“Now, we’ll edit my prompts and questions out, so it just looks like you’re talking to the camera. If you fumble, just start over or pick up where you left off. The magic happens in the cutting room.” I nod, trying not to focus on how dry my mouth suddenly is.
“So tell us about your role with Dylan’s official fan club.”
“Well, I started the Dylan Fan Club, and at first it was just a message board and not really anything serious or official. And this was back when Dylan was just beginning to get big hits on YouTube. So when he got picked up by Galaxy, his label, they reached out and asked if I’d be interested in making things official, and before you know it, we’ve got chapters all over the world and a really intense site with everything from a merch store to a fan-fic archive.”
Jill nods, and I think her smile is telling me that I am not totally bombing this thing. “Now, I hope you don’t take any offense to this, but you seem really normal.”
Behind her, Martha laughs. My eye catches hers and I laugh, too. “Well, I am normal? I think? I mean, would I even know if I wasn’t? I guess I’m my own normal?”
Jill smiles, but this time it’s not in an encouraging way. “No, no, I just meant, you don’t strike me as the fangirl type. You know, I’ve been producing this show since season one and we’ve seen it all, so it’s just . . . refreshing. And I’m kind of wondering what made you start the fan club, if you wouldn’t mind talking a little about that.”
“Well, Dylan did covers for a while. At least at first. And I was into his sound and stuff, but it was his first original song that really got to me. ‘Me Against the World.’ Those lyrics, they were, like, immediately seared into my brain. It was almost like all the words in that song existed inside of me, but Dylan had somehow grouped them all together and sorted them out. And not only that, but he could freaking sing. That video of him in his dad’s basement. Just acoustic. Nothing fancy. I would turn that song on and close all the curtains in my room and just lie there in the dark. I should’ve felt so alone, but I didn’t. And I wanted that feeling all the time. But Dylan’s one person.” I laugh a little. “I’m not some psycho who’s going to stalk him at his house, so I decided to find people who felt just as alone as I did. I guess I just thought we could be alone together, or maybe—just maybe—we’d find that we weren’t all that alone to begin with.”
I stop for a moment to let Jill speak, but her eyes are wide and she’s just nodding me along.
“So I guess I don’t really come across as the type of person who would start a fan club, but I think we’d all surprise ourselves to find out what lengths we might go to to re-create and savor the moments that make us feel like we have purpose. There’s no shame in that.”
“Good,” Jill says, her whole body leaning in. “Now, paint me the picture of your perfect date with Dylan.”
At the mention of his name, my whole body tingles. “Well.” I gulp loudly, and suddenly the cameras and the lights . . . all feel so warm. “I love divey little restaurants that look like they can barely pass health inspection, but are actually, like, really good and authentic. And then maybe Dylan would take me to see his favorite band that no one’s even heard of yet. I mean, of course I’d love for Dylan himself to play me something on the beach or something crazy, but I think that what the last few years have really taught me is that there’s something really telling about the music someone else shares with you.”
“Wow,” says Jill. “Kid, you’re a natural. All right, Martha,” she shouts. “Your turn!”
I stand up, and Daria squeezes my elbow before whispering in my ear. “You probably didn’t notice, but the whole damn crew was hanging on your every word, and we don’t impress easy. I think you got this date in the bag.”
I turn to her, my whole face lighting up. “Dylan will see that? How does he even decide?”
“Well, maybe, but the decision is more in the hands of the—”
“Daria!” Jill snaps. “Let’s get some powder. This girl’s T-zone is lighting up like a runway.”
Daria grimaces and runs off toward Martha. With no one to guide me, I hop up into the empty director’s chair behind Jill. I’m eager to get to know my competition.
“Okay,” says Jill in a voice so low I can barely hear. “Just take it slow, and if this gets to be too much, we’ll take a breather and pick back up again. You’re in the driver’s seat. Just like I told you a few weeks back.”
She’s been prepped for this? Immediately, I feel somehow threatened. I know this is just a dumb TV show and that none of this is real, but because at the heart of all this reality-TV-show bullshit is a real moment with Dylan—hopefully all to myself—for me to tell him how much his music means to me. And Martha seems to have some kind of connection with Jill, which I can only conclude is an upper hand.
Jill continues. “This is a vehicle for you to tell your and Marisa’s story, okay? And I know it will mean so much to Dylan, too.”
Martha nods quickly. “I’m ready.”
“Martha, you have a special connection to Dylan, don’t you?”
She takes a deep breath. “I’ve never been the kind of person to dig through all this trash music on the Internet to find the band no one’s ever heard of. That’s cool if you’re into that. But I guess my jam has always been more books and fashion. I can blow some serious cash on first-edition Nancy Drew books and handmade jewelry. But Marisa, my older sister . . . she’s one of those people that’s always ten steps ahead. Or she was.” For a moment, Martha stares down into her lap as she rings her hands together. “She was the kind of person who was always dragging me to dinky little clubs to see bands she swore would be the next big thing. And sometimes she was right.”
In spite of myself, I can’t help being a little bit mesmerized by Martha. I wish she wasn’t the competition. It’s not even that she’s a threat; I just don’t like the feeling of being pitted against her.
Jill nods. “Good. She sounds great. Was Marisa a big early fan of Dylan?”
“Oh, yeah.” She smiles, her eyes a bit glassy. “She loved that damn song.”
“‘Me Against the World’?” asks Jill.
“Yep, that’s the one.” The silence that follows is heavy, like Jill’s given some kind of cue that Martha hasn’t picked up on or doesn’t want to.
“You said Marisa was? What happened?”
“She was so stubborn. Our parents told her to go to community college for a semester or two to figure out what she wanted to do or where she wanted to go, but she couldn’t see that logic. She wanted the experience of going to college. So my parents agreed to send her to Portsmith, a little liberal arts college an hour outside the city. She was driving home for Election Day—”
“Election Day?” asks Jill.
“Yeah, my dad is one of those people who votes in every single election, like down to school boards and city treasurer, and it’s sort of, like, programmed in us to vote and be really obnoxious about it, too. He was born and raised in Cuba, which means he didn’t take civic responsibility lightly when he became a citizen.”
“That’s sweet,” Jill tells her in a too-sugary voice.
“Marisa was driving home to vote and to watch the results roll in. It was a midterm election, but lots of congressional seats, so our dad was, like, really geeking out. And it was Marisa’s first time to vote. Dad bought fancy cupcakes and my mom made some decorations and even got some champagne for us all to share.”
I’m hanging on her every word. I know this has nothing to do with Dylan or his music or this stupid date we’re competing for, but if Jill is out to make good TV, she knows how to get it done.
“Wrong-way driver,” says Martha so simply. Like she’s said those exact words a dozen times before. “It was instant. She was gone. There was no pain. That’s what the paramedics told us. I think that’s supposed to make it better, and it’s not like I wanted her to be in pain, but I kind of wonder if she would’ve preferred to know the end was coming. To just have a minut
e or two to prepare herself.” She shakes her head, her gaze looking far past the camera now. “I think I’ve had too long to think about this now.”
Jill nods sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Martha. Is your sister—sounds like she was wonderful, by the way—is she the reason you’re here for a chance to meet Dylan?”
“Well, technology . . . it’s either a burden or a curse. We were able to figure out what song she’d been listening to at the time of—when it happened. And it was that song. ‘Me Against the World.’ That’s back when it wasn’t even popular yet, so I didn’t really think much of it other than that it was nice to just know what she was listening to. But then Dylan’s career blew up, and that song . . . it was everywhere.”
“Wow, I imagine that must have been rather difficult for you.”
Martha nods, her gaze unmoving. “At first. At first, it was miserable. I couldn’t escape it. But it wasn’t going anywhere. So I had to make the best of it. That meant being an optimist for once. Optimism was always Marisa’s job. And I guess I just had to force myself to see the song as Marisa’s way of always being there for me. Maybe that sounds cheesy, but it worked.”
“Perfect,” Jill tells Martha. “You’re doing great. Now, one last thing. If you win this date with Dylan, what is it that you want to say? Look right at the camera.”
Martha nods, gripping the armrests of her chair, and looks straight into the camera. “I’d tell him ‘thank you.’ I’d say ‘thank you for giving me Marisa’s last gift. For giving me a way—a tangible way—to hold on to my sister forever.’”
Jill stands and begins to clap like a freaking maniac. Nausea washes over me as I’m reminded that this is just entertainment. Jill might as well be locked away in a writers’ room orchestrating this whole thing via a script. But this isn’t fiction. This is our lives. This is Martha’s life. I’m going to be sick.
I stand and whirl around on my heel, prepared to storm off to . . . I don’t know exactly where, when I am confronted with a holey-T-shirt-clad broad chest.
Slowly, my gaze lifts like I’m a marionette and someone is pulling the string attached to the center of my head. I gasp.
Dylan takes off his silver aviators and says, “The party has arrived.”
— — — —
I would like to say that the first words I said to Dylan were something to the effect of how thrilled I was to meet him or how much his work has meant to me, but instead it was more of a word salad: “Much tall you are.”
I’ve been sitting by the craft services table for an hour and a half now, contemplating each and every single one of those words. It’s been a constant stream of crew members grazing past as they each tell me we should be back to filming any minute now.
It’d be a lie if I didn’t admit that I was just slightly disappointed to find that after his initial hello, Dylan has been squirreled away in a super-fancy trailer with a security guard stationed outside the door. Some silly part of me thought that maybe I’d get to hang out with Dylan during downtime and we’d develop a rapport. Maybe we’d have inside jokes. I shake my head, and roll my eyes at my own naïveté.
“Hey!” says Martha as she plops down next to me. “You found the food. Good place to set up camp.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’ll be the first to admit that I’m pro-food, like, all the way, but my nerves have got me way too anxious to even gnaw on celery sticks.”
“Oh my God,” she says, leaning in toward me, her hand resting on my thigh for a moment. “Me too.”
I smile at her gratefully. I’m so glad she’s not the version of my competition that existed in my head. I didn’t know what I expected from my competitor. Cattiness? Bitingly rude? But Martha is just good. And I think that maybe she deserves this more than I do.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” I tell her.
She half smiles. “Me too.” After a moment, she adds, “She would die all over again if she knew I was here doing this.”
I cough, not sure what exactly to say.
“That was a bad joke, huh?” asks Martha.
I let out a short laugh. “Well, it wasn’t exactly a good one.”
She shrugs. “Me and Marisa always had a vicious sense of humor. I think she’d approve.”
Something inside me unlocks. Something I didn’t even know was locked away to begin with. I have this wonderful and scary and heart-stopping feeling that I could tell Martha my most hideous thoughts and my most ridiculous hopes and she’d just sit here like she is right now, unfazed. And that’s sort of a wonderful thing if you think about it.
“All right, ladies,” says Jill as she power walks toward us. “We’ve got you all set up for the challenge portion of the show. So let’s head over there and Daria will freshen you up.”
“Cool,” says Martha. “What’s the challenge?”
Dread settles in the pit of my stomach. This is the part I’ve been most anxious about. There’s always one challenge. Sometimes it’s a race or an obstacle course or trivia or some type of competition, but whatever it is, it always ends poorly, with at least one of the contestants being humiliated.
“No can do,” says Jill. “We like for the on-camera reaction to be as authentic as possible.”
She walks off, and then turns, beckoning for us to follow her.
“Yeah,” Martha says under her breath, “because the first thing I think of when I think of A Date Come True is authentic.”
I hiss out a knowing sigh that surprises me. And then it doesn’t. I don’t even know if I should be here anymore. I’ve barely even seen Dylan anyway. I take a deep breath, trying my best to shake off the negativity.
A few minutes later, we find ourselves standing in a studio with white curtains concealing the walls around us. And Dylan is there, too.
Daria flutters around touching up our makeup before dedicating her attention to Dylan.
“Nate,” says Jill, bringing over a man in a perfectly tailored tux. “This is Martha and June, our competitors for this episode.”
Nate doesn’t really need introductions, though. He’s the host and face of A Date Come True. There’s something comforting about the way his makeup settles into the creases around his eyes. Not everything is as it appears on TV. That’s for sure.
Nate’s smile dazzles as he winks at the two of us, reminding us that he’s a pro charmer. “You nervous?” he asks. “Don’t be nervous.” He holds up his hands for us to see. “You’re in very good hands, I swear.”
After he walks off, Martha and I turn to each other, and in unison say, “Gross.”
We break out in a fit of giggles, but we’re cut short by Jill. “Let’s do this thing. We only want to do one take here, so bring your A-game, people!”
Nate takes his position between Dylan and Martha and me as Jill counts down to action. “Okay, we’re back,” he says.
I feel my whole body straighten as I realize I’m on camera again.
Nate turns to Dylan, his voice as smooth as a radio host’s. “Now, Dylan, you’ve thought long and hard about our challenge this week, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yeah. Totally,” says Dylan. “I guess you could say I cooked up something really cool.”
“Let’s drop the curtains, shall we?” asks Nate.
All around us the tall white curtains whoosh to the ground and Martha and I find ourselves in a state-of-the-art double kitchen with brand-new stainless-steel appliances. Over one side hangs a sign that reads #TeamJune and the other side has a sign bearing #TeamMartha.
My anxiety washes away for a moment as I realize that—Oh my God!—this is a cooking challenge! I can cook. I can really freaking cook. I’ve got this shit in the bag.
Then I look to Martha, her eyes huge and full of terror. My stomach twists into a knot as I’m reminded that my success is her failure. It’s not that I feel bad for her or think she should win by default on account of her sister. There’s just this nagging feeling inside of me that wishes we’d met in real life.
But this isn’t real life.
“Martha,” says Dylan. “June.”
My name! He said my name! Some animalistic instinct in my brain switches on and I turn into a monster fangirl with blurred vision for anything that isn’t Dylan. And hey, don’t forget about the freaking cameras, I remind myself.
“I’m a total foodie these days,” continues Dylan. “But back when I was just a little kid, my favorite meal was dinosaur-shaped nuggets with ketchup. So I’ve decided to ask you ladies to blend my foodie love with my old-school fave and make me some panko-crusted dino nuggets with ketchup made from scratch. You’ve each been given the same ingredients, and there may or may not be a few red herrings in there.”
Nate laughs. “A woman’s place is in the kitchen, am I right?”
Dylan snickers quietly.
I nearly gag. Martha and I exchange a look. More like misogyny, am I right?
“Right,” says Nate, “so you’ll each have five minutes of Wi-Fi time sponsored by Tunez Headphones, and then you’ll each have one hour to re-create Dylan’s childhood dish. Aaaaaand your five minutes starts now!”
“Cut!” shouts Jill. “I should force you to do a retake for that sexist bullshit you pulled, Nate, but we’ll just cut it in post.”
Nate shrugs and walks off to his dressing room. “You can’t get rid of me, Jillybean!”
I realize that I have a quick moment to say something to Dylan besides how tall he is. I take a step toward him. “Hi,” I say. “Your, um, music means so much to me.” When I say it out loud like that, it sounds so much more generic than how it actually feels.
He turns to me, sliding his sunglasses on. “I would hope so.” He laughs to himself. “I mean, that’s why you’re here, right?”
I force out a dry chuckle, but I can’t ignore the disappointment settling in my chest. “Yeah. Totally.”
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