by Sarah Gagnon
Kreeger’s Market has a glass front and three stories. I’m a little excited. I wonder what sort of budget they gave Eleanor for us. I can’t imagine the other girls would be content with a diet of veggie-spread sandwiches. I bet the producers are trying to protect themselves from getting sued by bringing us all to the supermarket. No one can say they weren’t fed if we have the opportunity to pick out our own food.
The ten of us, tromping through the aisles, don’t look like we belong, except for me. They’re more like misplaced fashion models. We end up with a lot of prepared food. Vitamin bars, bread, and chips—all of the essential nutrients, no need for cooking. Eleanor picks out these ready-heat mac and cheese containers. When you rip away the metal wire on the bottom there’s a short burst of heat that cooks the pasta. I’ve never had one, but I’ve seen the commercial on TV. I’m surprised when she scans three bags of oranges into the cart. I watch the dollar increment on the handle shoot up.
And so begins six days of hell.
Jeremy doesn’t call. No one knows where he’s staying. Presumably in New York. The Fluxem splotch on my back spreads. A third one starts on my hip, right on the side I usually sleep on, so I spend half the night trying to get comfortable and then sleep like crap. The room smells weird, and I can’t tell if it’s just the hotel or if I’m starting to smell like a basement, too. The weather gets worse as the storm moves up the coast. Horizontal rain pelts the roof of the inn, destroying my sleep even more.
Every night another contestant gets knocked down in front of the world. The Blue Finn Inn isn’t equipped with a viewing room, so we all crowd together in Eleanor’s room for the show. A single camera films us, but I doubt the footage will be usable. Shelley Anne has weight issues, but the majority of her episode focuses on her battle with skin cancer. Mel is a pill addict. Brie drinks, smokes, and plays in an underground gambling ring. I try to gauge Jeremy’s reaction to her after what Derek said about their shared interest in throwing away money. Jeremy flashes his devilish half-smile throughout the date, but I can’t tell if he’s flirting or just pleased with his cards. With the amount of chips he lays down on the table, I assume he’s being dealt killer hands. I never thought of one vice being more attractive than another. Maybe I should have been picking out more glamorous, slightly illegal hobbies other than scratching. Brie is far cooler than me. After her show, I almost want to talk to her and find out more. Her dirty secrets are so much more exciting than mine.
The studio couldn’t have planned a better mix of messed up girls—but then, they probably did plan them. Bastards. As the days pass, I start to obsess about Jasmine’s secret. She still doesn’t seem worried. Every night she watches the episodes with a detached calm, smirking and silently passing judgment. On day four, I’m convinced she’s managed to bribe a producer. All my missing Jeremy energy is devoted to fantasies of her downfall.
Then her show airs.
The familiar words flash across the screen—Who will win a date with a rockstar?
Rod Bing sits down behind the desk and the audience claps. His scarf is black and white stripes. “Tonight, the last contestant’s date and secret will be revealed.”
Here we go. What I’ve been waiting for. Jasmine slammed down a notch.
“Meet contestant number ten, Jasmine.” She enters the interview room with calm poise. She’s polished. Dictionary perfect.
Get on with it, bring out the dirt. Praline’s hands are balled like she’s thinking the same thing. Even the clones eagerly lean forward, waiting for the gossip. The show continues. Blah, blah. Jasmine loves Jeremy’s music and is overwhelmed by his attractiveness. She only hopes she can be “worthy of his attention.”
Rod Bing widens one eye. Here we go. “Now, we didn’t know this at the time Jasmine was selected, and her modesty does her credit…” A picture of a little boy and girl fills the screen. Their arms are linked and the boy has mud up to his knees. I guess their age to be around five, the boy is missing a front tooth and smiles a familiar smile. I fill with dread. A big hand flips the photo over and then the camera pans up to show a woman who’s an exact older replica of Jasmine. The focus shifts back to the writing on the back of the photo.
Jasmine and Jeremy age five, Whisper Creek.
There’s a collective gasp in the room. My ears are ringing, but the noise does nothing to block out the TV.
“Jeremy was always hanging around our house when he and Jasmine were little.” Jasmine’s mom leans in like she’s going to tell the camera a secret. “I think he had a bit of a crush on her.” My knuckles crack as my hands tighten into fists. I want to cry. Please let them have actual bad stuff about her. This can’t be it. “When he moved away, I know we all missed him. I think it’s a blessing that the two can be reunited on the show.” The picture fills the screen again. Jeremy as a little boy. What a cutie. And Jasmine…she was beautiful even then. Tears prickle my eyes.
The screen shifts to Jasmine at the hotel. No wonder she’s been so smug. They filmed her while we were all going through hell, wondering what was going to be revealed. I’m furious. I’m beyond furious. She has the nerve to accuse me of cheating. The footage only gets worse.
“Why didn’t you reveal you knew Jeremy in the initial interview?”
“I didn’t want him to feel obligated to pick me. I wanted him to see me for who I’ve become these long years we’ve been apart.” She drops her gaze modestly. What an actress.
“That was taking a bit of a chance,” the interviewer says.
“I’m a fairly confident person, and I had faith there’d still be a spark between us.”
Rod Bing turns away from the viewing screen behind the desk. “After the commercial break, witness whether or not there’s still that spark.”
I stare at Jasmine. She flicks her black hair over her shoulder with perfectly manicured fingers. Mel crosses her arms and slides to the other end of the bed. Jasmine doesn’t need friends, she’s apparently got Jeremy.
On screen, a boat cuts through choppy water, heading away from a dock. Jeremy and Jasmine stand at the back, looking worried. Cut to the onboard camera. “Is it safe to snorkel in this weather?” Jasmine asks, yelling over the noise of the engine and wind.
“Oh, sure, sure. No worries.” The tour guide hands her a lifejacket and goggles. Jeremy shrugs and takes his set with a smile. The camera zooms in on Jasmine’s perfect bottom as she pushes off the edge of the boat into the water. The tour guide follows them in and motions them away from the boat. This time it looks like Jeremy has a camera mounted to his shoulder. They do quick cuts of the waves rising and falling around him, with Jasmine’s scared face looking back at him. It would’ve been nice if they’d spent as much time on the production of my date. Then maybe they wouldn’t have missed every romantic thing Jeremy said.
“Keep swimming!” the tour guide yells, pointing into the distance. “The turtles are this way.” Jeremy ducks underwater. A turtle swims close and then angles away. Jasmine’s legs are long and slender under the water as Jeremy swims forward. The rain picks up, and from Jeremy’s camera I can’t see the guide anymore. He slips below the surface again, and it’s easier to make out where Jasmine is in the water from underneath. Her legs spiral around, kicking furiously. I can sense her panic from the rapid flailing of her legs.
Jeremy gurgles as a wave crashes over his head.
This can’t be safe.
He swims hard for her. From the boat, his dark brown hair is barely visible as he bobs toward Jasmine. He ducks under again as a turtle skims Jasmine’s leg. When he comes up, even at a distance, I hear her screams.
Then he’s there. He takes her in his arms. Her lips are trembling and she’s gulping for air. “Calm down, calm down,” Jeremy says over and over again as he pushes her hair out of her face. The goggles are hanging loosely around her neck. She’s scared, and she’s beautiful, and I want to die. The waves knock them back and forth. Then the guide shouts to swim back to the boat. Jasmine shakes her head no.
“It’s too dangerous for the boat to get any closer!” Jeremy yells. She shakes her head no again, eyes wide with terror. He takes her arms and hooks them around his neck so that she’s on top of his back. Then he swims, towing her behind. At the boat, the guide climbs in first and Jeremy hands Jasmine to him before climbing in himself. In the last scene, Jasmine huddles in a towel with Jeremy’s arm around her.
There goes the end of the competition.
Jasmine wins.
She wins the whole damn thing. How can the audience not vote for her? I imagine the show playing out in the studio execs’ minds—childhood sweethearts reunited, a gut-wrenching date, romance in every second. Then, during the final three show, she reveals to Jeremy who she really is. A teary embrace and the end of Jeremy and me. The rest of the contestants—nothing but gossip-worthy distractions. I can’t even see how the audience would vote me into the final three with all the kissing that’s been happening on the different dates.
“Congratulations, Jasmine,” I say, and leave the room.
NINETEEN
THE REST OF the night passes in a blur. I’m depressed. Not even the promise of getting a mini makeover can cushion the blow of Jasmine’s date. In my dreams, turtles nibble my legs and I sink to the bottom of the ocean. Over my head, Jasmine and Jeremy embrace while I struggle for air.
I wake up and sling my tote bag over my shoulder. I’m ready to get the hell out of here. The ten of us are taking a shuttle all the way to New York. I press my forehead against the cool window as the landscape wizzes by. Outside of the city, a huge growth dome towers next to the highway. A line of tractor trailer trucks wait to take the exit ramp. The circular building has clear plastic panels held in place by a large steel grid overlaying the whole thing. Solar cells pop off the top like big vents. The dome probably supplies enough produce for the whole state. A pod skims the outside of the structure and drops out of sight, another ride for the tourists. If I ever visited outside of the show, I’d save my money and watch the virtual version.
The shuttle slows for the upcoming brake lights. A digital sign flashes about accidents up ahead. I overhear the driver talking about flooding. Jasmine’s quiet, smug smiles grate on my nerves.
The entrance into New York is jammed solid. We’re in the outer lane and I can see the lower branches of the bridge, with cars so close together they might as well be a magnetic train. Below the cars, grayish-brown water sloshes back and forth. I wonder if the politicians ever thought about trying to put a clean air dome over New York or just decided that the city was too far gone. From the advertisements flashing along the bridge supports, I’d guess they’ve sunk all the taxpayer dollars into building up their entertainment infrastructure.
Once we’re inside the city, I’m reminded of Boston. Tall buildings, stained black from exhaust, are framed by the mass of people moving along the sidewalk like one giant wave. No pigeon traps, though. We round the corner and dead in front of us there’s a fifty-foot forest—or at least, the likeness of one. A Bank One banner hangs off one of the projected trees.
Another turn and we arrive at the Sheridan Luxury Deluxe and check into paradise. This hotel is even more amazing than the one in Key West. The reservation counter occupies the middle of a vast open space. Clear elevators slide silently up and down the twenty-story interior walls. Maybe the show’s ratings have improved and they’ve decided we’re worth more money.
When we get upstairs, there are fruit baskets on our beds and notes containing our stylist’s name and appointment time for tomorrow. I have Monique. I bet she’ll make a joke about the similarity of our names. I look over at Praline, who’s been practically catatonic since the Jasmine episode. She repeatedly pokes her finger into the cellophane covering her basket. The hopeful momentum of the show has been replaced by the uneasy feeling we’ve been set up to fail. I can’t even fantasize about punching Jasmine anymore if Jeremy truly likes her.
A 3-D image comes to life on the desk. “Hotel reception. Is there a Monet available for a phone call?” Jeremy?
“Oh, hi, Mom.”
“Don’t sound so excited. The contestant coordinator called and gave me your new room number. Are you too busy?”
“No. It’s fine.”
“What’s wrong this time?”
“You saw the show.”
“Ah, Jasmine’s her name, right?”
“Yeah.” I want to cry again.
“Here’s the thing, honey. That was more than ten years ago. Do you still want to date Fritz Schneckle?”
“Mom, you know how bad that kid turned out.”
“Exactly. The kid you hold hands with in first grade isn’t the one you marry.”
“But the date. You saw how he saved her.”
“All I saw was a young man who’s conscientious enough not to let some girl drown. That tour guide should be brought up on charges. Really, who would push those kids off a boat in that weather?”
“The show coordinator probably paid him to.”
“I can’t say I think much of these people.”
Yeah, me neither. “I gotta go, Mom. I’ve got an early appointment with a stylist and I need to try to sleep.” Or search the halls for Jeremy.
“Good luck tomorrow, honey.”
I take the elevator to the first floor and begin walking. The hotel is laid out in one big circle. I stride down corridor after corridor, slowly circling my way up. I’ve probably covered three miles by the time I find Derek in the hallway.
“Monet.” He tucks his handheld screen back into his pocket. “I heard they sent you to New Jersey. Jeremy had me asking everyone where they’d hidden you girls away.”
“Blue Finn Inn.” Which girls specifically was he trying to find? That almost implies that he has a relationship going with more than one of us.
Derek cracks his knuckles and then stretches his back. He’s totally oblivious to how worried he just made me. “Never heard of it. Nice place?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” I twist my hair into a knot. Once I see Jeremy, I’m sure he’ll clear this up. Maybe he’s friends with another one of the girls, but still likes me.
He laughs, but makes no move to invite me into the room.
“So, uh, can I see Jeremy for a minute?”
Derek scratches his fingers through his buzzed hair. When he tips down, I notice a lightning strike shaved into the top. “The thing is, the studio is paying me to sit out here and make sure none of the girls get a chance to see him before the show tomorrow night.”
“Don’t you work for Jeremy, though?”
“They offered a BIG bonus.” He holds his large hands wide apart in the air. “They wouldn’t even let him go to his New York apartment yet. Said there was something in his contract.”
Damn, that’s motivation I can understand. “Any idea why it’s so important for him to be in lockdown?” The long hotel corridor looks safe enough. No loiterers except me.
“They didn’t tell me.” He shrugs. “Escape prevention?”
“Why, you think he wants to get out of doing the show?”
“Absolutely. It’s no fun dumping girls, and tomorrow night he has to watch seven girls get eliminated all at once. You’d have to be a cold bastard not to be affected by that.” It never occurred to me how shitty the process would be for Jeremy. All my thoughts have been about making it to the next round. Now I feel selfish.
Derek shifts his legs out straight and digs in his pocket. “Here, before I forget.” He hands me a bank chip. “Jeremy said to tell you since the production people didn’t have a tax form filled out for you, you’ll be responsible for reporting the income yourself. Let me think…what was the rest of the message?” I hold the little metal disc carefully in my hand. I have no idea how much it’s worth. “Oh, right. And the merchandise guy loved the design, blah, blah, and wants to meet with you after this is all over.”
“Do you know how much is on the chip?”
Derek shrugs. “How should I know?”
I give a last, longing look at the closed door. Derek shakes his head seriously. “Don’t even try.”
I backtrack down the hallway to find the ATM I noticed on the first floor. My steps are bouncy and strong. I sold a design! The Metal Society has presumably sold my art in the past, but I’ve never known anything about those deals. This feels more like I’m an adult making my own money. Plus, since I’m dirt poor, no matter what the amount on the chip is, I’ll feel successful. Maybe it’ll get me closer to having enough for the cure.
I take the glass elevator to the bottom floor. I’m holding money in my hand and I don’t even know how much it is. Like a winning lottery ticket that I haven’t scratched yet. The elevator can’t slide through the floors fast enough. When the door dings open I want to run to the machine, but I’m afraid I’ll look like a criminal if I do. Instead, I take normal-sized steps and maintain slow breaths.
I slide my chip through the scanner at the bottom of the machine and wait. My balance isn’t shown on the screen as a safety precaution. Withdraw funds. I punch in enough to buy a present for Mom and wait to see how much the receipt says I have left.
I hold my fifty dollars and the slip of paper in my hand.
Remaining balance, 24,450.
I stagger to one of the couches in the lobby and collapse. I hold the cure for Fluxem in my hand. I just earned enough money to cure myself. In all my fantasies, I never cast myself with the ability to solve my own problems. Maybe I had this strength all along.
I skip all the way back to the room. I’ll get the series of shots when I return to Boston. That should be soon enough. I rub the spot on my back. Ouch. Okay, it’s only a few more days. Suddenly, my life is filling up with possibilities. I don’t have to betray my feelings for Jeremy by asking him for money. He solved my problems after all, and not just by feeling sorry for me. Actually, in a way, I solved my own problems. I worked for this and I succeeded. I love the world. I’m bursting with happiness.