A silent sound guy belted a microphone pack on me while I changed, the device snug on my sacrum, the surreal metallic reminder that every word was on record.
Like a bashful toddler, I emerged from the screen, unsure whether to shield my scarred chest or mask my crotch, the shorts not leaving much to the imagination. One of the HMU ladies moved to pat my scars with concealer, but Troy intervened. “Unless you want the makeup?”
I recalled the fateful night I’d first been advised to powder up, the old impulse to shield my deformities. No, we were doing things differently this time, so I shook my head.
Troy patted my shoulder approvingly, unable to resist gawking at my torso. “I mean this as professionally as possible, but you’re going to be worth every penny.”
I conceded an awkward smile, drenched in humiliation now as much as sweat.
“You’ll walk in one by one to hit your marks,” Zara explained, arranging us in a single-file line. “Then we’ll announce teams and go straight to the Tribulation.”
I stood behind Jiamin as we processed toward a circular walled fortress, the glowing white light inside escaping only through its roof-less orifice. This would be our Arena, a far cry from the sherbet-orange jungle gym that hosted the Trials in Season 1.
I heard benign cheers when Amish Winston entered first. The other contestants were already inside; our group was the one designed to provoke the reaction. And that’s when it hit me: I was the grand finale. “We’re last,” I said to Jiamin.
She glanced over her shoulder, unsurprised. “You might want to brace for impact.”
Reactions grew increasingly vocal—boos for Hartt, gasps at Vanessa. Chrissy provoked a female voice shouting something that distinctly ended in “big bitch” before Jiamin sailed into the cacophony. A chorus of “ooooh,” “no way,” and applause greeted her right before Troy gave me a thumbs-up. No turning back now.
I winced as my vision adjusted under the glaring lights, the entire space abruptly silent. My eyes danced to Ecklund, who presided like a minister from the observation deck that was mounted into the Arena wall about ten feet above the sandy floor, a rusty iron staircase leading up. I approached the two lines of contestants, facing each other on either side of a massive rectangle in the center of the Arena. The walls of the rectangle were three feet tall, all draped in thick chain mail, and covered an area the size of my bedroom back home. A lone spot waited by Jiamin, a small X of black tape on the ground indicating my mark. Across the way were faces I didn’t recognize, though they all knew me.
A petite white woman slathered in makeup, bone-straight platinum hair down to her waist, chuckled low. A lanky young man with pouty lips and floppy brown hair instantly looked to the ground when our eyes met. Next to him was a lithe South Asian woman, gymnast’s build, all muscle. Her face maintained an unwavering intensity, and then I realized. She was trans.
Of course. The network wanted to see what this trans woman would do when the henchman-turned-husband of her biggest political antagonist appeared—and what I’d do in return. I swallowed dryly, but my feet persevered. I refused to provide the starving cameras any reaction, and then I finally found a face I knew.
Greta Hendricksen, as expected. Barnes’ old gal Friday. A manicured hand clutched metaphorical pearls as she whispered to the tall Black woman on her right, and I stopped dead.
Imogen.
How had I not noticed her? In the old days, I knew as soon as she entered a room. She looked so different. Gone was the girl who spun in myarms when we won in the Caymans. Her hair was now shaved tight to her scalp, and her eyes were filled with a cold, relentless fury.
I turned to stare straight into a camera lens, one soldier in the army, unforgiving opaque pinpricks trained on me like guns as I hit my mark.
And so we began.
“After twenty seasons, you are the icons America can’t stop talking about! We’ve been riveted by your romances and heartbreaks, your alliances and betrayals!” Ecklund proclaimed, the cast trading grimaces. I dared another look at Imogen, but she was locked on Ecklund, refusing me any acknowledgment. This was going to be pure hell.
“You’ve made choices that have transformed you into saints and sinners, into heroes and villains, intothe teams you now become…”
On cue, hangers with our uniforms descended from the grid of lights and rigging above. I squinted at the red tank top approaching me, my name emblazoned in letters that could only be described as… horned. I realized with sinking dread the season’s theme was nothing Troy had pitched me, but I was right about one thing: this would indeed be pure hell.
“Welcome toEndeavor: Angels vs. Devils!”
12
2015
SEASON 20, EPISODE 1:
“The Viper Room”
Live animals had never been part of the job when I’d first done the show. So when the giant chain mail curtain covering the fifty-foot-long plexiglass rectangle in the center of the Arena revealed a nest of probably a hundred churning snakes, I was floored. So was most of the cast, some of whom fled in a panic, forcing a second take.
In the spare minutes it took the art department to reset the chain mail drape, I sized up the teams. Joining me on Team Devil were most of the folks I’d met on the flight. My new cohort included power couple Hartt and Chrissy; both Russians; all the models except Jiamin (Team Angel there); and of course Vanessa, currently harassing Troy about how long she was expected to film before a vodka soda.
The last male Devil was a lean guy with dirty-blond hair who’d already been inside the Arena. His thick eyebrows were scrawled across his face like burns, creating an undeniably malevolent visage. He faced the collection of TV monitors known as “video village,” two letters etched on his jersey:PB. So this was who Vanessa had taunted Jiamin over…
“PB’s straight as a skyscraper,” a Southern voice husked beside me. I discovered our remaining female Devil, the woman with platinum hair. Her eyes were caked in glittery charcoal, smeared to her temples like war paint. “But those brows do provide a certain appeal.”
