America's Next Reality Star

by Laura Heffernan

  I gazed at the tiles, hoping he didn’t see the mortification on my face. “Sorry. I took an early lunch.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” With a sweeping bow, he indicated the table. “Your feast awaits.”

  A piece of garlic bread disappeared into my mouth as I sat, surveying the table. “This looks amazing! Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.” A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. My stomach flip-flopped. “You’ve been working so hard, I figured you probably weren’t eating right.”

  I speared a meatball with my fork. “You’re a smart man. It’s been mostly canned tuna or Lunchables in my office at ten PM.”

  Dominic shuddered. “Lunchables?”

  “Eight days in a row. Luckily, I get a few days’ reprieve before it picks up again.”

  “Ew. You poor thing. Well, I brought a ton of food and Tupperware, so you’re set for at least a week.”

  Reaching across the table, I took his hand in mine and squeezed. My skin tingled at the contact. “Thank you. That helps a lot.”

  We didn’t talk about it, but Dominic knew I couldn’t afford to eat well. The fact that he’d gone out of his way to make me lunch for several days sent butterflies fluttering in my belly.

  “You’re welcome, babe. Next time things get crazy, promise you’ll call me so I can bring you a real meal? Or have one delivered so I don’t interrupt you?”

  Cheesy-noodle-and-marinara-saucy-goodness glued my mouth shut, so I nodded. His twinkling brown eyes captured mine. A spark of lust sent my thoughts away from dinner and on to a more interesting path. Dominic’s dilating pupils told me his thoughts followed the same route. I chewed faster as a familiar thrill of anticipation spread through my body.

  Dominic’s hand wrapped around mine. I pushed the plate away and stood. Our lips met. We didn’t quite make it to the bedroom.

  The reminder that I had a good thing with Dominic in Seattle pushed my reality show application out of my mind. There were other ways to make extra cash. I arrived at work the next morning dreaming about the next step in our relationship. We’d been dating for over a year, and he’d had a key to my apartment for months. I’d have his, too, as soon as I figured out where it had disappeared to, hours after he’d given it to me.

  Lost in thought, I walked to my desk and opened my e-mail. A new message appeared from someone named Stephanie Long. Who? I didn’t know anyone named Stephanie.

  Subject: Re: Casting call.

  Oh. My. God.

  My heart beat faster.

  Dear Jennifer,

  Thank you so much for your interest in our new series. The Fishbowl is a fast-paced reality show with physical and mental challenges to push the contestants on every level. What makes this different from other shows is that viewers vote on aspects of the game. With things always changing, you’ll never know what to expect!

  Filming will start at the beginning of June. We estimate that contestants could be on the show as few as a couple of days or as long as ten weeks.

  Our team is interviewing applicants across the country now. We’ll be in Seattle next week and would love to meet you. Please call my assistant at 323-555-1258 to set up an interview.

  Best,

  Stephanie

  The viewers would tell us what to do? On live television? Huh. What if they made us eat bugs? I’d have to ask the interviewer. But otherwise—up to three months in LA? New people and new experiences? It sounded interesting, but I wasn’t sure I could afford to take that much time away from work. Or my boyfriend.

  On the other hand, it would be fun to surprise Dominic if I made the show. And our relationship had never been stronger. We could handle time apart. Between my overtime and his traveling to care for patients, we didn’t exactly hang out every day.

  Hey, honey, your girlfriend’s going to win loads of money on a reality show so we can buy a house. . .

  I reached to call Stephanie’s assistant practically before I finished reading.

  * * *

  On Wednesday morning, I showed up at the address they’d given me. Peeling paint, boarded up windows, and several “Space for Rent” signs against a backdrop of drizzle and gray morning light welcomed me. Trash spilled out of the can next to the front door. A rat scurried away down an alley. It seemed odd to think my fate might lie within this dilapidated building.

  Sure, Jen, lots of women’s fates lie in old, run-down buildings. But is that the way you want to go?

  I double-checked the address on my phone. Google informed me I stood in the right spot. As I hesitated, remembering that guy who picked up women on Craigslist and murdered them, the front door opened. A girl about my age walked out wearing red tights and a blue shirt that didn’t look as much like a dress as she must’ve thought. Sunglasses covered the top half of her face, so I couldn’t tell if she noticed me as she tottered past on five inch turquoise heels, chatting on her phone.

  “Yeah, I just left the interview. It’s totally not a beauty contest. . .”

  Was that what I should’ve worn to the interview?

  My black pants and red button up shirt with matching red and black polka-dotted ballet flats were appropriate for going to work when I finished, but now they made me look boring. My own heels lived in a drawer in my desk, to be taken out upon my arrival at the office. Were the producers looking for people who dressed more colorfully?

  Only one way to find out.

  Taking a deep breath, I smoothed my hair and entered. A layer of dust on the empty sign-in desk suggested no one had welcomed visitors to this building since the Reagan administration. A curved staircase stretched ahead of me. A hand-lettered sign next to the mailboxes informed me that ABC Casting could be found on the second floor. It didn’t seem worth looking for an elevator.

  My foot caught almost immediately on a missing step. Awesome. I clutched at the decrepit-looking metal railing. It wobbled, but thankfully held.

  I hadn’t been cast yet, and already someone was trying to kill me. Were there cameras in the stairwell?

  I righted myself and let go before the railing snapped beneath the unexpected weight. Then I peeked behind me. Nothing else dangerous lurked in the dim light. The darks corners of the ceiling probably didn’t hide cameras.

  It was probably an old building, not a trap. Sometimes, I had an overactive imagination. Still, I proceeded carefully to the stop of the stairs. Thankfully, no other missing steps or holes in the floor jumped into my path.

  The procedures must have just set up the room for these interviews. Nothing hung on the white walls. Someone had shoved a lumpy beige couch against one wall with a couple of armchairs overturned on top of it. End tables piled in front of the couch dissuaded anyone who might have considered clearing it. A card table stood in the middle of the room, buried under stacks of paper. Extension cords snaked around the industrial beige carpet.

  A guy in his late twenties, medium build and height, with floppy brown hair and a wrinkled shirt greeted me with a grin. His unkempt appearance made me feel better about not dressing like a fashion model.

  He looks so normal. Definitely a serial killer. Like John Wayne Gacy.

  “Hey! I’m John,” he said, shaking my hand before settling into a folding chair behind the table.

  Wayne Gacy? I asked myself before I could help it. Then I shoved those thoughts aside. That line of thinking wouldn’t lead to a productive interaction.

  “I’m Jen. It’s nice to meet you.” I moved a laptop off the only other chair. Unsure what to do, I offered it to him.

  “Sorry. Thanks. We’re casting for a brand-new show here, like nothing you’ve seen. There will be puzzles, physical challenges, and more. Contestants will push themselves on all levels. It’s not a beauty contest, and it’s not for the faint of heart.”

  I nodded. I’d learned all that from the ad and Stephanie’s e-mail. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Excellent! So, why do you want to b
e on television?”

  “My personal hero is Eleanor Roosevelt. She said that life is for living, for grabbing on to each new experience and savoring it. I believe that. So, for me, it’s more about wanting to experience new things and explore every opportunity. This seems like a great way to meet new people, and I love puzzles, trivia, and games. Plus, I’m broke. I could really use $250,000. So when I read the ad, it was like it was shouting, ‘Jen, come be on our show.’ It’s exactly what I need right now.”

  He consulted his clipboard. “You said you like games. What was your favorite toy as a child?”

  Some people might have had to think before answering this question, but I’d done a lot of research and prepared my answers. “My older brother’s Erector Set. I used to sneak into his room to build pyramids when he played baseball.” I laughed. “He never figured out why pieces sometimes went missing.”

  John smiled. “Sounds like he should have let you play with him. Did you go to college?”

  “Yup! University of Washington, Class of 2012! Go Huskies!”

  “Okay,” John said. “Tell me this. If you were out in Seattle at a bar with your friends and a guy sat down to talk to you, what is the one thing he would be absolutely shocked to find out about you?”

  Without missing a beat, I offered a big, sweet smile. “I’m an assassin.”

  John showed me the whites of his eyes. Then he pushed his chair back from the table and shivered in exaggerated fear.

  We both laughed. “Okay, I’m not. I’m pretty normal.” I let my mind roam for a moment. “You may not believe this because I’m fairly small, but a few years ago I won a hot dog eating contest.”

  “What? No way!” He gasped in mock disbelief.

  “Absolutely!” I flexed my biceps, preening for a moment. “Of course, the only other person who entered was seventy years old; he ate three. Grandpa might have let me win.”

  “A win’s a win, right?” He consulted his papers. “Okay, that’s everything I needed to ask you. Do you have any questions for me? Questions about the show, the process? My favorite color?”

  “I did wonder about one thing. The e-mail said the viewers would tell us what to do?”

  “Right. They’ll vote on things like which mini-challenge to do, which player deserves to be up for elimination, and things like that.”

  “Okay, so they’re not voting to make us do bizarre or disgusting things?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like. . .eating bugs? Cleaning the toilet with our toothbrushes?”

  He laughed. “No, no. Nothing like that. This isn’t Fear Factor.”

  My shoulders sagged with relief. “Awesome. Then it’s all good. I’m excited.”

  “Great! We’re excited, too! I need a four to six minute video by the end of the week, telling me who you are, what you do, your hobbies—basically, why we should pick you. If you Google it, you can find audition videos from other shows to get an idea of what we’re looking for. Do you have any other questions for me?”

  I consulted the list on my phone, although I’d memorized it three days ago. “Can you tell me about the casting process?”

  “People who make it to the next round will fly to Los Angeles for a screen test, IQ tests, a medical exam, psych tests, etc. Then we’ll do background checks on the people we choose. The finalists will be notified a couple of weeks later. It’s pretty straightforward. The hardest part is waiting.”

  “Makes sense. Thanks.”

  John stood and shook my hand. “Great. Thanks for coming in, Jennifer. We’ll be in touch.”

  I thanked him, and that was it. The whole thing took less than half an hour.

  After carefully navigating the stairs, I left the interview with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Since I’d taken the entire morning off work, I decided to walk to the office. Most likely, I’d need to stay late; a new project could hit my desk any minute.

  Regardless of the dark and gloomy skies, a beautiful day peeked from behind the backdrop of the old buildings. My feet danced around the puddles, oblivious to the rain streaming around me. When the wind fought to steal my umbrella, it didn’t faze me.

  Rather than rush back to the grind, I stopped at a coffee shop to read the application John gave me. I’d told my boss I had an appointment and didn’t know how long it would take. When I implied I needed personal time, he’d assumed that meant a gynecologist appointment. He wrung his hands and prohibited me from sharing any details before rushing me out of his office. Men.

  Reading the application made me laugh at how thorough the producers were. They asked about everything.

  What kind of people did I dislike?

  Mean people, bigots, and people who text during movies on giant phones that light up the theater.

  What would I do with an extra five grand?

  Owe five grand less to Seattle General? Or buy a new purse and owe $4,980 less.

  How do other people see me?

  With their eyeballs, usually.

  What would I do if I knew no one would ever catch me?

  Break into Fort Knox. Or maybe Buckingham Palace.

  How would I describe myself in twenty-five words or fewer?

  I’m a twenty-three-year-old marketing assistant, completely unchallenged. I make no money and live in the world’s smallest apartment. Being an adult sucks.

  Hmm. . .Maybe I should go back to that one later. I kept reading. What clubs or organizations did I belong to? If I could have plastic surgery on any part of my body, which one and why?

  Any part? Like, could I walk around with giant earlobes or add fingers to my elbows? That would be a conversation starter.

  What was my height/weight? My dress/ring/shoe/hat size? Hat size? I had no idea. I had to measure my head. How cool was that?

  It was like completing the world’s most interesting job application. Still, after the ninth or tenth page, I expected them to ask my favorite brand of dental floss or whether I preferred one- or two-ply toilet paper (For the record: Oral B, and two.) My favorite part was the self-portrait.

  Luckily, the coffee shop provided crayons for children and, apparently, reality-show hopefuls. Since my eyes were my best feature, I started with the blue crayon. Some quick brown strokes filled in my hair. How realistic did this have to be? I mean, I could give myself a button nose, right? Maybe soften my chin?

  After a few minutes, I leaned back and scrutinized my work. Hmm. I may have gone overboard. Or maybe Cartoon Jen wears Wonderbras. I added an asterisk.

  NOTE: NOT TO SCALE.

  Then for good measure, I sketched a party hat on my head and some board games in the background. A red crayon added a smile I hoped looked friendly, not manic. Perfect.

  I hoped that, next time I applied for a job or promotion, they requested a self-portrait enclosed with my resumé. Maybe I’d add one. I pictured the cover letter: “I have attached a resumé for your consideration, along with a self-portrait of how happy I’d be in this position.”

  When I reached my office, I was still laughing at the silliness of the whole process.

  CHAPTER 2

  Excerpt from Jennifer Reid’s Audition Video:

  Hi, my name’s Jen. I’m twenty-three years old, and I work in marketing for a large multi-national corporation. Check out my fabulous studio apartment in Seattle. It’s only steps from all the excitement and restaurants of downtown, so I’m in a great location. Look at my view of the Space Needle! I love to entertain here. My friends and I do a rotating monthly dinner club. Everyone brings food that fits a theme. My last one was “Food Starting with the Letter Q.” We ate quiche, quinoa, quince pie. . .I know it sounds weird, but everything tasted delicious.

  Anyway, I built this cupboard myself. It’s full of games and puzzles. One thing I love to do, at least once a month, is have friends over for Games Night. We play board games, video games, charades—everything!

  This is the best part of my apartmen
t: the closet. I added the shelves and these cubbies, which tripled the space. That was a fun project.

  Hmm. Is my landlord going to see this? Don’t worry, Mrs. Perez! I’ll put it back when I move.

  My smile broadened when I arrived at my desk. A gift basket sat on my chair, covered with pink and purple cellophane. What a nice surprise! Peeking through the wrapping, I saw about a dozen chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of red wine. YUM! What brought this on? Was it from the casting people?

  No, that was silly.

  Papers and clutter covered every inch of my desk’s surface, so I carried it to Pete’s before reaching for the card taped to the wine bottle. No reason not to utilize the extra space while I had it. My smile faded as I tore open the envelope and read.

  Hey Babe,

  I’m sorry to do this to you. Work told me this morning I have to be in Portland today. Headed to the airport at 11. Call me?

  Love,

  Dom

  Uh-oh. I shouldn’t have wasted so much time getting back to the office. It was 11:17 AM. I might catch him in the cab. While dialing, I bit into a strawberry. Chocolate crumbled on my tongue as sweet juice filled my mouth. Chocolate strawberries were my favorite.

  He answered on the fourth ring, right as I started worrying the call would roll to voice mail. “Did you get my message?”

  The roar of road noise in my ear said I’d caught him just in time. “I did. And the consolation prize. They’re delicious. Thank you.” I hoped he didn’t hear the defeat in my voice.

  “I’m sorry. I was supposed to be within driving distance of Seattle for at least a couple of months, but my boss needs me to cover a patient in Portland at the last minute. My co-worker was supposed to go, but his daughter got the chicken pox. He can’t risk infecting the patient. They just told me. I have to cancel our date tomorrow night. I don’t even know my schedule yet.”