Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town

by Leslie Tall Manning

  “Oh,” the woman said. “We just call it an audition so it feels, you know, like Hollywood.”

  “Hollywood,” Rebecca Lynn cooed.

  Dad said, “Last name’s Decker. Tim, Brooke, and Rebecca Lynn.”

  “Great,” the woman said, checking off her list. “Room three. They’ll call you for your aud—interview—in a little bit.”

  She spoke into her headset as she zipped away.

  Dad grabbed Rebecca Lynn’s hand and I followed behind as we worked our way through the horde of reality TV wannabes. Another family had just left the pea-green couch in the corner. We took their place. The smell of must rose up.

  “What’s that boy doing?” Rebecca Lynn asked, pointing across the room.

  The boy, no older than five, was trying unsuccessfully to do an imitation of a robot. His body remained stiff as his arms and legs moved spastically. His parents egged him on, clapping each time he made a strange beeping noise.

  “Maybe he’s having seizures,” I said.

  “He’s just being silly,” Dad said.

  “Are we supposed to act silly?” Rebecca Lynn asked.

  Dad shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

  I was about to ask Dad for the umpteenth time what in heaven’s name would make him want to do this—my dad, the NC State graduate; the boring engineer; the weekend golfer; the man who owned more Dockers than jeans—when the gal with the headset called out, “Decker!”

  As we stood up, Dad grabbed my wrist, squeezing it a little too tightly. His upper lip was sweating. “Please, Brooke, make me proud.”

  “Dad,” I said, following him into the room, “you’re freaking me out.”

  But Dad didn’t respond. Two bright lights shone on us as a skinny man with a scruffy graying goatee stuck a camera in our faces, and the door closed behind us.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I’m Ricardo Gonzales,” said the smiling man behind the desk. He had long dark hair tied in a ponytail, and his hands were folded neatly in front of him like he ran a country. His words held on to the traces of an accent. Next to him sat a large woman with short, curly red hair and a T-shirt that said, Roll ‘Em!

  “Have a seat on the couch over there,” Ricardo said, pointing with his head, “and we’ll begin the audition.”

  Why did everyone keep saying that word?

  We sat with Dad in the middle, me on his right, Rebecca Lynn on his left.

  “So,” Ricardo said, “no one has told you anything about the actual show, is that correct, Mr. Decker?”

  “Correct.”

  “What makes you want to be part of a project you know nothing about?”

  “Our family could use a little—diversion.”

  “What’s diversion?” Rebecca Lynn asked.

  Dad explained, “Something to take our minds off what we’ve been through.”

  “And what have you all been through?” Ricardo asked.

  “Their mother passed away last summer. It’s been a long haul.”

  “Oh,” Ricardo said, his smile tipping. “Right. You wrote about that in your letter. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He said he was sorry, but I caught a slight twitch in his eye as he glanced at the fat woman next to him.

  “So,” Ricardo said, “if you were chosen for this venture, you feel, after what you’ve been through, you’d be able to handle adverse situations?”

  “Of course.”

  “And your girls?”

  Rebecca Lynn said, “Daddy showed us how to be strong.”

  “That’s awesome,” Ricardo said. Then he turned to me. “And you? Do you think adversity makes a person stronger?”

  “I don’t know.” I started to play with the ring in my brow, but stopped myself.

  “Do you think you could live for a time without certain things?”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Makeup? Hairspray? Jewelry?”

  Why was this Ricardo guy asking me such stupid questions? I looked at Dad, but he was staring at the camera.

  “And what about the mall?” Ricardo went on. “Your cell phone? Your social media? Could you live without those things for a long period of time?”

  “I can,” piped Rebecca Lynn.

  But Ricardo didn’t care about my sister. He was waiting for my answer.

  “How long is long?” I asked, the spit in my mouth drying up.

  He shrugged, not like he was bored, but like he really didn’t care how his answer affected me. “Four months.”

  I laughed, but it was just a spurt of nervousness, not a LMAO kind of laugh.

  Ricardo waited.

  “Well, no,” I said. I could feel Dad’s body stiffen next to me, but I didn’t care. “I could never go that long without those things. They’re a part of life. Where does this show take place, on an island?”

  Ricardo didn’t answer my question. “The show would require your family to leave behind the modern accoutrements you have become accustomed to. Like soda, fast-food, television. For four months, you’d have to give up your friends, your social networks, your favorite iTunes, your boyfriends, your weekend slumber parties—”

  The large woman next to Ricardo, who had stayed silent up to this point, said, “Your high heels and deodorant. All the creature comforts.”

  I was beyond nervous now. I didn’t know where the television show was going to take place, but I did not want to do it. No freaking way, no freaking how. I would have to make too many sacrifices. Shit. I had already sacrificed my mom. Wasn’t that enough?

  My dad patted me on the knee again. “Those kinds of things aren’t important to us.”

  “Yes they are,” I said.

  “No, they’re not. We’ve learned as a family what it means to do without.”

  He was lying. We hadn’t done without. If anything, since Mom had died, Dad was buying more crap than ever. We had every new gadget known to modern man: a Kindle; a Nook; the latest iPhone; iTouch; iPad; i-Everything. We had three PCs collecting dust, two laptops, and a 3D television. Last October, on my sixteenth birthday, Dad bought me a brand new Explorer with heated leather seats. We took a trip to the Bahamas for Thanksgiving, Christmas looked like Macy’s exploded in our living room, and we spent New Year’s skiing in Vail. He never said a word when I added pink to my hair, or when he spotted the panther tattoo on my lower back while swimming at the country club. He never showed any emotion when I went for that dark eyeliner look, almost, but not quite, Goth. I never heard a stink about quitting the track team. And he still gave me money when report cards came out, even though my A’s had dropped to C’s, except for Gym which was a D+. At the end of last semester, as he handed me a fifty, he said, “I know you’ll find your way back.”

  Now, my dad’s face seemed desperate. He wanted this. I didn’t know why he wanted it, but I wanted it for him. For him. But not for me. Maybe I could live with relatives while Dad and Rebecca Lynn went off to this strange land where no one used deodorant or checked out Youtube videos.

  My stomach rumbled and my heart raced as pictures of a labor camp popped into my head, the three of us dressed in gray coveralls, a six-digit number stamped on our forearms, barbed wire surrounding us.

  “Is this a prison reality show?” I licked my chapped lips and waited for the answer.

  Ricardo smiled and said, “We can’t disclose exactly what it is until you pass the first round. If you make the cut, then you’ll be told. For now, we have to keep the details as quiet as possible. Too many ears in Hollywood looking for a good reality show. Know what I mean?”

  My head nodded yes even though I had no clue what he was talking about.

  Ricardo continued with the questions:

  “Okay, then. Do any of you have any habits you can’t quit for a few months?”

  Like making out with cute boys or pounding Jell-O shots on a Friday night?

  I watched with horror as my dad and sister shook their heads.

  Ricardo jotted something down on the paper
in front of him. “Anyone who makes it through will receive a full physical, but to save us some steps, do any of you require regular medication?”

  Like pot brownies?

  Again they shook their heads. Dad nudged me until I did the same.

  “Any pets that will be difficult to leave for any length of time?”

  Rebecca Lynn said, “My goldfish died.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Sad. But I didn’t cry. We flushed him down the toilet. He’s with Nemo now.”

  Ricardo leaned forward. “What are your fears?”

  My dad spoke first. “Something happening to one of my daughters.” He put an arm around each of us and squeezed. “Or something happening to me.”

  “And you?” he asked Rebecca Lynn. “What scares you?”

  “Zombies. And ghosts.”

  Ricardo nodded. “Me too.”

  Rebecca Lynn smiled.

  “And Brooke,” Ricardo said. “What frightens Brooke Decker?”

  Well, let me tell you, culo burro Ricardo. Yesterday it would have been getting caught sleeping in history class, having Dad find out I’d snuck beer onto my school’s field trip to Charleston, or getting a speeding ticket out in Greenville. Now, my fears are having a camera in my face, the incessant grin on that fat woman next to you, and the way you keep staring at me, like I’m going to be the reason we either will or won’t make the cut.

  “Nothing,” I told him. After seeing my mom suffer through a double mastectomy, watching her wither away from chemo, then floating to her death on morphine, I believed at that moment I was telling the truth. I raised my chin a notch. Dad’s pride filled the room. “Nothing frightens me.”

  “Very good,” Ricardo said, nodding slowly, marking a sheet in front of him. “Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.”

  We were quickly escorted out of the room, and just as the door was about to close behind me, I saw Ricardo fist bumping the chubby lady beside him, her pudgy smile in the center of that pasty face turning her into a redheaded Pillsbury Dough Boy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  During the two weeks following the interview-slash-audition, Dad didn’t mention it once. I figured we were axed. Boring until they were snoring. I wondered if the family with the robot kid would be picked. At least the kid was entertaining.

  But I guess we weren’t too boring, and when the producers called to announce we’d made the first cut, Dad jumped around like he’d won the lottery. On the morning of our home interview, he totally lost his mind. His alarm went off at six. I heard him take a shower, and then his feet were thumping through the house.

  I came out of my bedroom wearing pajamas, my hair jutting out in sharp angles all over my head.

  “Get dressed,” he said. “Crew is going to be here soon.”

  He’d said ‘crew’ like it was a friend of the family.

  I went back to my room to dress and came out a few minutes later to the smell of bacon. Downstairs, Dad stood in front of the stove. Rebecca Lynn was sitting at the table eating scrambled eggs. I slid onto a chair opposite my sister.

  “Coffee?” Dad asked me.

  “Sure.”

  Dad let me drink it some weekends. Having to be up this early on a Saturday, he owed me one. After adding cream and sugar, he set the New Bern mug in front of me. He plucked the bacon from the pan and placed it on a folded paper towel. “What are you girls wearing today?”

  “This,” Rebecca Lynn said, patting the collar of her frilly white dress. She looked like an underage bride.

  “And you, Brooke?”

  “I’m wearing it.”

  I wore my faded jeans, a tight blue T-shirt tucked in, and a leather belt with flowers on it. My tan Ugg boots were still up in my bedroom, so I was in my socks.

  “Wear a dress. And take out that brow hoop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want us to look nice.”

  “Are you saying I look like crap?”

  “Don’t use that language at the table. Or in front of the cameras, if you can help it.”

  “Dad, for all we know, this show takes place in the middle of a dump site.”

  “Why are you fighting me on this?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll wear a stupid dress.”

  When we were finished eating, Dad grabbed our dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

  “Rebecca Lynn,” he said, “put on an apron before you dust the living room. Brooke, I need you to sweep the front porch before you change.”

  He poured himself another cup of coffee and grabbed a handful of paper towels and a bottle of Pine Sol from under the sink. He headed to the guest bathroom.

  “Let’s get this place shipshape,” he said over his shoulder. “I’d hate to lose this gig because we can’t keep a clean house.”

  At one o’clock the doorbell rang. Rebecca Lynn ran to the door like the house was on fire. Dad and I waited in the living room.

  “You didn’t take out your hoop,” he said.

  I was saved by Ricardo’s voice in the hallway.

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss Rebecca Lynn Decker. A movie star name if I ever heard one.”

  My sister skipped into the living room like stupid-ass Goldilocks, followed by Ricardo and the same cameraman from the audition. The lady with the red hair and weird grin wasn’t with them, and for that I was grateful.

  The cameraman’s name was Carl. With his skinny arms and neck, and that Swamp People goatee, I pegged him as more of a “Bubba,” or “Skeeter,” but I didn’t say anything.

  “Please, sit down,” Dad said.

  He fanned his arm to the two overstuffed chairs across the coffee table from the couch. Ricardo sat, but Carl the cameraman, whose camera was already on, stood behind Ricardo.

  I thought it was best to jump right in. “Are you going to tell us what kind of reality show this is?”

  My dad shook his head. “Brooke—”

  “It’s alright,” Ricardo said. “That’s why we’re here.” He sat back in the chair and crossed one leg over the other, making himself right at home. The bottom of his leather sandal was scuffed. “There are moments in time that can never be understood, at least not fully. Times we only read about in history books, or see in movies, barely a re-creation of the truth. But it takes more than reading about it or putting on the costumes to understand what history really means.” He sounded like a PBS host. “This is the opportunity to go back in time.”

  Carl the cameraman inched closer to my dad’s face, but it should have been my face, since I was the one who was about to freak out.

  “Ever hear of Laura Ingalls?” Ricardo asked.

  “I have her books!” Rebecca Lynn shouted excitedly. She started counting on her fingers, “Little House in the Big Woods, Little House on the Prairie—”

  “Sit down, Rebecca Lynn,” I whispered.

  Ricardo turned to me. “Do you know who she is?”

  “Of course I do.”

  I thought of my mom, sitting on the sofa on a rainy Saturday afternoon, watching cable reruns of her favorite Little House on the Prairie series. Sometimes she’d cry. She would hold onto a tissue, and she would sob as she sat there on the couch. I asked her once why she was crying. She told me it was because the show made her happy.

  Ricardo wiggled his fingers at Carl, who moved with lightning speed to my side. I could feel the camera sending invisible waves through my cheek. It took all my strength not to flip off that large glass eye.

  “It helps that you know who she is,” Ricardo said.

  My dad cleared his throat and clicked his neck. “The show is about modern-day pioneers?”

  “Not exactly,” Ricardo said. “It has nothing at all to do with modern. In order for us to mean what we say when we call it a reality show, we plan to keep it as true to the era as possible.”

  “Which era?” I asked, even though I knew the answer, and even though I knew I would have to do whatever it took to get Dad to see that these
people were out of their flipping minds.

  “The mid-1800s. Eighteen-sixty-one, to be exact.”

  I started doing the history lesson in my head: mid-1800s meant no electricity. Without electricity, there would be no lights, no television, no computer…

  “You’re going to shut off our electricity?” I asked, shocked that this could be legal. I pictured our king-size suburban house gutted of all its modern appliances. “You can’t—”

  “No,” Ricardo said. “The show won’t be filmed here.”

  “Then where?” Dad asked.

  “I can’t disclose all of the information until we narrow down the participants, but the families selected will be part of a community in the North Carolina backcountry.”

  “Laura Ingalls didn’t live in North Carolina,” I smugly told him. Didn’t these people do their homework?

  “The lifestyle is comparable,” Ricardo said. “Historians have accurately detailed the way it was then, and we’ve followed their guidance to a tee.”

  “Dad—” I whispered, the panic creeping into my throat.

  Ricardo kept on yapping. “We are choosing families from different backgrounds, and giving each of them a different backstory, mostly for variety.”

  “Like Williamsburg,” Dad said.

  “Except that at the end of the day, you won’t take off your costume and go home to a microwave dinner.” Ricardo laughed and I wanted to slug him.

  “Dad,” I said, pulling on his arm. “We can’t do this.”

  “Brooke, not now.”

  “But—”

  “When does it begin?” he asked Ricardo, cutting me off.

  “Third week of May. So you have time to become acclimated to your new home before you plant your crops.”

  “Crops?” A horrifying picture of the three of us picking cotton under the afternoon sun slid through my brain.

  “You’ll be responsible for growing much of your own food,” Ricardo said. “Have you ever had a garden?”

  “My wife,” Dad said. “She had an amazing green thumb. I think we can figure it out.”

  “No, we can’t,” I said.

  “Yes, Brooke,” Dad said, never looking at me. “We can.”