“What about the eliminated players?”
“Eliminations are weekly, and people can go home after their episodes air. But you don’t want to be one of them!”
“No, of course not. Just curious.”
How could I afford to take ten weeks off work? While saving first and last month’s rent, plus security? Without filing for bankruptcy if the hospital sued? And did I really want to leave Dominic for all that time?
“Do we get paid anything if we don’t win?” I calculated how much overtime I’d need to work before leaving. There’d been rumors management planned to limit our hours. That made me both nervous and more determined to find another solution.
“There’s no salary,” she said. “But you’ll get a per diem. People who stay more than a few weeks wind up with at least a couple thousand dollars. Plus, we cover all expenses while you’re in the house.”
I wondered how long I’d have to stay on the show to make it worth not getting paid while I was gone. This required a pen and paper. “Thanks, Stephanie. Can I check my schedule and call you tomorrow?”
“Sure. Also, the casting process is confidential. We ask that you not discuss it with anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to know, like a spouse. If you’re cast, we’ll tell you when it’s time to make the big announcement.”
That made sense. I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone yet because I didn’t want to jinx myself. “Okay.”
“Perfect!” she chirped. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow!”
I thanked her again, and we hung up.
They wanted me for ten weeks. I didn’t have ten weeks of vacation time saved. Maybe I’d have three weeks by June, since I didn’t take a vacation last year. That meant, if I went to the end but didn’t win, I’d lose seven weeks of pay. Which may or may not include overtime.
Then again, if I moved in with Dominic, I wouldn’t need as much for the summer. I needed to raise the subject, but he wouldn’t be back from Tulsa until Monday night. My budget would change significantly if we shared expenses.
“One thing at a time, Jen,” I said.
No point worrying about time off and summer living arrangements before the show picked me. Moving in with Dominic presented the perfect solution, especially after almost a year together. It was time.
* * *
The next Tuesday, for the first time in my life, a man met me at the airport, holding a sign with my name on it. Maybe life wasn’t exactly the way I’d envisioned it, but someone thought I might be interesting enough to be on TV, and they sent a car to welcome me to Southern California. I threw my shoulders back and held my head high as I strode to the car.
My parents had taken me to Disneyland as a kid, but I hadn’t seen much of the area besides the hotel and the park. I pressed my face against the car window, taking in the palm trees, bright sun, and skyscrapers in the distance.
After about an hour, the car stopped at a hotel much nicer than expected after the building I’d interviewed in. It wasn’t like the place Dom took me, but the rooms smelled like cleaning products, the toilet paper folded into a point, and the TV dwarfed the one I had at home. Good enough for me.
A fast-talking woman with blond highlights led me to my room. “We’ve rented out the entire floor. You’re not allowed to talk to anyone other than staff. You can’t leave your room without an escort. We have the only key. If you leave, you’re locked out. We’ve stationed staff at the ends of the halls. If you need anything, call them. They’ll help you. Ice, aspirin, whatever—we’ll take care of you. They’ll also take you anywhere you need to go. Got it?”
I nodded, too surprised to say anything. No one had mentioned being imprisoned in a hotel room, but all the cloak and dagger stuff just made me more curious to find out about this show.
“You can keep your phone and laptop. The Wi-Fi is free. The TV has HBO and Showtime. We’ll be back to get you for dinner in a couple of hours. Here's a waiver we need you to bring with you tomorrow.” She opened the door with a flourish but stayed in the hall. “Enjoy your new home.”
With nothing else to do, I examined my surroundings. The king-sized bed looked inviting. The flowered navy bedspread matched the closed curtains. I pulled one panel aside to peek out the window. Below, people milled around the parking lot like ants. Not the most exciting view. Oh, well. The mountains in the background were pretty. Was that snow? In Southern California?
Yes, Jen. It snows in the mountains, even in Southern California. Especially in January. Silly.
After unpacking my tattered duffle bag, I looked at the clock. Four and a half hours to kill before dinner—and, presumably, the entire evening. I flopped down on the bed, turned on the TV, and opened my laptop.
The next morning, after a continental breakfast appeared outside my door, a van transported me and about a dozen other people to the interview site. The driver admonished us not to talk, so I pulled a book from my bag. I’d come prepared for down time. Considering my excitement, it was hard to focus on the words. After I read page forty-seven for the third time, I gave up and shoved it back in my purse.
Maybe we couldn’t talk, but they couldn’t stop us from looking around. I smiled at the people sitting behind me. Neither smiled back.
It’s like the Metro, Jen. Avoid eye contact, and you’ll be fine.
The guy to my left reminded me of a stork, all arms and legs awkwardly folded into his seat. He wore a faded, patched black jacket, and his stretched skin was so thin it was practically translucent. Purple stains on his fingers suggested he was an artist.
Across the aisle, a redhead whose beehive hairdo made her look about forty stared straight ahead. She looked past everyone else, lips pressed together in a thin line. Apparently, Ms. Red Lips was too good to be on the bus with the rest of us. Beside her, a girl about my age chewed her lower lip and stared out the window. I didn’t want to turn around again and get more strange looks, so I examined the backs of the heads in front of me. As we pulled up to what looked like a giant warehouse, I admired the boldness of a woman’s long blue and green hair. How would I look if I did that?
Unemployed, probably. My job expected us to look “business professional” at all times. Multi-colored hair didn’t fit the dress code.
Dozens of people with headsets and clipboards plus what looked like hundreds of contestants milled in all directions. It felt like Black Friday before the stores opened, but sunnier.
First, one of the headset women took my waiver, checked my name off a list, and handed me a clipboard full of papers to fill out. I gave my medical history, agreed to let their doctors examine me, answered a psychiatric assessment, took a personality test, and answered what felt like a thousand questions.
I read the questionnaires with fascination. Were they trying to cast shrub-loving, fire-starting fighters? Or were they trying to weed those people out? If I wasn’t a shrub person, was I out? My mom banned me from her garden years ago because I forgot to water things for days, then overwatered to make up for the neglect. And drowned all her plants. Does lack of skill mean I’m not a shrub person? Maybe I should go home and learn to appreciate my nice, ordinary life where no one would set me on fire or judge me by the greenness of my thumb.
The paperwork took almost two hours. Around me, people scribbled furiously. After I handed in the questionnaire, my eyes scanned the room. One of the other applicants watched me. He was cute, with short, wavy blond hair and full lips. When our eyes met, he smiled and waved, beckoning toward the empty seat on his left.
We weren’t really supposed to interact with the other applicants, but it would be a lonely summer if we all shunned each other. Plus, I had to sit somewhere. I waved back and approached shyly.
“This seat taken?” I asked.
He shook his head. When I sat, he addressed me out of the side of his mouth. “Thank God you saw me. That dudebro over there’s been eying this seat, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold him off.”
Th
e dudebro in question stood about fifteen feet away, glaring at me. He towered over the sea of applicants, moving around the room with a permanently affixed sneer. He wore loud plaid shorts with a clashing Hawaiian shirt and, for some reason, a snorkeling mask around his neck.
Nearby, another contestant cleared her throat. I couldn’t see who it was, but remembered we weren’t supposed to talk to each other.
“Is there a swim test?” I whispered to the guy beside me. Up close, he was even cuter than I first thought, with piercing green eyes and a crooked nose, like it had been broken and never healed right. Some people might think it was too big for his face, but it gave him character.
He chuckled and leaned closer. “Maybe he took the whole ‘Los Angeles is full of sharks’ thing literally? Whatever. He was loudly harassing the girls on the bus on the way here, and he thought I’d want to join him. Thanks for saving me.”
“My pleasure.”
With one hand, he reached toward me. “This is where I’d normally introduce myself, but that’s forbidden. So let’s say, I’m J from F.”
“J from F, huh?” I shook his fingertips quickly while rolling that one over in my head. “Jeremy? John? Jimmy?”
He shook his head, but offered no more information. Nearby, a production assistant narrowed her eyes at us. No one in the room was talking other than staff on their headsets.
“Well, J from F,” I said. “I’m J from S.”
“S?” He asked, and I nodded. “That’s intriguing. There aren’t any states starting with S. I guess that means you’re from Saskatchewan? Saturn?”
I bit my lip to keep from giggling. For the first time since I’d landed in LA, I didn’t feel tense or nervous. This was fun! “Sure. Probably one of those. Or not. And Florida is too boring, so I’ll assume you’re from. . . Finland? France?”
“You’ve got me,” he said, adopting a terrible accent. “Je m'appelle Jacques. I am from France.”
I giggled. “That’s the worst accent I’ve ever heard!”
The production assistant who’d been hovering turned to walk toward us, so I hurriedly diverted my attention to the packet before me. The last thing I needed was to get disqualified for having a conversation during the audition process.
The first page just wanted contact information. Names of three friends or family who might be willing to host the show if we made it to the final round. My mom was a no-brainer. I wished I could put my brother down, but I suspected the show wouldn’t be willing to foot the bill for a visit to Montreal, where he’d stayed after falling in love with a fellow college student. Instead, I wrote Brandon.
Relationship? the form asked.
BFF.
Name?
Dominic Rossellini. Even though he traveled a lot, he’d probably be excited for me if I made it far enough for television crews to come to his house. He’d love to be on camera. Or maybe they’d do a special where loved ones came to visit the remaining contestants—didn’t that happen sometimes?
Relationship?
Boyfriend. If only I could put down fiancé, but we weren’t there yet. Instead, I added a caret and wrote Serious above Boyfriend.
Before moving on to the next page, I peeked to find that our PA had vanished into the crowd. She must be stopping other contestants from getting to know each other. I leaned toward J, but he’d turned away from me and hunched over his paper, blocking the page with one arm. Ah, well. Better to focus on the paperwork, so I could eat when I finished. My stomach reminded me I’d been too nervous to do more than pick at my breakfast.
My second packet contained an IQ test. I’ve always done well on standardized tests and this one wasn’t all that tricky. A few minutes later, I whispered a good-bye to J before handing the test in with a confident smile.
“Good luck,” he said, offering me a flash of dimples.
I didn’t glance over my shoulder to see whether he watched when I left. But, just in case, remembering what Brandon said about my “assets,” I swung my hips on my way out of the room. Being off the market doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a little harmless attention from other guys.
CHAPTER 4
THE FISHBOWL CONFIDENTIALITY AGREEMENT
BY APPEARING AT THE AUDITION, THE UNDERSIGNED, ______________________, (HERE-INAFTER, "THE APPLICANT") AGREES TO THE FOLLOWING TERMS AND CONDITIONS:
1.THE APPLICANT AGREES NOT TO DISCUSS THE APPLICATION PROCESS FOR THE FISHBOWL (HEREINAFTER, "THE SHOW"), THE AUDITION, OR RELATED MATTERS WITH ANYONE WHO DOES NOT HAVE A STRICTLY NECESSARY NEED TO KNOW THE APPLICANT'S WHEREABOUTS.
2.THE APPLICANT AGREES NOT TO POST ABOUT THE APPLICATION AND AUDITION PROCESS ON THE INTERNET, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO: FACEBOOK, TWITTER, INSTAGRAM, MYSPACE, TUMBLR, OR OTHER BLOGS. . .
. . .THE APPLICANT UNDERSTANDS THAT THE SELECTION PROCESS FOR THE SHOW INCLUDES TRADE SECRETS AND OTHER PROPRIETARY INFORMATION. THE APPLICANT AGREES THAT THE SHOW WILL BE IRREPARABLY HARMED IF THE APPLICANT VIOLATES THIS AGREEMENT AND THAT IT IS DIFFICULT TO CALCULATE IN ADVANCE HOW EXTENSIVE DAMAGES MIGHT BE. THEREFORE, THE APPLICANT AGREES THAT, IN THE EVENT OF A BREACH, THE SHOW IS ENTITLED TO INJUNCTIVE RELIEF, A PENALTY OF TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS ($250,000), AND REASONABLE ATTORNEY'S FEES.
After leaving the sea of plastic chairs, my next stop was the lunch room. One of the casting assistants directed me to sit alone at a small table, then brought me coffee and a sandwich: turkey and Swiss on white with packets of mayo and mustard. Not terribly exciting, but the scent of fresh tomatoes made my stomach growl. The sandwich tasted better than expected.
With nearly an hour to kill before my appointment with the psychologist, I sipped my coffee and surveyed the room. Unfortunately, J was nowhere to be found. Some of the other applicants glared at those sitting around them, trying to be intimidating, so I would’ve welcomed a friendly face. One girl, with long, silky black hair, flawless caramel skin, and eyes such a bright turquoise they had to be contacts, glowered at me. The intensity of her expression made me burst out laughing.
She tossed her hair with a sneer and focused on another victim. I mentally shrugged. Trying to psych out other contestants this early in the game made no sense to me.
After lunch, they directed me to a small room where I met the show’s psychologist. “Jennifer! It’s nice to meet you. I’m Doctor Hernandez.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too. Let me tell you, we don’t usually get contestants who score this high on the IQ test.”
Her candor surprised me. “Really? The ad said the show's casting intelligent people.”
Dr. Hernandez consulted papers in a manila folder. “Maybe—I don’t get that information. But I do have your psych test. Nothing out of the ordinary there.”
I sat up straighter. “Does that mean I got the shrub question right?”
She laughed, but I wasn’t kidding.
“There aren’t right and wrong answers. The test is designed to give us a profile. You didn’t choose any of the answers that set off alarms.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” I started to relax into the chair, but Doctor Hernandez stood. I tensed until she spoke.
“That’s it.”
“Really?” This sounded like a trick. It was too easy. Like maybe they were testing to see what I did when the psychologist left the room.
“Yeah. My job is to go over IQ test results and the psych test. You passed both with flying colors. Time for hair and makeup for your screen test. And I’ve got ten minutes to get coffee, so thanks.” She left me alone in the room. Not knowing what else to do, I followed her until a middle-aged man in a headset pointed out my next destination.
Hearing that I’d done well on the tests put a bounce in my step. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted this until it sounded like it might happen. I could go on television. I might win a quarter of a million dollars. No more sixty-hour workweeks or stocking up on pre-packaged foods for children when t
hey went on sale. Dominic wouldn’t need to pay for all our dates. Maybe I’d even be able to go out with my friends once in a while.
This show could give me my life back. Restore me to the pre-medical debt Jen. The fun Jen.
* * *
The stylist finished my hair and picked up her makeup brushes, surveying my face. “You have perfect skin. No, seriously, I’m jealous.”
“Thanks, Angela. I try to take good care of it.”
“Make sure you do,” she said. “Too many girls your age spend so much time in the sun. When they get older, their faces look like handbags. Don’t let that happen. Wear sunblock and moisturize.”
I smiled at her reference to “girls my age.” Angela couldn’t have been more than about five years older than me. “Always. . .I burn like crazy without SPF 50, at least.”
“Good. Close your mouth.”
She applied more makeup than I usually wore, so my fingers tapped against the arm of the chair while I fretted about whether she’d overdo it. I reminded myself the show wanted normal people, not actors. She wouldn’t do anything too out there. Still, when Angela finally put down the brushes, butterflies fluttered in my stomach.
“Ta-da!” She spun me around to face the mirror.
My jaw dropped. I inhaled sharply.
I looked absolutely stunning—the best I’d ever looked in my life. I tended toward a pretty healthy self-image, but I’d no idea someone else had the ability to make me look so fantastic. Usually, I blow-dried my stick-straight hair and let it cascade down my back. Angela had somehow given it body. Loose, gleaming waves framed my face.
Shadow and eyeliner made my ordinarily pale blue eyes huge and gave them dimension. When I put mascara on the top and bottom, I gave myself spider lashes, but Angela had made it work. I usually didn’t wear blush because I wound up with pink splotches, but she’d given my entire face a healthy glow.
America's Next Reality Star Page 4
