America's Next Reality Star

by Laura Heffernan

  The words swam before my eyes. My brain refused to process them. As understanding dawned, I slumped back into my chair, crossing my arms over my chest.

  They’re firing me? Seriously, does the universe think I don’t have enough to deal with?

  They didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me in person. Or via an e-mail sent to me personally? All I get is this crappy mass layoff e-mail? It wasn’t even signed!

  A message popped up. “The sender of this e-mail has requested a read receipt.”

  Are you kidding me?

  I clicked “NO” so hard the mouse jumped. If they wanted to know if I read their stupid e-mail, someone could come talk to me like a real human being.

  Five minutes later, I was still staring out the window when another message came through. The subject said simply, “Severance Package.”

  Great. Rub it in, why don’t you? “Dear Jen, you haven’t been here long enough. Up yours, from HR.”

  My hand shook as I opened the message.

  Dear Jennifer,

  As you know, McCain and Webster prides itself on providing excellent employee benefits. Our severance package is no exception. Each employee affected by our downsizing will continue to receive health insurance for three months following termination. Furthermore, you will receive one week’s pay for each quarter that you have been employed with us, based on your hire date and a termination date of May 31.

  All accrued vacation time and sick leave will be paid on your last day. Again, we ask that you not share this information with anyone. Thank you for your discretion.

  That wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d expected. One week per quarter?

  I scrolled through my calendar. I’d started right after college graduation. May 30. Two years ago. Which meant I’d get eight weeks of pay, plus somewhere between two and three weeks vacation/sick pay.

  When I leaned back in my chair this time, my lips curved upward in a tiny smile. I’d just found a way to finance my summer.

  * * *

  On May 5, my phone vibrated while I walked toward my office. I answered without looking, expecting it to be my mother. She liked to call at random times to read the local newspaper or update me on people I hadn’t thought about since childhood. I’d given up trying to explain phone etiquette and bosses months ago. Now that they’d fired me, I didn’t care.

  It wasn’t her.

  “Hi, Jennifer, this is Stephanie from LA Casting. Congratulations! I’m calling to officially offer you a spot on The Fishbowl!”

  The phone nearly fell out of my hand. The rest of her sentence went in one ear and out the other. They’d picked me. They wanted me to be on their reality show. I couldn’t believe it.

  A small cheer escaped me before I remembered a group of coworkers stood about a foot away. They looked at me curiously. I ignored them, hurrying into my office to shut the door.

  “Thank you so much for calling me, Stephanie! I’m so excited!”

  She laughed. “We’re excited, too! You’re exactly what we want. I just need to e-mail you some contracts. Send them back as soon as you can so I can make arrangements.”

  “Contracts?”

  “Oh, sure,” Stephanie said. “It’s all pretty standard stuff. There’s a confidentiality clause, a release, some waivers, stuff like that. We have to do it with all the reality shows.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  The documents arrived minutes after the call ended. The legalese made little sense to me, but there had to be perks to a best friend in law school. I pulled out my phone and texted Brandon.

  IF I SEND YOU THIS CONTRACT I GOT, WILL YOU LOOK AT IT?

  The response came a few minutes later. YOU KNOW I’M NOT A LAWYER YET, RIGHT?

  YOU’RE THE CLOSEST THING I’VE GOT. AND YOU ARE SOOOOO GOOD-LOOKIN’.

  :) YOU KNOW I LOVE FLATTERY. SEND IT TO ME. YOU CAN BUY ME LUNCH, IF YOU DON’T MIND COMING TO CAMPUS.

  The trip to his campus took more time than I usually got for lunch. Before answering, I pulled up my To-Do list for the afternoon.

  1. Make To-Do List.

  2.

  Things had been slow before, but this was ridiculous. My calendar showed an “HR Check-In” at three. I’d be back long before that, not that I cared.

  K. SEE YOU SOON.

  * * *

  “Okay.” Brandon pulled a stack of papers out of his bag. We'd just chosen a table at an off-campus deli. “First, this contract is awesome. I want to write reality TV contracts when I graduate.”

  “Awesome, like it’s super favorable to me?”

  “Nope. Not in the slightest. Awesome in that you have no right to complain about anything. I’m not sure if you’d be able to sue if the show took out a hit man on you to boost ratings. It’s an entertaining read. If you’re kind of a dork, at least.”

  “Thanks. That’s not helpful, though.”

  Brandon put the papers on the table and flipped through them. “Right. So, here’s what I’ve learned during my one semester of law school. First, you can’t sue the show for any reason. If you get so depressed that you kill yourself, you waive your family’s right to sue on your behalf. You can’t sue if you get hurt. If you’re slicing a watermelon and you cut your finger off or whatever. No lawsuit, for any reason. The network is not liable for anything. Neither are the show, the producers, the casting company, or anyone associated with or working for any of them. And these are enforceable waivers, because you’re engaging in a voluntary recreational activity and not, say, getting emergency medical services.”

  Better than anyone, I knew I couldn’t afford to be injured, especially after I become unemployed. I made a mental note to see how the recent passage of the Affordable Care Act would affect my COBRA. Stupid Act that didn’t exist when I broke my leg better help me now.

  “See? Taking Contracts wasn't a boring waste of time.”

  “I learned that in Torts, actually.” He paused while a pimply-faced teenager with pants falling off his hips brought our sandwiches. “If they want, they can hire a look-alike to play you. That look-alike can do whatever the producers want. For example, they can pay someone to pretend to have sex with people who look like the other contestants, letting the whole world think you’re a sex addict. If you sign, you’re okay with that.”

  Would they hire actors to make me look bad? Did I want to risk it? What were the odds?

  “Interesting. Let’s hope they won’t. What else?”

  “Those are the most fascinating provisions. You can’t sue if you get an STI from another contestant. Since I’m failing miserably at getting you to leave Dominic’s memory in a trail of used men, that seems unlikely. Most of the rest has to do with rights to use your picture, to market the show, to edit you however they want, etc. You have to get permission before giving interviews about the show. It’s about ninety-nine percent stuff you’d expect to find in any contract like this.”

  I sipped my water. “Is there anything I need to worry about?”

  “I don’t know. The main one is probably people who get injured. Be careful. Some people might worry about the STI provision, but that’s not your style.”

  I shuddered. “The last thing I want right now is to repeat my mistakes with Dominic on national television with a total stranger. No, thank you.”

  Brandon waved one hand. “Girl, you could do so much better than Dominic. You’re better off without him—especially now. You’re going to be a superstar.”

  “That’s right! I’m going into this unattached and free! If I have to enter a kissing contest to win, I can. If I have to flirt to get ahead, I don’t have to feel guilty. It’s fine. Really.”

  I hoped I sounded sincere. After all, I’d been telling myself the same thing since Dominic’s wife appeared in their bathroom doorway.

  Brandon paused with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Wait. No one told me about a kissing contest. That would be awesome.”

  I shrugged. “We cou
ld be doing anything. No one knows.”

  “Right. So, say, hypothetically, if someone wanted to make a kissing contest happen, do you have a phone number for the producers?”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Yes, but you’re not getting it. Oh, but I need you to sign a waiver, too. Just a note saying you don’t mind if they come to your house and film you watching the show.”

  “Oh my God, seriously? Of course I don’t mind! That’s so cool!” Brandon tossed his head back, ran his fingers through his hair, and framed his face with his hands. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

  “Goofball.” I tossed a French fry at him. He dove, catching it in his mouth. “I’ll forward you the waiver when I get it. If there is a true and absolute emergency not related to my sex life while I’m on the show, my mom can reach the producers.” My stomach rolled, remembering that I’d put down Dominic’s name for the same purpose. Thankfully, I’d found out the truth before I’d asked him to sign the waiver. It would’ve been ten times more humiliating to spend the entire show talking about my amazing boyfriend and finding out the truth when I got home.

  As soon as I got back to my office, I picked up a pen and signed every page of the contract. Then, I texted Stephanie.

  HI, IT’S JEN. I’M IN! I’M SCANNING THE SIGNED CONTRACTS RIGHT NOW. WILL E-MAIL.

  * * *

  Preparing to put life on hold for up to two months was unlike anything I’d experienced. It wasn’t something I'd ever thought about, but I couldn’t walk away from everything and let the bills pile up. To minimize expenses, I asked my landlord to let me rent my apartment for an extra week and rented a storage unit to hold my stuff while I was gone. I’d stay with Brandon when I got back until I found a new place.

  Two days before my flight to LA, the producers posted cast pictures online.

  They’d listed the contestants in alphabetical order, so I found mine quickly. Wow! Thick, dark lashes framed my eyes, the bluest I’d ever seen them. Every hair lay smoothly in place, my clear skin glowed, and my white teeth gleamed. I wondered how much touching up they’d done.

  After I processed the weirdness of looking at myself on the website of a national television network, I checked out the other contestants. There would be twelve people on the show, including me. One of them was the dark-haired girl who had scowled at everyone in the lunch room: Ariana. The rude woman from the bathroom, Skye, also made the show. Hopefully, the other contestants wouldn’t be like them.

  Then I spotted J, my friend from the audition room. When my eyes took in those gorgeous green eyes and full lips, my stomach flip-flopped. The site said his name was Justin. I’d always liked that name. “Justin.” It sounded nice.

  “Justin and Jennifer.” I liked the sound of that, too.

  None of the others looked familiar, although one resembled Rodrigo Santoro so much I did a double take. I wouldn’t mind looking at him for twelve weeks. According to the website, his name was Eduardo. There was no sign of Justin’s snorkel-wearing foe.

  Next, I pulled up the promo videos. I’d seen myself on film before, of course, but there was something surreal about watching professional footage edited into a commercial. It was so cool. The videos were short; I watched all of them twice.

  As I was halfway through my video for the third time, a message from Brandon popped up. He must’ve been scouring the website—I’d sent him the link the moment the cast page went live.

  Brandon: Is this chick one of your cast mates? Ariana Sassani? Thought she looked familiar, so I did some googling. Looks like she wants to be an actress. A handful of bit roles in bad movies over the past couple of years. Dated lots of D-list actors.

  A moment later, IMDB showed me a headshot of the woman from the cafeteria. Who I’d be living with the next few weeks. I’d thought the show was for “real people,” but she was definitely an actress—even if her most prominent roles included “Waitress #3,” “Cheerleader,” and “Sexy Zombie Victim.”

  Did they hire an actress to ensure drama? Or was she doing the show to springboard her acting career?

  Jen: Yes, that’s her. Weird.

  Brandon: Netflix streams three of her movies. I’m coming over. With ice cream.

  * * *

  The next day, I went shopping. I’d been surprised to learn that reality show contestants wore their own clothes. In the back of my mind, I’d half-expected they’d have a wardrobe department on the set. Which didn’t make sense, once I thought about it. The “set” was a big house.

  They had meticulous requirements for what not to wear: no visible brand names, no logos, no small patterns, etc. My closet contained some stuff that worked, but not enough for the whole summer. I also had to bring my own makeup, and my half-empty bag mocked me. The essentials were there, but I usually only wore mascara and lip gloss. My bargain drug store finds wouldn’t let me compete with the model-beautiful women posted on the show’s website.

  Too bad they wouldn’t send Angela to the house every day to help. Why didn’t I have a personal makeup artist?

  Oh, well. I could play around with makeup at the mall. Maybe I’d find some fabulous clothes at one of the consignment shops.

  Five hours, eleven shopping bags, one makeover, and a couple hundred dollars later, I transferred my purchases from shopping bags to my suitcase.

  I’d gotten some new jeans (no visible logos!), shorts, two swimsuits, a cover-up, several T-shirts and tank tops, a glittery green evening gown, and workout clothes. I’d spent more than I could afford, but almost a grand less than if I’d paid retail. Plus, the clothes were an investment in my future. I’d also begged a lot of makeup samples off the salesgirl at Sephora, telling her I was going on TV. That saved me close to a hundred bucks.

  Looking good boosted my confidence. Confidence would make people want to vote for me. I needed votes if I wanted to win. And I was going to win.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jennifer in the School Room, Week 1:

  This is going to be so much fun! I’m very excited and grateful to be here. A couple of months ago, I worked at a dead-end job, and now I’m living in an amazing house with a bunch of total strangers, having the experience of a lifetime.

  The house is fantastic. I don’t mind living with glass walls. I lived in a coed dorm in college, and people wandered around half-naked. No big deal. I’m not worried about privacy. The bigger issue is, we can’t see the walls—I’ve already walked into them twice.

  So far, most of the other contestants seem pretty cool. Joshua? You mean “J-dawg”? Yeah, he’s different, I guess. It’s almost like he decided to be a reality TV villain, but he watched Wile E. Coyote cartoons to prepare his act. I keep waiting for him to draw a fake tunnel on one of the glass walls and try to get someone to walk through it.

  On the day we entered the house, a member of the production staff came to the hotel room I’d checked into the night before, blindfolded me, and led me outside to a waiting van. They apparently still didn’t want us to see or talk to each other before the show started. Or maybe they didn’t want us to be able to tell people where to find the house. Or both.

  The drive felt long. Someone sang, a vibrant bass, but the driver hushed him. Too bad. I wondered who he was. The Brazilian hottie? The smiling Indian guy? Finally, I laid my head against the window and dozed until the van stopped.

  Someone helped me out of the van and removed my blindfold. It took several blinks for my eyes to adjust to the blinding sunlight. We stood next to the driveway of a giant house. Pebbles covered the ground, with several larger rocks around the outer edges. Stone fish statues dotted the landscape. I recognized a blowfish and a clown fish scattered among the rocks. In the middle of the enormous curved driveway stood a fountain, where a dragon blew flames of water into a small pool. A fence extended from the edges of the house toward the horizon in either direction, separating us from the neighbors.

  Directly in front of me, an oddly shaped house contrasted wit
h the manicured landscape. The middle of the house stretched beyond the top and the bottom, which were the same size. The outer walls curved. It took a moment to realize the entire house was shaped like a giant fishbowl. All of a sudden, the name of the show clicked.

  After I pulled my gaze away from the house, it only took a moment for my eyes to land on the guy who had crossed my mind more than a few times already: Justin. His gorgeous green eyes twinkled as he surveyed the other contestants. That smile made me glad to be locked into a house with him for the entire summer, and it wasn’t even aimed at me. A traitorous part of me wondered briefly if we’d get coed bedrooms if I asked nicely.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed him. About ten feet away, I spotted Ariana. With her silky black hair, tawny skin, and full lips, she was even more beautiful than Dominic’s wife—and she eyed Justin with a raw hunger that made me fidget. She looked like every man’s wet dream. I took small comfort in the discovery that her eyes were now a deep chocolate brown. I knew she wore tinted contacts at the audition.

  When Justin looked at her, Ariana smiled and winked. His face reddened and he turned away.

  What on earth was that about?

  Ariana eyes slid around the room like a knife cutting through butter. When she got to me, she smirked, every bit as nasty as she’d been in the lunch room. Instead of cowering under her gaze, I smiled back and waved. If she wanted to hate me, I’d give her a reason.

  It wasn’t worth letting someone get to me that early in the show. I survived Dominic the Douche and his secret wife; I wouldn’t let this bitch get the best of me. Kill ‘em with kindness, like Mom always said.

  The producers opened the front doors and herded us into the living room. A gray sectional couch sat against one wall, surrounded by beanbags scattered around the carpet. What looked like a human-sized cat tree took up most of the middle of the enormous living area. A green plushy material covered several levels of seating. I couldn’t help but run one hand over it as I followed everyone to one side of the room. When my hand sank into the fabric, I knew I’d found my spot.