Date With A Rockstar

by Sarah Gagnon

“Didn’t you hear her?” someone else asks.

  “I know.” My voice squeaks as I try to answer. The camera crew is filming me from the tailgate of their van.

  “Then get out of here,” two girls say in unison.

  I know what they’re thinking—that I’m not good enough, not pretty enough or dressed well enough. I hate being judged. They don’t know anything about me. I keep my back straight and stamp away the urge to run.

  “I’m number forty-two, Monet,” I tell the clipboard guy at the front of the line. “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to go this morning.” I offer him my ID.

  He checks his list. “Oh, yeah. You go in the other entrance. The coordinator should’ve made that clear.” I shrug; maybe Eleanor forgot. A rock bounces off the back of my leg. I don’t turn around. “But for today, I can just let you in here.” He opens the door for me, and I whisper my thanks.

  Inside, I notice Jeremy’s bodyguard from yesterday standing in front of a door at the end of the hallway. I wave and he gives me a warm smile. I might as well ask him for directions. Who knows, maybe I’ll run into Jeremy Bane again.

  “Monet, right?” he asks, holding out his hand. I shake it. The guy’s got a fierce grip.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t remember yours.”

  “Star struck,” he says, laughing. “I’m Derek, and don’t worry, Jeremy’s fans always forget me.”

  I glance up at his strong jaw and masculine face. He’s not very forgettable, either. “Do you know where I’m supposed to go this morning?”

  He turns back down the hall, his snug T-shirt stretching with his bicep as he points me in the right direction. “The waiting room is around the corner, first door on the left.” I bet he can crush skulls.

  “Thanks, I guess if I’m selected I’ll see you around.” I bump into the wall as I turn around, but he doesn’t notice my lack of grace.

  He nods, the good-natured smile back in place. “As long as they keep you girls camped out with the breakfast buffet, you’ll be seeing me when I get a break in an hour.”

  “Cool.” I wave and walk around the corner. What an easy job watching Jeremy Bane all day must be. Or, scrap that, maybe I only think it would be easy because hanging out with such an awesome musician all the time would be cool. In reality, Derek probably has to be constantly on alert, waiting for danger. Still, if I had to stare at someone all day, Jeremy’s the guy. I take a deep breath and push open the waiting room door.

  Jasmine has spread out in the chair closest to the camera. Her legs are crossed and her back arches slightly to display her breasts. Quite the pose. A man works the settings, and I recognize the telltale whir of zooming in and out. Jasmine’s aqua dress and sculpted calves must have him captivated. Instead of allowing her to intimidate me, I stride to the buffet and fill up a plate with granola and berries. If I only get one more day, I’m going to eat my fill.

  “Hungry much?” Jasmine asks.

  “Sure, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t eat breakfast.” She flicks the tips of her nails in my direction.

  “Too bad for you,” I say, keeping a cheery tone. Even she can’t get me down.

  She humphs and returns to posing for the camera.

  The next girl through the door surprises us because, physically, she’s the exact opposite of both Jasmine and I. With her blonde hair and curvy figure, she’s attractive in a different way. “My name is Shelley Anne,” she announces with her arm stretched out.

  I stand to shake her hand. “I’m Monet.” As long as I don’t bleed on her or spit into her mouth, she won’t catch Fluxem from me.

  “Oh, this is so perfectly exciting.” She checks out the rest of the room, nodding and smiling.

  I wonder if there’s a pattern in Jeremy’s choices. His past girlfriends look more like Jasmine, but that doesn’t mean that’s the only type of girl he likes. In fact, I imagine he’s more into personality than a set physical description. Shelley has enthusiasm.

  She spins in a circle. “I’m so delighted to be here. Isn’t this going to be so much fun?”

  Jasmine grimaces.

  “Absolutely,” I tell her. “You should try the fruit.”

  “Yum, yum, yummy,” Shelley says around a mouthful. The cameraman wheels closer to get a shot of her sucking her fingers. Ugh. I hope she’s not doing it on purpose. All the girls haven’t even been chosen yet.

  The next girl through the door shares Jasmine’s coloring, stylish clothing, and snotty attitude.

  “I’m Mel.” She cradles her slim waist with tan arms and her turquoise nails splay like she’s a mannequin on display. Great, like the competition needs a Jasmine clone. Are they even asking these girls the entire questionnaire? With the speed they’re arriving, I feel like they’re selecting every other one. I gravitate to Shelley Anne, who is by far the friendliest in the group. I don’t want these girls to be my enemies, but I can’t help making comparisons. She’s taller than me, has longer hair, bigger breasts. The lists continue in my head until I have a chunk of brain filled with inadequacies.

  The new girl, Crystal, whistles an entire song of Jeremy’s while the camera records. I’m sure her ash blonde hair glows on screen, and they probably can correct the tone of her notes.

  Shelley Anne purses her lips in a sour expression. I try not to laugh. Poor Crystal. Good thing there isn’t a talent portion to the competition. According to the papers, we’re just going on dates. No pageant theatrics, we just need to impress the viewers and Jeremy.

  As I consider this, a buxom redhead flows into the room. “Claire,” she states. I nod. She has a salsa dancing outfit on. Not a minute later, a petite Latina girl slips into the room and hides on one of the back couches.

  Number eight also looks like Jasmine, but with geometric lines tattooed around her eyebrows. Her name is Brie and I kind of want to ask how painful the procedure on her eyes was, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m a thin brunette like her, Jasmine, and Mel, but I think our similarities end there. Celeb magazine ran a story about Jeremy’s break-up with porcelain, brunette actress Fiona Wilde about a year ago. Miss Wilde told reporters that Jeremy was too absorbed with his music and other women, and she was “done wasting her time.” I bet he dumped her. Though I could be wrong. Maybe he dates and leaves tons of women and I’m just influenced by all the positive press about him. Still, in the bathroom he seemed like a good guy. Not that meeting him in the bathroom once qualifies me as an expert. All year, the tabloids have managed to snap a new shot of Jeremy standing next to a random girl almost every week, but they never turn out to be his girlfriend. No matter what the truth is, he’s got a lot of women around to choose from. I wonder if he’s really doing the show just for charity, or if there’s some truth to him wanting to find the right girl.

  I count the girls off on my fingers. Number nine, Erin, speaks with a southern accent. Number ten, Jaime, wears purple contacts, giving her eyes a creepy, mystical glow. That’s ten.

  Please, no more girls. If he picks one more, will Jasmine be asked to leave, or me? I take a deep breath. Jeremy’s not having any trouble picking out a whole pile of girls. Jasmine has her fixed predator expression on. The door handle turns and we hold our breath.

  Derek walks in and goes directly to the buffet. Phew. I take the opportunity to eat even more. “Hey,” I say.

  He nods with his mouth full and swallows. “So, this is all of them,” he says, turning to face the room. He rubs the stubble on his chin and shrugs. “They’re all polished and girly, nightmare dates. What is Bane thinking?” He laughs and then pauses for a minute. “The one with the boobs isn’t bad.”

  I try not to laugh. “Okay, what type of girl would you have picked?”

  “A tough one. Someone who can take care of herself and handle a weapon. Preferably with very large—”

  I raise my hand before he continues. “I get it.”

  He turns back to the table and loads his plate up.

  A muffled loudspeaker announcement echoes thro
ugh the walls.

  “Shhh,” Jasmine yells.

  I freeze, listening. “Girls number 500 through 750, follow the guards into the auditorium.”

  I turn back to Derek. “Do you think he’ll pick more girls and make some of us go home?”

  “Nah, he’ll just sing the remaining girls a special song or some such shit. He’s a sucker for his fans.”

  I relax and grab a piece of fruit.

  “Back to work for me. Later.” I wave at Derek as he lugs off his plate of food. Then I nod at Jasmine, who’s been listening in. She lifts one corner of her mouth in a partial smile.

  If they’re dismissing the other girls, we’re in.

  I’ll get time alone with Jeremy to convince him to pick me for the prize money. Relief bubbles through me. Phase one of my goal achieved. I’m just that much closer to getting rid of Fluxem. Ten percent odds are better than I had two days ago. Now I’ve got a whole week or more to figure out how to win Jeremy over. I might be able to do this.

  After the ten of us are assembled, a large screen rolls down behind the buffet. Soon after, the guy who did the initial interviews strides into the room. He’s rubbing his hands together in anticipation, which must mean the producers are pleased.

  “Okay, ladies. Congratulations. Selections have been made and we’re happy to welcome you to the show. For those who don’t remember my name from the auditions, I’m Bill. I’ll be along for the duration of the show to coordinate the producers’ needs with your own. So, you’d better remember my name from here on out.” He smiles at us, pleased at how important he’s just made himself sound.

  “Take a look around you, because these are going to be your friends and competition for the next few weeks. You’ll all be able to go home tonight and pack, but tomorrow we’ll be meeting at the Bellfonte airport and flying to our first location…” he pauses, trying to build our excitement. “…the beautiful city of Key West, Florida.” He waits like he’s expecting applause, but no one claps. “Tonight we’ll be airing an advertisement showing views from the line montaged with Jeremy talking about the selection process.”

  “Excuse me, Bill? Did Jeremy watch our auditions?” I can barely hear the question. I turn around. It’s the shy girl hidden at the back edge of the room. I struggle to remember her name. Pammy? Pollie? Praline, that’s it.

  “He surrrre did.” Peppy doesn’t match his chubby, stuffed goose demeanor. He acts differently without the ear bud in. Maybe he’s more relaxed without people watching him through one-way glass.

  “Oh, wow. Jeremy was watching me.” She brings her hands to her cheeks. “I can’t believe Jeremy was here. I’m just so excited.” Her awed expression exudes extreme fangirl even more than the rest of us. She probably knows a lot more about Jeremy than I do. I’ll have to watch her.

  “Any other questions so far?” No one says anything. “Good. The studio will decide a date for each of you, highlighting different locations in Key West to promote tourism. After you’ve all been on one date with Jeremy, there will be two rounds of voting. The audience will select the best three and then those girls will continue on to the final round.” He finishes up in his talk show host voice.

  “Jeremy won’t be the one deciding who he likes best?” Shelley Anne asks. “On the ad it said Jeremy gets to pick.”

  “In the final round he will, but until then, you girls need to impress the viewers. Though you never know, there might be a twist.”

  Yeah, there’s always a twist. The only way reality TV programs can compete against each other anymore is to surprise the viewers, who are never surprised anyway, which makes them all the more ridiculous. Then it hits me. I’m a part of this. Oh, this is bad. Very bad. I’m not good on camera. Visions of throwing up on Jeremy Bane’s feet pop into my head.

  “As a special treat, we’re letting you girls see the commercial before it airs.” The producer’s assistant from before, Eleanor, comes in and hits a few buttons before the screen lights up. “Get ready to be famous,” Bill announces.

  Date with a Rockstar…flashes across the black screen. Only one girl will win a cash prize and a chance for love with Jeremy Bane. The words fade into an image of the line. The camera starts at the front and girls are smiling and waving as the view loops around the building and then skyward. From the air the trail weaves through the buildings. I was right; there were thousands of girls in that line. Then Jeremy Bane comes on screen. His face is so flawless, my fingers itch to stroke his skin. A bio-chemical reaction, nothing more. His eyes appear to stare directly at me, but I know he’s just looking into the camera.

  “I don’t know who I’ll find in line, but I’m hoping to form a real connection. There are so many people in the world…I wonder how many of us never find the right one.” All ten of us hold our breath when he speaks. He sounds so sincere, so sweet. Praline clutches her chest and fans her face with the other hand. I hope the studio picked her and not Jeremy. I can’t imagine a girl more different from myself.

  Then the commercial shows the line start to move. The first girl waves out at the audience as she enters the building. I’m glad she at least got her face on TV after waiting for two weeks. “Who will he choose and who will you? Which girl is after his heart and which girl is after the money?” a voice says. “Starting June 14, help Jeremy Bane find the right girl.”

  I gulp. That line could have been directed straight at me. I’m so guilty.

  The screen fades to a commercial for the Global Skin Cancer Initiative. They use the same overhead footage of the line, but this time they zoom away from the girls and across the city to show the research building. The camera goes through the front doors, and the receptionist and patients wave. They’re clearly actors. Then they show a swatch of skin growing in a petri dish. The voiceover comes on. “GSCI, continuing innovation and excellence to solve all your skin cancer needs. The ozone layer might be diminished, but we can help you stay safe. Support us on June 25 by attending Jeremy Bane’s benefit concert at Madison Square Garden with the finalists from Date With a Rockstar.”

  Shelley Anne wanders over to me. “What did you think of the commercial?”

  I tuck my hair behind my ears. Jeremy’s so generous and I’m after money. Not much of a match. Shelley raises her eyebrows, waiting. Right. “I think it’s awesome he’s supporting such a great cause.”

  “Me, too. Cancer is the worst.”

  I nod, not sure what I can add. Cancer’s worse than Fluxem because there’s no cure and it affects a lot more of the population.

  Jasmine stops Bill before he can leave the room. “How many days will we be gone? Should we be prepared for dressy dates or casual?”

  I listen in, even though I don’t have many clothing options. How am I even going to get to the airport? I fear the subways, but the shuttle costs a lot. I’d be better off scraping the last of my money together for a dress. I don’t suppose they could pick us up?

  “You’ll be allowed two suitcases of clothes. No more than that, so pack carefully. You might end up hiking or at a fancy restaurant. The dates haven’t been coordinated yet, so I can’t give you any more information than that.”

  Two suitcases? I don’t even own enough to fill one.

  “That’s an awfully small amount of luggage if y’all are expecting us to do our own hair and makeup,” Jaime says. Her purple contacts gleam in the artificial light. Maybe Jeremy likes purple.

  Bill shakes his head. “You’ll manage.”

  I study Jaime, and she thrusts her chin out and returns my stare. She has a petite button nose and curly brown hair. I wish I could find a flaw in her appearance, but other than the fake eyes, I can’t. Maybe she’ll be a finalist.

  All of the girls are complaining about the allotment. Who cares? I don’t even own a suitcase.

  Then Bill drops the second problem. No electronic devices on the trip. Another item I don’t own. The girls yell over each other about how impossible that is, as though their phones are physically implanted in their
heads.

  As Bill wraps up our day, I’m freaking out enough to consider spending the money I’ve been saving for the cure on clothes. If I looked better, would I stand more of a chance at winning the prize? Maybe a new dress could be thought of as an investment in getting more funds.

  Eleanor hands each of us a pamphlet on Key West and releases us out the back door, right into the waiting herd of press. With the rest of the line dismissed, they must have figured the final ten were inside. I keep my hand over my face, duck down, and block as much of myself with my arm as I can. None of the other girls stop, either. The threat of being disqualified looms over us.

  As the others drive off in cars, I start off toward home at a brisk jog. A reporter follows me for a couple of blocks, yelling questions at my back. I’m in better shape than he is. I have to get home and to the mall. Discount shopping takes time and I need to find a killer outfit.

  I’d feel safer if I had a chip in my arm like everyone else, but I don’t have enough money to warrant a bank account. I rush up the stairs and into the apartment. I grab my meager savings from my bedside table. My backpack is still on the floor from yesterday. I bite my lip. The fact that I left property of the Society in an unsecure location for twenty-four hours just proves how insane this competition is already making me. I dig through the bottom. My fingers close around the small metal disc and I exhale my relief. I remember how Jeremy looked at me when he found the piece. Is it possible that he appreciates visual art, too? I tuck the gold chunk deep in my front pocket. I need to get it out of my possession before I leave.

  I speed down the flights of stairs. Snatches of conversation follow me from floor to floor. I suspect rodents consumed all the insulation in the building years ago, because I hear everything. The faster I can descend, the less I have to learn about my neighbors. From what I do catch, they’re a miserable, creepy bunch. Still, this building is nicer than where Mom and I used to live. With the limited available housing, we were on a wait list even for this place.

  Outside, the thick, oppressive air clogs my lungs. There isn’t enough sun to bake off the humidity, so the moisture hovers in the air, trapped on this messed up planet just like me.