“You will with that attitude, you little shit.” Even though he chuckled, I couldn’t ignore the flash of concern. He waited until I was past security, giving one final salute from the other side of the barricade, just as he’d done every time I’d flown north during college.
At the gate, I opened my backpack and arranged paperbacks on the floor, debating betweenA Doll’s HouseandMiss Julie, two plays from my Modern Drama class at Dartmouth that I’d skipped during physical therapy but still felt an obligation to read. I’d also packed my beloved copy of Michael Chabon’sThe Mysteries of Pittsburgh, which I’d devoured five times. I identifiedheavily with underestimated motorcyclist Cleveland; indeed, most of college had consisted of convincing professors the jock hadn’t plagiarized his paper.
“You look like Pavlov’s dog.” Above me stood a striking Indian guy—lithe and jaunty, dark hair jutting at an overly gelled angle, puka-shell necklace clinging to his throat—a beacon of early-2000s cool boy chic. He grinned, gently testing me even then.
I tried not to stutter. “Better than Schrödinger’s cat.”
“Touché,” he replied, British accent playful. “Brains and brawn, but we knew that.”
“… We did?” I asked, recalling the handful of creepy letters sinceLiberty Todayfrom strangers who’d requested my post-exercise underwear.
“Sorry, thought you’d recognize me. I’m Arjun Bhaduri.” He looked at me expectantly. “Dude, I’m on the show with you.”
Mortified, I rose, clumsily kicking my books across the lounge area. “Whoa there, tiger,” he said, taking my hand. Sunlight glinted off his light brown eyes, and I recalled what an old history teacher once said was born when arrogance fused with generosity.Charisma.
“So, who’s Miss Julie, and why’d you drop-kick her?” A tall, muscular Black girl approached, long braids swaying down her back. My book, cover snapped back like a broken wing, flapped in her hand. “I’m guessing you’re here for the reality show? I saw two guys who could be Abercrombie models and figured they must be on TV… Please don’t be assholes.”
I sheepishly took my book from her. “I’ll definitely do my best, but I can’t speak for the Abercrombie models, whoever they are—”
“You’re Imogen Cuthbert, right?” Arjun smiled. “I loved you onMedals!”
She eyed him skeptically. “How? I was third out.”
“Those lunkheads targeted you because you were the biggest threat.”
“Sorry, what’sMedals?” I asked.
“You didn’t watchMedals of Honor?” Arjun exclaimed. “With the Olympians racing the military vets around the world? It blew up the Nielsen ratings!”
I squirmed, so out of my depth. I’d spent years getting fluent in“football.” How long would it take to speak “reality television”? “I don’t watch much TV.”
“Thatis the most refreshing thing I’ve heard in months,” Imogen replied. “But I still have no clue who either of you are.”
“Clearly I’m the only one who did their research.” Arjun smirked, already effortlessly familiar. He eagerly ushered us to the corner of the waiting area, positioning his back to the gathering passengers. He was twenty-six, fresh off his third season ofGone Bollywood. His parents were media titans in the UK and in their native India. To break into the American market, they’d launched a reality show under the guise of documenting their move to Los Angeles. They had money to burn, Arjun disclosed with theatrical annoyance, and had crafted the most lavish portrait of aspirational wealth on television, brimming with mansions, product placement, and rigorously scripted celebrity cameos. Arjun graduated from Cambridge during the move to America, so his storyline involved reconnecting with the family in LA, including Emaan, the little preteen brother he adored. Arjun was “learning the ropes” as an “assistant” in the family conglomerate, but it was all staged. “Convincing my mother to loan me out was a fucking feat,” he said breathlessly. “But I need something without my parents preening beside me. Establish my own brand, you know?”
I nodded through the monologue, but Imogen stayed deadpan: “So, your name’s Arjun?”
“Already exhausted by me?”
“Not sure yet,” she said as I simultaneously replied, “Not at all.”
Arjun beamed at me, and my eyes retreated to the matted gray carpet, too aware that my scars flared when I blushed. I prayed I wouldn’t develop some pathetic crush, reminding myself hehadto be straight. Even I knew they’d never cast two gay guys on the same show.
“Get used to me, Imogen. We might be on the same team,” Arjun continued.
“There are teams?” I asked.
“They didn’t explain the format when they pitched you the show?”
Imogen released a dry laugh that might as well have been a cough. “I was told ‘in or out’ for the chance at $1 million. Enough for me.”
My jaw dropped. “Wait—we could win$1 million?!”
Arjun nodded eagerly. “It’s two teams, equal numbers of men and women. Every episode, we compete in a Tribulation, which is a different physical task or puzzle every time. Then the winners pick someone from each team to battle in the elimination round… the Trial.”
“A Tribulation,thena Trial,” I repeated. “Should it be the other way around?”
He ignored me, pressing onward. “The episodes alternate between male and female eliminations. The last people standing on each team compete in the final episode for the $1 million, divided evenly amongst the winners. And that is how you playEndeavor.”
