The F List: Fame, Fortune, and Followers

by Torre, Alessandra

  Emma, of course, I knew.

  Marissa was an ultra-extreme environmentalist who had gained notoriety and followers when she had tied herself to the hood of a factory executive’s Mercedes in protest of emissions violations. She had tripled down on that fame with a line of environmentally-friendly health products, then (allegedly) blackmailed her biggest competitor with his nude pics and merged their companies to become one of the richest under-25 women in the world.

  Eileen was an aspiring pop star who had self-produced one single that had gotten traction only because she was topless during the entire music video. Her tits were massive and looked to be hard as a brick, but some guys liked that shit. Johno had made a half-dozen comments about them yesterday and had rallied hard for a storyline that involved him motorboating them. The producers had seemed open to the idea.

  Encouraged, I floated the killing of the Emma/Cash lovefest and got a resounding NO. Casma, they said patiently, was going to happen. Apparently, our entire season was focused on making it happen.

  Casma was definitely NOT going to happen. Maybe on screen it was, but I was pretty certain my dislike of Emma was a two-way street and one that would only be strengthened by increasing proximity.

  I rolled onto my side and reached along the floor until I found my phone. Unlocking it, I scrolled through my notifications, then gave in to temptation and pulled up Emma's feed.

  For months, her profile had had an obnoxious 'follow back' button, which I had studiously ignored. Now, it was gone. She had unfollowed me. Interesting and also, lame. I scrolled to her most recent photo, a clip of her on a paddleboard, looking over one shoulder to the camera and winking. It was a good pic. Brilliant blue water, interesting composition, strong placement and personality. The caption…

  Soaking up the last rays of freedom before I’m sequestered in a house with five celebs. Please send donuts and tell @CashMitchell he can’t touch mine. #houseoffame #mtvstudios #suntanlife #beachbum

  It did, as always, strange things when she mentioned my name. It wasn't a unique thing. She tagged a lot of people in her posts. It was a good social media practice, and was usually a coordinated effort between accounts. This hadn't been coordinated, and it was bullshit that she was trying to tie us together in this playful way as if we were friends.

  I considered commenting but didn’t. Instead, I sent her a private message, the first between us.

  Cash: No worries. I won’t touch anything that has to do with you.

  I sent it, aware that it would go in her message requests folder, which was a garbage truck worth of crap for people like us. She would never see it, and it would get buried under a thousand other messages by morning, but it didn’t matter. I felt some resolution at sending the message. I had drawn a firm line between us, even if I was the only one who knew it.

  My phone hummed, and I looked at it, surprised.

  Emma: Promise?

  After the word was a praying hand emoji. I rolled my eyes.

  Cash: Don’t give me that. You’d be all over me if I wanted you to.

  Emma: Nah. Silver spoon pricks bore me.

  I stared at the response, then typed and deleted a few different lines. I considered a weak ‘Whatever’ response but bailed out of that one, and now I had thirty seconds of dots on the screen and nothing to say and dammit, I should be better at this. I’d been called a rich prick my entire life. I should have a mountain of comebacks at the ready.

  Cash: Just stay out of my way on this show. I don’t want you getting any ideas.

  It was a little cruel, my insinuation that she would read truth into our fake relationship, but I was losing the upper hand in this volley, and I needed to exit this conversation on top.

  Emma: no worries there. Glad we’re on the same page, and that my body and donuts are safe from groping.

  I stared at it, again off-put and unsure of how to respond. A laughing-out-loud face? Was she just going to pretend like everything was fine between us?

  I locked my phone and the time displayed on the home screen, right above the photo of me and Wesley. I stared at the image, then went into my settings and changed it to a different picture, this one a skyline shot of Malibu at sunset. That would be just what I needed, a zoomed-in camera angle of my phone, followed by a director's cut to a confessional video of someone—probably Emma—waxing on about how I hid my brother in a facility because I was ashamed of him.

  I flipped onto my back and closed my eyes, fighting to block out the potential backlash of this show and its exposure. More questions about Wesley. More attention on the Ranch. Paparazzis perched on the hills, long-range lens pointed at the park where he liked to sit in the morning. Bribed employees who would secretly photograph him at his worst moments. Intentional negative stimuli, designed to trigger a panic or anger attack, all in full range of their camera.

  He was my responsibility, and if anything happened to him, I'd be to blame.

  36

  #smileforthecameras

  CASH

  There was an unspoken line drawn down the center of the house. The gym, media room, and south bedrooms belonged to the guys. The sunroom, upper deck, and north bedrooms belong to the girls. The kitchen and living room were common space which I planned to avoid whenever possible.

  They came in like a virus, three girls clad in designer clothes and carrying their own pillows, blankets, and bags. They stepped in and stared blankly at us, then let their gaze drift over the massive open space.

  “Nice…” Marissa drawled. “Except for all of the leather.” She glared at the couch I sat on as if the cow’s corpse was still attached.

  I stood and extended my hand. “I’m Cash.”

  “Oh, I don’t touch.” She smiled thinly and held up her palms in surrender. “But it’s nice to meet you.” From behind her, a camera guy jockeyed into position. I flashed the smile that had won me the Jockey contract and wondered how much a pain in the ass this girl was going to be.

  “You don’t TOUCH?” From behind me, Layton approached from the kitchen, a giant energy drink can in hand, the label pointed toward the camera. “What the hell does that mean?”

  "Language!" A producer called from the edge of the foyer, and this was ridiculous. Sixteen hours of this a day? I settled back on the couch and angled my face away from the camera, hoping it wouldn't see my grimace. Too late, I saw the second camera, in position and zoomed in for a close-up.

  “Limiting non-essential human contact reduces the risk of disease and germ spread by over 400%,” Marissa said tightly, then beamed. “If you insist on touching, I’d suggest you use a liberal amount of hand sanitizer. I recommend the Aloe collection by Clean Design.”

  "Oh, do you?" Layton mocked. "The Aloe collection by Clean Design?" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice that was a spot-on impression of Marissa. "Got the website handy? You might want to face the camera when you share it, so they can be sure to hear you clearly."

  “Do NOT acknowledge the cameras,” the producer shrilled. “And Marissa, no specific product or brand names.”

  Marissa turned away from Layton and faced the producer. “But he’s allowed to wave this Eiffel tower sized energy drink in my face the entire time?”

  “I’m THIRSTY.” Layton took a long and exaggerated sip from the can, then smacked his lips together. “Damn, that’s good. Cash, you want me to grab you one?”

  "My Bang contract says no conflicting energy drinks," Eileen spoke up from her spot by the door. "That can't be in any shots that I'm in."

  “Jesus,” the producer muttered. “Can we please keep rolling?”

  “I’m rolling,” the guy behind Marissa said.

  “So, you do want a can?” Layton pressed, one finger pointed at me.

  “I’m good,” I responded.

  “Let’s have Eileen come in and meet Cash and Layton. Where in God’s name is Emma?” The producer’s voice grew shrill.

  “She’s on the phone,” someone called out from behind the kitchen ca
meras.

  “Get her off and in here,” she snapped.

  “I’m here.”

  We all turned as a group to see Emma standing in the doorway off the living room, the one that led to the pool deck. The sun framed her thin frame, and I held up my hand to block the fierce rays, wishing I could see her face past the glare.

  “This is Layton.” Marissa took over as the introducer. “And you know Cash, of course.”

  "Of course," Emma drawled, stepping forward and letting the door slam behind her. "Hey, Layton. Big fan of your videos. Team Q?" She held out her fist to him for a bump.

  He hesitated, surprised. "Yeah," he managed, returning the pump. "Team Q. So, you watch the reviews?"

  "Stop talking about YouTube," the producer said loudly. "No one cares about your stupid barbecue reviews."

  Emma winked at Layton, and I watched as a shy smile tugged across his face, which looked naked without his customary cowboy hat. "You guys already settled?" Her gaze swept past me and landed on Johno, who had yet to say a word. He straightened from his slouch in one of the stools in the kitchen. "Hey, Johno."

  "Hey, Em."

  "You two know each other?" Eileen made it into the living room, and I tried not to stare at her shirt, which was completely sheer once she stepped into the light by the windows. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “Yeah,” Johno said. “We did a panel at Vidcon.”

  “I was thinking of grabbing something to eat at that beach bar that’s on the corner.” Emma glanced at Marissa, then Layton. “You guys down?”

  “Okay, stop." The producer stepped forward, wearing a headpiece that looked way too big. "I'm Dana." She raised her hand in a quick and dismissive greeting. "When I shout things, it's for a reason. LISTEN TO THEM. Now, we're having you guys fix dinner here at the house, together.” She spun her finger in the air in a continue on gesture as she returned to the sidelines. “Marissa and Layton— you guys are going to argue about the menu options.”

  Emma ignored the directive entirely. "It's in walking distance, and they have killer happy hour margaritas."

  “I’m down.” Layton, who was already ready to follow her anywhere, finished off the last sip of the energy drink, then crushed it in his hand.

  Marissa glanced dubiously at the producer, who was shaking her head adamantly, then at Eileen. “I guess I could do a margarita.”

  “I’ll grab my shoes.” Johno stretched and glanced at me. “You coming?”

  Everyone looked at me, including Emma. I moved reluctantly to my feet. “Sure.”

  The producer squawked in distress, and, just like that, Emma somehow became their leader.

  But not mine. I watched her as we walked to the restaurant, her head bent toward Eileen, her laugh floating back along the breeze, the sun shining off her glossy hair, and swore that —no matter what — I wouldn’t become one of her followers. Neither figuratively and literally.

  37

  #thestruggleisreal

  EMMA

  It was so hard, that first day.

  I had decided the week before we moved in, that I would adopt a light-hearted mood with Cash. I had aimed for playful and slightly flirty, which was the exact opposite of how we'd ever interacted, but given that I'd horribly failed all prior encounters, I was turning a new leaf and seeing how that worked.

  I couldn't tell how the new method was working. He completely avoided and ignored me that first day. On the second… well, you know what happened then. The cameras caught the entire thing.

  38

  #absfordays

  CASH

  The show schedule had Emma and I getting into an argument on the next day, but we’d deviated from the first script to get drunk at Amigos and eat tacos, so I woke up that morning with no idea of what was to come. I laid in bed and could hear, from somewhere in the distance, yelling.

  I sat up slowly and glanced at my roommates, both still asleep. Standing, I shuffled to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, then moved downstairs.

  The house was a typical Beverly Hills mansion—which meant that there was nothing typical about it. Towering ceilings on both the first and second floors. Windows everywhere, with arched details and authentic poured glass. Marble floors and a sweeping staircase that took up the space of two New York City apartments. Someone with a penance for oil paintings and heavy furniture had decorated the house. I moved down the main staircase and eyed the Persian rug at the foot of it, wondering how long it would last before Johno vomited on it.

  A girl with a messy bun and headset skidded to a stop as she saw me. She paused, then screeched out Dana’s name.

  “Use the damn headset,” Dana snapped, appearing off the left side. She saw me, then snapped her hands up as if I was about to step on a bomb. “Hold it right there. Don’t move a single step. TONY!”

  A camera hustled into the room, and I scratched the back of my neck as the operator kneeled, the camera angled up to me.

  "Yes," Dana breathed. "Yes, this is gold. Cash, continue down the stairs. Please, for the love of God, go into the kitchen, and get coffee. Don't look at the camera. JOHN, leave the girls for a minute and come catch this!”

  I was certain, thudding down those final stairs and taking the long path into the kitchen, that something would be waiting there for me. Some big AHA surprise moment that would leave the viewers and me stunned. I slowed at the arch entrance to the large open space, prepared—but there was nothing. The long glistening white counter. A coffee pot percolating by the sink. I opened a cabinet, then another, then five more before I found the coffee cups. They were all red and lined up in a perfect row by someone with severe OCD. I took the cup and flipped the cabinet shut, then reached for the coffee pot.

  “That’s it…” Dana said softly. “Zoom in on his abs. Catch all of that beautiful definition.”

  I chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all and received an immediate and sharp reprimand from Dana. Looking back, I guess she knew her stuff. That two-minute clip of me coming down the steps and getting my coffee got two hundred million views and birthed ninety-six different memes and gifs. Apparently, tousled bed hair and low-slung pajama pants got a woman's juices going. Add in a steaming cup of coffee, and I had two seven-figure offers on Frank's desk, one from Keurig and one from Folgers. We took them both.

  The yelling, which had subsided slightly with Dana's focus on me, resumed, and I took my coffee and followed the sound, curious at what was going on.

  I was stepping over a thick tangle of cords between the kitchen and dining room when a carrot flew by my head, the point narrowly missing my eye. I paused and followed the source of the projectile.

  Marissa wore more makeup than a clown at a kid’s birthday party and was dressed in a red negligee and four-inch heels. She pointed at the carrot. "You're trying to KILL US. You think we can't taste chemicals? Is that how stupid you think we are? I—Hey Cash—I'm not touching another thing in that fridge unless it comes from Blue Farms Baby."

  A production assistant rapidly nodded as she took notes on a pad. A crew member went to reach for the carrot, and Dana yelled at him to stop.

  Eileen, who was sitting at the large round table behind a Versace china bowl filled with Fruit Loops, waved her milk-covered spoon at me. “Welcome to the circus.”

  I nodded at her and wondered where, in all of this, Emma was.

  “You’d think, with all of the cameras, that it’d be impossible to lose a person, but we lost Emma all the time. After the first episode, Dana had us put a tracking device on her car and then, when that didn’t work, in every purse she had. It was funny. As soon as filming would start, and we’d know that Emma was busy, we’d run around and plant trackers on everything of hers that we could find. Was it a violation of privacy? Maybe. But MTV had, at that point, a very sizable investment in the show, and that show really… especially by the end, was one hundred percent focused on her and Cash.”

  Glorya Lane, Production Assistant, House of Fame

  "I knew, earl
y on, that Cash liked Emma. I mean that he really liked her, not just what you saw on the show. His eyes would move to her, wherever she was. And if she wasn't in the room, then he was looking for her. It was really sweet, but I was the only one who caught on to it. Everyone else… maybe even them, thought that they hated each other."

  Paulette Reyes, Camera Operator, House of Fame

  40

  #quietontheset

  CASH

  Ninety percent of every reality show is scripted. Complete fabrication. Not the lines, they let us ad lib those, but the scenarios and drama are contrived. The remaining ten percent of the show is natural interaction, chemistry and fireworks—which is why the cameras ran on us all the time, hoping for something.

  "Okay, this is simple, so don't screw it up." Dana stood in the middle of the living room, her clipboard in hand. "Cash answers Emma's phone, takes a message for her, doesn't give her the message and she freaks out at him."

  She looks from me to Emma. “Got it?”

  “What am I doing when he answers my phone?”

  “Pool or shower, it’s up to you.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and mentally voted for the shower. Not because I needed to see her in a towel, but—okay, whatever. I'm a guy. I wanted to see her as close to naked as possible.

  Her gaze drifted to mine, and I adopted the best bored look I could muster. “Pool.”

  I shrugged as if I didn’t care.

  “Okay, let’s get Emma in a bathing suit and Cash in the living room. Emma, where’s your phone?”