. I’m sorry about that.” She took the envelope from me and watched as I handed my access badge back to the guard. “It was so great working with you, Emma.”
On another day, without the drama, I would have preened under her praise. But I was distracted and hurt, the emotions mixing with an anger that would spend days growing and festering, as I waited for Vidal to produce my doctored royalty statement and a check from my Vitamin Water shoot for a measly $6,400.
He delivered that traitorous check five days later, walking in my house in powder blue capris and a tight white collared shirt and red bowtie. He plucked gold-rimmed sunglasses off the bridge of his nose and smiled at me as if we were best friends. I opened the check with jagged fingernails that had been eaten to the quick, my stomach twisting and yawning in pain as the anxiety grew.
The check slid out in slow motion, and I looked at the amount printed in Vidal’s neat script, then pushed it back in. I glanced back at him, and he was so tall I had to tilt my chin back to do it.
Then, though I have to depend on Dion and Edwin’s recollection, because—according to my statement to the police—I have no memory of this… I jerked my elbow back and then shot my fist forward, connecting with his left eye socket. I did it just the way my father taught me. Thumb tucked in, wrist straight, twist your body and put your weight into in.
If I could remember it—and I’m not saying I can—I’d say that it felt damn good.
EMMA BLANTON, ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT
Emma Blanton, internet personality, was arrested this morning on assault charges, filed by her former manager Vidal Franklin. According to the court documents provided to Page Six, the 24-year-old former hotel attendant has been charged with one count of assault and battery.
Franklin, a manager who specializes in internet personalities and social media influencers, began working with Emma Blanton fourteen months ago and credits himself for the dramatic rise in her popularity. Emma, who was once a hotel clerk with less than a thousand followers, now commands appearance fees of five thousand dollars and has over ten million followers. Her video “Why You Don’t Want to Date Cash Mitchell” was a YouTube hit, amassing almost eighty-million views. Emma has built a reputation for speaking her mind and apparently, she’s not afraid to back up those words with her fists.
Emma is refusing to comment on the assertions that she punched Vidal in the face.
In a video shared two days after the incident, Vidal shows off a black eye that he says was caused by Emma’s punch. In a tearful eight-minute-long monologue, he says that he “loved her like a daughter” and would never steal from her. He called her a deeply troubled, narcissistic child, and urged her to get counseling for her insecurities and anger management issues.
Emma has moved on to a new manager—former publicist Michelle Sawn, who is already courting production studios with a reality show about the fist-swinging social sensation. Bye, bye, Vidal. It looks like this fiery blonde didn’t need you after all.
32
#truecolors
I don’t know why I didn’t tell Vidal about the volunteering at the Outlier Ranch, but I was later glad I didn’t. When we split, he turned against me and shared every personal detail, including dead James Union, my lotto ticket win, and the brutal and embarrassing truth about Emma Ripplestine. He painted me as a white trash, pimple-covered, hockey-mouthed loser, and had the yearbook photos and pathetic social media accounts to prove it.
Michelle and I lawyered up, but I hadn’t signed a confidentiality agreement with Vidal—I hadn’t known I needed one. And unfortunately, everything he said was true. Every embarrassing word and photo of it.
My parents chose that moment to come out of the woodwork. My weekly calls with them had trickled down to monthly, then stopped altogether about six months after I won the lottery. As it turned out, I was the only one making those calls. When I stopped, they never continued. I changed my number after three months of silence, then convinced myself that that was the reason for the non-contact. Not because they didn’t care, but because they couldn’t reach me. I still checked my old email though and it remained clogged full of solicitors and void of any parental concern. Until, like I said—Vidal’s outlash of revenge.
Mom called the number on my website, which went to Michelle’s secretary, who passed on the message to me. I sat on the message for a week, then threw it away.
I had no good reason not to talk to my parents, except that everything in this new life glittered and they did not. Besides, family wasn’t everything. Wesley never acknowledged or spoke about his mom and dad—and seemed perfectly happy.
I don’t know what Vidal would have done with the knowledge that I was growing close to Wesley, but he would have destroyed it for me. Thankfully, by the time we parted, I was already thirteen million followers deep. And the scandal and the embarrassment… it only built my infamy.
By the time that summer was over, every Gen Zer with a pulse knew my name.
33
#thefamegame
CASH
My mother’s agent had always been a Russian battle-ax named Therma Villeck. I remember Therma dragging me by my ankle off the Beverly Hills set when I was seven, then threatening to lash me until I bled. I spent my adolescent terrified, then my teenage years in a sort of silent awe of her. It had been nine years since Mom starred in anything, yet the appearance of Therma’s name on my phone still caused me to snap to attention.
“I’ve got something for you, C-baby.”
My first thought was a movie, but Therma had always been TV, even back when TV was shit and snubbed by any star with options. Mom hadn’t had options, which was why she stuck with Beverly Hills for seventeen seasons. When you’re a raging alcoholic, you take the roles that will put up with your shit and ignore everything else.
“It’s just an eight-episode run at first, dahling—but I know you. You can convince them in that time to go big.” Her thick Russian accent was almost impossible to navigate.
I pressed the phone harder against my ear. “I’ll have to talk to Frank.”
“Screw Frank,” she barked out. “Frank doesn’t have big enough hands to hold my tits. Listen to Therma, baby. I wouldn’t have called you if this wasn’t something you need to do.”
"What network is it?" My mother taught me two things: how to make a perfect martini and the power of the network. It wasn't so much the project that mattered; it was the platform and time slot. That, more than the plotline or pacing, would determine its success.
“It’s cable,” she said flatly. “But it’s right up your audience. Your sponsors are going to love this exposure, Cash.”
She never called me Cash. My suspicions rose. I carried my plate into the kitchen and set it beside the sink. “What channel?”
; “MTV. It’s a reality show. Scripted, though.”
“No,” I said flatly.
“Cash.” It was a command, one that required absolute obedience. I took a french fry off my plate and waited to hear what she had to say. “You need to go and talk to them. Promise me you’ll at least do that.”
I tilted my head back and tried to imagine telling Frank about this. I didn’t need to hear his lectures on what reality tv could do to an acting career. I had seen the shit side of the industry myself. Hell, if anyone knew that, it was Therma. She had been in the passenger seat when True Hollywood Story had profiled Mom. We’d had crews follow us around for a week while they filmed every sordid bit of our lives—a peek behind the curtain that revealed exactly how far my mother had fallen from grace, or from the public’s perception of her grace.
"I've got it all set up for you," she forged forward. "All you have to do is show up and listen to them. And if Frank tells you any different, let me know, and I'll shove my favorite pair of Louboutins up his rear. He’s a manager, dear. Let the big girls handle this.”
I stayed silent, thinking that I would let Frank handle her. He had a way with Therma that I didn’t, and I had long suspected that they fought their battles in the bedroom.
Frank would kill this. A reality show? I may have sold my soul for Instagram followers, but I was on track to be an actor. Frank knew that, even if Therma couldn’t seem to understand it. Frank would get me out of it.
* * *
"We're looking at an entirely new concept in television." The producer had brilliant blue hair that bounced out from her head in tight ringlet curls. "Six super influencers. All together. The lives behind the camera, but on camera. You know everyone we're talking to, of course. You guys are the Rolling Stones of social media."
“All guys?” I did a quick calculation of the list.
“No. I’m referring to guys in the gender-neutral sense. It's actually three on three. I can't share the names yet, not until we have signed disclosures from everyone."
My interest in the project skittered a fine line between rabid and dead, with only one factor pushing the lever. “Is Emma Blanton on the list?”
She tilted her head at me, a coy smile playing over her dark ruby lips. “What an interesting question!”
I waited for an answer.
Finally, she shrugged. "I can't tell you that. But, let's say she was. How would you feel about that?"
There was no easy answer to that question, and none—absolutely none—that I would give to her, especially not with two cameras pointed at my face and a mic pinned to my lapel.
I gave her my best bored look and wished I was better at this. “I have no emotions when it comes to Emma.”
She gave an unconvinced laugh. “None?”
“None.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if she was on the show. Or…” she drawled, glancing at me. “Or if you and her dated on the show?”
I tried not to shudder, but the camera caught it. Later, they replayed that reaction over and over again. And each time they did, the ratings went higher.
* * *
“She’s in.” Trevor Phan’s announcement was made as he entered the kitchen. I used the edge of my fork to cut a wedge of pancake and watched as he pulled his sunglasses off the top of his head and tossed them on the counter. They skittered across the lime green surface and came to rest against the pepper grinder. "It's Emma, Marissa, Eileen, Johno, you, and that prick from YouTube." He paused. "You know who I'm talking about? The barbecue sauce guy.”
“Layton.”
“Yeah, that guy.” He pulled up a stool beside me. “It too late to get food?”
I nodded at Paul, who pulled the batter from the fridge and turned the gas burner back on. “So, six of us.”
“Yep. Three guys, three girls. It’s going to be fucking Caligula in there.” He pulled his messenger bag up to the counter and undid the top flap, then withdrew a page. “Here’s the schedule.”
I pulled a paper towel off the roll and wiped my mouth. I'd never been on a reality show before, scripted or non, but this schedule looked intense—sixteen-hour days for six weeks. I looked at Trevor. “Has Frank seen this?”
“Yeah. He wants you to call him.”
I fished my phone out of the pocket of my board shorts and dialed my manager’s number. Frank, as always, answered in the last possible moment before it went to voicemail and was mid-rant by the time the phone hit his ear.
"—And ringing me like it's 2002. You hear me? I'd put salami between my toes if it were paying like this."
“I didn’t catch any of that,” I said dryly.
“This baby is going to be gold for you. Let me ask you something. What’s your aversion to Reebok? Could you wear some sneakers for me? I’m just talking about during the show. You wouldn’t believe the deal I’m looking at for you. It’s right here in front of me. On my desk. Seven figures, Cash. Seven figures, though we got to get the producers to agree to eight seconds of screen time per episode. So put your feet up on shit. Tie the shoes. Maybe hold one in your hand while you talk to someone. I talk to people all the time when I’m putting on my shoes.”
“Have you seen the shooting schedule?”
He sighed. “YES, Cash. I have seen the shooting schedule. What? You don’t like it?”
“It’s non-stop. I can’t keep that pace up for six weeks.”
“Keep what up?” He squawked. “You’re lounging on yachts. Drinking and partying and slapping titties. I’d pluck my head bald to get this sort of schedule. It’s your normal life, plus cameras. Come on. You’re used to cameras.”
I flipped to the second page, which held a short breakdown of the episodes were. In the third one, Emma and I were supposed to secretly hook up. Fourth episode, come public with our relationship to the others.
I glanced at Trevor, who shrugged. Paul flipped a pancake. Frank forged on.
“Now, they want a segment at your mom's house. Full-on Beverly Hills. Bring out the servants, the butlers, all the snooty stuff. We’re going to play it off between your grandeur and Emma’s white trash upbringing. A has and has nots episode and—wait—because I know what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t.”
"I DO. And, I don't want you to worry about it. You're going to come out of this thing smelling like a rose. A gorgeous, manly rose. I swear it."
Right. Because that’s what I needed. More bullshit press. More attention. More followers. Years ago, I craved the approval and attention. Now, as my fame grew and my unhappiness lingered, I was beginning to understand it would never be enough—for them or me. It was like pouring water into a cup riddled with holes. “Have the other cast members signed off on this episode breakdown?”
There was, for Frank, a rare moment of silence.
“Frank?”
“Emma Blanton may be pulling out.”
They say that you don’t appreciate someone until you lose them. I was a self-aware guy. I knew that my emotions toward Emma were an interesting mix. I knew that a small part of me, no matter how much I disliked her, kept wanting to inch closer.
I told myself that she was like a fire-breathing dragon. You wanted to look, you just didn’t want it to turn its attention to you.
But right then, when I thought she was going to leave the show—I suddenly lost interest in being on it. And that told me something, something I didn’t necessarily like.
34
#dontbelieveeverything
EMMA: 22,149,036 FOLLOWERS
I was never going to pull out. Are you kidding me? I was emotionally lassoed to that show tighter than a baby to her pacifier. It was my entire world. My entire future.
But yeah, Michelle called them and told them I wanted out. We had an entire meeting where we examined the contract I'd already signed, and I huffed and puffed over the binding language, and threatened to sue them, and marched out loudly enough to make them believe it.
But no, I wasn’t going anywhere.
>
35
#newroommates
CASH
The producers had filled our roster with fake celebrities, all birthed after Kim and Paris proved it could be done. I was a trust fund baby with a famous parent.
Layton was a kid from Texas who made 219 video reviews of barbecue sauces before Tosh featured him, his brand blew up, and everyone subscribed to his channel.
Johno was a child star who fell in love with drugs, got arrested a handful of times, and was now a DJ who lived off performance fees and sponsored posts.
I couldn’t imagine carrying on a single conversation with either of them, much less sharing a house for six weeks. I stared up at a coffered ceiling and could hear the faint sound of Johno snoring from the next room.
For the dozenth time, I asked myself why I was doing this. For what, ten million more followers? Did it matter? How much more money would I get at eighty million versus seventy? And—did I even need the money?
No. As the interviewer painfully pointed out in the three hours of intake video, I was already rich. Born so and developed into a recurring cash machine—I’m certain the pun was intended. I’d die rich, assuming future divorces didn’t strip me of all of it.
Johno, on the other hand… I was pretty sure the three suitcases he brought in contained the bulk of his assets. He had probably taken on this show just to have somewhere to live.
Tomorrow, the three women would arrive. They’d spaced us out by a day so they weren’t filming six move-ins at once. Emma, Marissa, and Eileen.
The F List: Fame, Fortune, and Followers Page 8
