Unfortunately, that’s sort of where the benefits of shooting confessionals end. Because, while it’s a fairly laid-back way to spend a few hours, it’s also not exactly challenging when it comes to the creative part of filming. The shots are already set up, for the most part, and all I’m really here for is to ensure everything records properly, white balance each shot so that some poor girl doesn’t end up with green skin, and to troubleshoot any issues that may arise.
But at least the subject matter is usually enjoyable: listening to contestants complain about one another, seeing how the producers manipulate answers out of their charges, and maybe even witnessing a breakdown or two.
“Finally!” Glen claps his hands together from the other side of the room as he notices me arrive. Demi and Sora stand nearby, their heads bowed as they talk in hushed voices, and Molly is planted in front of a floor-length mirror, fixing her hair. A sound guy—Mark, I think?—lounges in the corner, his boom mic resting across his lap as he taps away on his iPhone.
Mark appears to be the only one in the group who seems relaxed. The energy swirling in the room feels tense as hell, and Glen gives me a strained smile as he, Demi, and Sora all take their places around the camera. Demi snags the producer chair, Glen sits in a rolling chair he’s pulled over from a desk, and Sora stands awkwardly between them.
I briefly wonder what’s going on behind the scenes that has them all on edge, but then I remember—I don’t care.
Glen wants me to be here and to do the job as it’s required, and that’s it. He doesn’t want my creativity or my opinions. He doesn’t want me to make waves, or take up space.
So, I’m not going to.
As I work through my mental list of tasks—making sure the camera is on, calibrating the lens, setting the white balance—Molly finally sashays over to her mark.
“Alright, Molly. You know the drill—we’re going to go through some questions about yesterday, and then we’re going to talk about what’s coming up today. Sound good?” Demi asks, a saccharine smile plastered across her face. She’s the kind of person Molly and I would have hated in college—playing at sincerity, yet so easy to see through. Without a shred of authenticity in her; not in her voice, or in how she holds herself…even her eyes have this look in them, like she isn’t fully present. As if she’s already on to the next thing in her mind, assessing the next angle, even while you’re talking to her.
“Sure,” Molly says, flicking her gaze to Sora, who is hovering behind Demi and clutching a clipboard. “Who’s that?”
Sora freezes, then swivels to look behind her. She swings back to Molly and points her finger toward her chest, mouthing “me?”
It’s hilarious—I think I’ve only ever seen a reaction like that in the movies, and I can’t help but snicker.
“Yes, you,” Molly says with a roll of her eyes, seemingly bored by this back and forth already.
“Oh, uh, I’m a PA—um, a production assistant. I’m Sora. Sora Harumoto. Hi.”
Molly rolls her eyes again, then turns her attention to me.
“And I knowyou, so I don’t need an introduction, thanks.”
Her tone is like ice, frigid and hard. It doesn’t catch me off guard like it did a few moments ago, but I’m still shocked that she isn’t even trying to hide her disdain for me.
It makes me nervous.
I glance over at Glen, and his eyes meet mine. My stomach sinks, and I sigh internally.So much for staying under the radar.I can tell from his raised brow and crossed arms that he isn’t pleased. He doesn’t look mad, exactly…but I know Glen well enough that I’m fully expecting to be pulled aside later for a little chat.
“Right…” Demi says slowly, dragging her gaze from Sora to me, then back to Molly. “Shall we begin?”
Molly nods and rolls her shoulders a few times, as if preparing to deadlift something. Finally, she straightens, tosses her left leg over her right, and smiles into the camera, looking completely at ease.
“So, Molly, yesterday was Ladies’ Night on Deck. Meaning, you and the other women had the opportunity to ask the men you were interested in to chat, but they couldn’t ask you. How did you feel about this little change in dynamic?”
Molly’s lips quirk into a mischievous grin. “Iloveda good Sadie Hawkins dance in high school, so yesterday was a ton of fun.”
I scoff. That wasn’t the MollyIknew in high school. Despite the lie, her words are crisp—her tone mellow, yet bright. I’m impressed. She may be a total bitch to everyone around her, but on camera she shines.
“Tell us why you chose to ask Duncan to chat.”
“Dunc issucha sweetheart. I mean, even putting aside the fact that he saved me from being bulldozed by that brawl at the sailaway party, he’s just, like, totally down-to-earth, and really present, you know? I’ll be honest, the minute I saw him, I knew he was something special.”
I snort at this. It’s an ugly sound, and I’m positive it was picked up by the boom mic balancing over my head, but I couldn’t help myself. Molly was one hundred percentnotinto him that night. I could tell by the way she gave him the cold shoulder, entirely ignoring him—up until his heroic moment, that is.
I glance over my shoulder at Probably-Mark, who gives me a weird look as he adjusts a dial on his sound mixer. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like anyone else heard my little laugh, and the conversation continues.
“You asked him to sneak away from the group three times, so you’re right, hemustbe something special.”
“I mean, you’ve seen him. He’s hot,” is all Molly offers, before examining her nails. “God forbid a girl have standards.”
