The F List: Fame, Fortune, and Followers

by Torre, Alessandra

  "He has Down's Syndrome, he's not a liar," Jocelyn said haughtily.

  "He's not lying,” I spoke up. “I was hiding from the reality show cameras in his room one night. But go ahead and pull the tapes. You'll see me leaving his room around 2 A.M.. But I would never behave inappropriately to Wesley. We played cards, and video games, and split some food. Nothing else."

  No one was listening to me. Certainly not the cameras, which had already swung back to Jocelyn. Had someone already called the press? Where was Michelle? How many crew members had their phones out, recording this?

  This was the end of everything. My relationship. My career. The love of my followers. No one supported the seduction of a boy with disabilities.

  I don't know what Jocelyn said, I missed it in my despair, but whatever it was caused my mother to toss her wine glass forward. I watched in slow motion as the red liquid sloshed out of the wide neck of the cup and splattered over Jocelyn's cream top and lips.

  Jocelyn gawked, her chin dropping as she surveyed the damage, then let out a blood-curdling scream and rushed forward, claws extended, toward my mother.

  At that point, the threats of a lawsuit got lost. Dad stood, Mr. Mitchell stood, and the cameras caught everything as food, wine, and fists began to fly.

  As it turns out, trailer park and Beverly Hills parents aren't that different. Add in alcohol and insults, and hell breaks loose.

  “Gosh, that fight. It was beautiful. All of the elements you want. I mean, this was Jerry Springer stuff. We had the screaming and hair pulling, and coming from Jocelyn Mitchell. Jocelyn Mitchell! It was the most glorious footage I ever filmed, and we got it at 60 frames per second, which allowed us to slow it down later without losing quality. Unfortunately, it was only forty-seven seconds of gold before the women were out of breath, and the men were pulling them apart, but that was all I needed. Those forty-seven seconds allowed me to sell that entire season—and I did. Six languages and forty-two countries.

  We tried to get the couples back into formation and talking like civilized individuals, but they weren't having any of that. Jocelyn and Rob Mitchell swept out of that living room with threats to sue us into oblivion, while Tonya and Ted Ripplestine starting cleaning up the mess they had made. That footage helped Emma. Her trailer-trash mom with that horrible hairdo, on her knees, picking up pieces of finger sandwiches. It would have been better if Emma had been there beside her, but we lost her during the fight. Five cameras and twenty crew, and we somehow missed her exit."

  Dana Diench, Producer, House of Fame

  72

  #brothers

  CASH

  I drove my car, with Wesley buckled into the passenger side. He fiddled with the controls, lifting the seat until it was so high he had to turn his head to one side.

  "Ca, look!"

  I glanced at him. “Funny, bud. You like that?”

  “It’s tickling my butt.” He giggled.

  “Those are the seat massagers. Lower your seat a little, you’re going to hurt your neck.”

  “It’s fine.” His seat reclined back a little, and I switched the visual display to show the seat controls. Tapping the screen, I lowered his seat until his head righted into its normal position.

  “Awww.” He frowned.

  “Think about it. You can’t eat ice cream sitting like that.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Smart.”

  He bobbed his head to the music and looked out the window. “Which ice cream are we going to?”

  “Your choice.”

  “Jeremiah’s,” he said with finality.

  “Okay.” I moved into the left lane.

  “I haven’t had Jeremiah’s in twenty years.”

  I smiled despite the circumstances. “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “Fifty years,” he corrected.

  "Maybe two years." I thought of the last time I took him out of the Ranch. It had been his birthday, and I'd taken him to the beach. He couldn't swim, but we'd built a sandcastle and gotten a snow cone. He'd returned to the Ranch with a slight sunburn and a new Lakers jersey, one he vowed to wear every day for the rest of his life.

  "We should get ice cream for Miss E." He smoothed down the front of his shorts. "She likes strawberry with chocolate."

  My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Wes, why didn’t you tell me about Emma—Miss E?”

  He laughed. “I have told you about her.” And yes, he had, but he hadn’t told me enough, not enough for me to understand that Missy was Miss E was Emma.

  “She’s my friend.” He cracked the knuckles on his left hand.

  “Does she work at the Ranch?”

  “Sometimes. She says it’s not like work. It’s fun.”

  I slowed to a stop at a red light. “What do you and her do together?”

  “Play. We’re friends.”

  “What kind of play?”

  He laughed. “You know!” He lifted his hands. “Play.”

  “Does she ever ask you to take off your clothes?”

  “WHAT?” He scrunched up his face. “No! Miss E is your girlfriend. Not mine.”

  “Emma’s not my girlfriend.”

  "Uh-huh." He started to recline the seat, and I stabbed at the screen, removing his control ability. "They told me she was."

  “Who told you she was?”

  “The lady with the nose ring.”

  Dana. My stomach cramped at the idea of her talking to Wes, and how she had found out that Emma was volunteering there. Exactly how much snooping had been done into our lives? “What else did she say?”

  “I was supposed to say Miss E slept with me.”

  Anger boiled in me, and if I hadn’t already planned on suing MTV, this cemented it. I turned to him. “You lied about that?”

  He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “She had a sleepover in my room.”

  I touched his arm. “Wes, look at me. Look in my eyes. Where did she sleep?”

  “In the closet.”

  I let out a breath, relieved. “And you just played? Normal stuff? No undressing?”

  "You know I have a girlfriend," he said indignantly. "A GIRLFRIEND. B-B-Becky."

  “Okay, Wes.” I put my hands back on the wheel. “I’m just watching out for you.”

  “Miss E watches out for me too. She likes me.”

  I sighed. As much as I would love the idea that Emma liked Wes, I couldn’t buy it. I wouldn’t believe anything that she ever said to me. I had known what Emma was like going into this, I had just allowed myself to forget it, and that was my fault.

  73

  #houseofblame

  EMMA

  I watched mom and dad leave from the window in my bedroom. Mom's hair was sticking out in all directions, and Dad's shirt looked like it was ripped at the collar. She was wildly gesturing, ranting away, and I felt a surge of appreciation for her—for them both. Maybe they had told my most embarrassing stories to the press and said all sorts of horrible things. They had still rallied beside me when I needed them. I let out a small laugh, thinking of my mother tackling Jocelyn Mitchell to the ground. God, if we had known, a decade ago, that we would be in the same room as Jocelyn Mitchell, we would have crapped our pants. Now, we'd probably have restraining orders from her.

  I don’t know when Cash got back to the house, but the next morning he was there, standing in the kitchen, a coffee cup in hand when I came in. Johno paused, mid-sentence, and glanced at him, then continued his story of a Cuban hooker. Cash sipped his cup and ignored me.

  There were four days left of us in the house. One episode and four days and somehow, in the countless interactions that occur when you live with someone—he didn’t say a single word to me during that time.

  Oh, Dana tried. At every opportunity, she tried to initiate fights between us. She had Eileen ask me why I would go for a seventeen-year-old boy in front of Cash. Asked how many photos I’d leaked to the press of him when we were playing, but I ignored it all. I knew if I tried to defend myself, everything would be
twisted against me on the cutting room floor. She even ordered Cash and me to go back into the confession room together. Cash walked off at that one. Dana had looked at me with the most triumphant, nasty expression on her face, and laughed.

  I wanted to ask her why? How? But what was the point? The damage was done. Dana had done exactly what she’d set out to do. She’d created a jaw-dropping season, and leaked enough footage, clips, and quotes to keep House of Fame constantly trending. By the time the season aired, viewers were frantic to see it all play out.

  And hey, my plan had worked. Wahoo. All of the drama and press had brought me more money, followers, and fame. Too bad everything hitting browser windows was painting me as a cheating pedophile and Cash—the guy who owned my heart—wouldn’t even look at me.

  Maybe I should have been the one to break the silence. I could have begged Cash’s forgiveness and given him my side of the story—even if it wasn't a very logical or noble one. But I didn't. I let him stew in silence, and I did nothing.

  And four days later, we all moved out.

  74

  #nocomment

  The media was horrible, and for the first time in two years, I didn't celebrate the attention.

  EMMA BLANTON STALKS CASH MITCHELL’S FAMILY

  WHITE TRASH VS CLASS: EMMA AND CASH

  SPECIAL NEEDS FACILITY FIRES EMMA BLANTON FOR CONTACT WITH PATIENT

  I scrolled down the articles, all posted during the night. Then, I looked at the numbers. Forty-nine million followers. One-hundred and six thousand clicks on yesterday’s mascara post. Three million views on the video of me washing the dog. I tried to muster up joy but felt nothing. I searched for Cash’s profile and—like every day this week—I got the blank white page that indicated I was blocked. It stung just as much as it had ten minutes ago.

  Over breakfast—an egg-white omelet with organic cheese and a grilled chicken breast—Beth blew out my hair as the team assembled, my front door opening with casual irregularity as each of my team wandered in, sunglasses hiding hungover eyes, requisite coffees clutched in perfectly manicured hands, the slap of ballet flats and suede boots moving down the entry hall and around the corner into the kitchen.

  Dion settled into the closest stool and eyed my breakfast with contempt. “Looks like shit, girl.”

  "Takes like shit, girl," I mimicked back, then shoved another mouthful in, chewing the food slowly, my eyes back on my device. Three-point-two million views on the dog-washing video. "We should have gone with a bigger dog," I said. "Something messier." I thought of Cash's wart-covered dogs, which could be Instagram famous with the right haircut and outfits.

  “I told you. We went with it because pit bulls have the highest propensity to go viral,” Edwin pushed up his sunglasses with one blue painted nail, then pulled the plate away from me. “You done?”

  I let it go without comment, then sighed as he set a Dunkin Donut box in front of me. “We already did a donut post this month.”

  "Yeah, well. We're in crisis mode, so we need something fun to make people forget everything you've done. Plus, this'll put Dunkin on our side in next week's negotiations." He carefully withdrew a turquoise and pink donut, the sprinkles arranged into a 'don't worry eat donuts' message around the edge.

  It was cute. The colors would play well. Edwin tilted the donut up and peered at me critically. “Let’s touch up her make-up. And put a different pajama top on her. Something solid.”

  “You got it,” Dion stood and headed for my closet.

  They stripped me in the middle of the kitchen, my Blink 182 T-shirt swapped for a bright yellow camisole that played off my fake tan and matched well with the donut. We decide to leave Beth in the shot, my hair comically stretched out with her round brush as I prepared to bite into the donut while Dion's hand—a quickie polish change adding red fingernails to her mix—tried to pull it away. Both Beth and Dion's face were hidden from the shot, and I was 15% degrees off-center as the donut got the prime real estate, the tilt-shift focus bringing it forefront. We shot two hundred stills before Edwin was satisfied.

  “Someone drown me in vomit.” My front door slammed open with the sort of overkill that always preceded Michelle. “Did you see the headlines? Why can’t I get this coverage when I want it?”

  “Because people hate you?” Edwin supplied.

  “Maybe,” she conceded. “But that was rhetorical, screw you very much.”

  “Please tell me they’re going to get bored of me soon.” I put the donut back in the box and moved to the sink to wash my hands.

  "I don't know." She scrolled through her phone. "God, I'd be happy if I could get them to drop the word white trash. I mean, look at you." She gestured at me. "What about you is white trash?"

  “She grew up in a trailer,” Dion remarked.

  “You can’t tell that from looking at her,” Michelle snapped. “Have you heard from Cash?” She stared at me, one eyebrow cocked.

  "No, and he's blocked me... so." I picked up the hand towel and shrugged.

  "No shit. There's an article about that too. I have a call into his publicist. At least for public perception, he needs to drop the block on your accounts and pretend to play nice. This is only prolonging the bleeding, and his brand isn't built on drama." She placed her purse on the counter and dropped her keys in it. "Now. I gave you a week, but we have to do something. I want a major interview—whichever magazine you want. They're all lining up, wanting to talk to you. I'm talking People, Vanity Fair, In Style—you pick. We can put you on record and have you squash all of this ridiculous nonsense. Lead with Wesley, then your parents, and wrap with Cash."

  I shook my head, and she all but jolted at the action.

  "Wha—What is that? What are you saying no to?"

  “I’m not talking about Wesley or Cash on the record.”

  “Uh, yeah you are.”

  “No.” I hung the hand towel back over the handle of the stove. “I can’t use this for press. If I do, he’ll never take me back.”

  There was a long moment of silence where everyone stared at me.

  “Ummm….?” Dion snapped her gum. “I hate to break this to you, but he ain’t taking you back.”

  “Yeah.” Edwin sighed. “Sunk boat, babe.”

  “I know I’m new here—” Beth raised her hand like she was asking a question. “Didn’t you like, sleep with his disabled brother?”

  “Oh my God,” Michelle sighed. “How stupid are you? Seriously? Did you really just open your mouth in this house and ask that question?”

  “I’m more alarmed at the fact that that is still public perception,” I snapped.

  "It's still public perception because you won't TALK to anyone. You're forcing the media to write their own narrative because guess what? Wesley Mitchell can't talk, but his parents won't shut up. So, they can either tell your story, or you can."

  She was right and holding out on press coverage in some ridiculous attempt to win Cash's respect was destroying my reputation. It had been five days since we moved out of the mansion. Nine days since he last spoke to me.

  Long enough.

  “See.” Michelle stopped before me and held out her phone. “Look at that. Elitist rectum hounds.”

  I glanced at her phone, which showed a new article, the lead photo one of a tearful Jocelyn Mitchell, her hand over her heart. I thought of all of the horrible things Cash had told me about her—about how she treated him and Wesley. My thoughts flipped to my reaction upon finally meeting her. Had I gushed? I think I did. Talk about worst girlfriend of the year.

  “At least Cash isn’t talking,” she mused, pulling the device back. “Though rumor is that TMZ has an exclusive with him that’s pubbing Tuesday.”

  "Have you talked to Angie?" Edwin waded into dangerous territory, and we all held our breath, waiting for the reaction from Michelle. Angie, her ex, was TMZ's lead editor—a job that had led to their relationship's demise, and our occasional agony.

  “I called her. Bitch ignored my call.�
�� She tossed the phone on the counter beside her purse. “Tell me you guys have something good.”

  “We’re making a donut post now,” Edwin remarked—and in any other business, it’d be laughable.

  Michelle nodded in approval. “Hurry. Call Dunkin and have them share it.” She looked at me. “Your mom sent over some videos from when you were young. They’re good. Very chummy with the parents and light on the redneckness. Let’s post the first of them in the afternoon slot, then look at the engagement numbers and go from there.”

  “We’re getting decimated in the Team Emma versus Cash hashtags,” Edwin remarked, half of a donut wedged in his jaw.

  “Because she won’t talk,” Michelle repeated. “Look, if you—”

  “I’ll do it,” I interrupted. “Set up a long feature interview with a magazine—whoever you can get the most money with.”

  Edwin perked up. “And then donate the money.”

  “Yes.” Michelle nodded. “Beautiful. I love it.”

  I didn’t. Every single positive press moment would be another burr in Cash’s side. Is this what it had come down to? Choosing my reputation over him? If so, I’d shove that reputation in the garbage disposal and flip the switch to high.

  I needed to talk to him. I couldn’t go on like this. I missed him. More than missed. Yearned for him, like one of those loveswept heroines that wilts in the western movies when her cowboy leaves. That’s how I felt inside. Wilted. Empty. Miserable.

  I’d had four days with him. Four days as Cash Mitchell’s girlfriend. Four days where I’d gone to bed with a smile on my face. Four days where his arm would casually wrap around my waist and he’d smile at me as if I was perfect. Four days where I’d look up and catch him watching me from across the room. No one had ever done that with me and that would have been devastating enough but this was him. The guy. The one I’d melted over for five damn years. The one who saw and defended ugly Emma and somehow found her beautiful.