I hung up the phone with the promise to call her the following evening and give her the scoop.
Even though it was 2 A.M. Memphis time I wasn’t the least bit tired. Adrenaline had gotten the best of me, revving up my body to the point where sleep seemed unattainable. I settled into bed and flicked on the TV, channel surfing until I’d located a station showing The Breakfast Club. The film was halfway over, but I’d seen it enough times that it didn’t matter.
By the time I finally dozed off, the sun was already on the horizon. Still, when the alarm clock sounded at 7 A.M. the next morning I sprang out of bed with so much energy you’d think I’d had a full night’s rest. It’s amazing how little sleep you can get by on in a crunch.
***
“So how do you think I should play this: Richard Hatch or Joe Millionaire?” asked an extremely heavy girl—probably in the neighborhood of four hundred pounds—with flowing brown hair that hung down to her waist. She was wearing a pretty yellow sundress, at least a couple of sizes too small. The neckline was so tight it pushed her enormous breasts up nearly to her chin.
It was 8 A.M. Saturday morning, and the six of us who made up Group A were milling around the hall of the sixteenth floor, waiting to go into the hospitality suite for our first interview.
“You’re going to imitate that Joe Millionaire buffoon?” shrieked a short redhead. “You can’t be serious. That guy has the personality of a lettuce leaf. He’s as boring as watching paint dry!”
“I’m sure the Joe Millionaire people had hundreds of guys to choose from, and they picked him,” the big girl said. “Obviously, he has some wonderful qualities. Don’t you agree?” She motioned for me to join their conversation.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, glancing back and forth between them. They were speaking a bizarre, alien language. In its earliest days, I’d loved The Real World, back before it was a bunch of wannabe actors engaging in threesomes. And while I faithfully watched the first season of Survivor, I honestly haven’t followed a reality show since. “I’d love to help you out, but I never discuss world affairs before I’ve had my first cup of coffee,” I said. It was a half-assed attempt at a joke, but the heavy girl burst out laughing.
“You are so right,” she said. “My name’s Regan, by the way, and this is Sarah.”
She gestured toward the redhead.
“I’m Kat,” I supplied.
“Regan,” I repeated. “What a cool name. How’s that spelled?”
“Thanks!” she beamed. “R-E-G-A-N. Here’s the simple way to remember: it’s spelled like our former president, but it rhymes with vegan.”
“Ronald Reagan spelled his name with an A,” I pointed out.
“So do I!” she bubbled.
“Remember, R-E-G-A-N. It’s a traditional Irish name. My parents emigrated here from County Mayo before I was born. Isn’t that funny? A whole county named after a condiment.”
I was sorry I’d asked.
Sarah gave me a sympathetic look. “She’s told me this story at least twenty times.”
“So, anyway.” Regan giggled. “Joe Millionaire or Richard Hatch?”
Sarah looked her dead in the eyes. “I hate to break this to you, but they’re both men.”
Regan jutted out her lower lip. “So? That doesn’t mean I can’t model my performance after them.”
“What performance are you talking about?” I asked.
“The audition!” Regan replied, with exasperation. Noting my confused expression, she added, “The one starting any minute now. Duh!” She playfully thumped me on the side of the head, hitting me hard. I rubbed the spot where she’d knocked me.
“And here I thought we were trying out for a reality show,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Well, we are. But the real Regan isn’t exciting enough. If I want to get on TV, I need to camp it up a little,” she said.
“Regan wants to be America’s next sweetheart,” Sarah explained.
“Good luck with that one.” I guffawed. What I really wanted to say was fat chance, though I knew from personal experience how cruel that would be. Most big girls would rather be called a bitch than be called fat. To the overweight, fat is the dirtiest word on the planet.
Regan and Sarah continued to debate the roster of reality show contestants, while I tried my best to tune them out.
Please, oh please, let the interviews start soon, I prayed. At last the door swung open, and the huffy blonde from the night before poked her head out.
“Okay guys, you can come on in.” I glanced down at my watch. It was past 8:20 A.M.
They had a lot of nerve making us wait so long, after emphasizing how important it was that we show up for interviews on time. We charged into the hospitality suite, pushing and shoving like a herd of cattle. As I struggled to move through the door, Regan stepped on the heel of my shoe, causing me to stumble and nearly topple over. I shot her a dirty look. I couldn’t believe how eager everyone was to get inside. As soon as I saw the setup, I knew why.
The room had been completely rearranged from the night before. Gone were the desk and buffet tables. A huge white screen was set up against the back wall, and in front of it sat two rows of folding chairs. Wires lined nearly every inch of the floor, connecting with cameras, microphones, and a dozen of the most gigantic lights I had ever seen. An enormous camera sat propped up on a fancy-looking tripod and several guys were standing around shouldering various pieces of equipment. Everyone went scrambling toward the chairs, dashing forward to find a seat in the front row. I had never seen a group of big girls move so fast.
“All right everyone, before you get too comfortable, I need you to come over here and get miked up,” the blonde called, snapping her fingers and pointing toward a table.
We fought our way over to line up next to it. I found myself huddled near the back of the line, right behind Regan. I could hear a man’s voice instructing girls how to clip the microphones onto their clothing and run the wire underneath their shirts. I stood up on my tiptoes, straining to see what was going on. It was no use; Regan was blocking my view. I made a mental note not to get stuck sitting behind her during the interview.
When my turn finally came—it felt like a year had passed by the time I reached the front of the line—a lanky guy with pock-marks handed me a wallet-sized black box. The top of the box had a long black cord with a small lapel microphone attached to it.
“Clip this on the back of your pants,” he instructed gruffly. “Run this cord under your shirt and put this up here on your collar.” He motioned to the tiny black microphone.
I fumbled with the box, trying to attach it to my pants.
“Turn around,” he barked.
I did, and with a quick movement, he snapped it into place.
He handed me the wire. “Real quick, run this up top.”
It annoyed me that he was being so impatient. He had allowed the other girls to take plenty of time getting hooked up.
Regan, for instance, had required special assistance to get the microphone box attached to the back of her dress.
“Don’t turn away from this when you talk,” he instructed once I’d finished clipping on the microphone. “Won’t pick up nothing if you do.”
I pulled the back of my shirt over the microphone box self-consciously. This was beyond surreal. I felt like a news anchor. I couldn’t wait to tell Donna all about it.
By the time I got finished, the only seats available were in the back row. It wasn’t the ideal position, but I was relieved to see that none of the girls occupying the front seats were particularly large. I quickly skirted over and plopped down next to Sarah.
“Hi, everyone, and welcome to phase two in the casting search for From Fat to Fabulous. I’m Gigi Rucker, the assistant producer.”
Gigi. So that was the evil blonde’s name.
“I’d like to start out by saying, on behalf of everyone involved with the show, how much we appreciate your patience. The next few days are going to be i
ntense, but I want you to all relax and have a fun time!”
“Easy for her to say,” Sarah whispered. “She’s not the one under the microscope.”
I nodded. I was so uptight that “fun” was the last thing I had in mind.
“Before we go any further, I need to lay down a few ground rules,” Gigi continued. “This is very important so I’ll need everyone’s undivided attention.”
I heard a few people groan in the front row, but Gigi silenced them with a stony glare.
“We’ve gone over this before, but it bears repeating. I want to make sure you understand the importance of the confidentiality statements you signed last night.” She picked up a copy from the table and waved it around as if to remind us. “There’s a lot of jargon in here, but I’m going to hit the highlights. First point—and this is absolutely crucial—what goes on this weekend must be kept confidential.”
Gigi paused, scanning the room. Slowly, her eyes locked in on each of us, as if trying to judge our reactions. “You are strictly prohibited from discussing matters of the casting process with anyone outside these four walls. That means no going home and dishing to your best girlfriend. No e-mailing Mom to let her know the outcome. Family and friends are bound to ask how it went, and when they do, I want you to look them square in the face and say, ‘Uh-uh, my lips are sealed.’ Come on everybody, say it with me!” She waved her arms around, motioning for us to join in.
“Uh-uh, my lips are sealed!” Gigi repeated.
“Is this for real?” I mumbled, through gritted teeth.
Sarah threw me a bewildered look. “Sure looks like it,” she mouthed.
“Come on, girls, I can’t hear you!”
“My lips are sealed. My lips are sealed. My lips are sealed!” we chorused. I felt like a grade-A moron.
“Good job,” Gigi said briskly. “It may seem silly, but there’s a big risk involved in these kinds of projects. If word leaks to the press it could jeopardize months of hard work.”
“So, then, is it not okay to talk to the news?” Regan asked. “Like, if my local paper wants to do a feature on me would that be okay?”
A few people teetered on the brink of laughter. I couldn’t blame them; it was a pretty foolish thing to ask.
“I thought we were beyond these kinds of questions, but apparently not. Look on page three,” Gigi instructed, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “You cannot talk to the media without express written permission from the producers of From Fat to Fabulous. If you start getting calls from news outlets—which, believe me, you will—do not allow yourself to be engaged in any conversation. Don’t bother explaining your situation to them. If you give those vultures even the slightest response, they’re going to run with it, take your words out of context. ‘No comment’ is your safest bet.”
“I’m sorry,” Regan murmured, “I didn’t know.”
Gigi nodded. “These are legal documents, guys, so I can’t tell you how important it is that you follow our instructions. Failure to comply could result in, at best, your automatic removal from the show. At worst, you could find yourself saddled with a very pricey lawsuit.”
I looked around the room. Up to this point, I had shared everything with Donna, filling her in bit by bit on the process. It would be next to impossible to suddenly shut her out!
“In order for the show to go off without a hitch, we have to ensure the utmost secrecy,” Gigi explained. “Which brings me to point two. While it is perfectly fine for you all to socialize this weekend—in fact, we prefer it if you do—you’ll need to keep certain personal details private. It’s fine to discuss your likes and interests and your experiences with your weight.” She paused, smiling brightly. I imagined Gigi felt pretty superior, being the lone thin girl in a room of fatsos. “Do not reveal your last name, no state of residence, or your occupation. No exchanging e-mails, phone numbers, or personal website addresses. Are we clear on that?”
We told her that we were. Several girls looked so petrified I imagined they might have already blown it.
“Good. If you break the rules, you’re off the show. It’s as simple as that.”
I couldn’t help wondering what the big deal was. What did it matter if I knew Regan’s or Sarah’s last names, or if they knew mine? What were the producers afraid might happen?
“Now, for the fun part. As you may know, we narrowed the applicant pool through a series of phone interviews,” Gigi continued. “Some of you spoke with me, and some of you spoke with Zaidee Panola, our exec producer. Zaidee will be coming out here to talk with you . . .” Gigi glanced at her watch. “Any minute.”
“I wonder if anyone told Zaidee that promptness is a virtue,” Sarah whispered.
“Before she gets here, let me give you a little background on Zaidee.” I wasn’t particularly interested in hearing Zaidee’s life story. I was itching to get this interview out of the way. “Zaidee is a very hands-on producer, she likes to be involved in every single aspect of the process. And I respect her immensely for that,” Gigi said. “This is truly her baby. Without Zaidee, there would be no From Fat to Fabulous. She created it and she secured the funding that makes it possible for you lovely ladies to be here today.”
“Good grief, what is this? A&E Biography?” Sarah hissed.
“Zaidee comes from a heavy writing background. In addition to authoring half a dozen movie-of-the-week scripts, Zaidee worked in daytime television as a screenwriter for fourteen years. Prior to executive producing From Fat to Fabulous, she worked on many popular soap operas, including Days of Our Lives and All My Children.”
Someone in the front row gasped. “Does she know Bo and Hope?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Gigi said, smiling.
“Does she ever mentor novice writers?” I called out. “You know, give them advice about their careers and stuff?”
“Zaidee has helped a number of—”
“What about Sami Brady?” the girl in the front interjected before Gigi could finish answering.
“Yeah, she knows Sami, too.” Gigi smiled wryly.
Who cared about some stupid character from a soap opera? I was on the verge of getting a very important question answered! I opened my mouth to speak again when a slender, auburn-haired woman came bursting into the hospitality suite.
“Sorry I’m late, gals. Traffic was a beast. The freeway was clogged for miles.”
Zaidee Panola. I knew it right away. Even without the benefit of a formal introduction, it was impossible not to know who she was. She was dressed in a gorgeous black pantsuit, and carried an expensive-looking leather briefcase. I watched the way the crew submitted to her; one man appeared at her elbow with a bottled water while another pulled forward a chair in case she wanted to sit down.
“Thanks, boys,” she said, before turning her attention to us. “You must be my lovely contestants! I’m Zaidee.” She moved through the crowd shaking each of our hands. “Now, before we get started, do any of you have any questions you’d like to ask me?”
“Nice outfit,” Sarah called. “Where did you get it?”
Zaidee grinned, flashing a mouth of perfect white teeth. “This old thing?” She twirled around. “It’s a Ralph Lauren, from last year’s collection. But, shhh, don’t tell anybody.”
We giggled. She had a real way of putting people at ease.
“All right, now that we’ve gotten all the vital fashion questions out of the way, what do you gals say we start with some interviews?” She flipped open her briefcase, retrieving a stack of folders. “Now I know we’ve dogged you to death with questions, but I have a couple more.”
Someone groaned.
“I promise to go easy on you,” Zaidee vowed. “This will be smooth sailing. Not painful at all . . .”
“I didn’t expect it to be so . . . embarrassing!” I said when we were finished.
Sarah and I had parted ways with Regan, who’d gone off to take a nap, and we were heading to the lobby for a drink.
Sarah shrug
ged. “It’s the same stuff they asked on the application and over the phone. What’s the difference?”
“I don’t know,” I told her, punching the elevator button for the lobby.
“I guess it’s worse in person.”
“If you think that was bad, you should see what they ask you for The Real World.” She shuddered. “My God, every other question is about sex.”
I stared at her in surprise. “You tried out for The Real World?”
She nodded. “And Survivor, Big Brother, The Bachelor. You name it, I’ve auditioned for it. Hell, I even tried out to be one of the suitors on The Littlest Groom! The only one I can’t audition for is American Idol, and that’s because I have no talent.”
“But why?”
“I love reality TV,” she said simply. “I’m completely addicted to it.”
I leaned back against the elevator wall and thought this over. “Do they ever let bigger girls on those shows?” I asked.
“Every once in a while they do. It’s not often. I made the finals of Big Brother and The Real World—I got flown out here to audition for both. But none of the other shows ever called me.” She grinned. “That’s why this is so exciting. Finally, I have a real chance to make the cast! Before, I was always hampered by my body, but this time it’s going to work in my favor.”
We reached the first floor and walked into the lobby.
“So what do you think our chances are?” I asked, as we grabbed two diet Cokes from the drink machine and sat down on one of the couches.
“It’s tough to say,” Sarah mused. “Making it this far is a pretty big deal. I’d say it’s fifty-fifty.” She took a giant swig of her drink.
“Really?”
“Think about it. There are twenty-five of us here. They’re probably going to pick between ten and fifteen for the show. Odds are, either me, you, or Regan will get picked.”
At the mention of Regan’s name I made a face. “What’s with that girl?” I asked. “She seems kind of ditzy. Really immature.”
“Ah, she’s not bad,” Sarah said. “She’s only nineteen, what do you expect?”
The Next Big Thing Page 8
