by Julie Murphy
All the rooms are upstairs in a long corridor with two large dorm-style bathrooms.
If I wasn’t so busy with my own luggage, I would find it highly entertaining to watch all these women dragging huge overstuffed suitcases up the expansive spiral staircase. In fact, one contestant loses a grip on one of her suitcases and it comes barreling down the stairs, nearly taking me and one other girl out.
At the end of the hallway, I find room six, where Sara Claire is already hanging up her suitcaseful of colorful dresses. “There she is!” She turns to Addison. “This is Cindy!”
“Oh, we’ve met,” says Addison dryly. “Cindy seems to know everyone.”
I smile tightly. “Hi, Addison.”
Perched on the bed across from her is a Black girl with springy curls dressed in an adorable floral crop top with matching skirt and a pair of white Air Jordans. Her skin is perfectly dewy with just the right amount of highlighter, and her black liquid eyeliner is the most precise cat-eye I’ve ever seen.
“And this is Stacy!” Sara Claire tells me.
“Hey,” Stacy says nonchalantly. And I immediately know that Stacy is the exact kind of girl I gravitate toward. She’d totally fit right in with Sierra back in the city. They’re both the kind of girls whose confidence and calm energy make them the coolest people at every party.
“Hi! I love your shoes. Where are you from?” I ask.
“Thanks. I’m a total sneakerhead. Chicago. Born and raised. Librarian by day. Makeup artist by night.” She pulls a small oil diffuser from her bag. “Will this bother anyone if I use it?”
“Oh Lord, no,” says Sara Claire. “I welcome it!”
Addison wrinkles her nose. “I guess not, as long you don’t use any patchouli. Bleh.”
I turn my back to Addison and give Stacy a wide-eyed look. “Doesn’t bother me at all.”
Stacy chuckles at my expression as she continues to unpack her bag. “So, Addison, what is it that you do?”
“I’m an actress and model.”
Sara Claire gasps. “Would you have been in anything we’d know?”
“Oh my God!” Stacy says. “I knew I recognized you!”
“I’ve done lots of things,” Addison says quickly. “I’m going down—”
“‘He got me a FitBike. It’s all I’ve ever wanted,’” Stacy says in a robotic voice, quoting the now-infamous FitBike commercial that released last Christmas. In it, a woman receives a FitBike for Christmas, and with a glazed-over expression, she drones on about how all she’s ever wanted is a FitBike. Pretty soon #RobotWife was trending and the internet had its holiday-season meme.
“I’ve also been on CSI: New Orleans before, and I did a few Target swimwear campaigns, so that dumb commercial is, like, the bottom of my résumé, just for your information.” And with that, Addison turns on her stiletto heel and stomps off down the hallway.
The three of us are quiet for a second after the door closes before bursting with laughter.
“In my professional opinion,” Sara Claire says, “she should embrace her meme status. Fame like that rarely strikes twice.”
“Right!” Stacy agrees.
I kneel down in front of my suitcase to unzip it. “Honestly, that GIF of her creepy robot smile was one of my favorite reaction GIFs last year. Too bad she’s so snotty.”
Stacy plops down on my bed. “Ho-ly…is that your shoe collection?” She reaches in for a pointed powder-blue satin Stuart Weitzman stiletto with a crystal brooch. A total dupe of the shoe my mom wore on her wedding day, which was actually from Payless.
“I guess you could say I have a thing for shoes?”
“I thought I was obsessed,” Stacy says as she turns the shoe over. “We wear the same size!”
I smile. This is what I love about shoes. I love that I could potentially be wearing the same size as this gazelle-like goddess sitting before me. There may not be much we can bond over in the clothing department, but shoes are an exception. In middle school and high school, I would spend hours shopping with friends, and I’d always end up browsing the accessories and shoes, because there was no chance any of those stores carried my clothing size. But shoes? I could make shoes from just about anywhere work. Shoes aren’t perfect. A lot of brands don’t carry wide widths or go above a size ten, but for me, they’ve always been comforting.
“They might be a little stretched out, because my foot is on the wide side, but you’re welcome to borrow any pair you want,” I tell her. “As long as you can help me make my eye makeup half as gorgeous as yours.”
“Deal,” she says.
There’s an abrupt knock on the door, and Mallory, with thick, wavy hair bunched into two pigtails, sticks her head in the room.
“Hey there, Mallory,” says Sara Claire.
“Ladies, we need everyone ready for introductions in an hour and a half.”
“Introductions?” I ask.
“To the suitor,” Mallory calls as she shuts the door behind her.
I look to Sara Claire and then Stacy. “Is this really happening?”
“You bet your tush it is,” Sara Claire shouts as she jumps up onto her bed and begins to use it as a trampoline. “Y’all ready to meet my future husband or what?”
Stacy smiles slowly, like a cat. “Let the games begin.”
Stacy was kind enough to do my makeup, which I appreciate, because that’s one thing I’ve never gotten into. Give me a tinted moisturizer and I’m good. However, I did come here with a clear vision of what I would wear to the first ball, and tonight is all about the shoes.
My shoes, Cindy originals from sophomore year, are a pair of strappy turquoise heels with matching feathers shooting up from the ankle strap and curving around the back of my ankle. It took me weeks to find the perfect feather and days to figure out the best way to attach each feather, but when the design finally matched the vision I’d dreamed up on my tablet, I wanted to strut around in these babies everywhere. They’re my ultimate confidence-boosting shoes, and tonight, I’m going to need every bit of confidence I can get.
For my dress, I’m in a Sierra original, an ivory midi gown she made last fall that hugs me all the way down to my mid-calves and has a high slit up the back. It doesn’t hide an inch and definitely makes it very clear what I’m working with. I figure if this guy is going to give me the boot on the first night, it’s probably because of my size, and if that’s the case, the sooner the better. The neckline is a deep square cut that gives me what Sierra always refers to as bar-wench cleavage, and the sleeves are a sheer mesh. The whole look is more “woman with an agenda” than “pageant contestant.”
“Whoa,” Stacy says as she zips me up, both of our reflections beaming back at us in the mirror. “This is like bombshell chic.”
Stacy wears a mustard-yellow silk gown with a high neck and deep V-cut back. It’s the exact right amount of sexy. And Sara Claire stuns in a jewel-encrusted hot-pink strapless gown with a sweetheart neckline.
“We’re hot and we’re ready for this dang ball!” Sara Claire says as she swings the door open.
The ball is another Before Midnight franchise staple. It’s basically a cocktail party held on the first night and then again before every elimination. On television, it appears to be elegant, with champagne fountains and ice sculptures. It’s also every contestant’s last chance to catch the suitor’s attention.
We step out into the hallway, and as we’re following the herd of women down the stairs, I think to ask, “Where’s Addison?”
A woman with a narrow nose that just barely lifts at its point says, “Oh, the producers came and got her and a few other girls to have their hair and makeup done by the crew.”
“What? I thought that was only for one-on-one dates,” someone else says.
The woman shrugs. “I guess the producers are already playing favorites.”
Sara Claire nudges me. “They’re just trying to get in our heads.”
“Who is?” I ask.
“The producers,” s
he says simply.
And it’s then that I’m reminded of the fact that no one here knows just how closely I’m tied to the brains behind this machine.
“The crazier we are, the more entertaining we are, and the more entertaining we are, the higher the ratings,” Sara Claire says as we walk out the front door and board golf carts that look like tiny minivans that take us past the front gates to where lines of tents are set up with rows of chairs.
I know everything she’s saying to be true in a theoretical way. I’ve heard Erica say countless things just like this on phone calls, but seeing the reality of it is…unsettling. It’s a side of Erica and her job that I knew existed but never thought I’d have to interact with.
“Ladies!” Beck says through a bullhorn. “Your seats are labeled. This is the order you will be going in. You’ll get in the white Rolls-Royce, and yes, she is our baby. A 1950 original. The car will take you through the gates, you’ll meet the suitor, and then head into the house, where the bar will be open to you. When we’re done filming out front, the suitor will come and mingle out in the courtyard. This is your time to get to know him before this evening’s elimination ceremony. Reminder: Some of you will be going home before lights-out tonight.”
Beside her, Wes crosses his arms and smirks. “Go big or go home,” he yells. “Literally!”
I glance around nervously, searching for Anna and Drew. I see them both sitting together in the second and third chairs beside Addison, who is wearing a gold lamé gown with a front and back so low it makes me nervous. Still, she looks like an actual goddess.
I wave to them, but they’re both nodding intently as Beck talks to them.
I find my seat down near the end, next to a woman with red curly hair and three oranges in her lap.
“I’m Judith,” she says as I sit down. “I juggle.”
“Cool,” I say, unsure what to make of that.
From years of watching this show and living with Erica, I know that intro night is a beloved fan favorite. There’s Twitter discourse, message boards, and even drinking games! (Drink every time a contestant introduces themselves with a pun the suitor doesn’t get!)
But the point is that the most memorable women on the first night receive the most camera time when they get the public talking. Of course, the decisions are always left to the suitor, though I can’t help but wonder how many of his decisions are influenced by producers pulling strings behind the scenes.
The question is what can I do or say in ten seconds that will make me stand out among the crowd? (The very beautiful and glamorous crowd.)
Between Juggling Judith and Meme Icon Addison, I don’t really have much to offer in such a short span of time.
“Twins!” someone shouts. “You’re up.”
Anna and Drew stand up, and I nearly shout, They’re not twins! But they’re gone and in the Rolls-Royce before I can even give them a good-luck wave.
“Twins,” says Judith. “Now that’s a good shtick. They haven’t had that before.”
The line moves more quickly than I expect, and with every girl that leaves, the rest of us move down a chair until it’s just Judith and me.
“Good luck!” I call to her as she slides into the back of the limo, the oranges gathered in her arms.
“I don’t need luck,” she says seriously. “I’ve got skills.”
“We saved the best for last,” Beck says as she slams the door.
I scoff at that. “Yeah, right. More like this guy is gonna be a total zombie from meeting twenty-five women back-to-back.”
Wes tilts his head, listening in on his headset. “Move it!” he shouts as he runs past someone from craft services balancing a tray of sandwiches. “We’ve got a breakdown happening by the pool.” He holds the walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “No, let her spiral! I need those tears!”
I don’t know if it’s his gross reaction to some woman in crisis or if it’s just my nerves, but I feel sick to my stomach.
“Whoa there,” says Beck, steadying me. “Ignore him.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I can do this. I need to go home. There’s still time. Erica would only be a little bit annoyed if I left now. I haven’t even really been on camera. And I can apologize to the whole crew that came out to the house the other day for wasting—”
“Stop.” Her voice is stern. “You can do this, Cindy. You look incredible and you’re smart and funny and talented. The suitor is going to love you. The audience is going to love you. And most importantly, they’re going to die over those shoes.”
I look down at the feathers framing my ankles. My shoes. My beautiful shoes. Even if all I do is walk out there and introduce myself, millions of people will at least know my name and see my shoes. Even if I never design another shoe again, I’ll always have that moment.
I take a deep breath. I can do anything in these shoes.
“Wait!” Ash yells, sprinting up the hill from the trailers down below. “Wait!”
When she reaches us, her chest is heaving, but she’s holding a highlighter and brush in her hands. “Sorry Wes had us so busy all night, but I wanted to get up here to check on you.”
“Me?” I ask.
Ash smiles with a laugh. “Yes, you, Cindy.” She winks. “We all have our favorites, you know.”
And that little piece of information steadies me even more. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She dusts my cheekbones and the tip of my nose with rose gold. “Perfect.”
The Rolls-Royce is straight out of a fairy tale—a glistening white against the swirling sunset sky, and welded to the grille is the sparkling Before Midnight logo, a ticking Roman-numeral clock. This is really happening.
The car drives me the short distance up the rest of the hill and through the gate of the château as though this were my first time arriving here.
The car stops, and the driver in the front calls, “That’s your cue!” through the crack in the divider.
I open the door and step out, imagining the camera zooming in for a close-up of my shoes. (Hey, a girl can dream.)
As I stand, I take a deep breath and a quick moment to smooth out my dress, and for just a millisecond, I think, What if…What if this random guy really is the love of my life? What if fate is actually real and the two of us are meant for this moment?
I look up and am briefly shocked by all the lights and cameras and crew quietly stepping around us.
My vision focuses, and my gasp cuts through the humid night air.
Tall, dark hair, impeccable suit.
Henry.
Prince Charming himself.
By the way his jaw drops, he’s as shocked as I am. Or maybe he doesn’t recognize me. After all this glam, I look like an entirely different person.
“Uhhh, w-wow.” I can’t stop stuttering. “It’s y—”
“So nice to meet you,” he says, his expression perfectly retracting back to completely even-toned coolness. “I won’t bite.”
Blood rushes to my chest and up my neck. Him. Biting. Get your mind out of the gutter, girl! “I’m Cindy,” I blurt. “I love shoes.” I love shoes?
He looks down, and then with admiration, he says, “And I can see you put your best foot forward. Aren’t those striking?” he asks. “Just like you.”
At my side, a crew member waves me forward.
Oh. Right. Walking. I should do that.
I step forward as Henry holds his arms out, and I lean in for a hug.
“Henry,” he says, his breath tickling my neck. “I’m Henry.”
I step back and instinctively bite down on my lip, nerves getting the best of me. “I better get to the ball. See you in there?”
“I plan on it,” he says.
I walk into the château, trying to do my best supermodel strut without looking like a wounded animal. (What they don’t tell you in the pamphlets is that half of fashion school is pretending you’re a runway model. Sierra’s walk is honestly America’s Next Top Model level of fierce.)
I open the door, and from the other side I hear a pained groan.
“What the…”
Anna reaches out and yanks me into the foyer.
“Shhhh.” Drew holds a finger over her lips.
“We’re not supposed to be here,” Anna whispers. “But we couldn’t miss your entrance.”
“You look incredible,” Drew tells me.
My stepsisters pull me in for a three-way hug, and it feels so good to be alone with them for even a brief moment.
“Did they really make you two introduce yourselves as twins?”
Anna rolls her eyes. “They’re making a bit of it. People keep calling us twins, and then we correct them and say that we’re almost twins.”
Drew shrugs. “It’s annoying, but hopefully it will help us stand out.”
“Honestly, it’s a little creepy,” I say.
“You little awkward weirdo!” Anna says. “Stop trying to change the subject. What was going on out there?”
I know that I should keep my secret about Henry to myself. But I can’t help it. Not with Anna and Drew. “I sat next to him on the plane,” I say quickly.
Their jaws drop in unison.
“You. Sat next to the suitor on the flight from New York?” Drew asks, spelling it out slowly and quietly.
I nod.
Anna sighs with delight. “I think he’s super cute, and please know that I definitely want him for myself, but oh my gosh, if that isn’t fate, I don’t know what is.”
“There’s no such thing as fate,” I tell her.
“Anna, stop pretending he’s your type,” Drew tells her. “You like them a little dirty and underemployed.”
Anna pouts for a second, but then nods thoughtfully.
“Stop it,” I say. “Both of you. It wasn’t fate. It was just a coincidence.” I don’t believe in fate. I can’t. I refuse to believe that first Mom and then Dad dying was part of some grand scheme. If that’s true, whatever’s at the end of my rainbow isn’t worth what it will have cost me.
Anna sniffs the air.
“What?” Drew asks. “What is it?”
Anna crosses her arms. “Smells like fate. Looks like fate. Must be fate.”