“Oh, to have that conversation recorded,” Dylan says. “Or the one when you leave here tonight!”
Arabella turns to her and asks in a very formal tone. “May we climb down now?”
“Yes, of course,” Dylan says. “Now, because you missed yet another question, we have one last thing for you to eat.”
“I don’t think so. I’m done,” Arabella says.
“What?” Dylan asks, her face falling for the first time this hour.
“I don’t wish to eat anything else. I’m full. And I’m afraid I’ll become ill, which doesn’t make for very good television.”
Dylan tilts her head and scrunches up her nose as if she’s very sorry to be giving bad news. “If you’re full, Will is going to have to eat two because the game isn’t over.”
“Come now, we’ve been good sports and all,” Arabella answers. “We’ve answered your questions and done the challenges, and now we should move on to the next segment. I’m sure the audience has grown tired of watching us choke down disgusting things.”
Turning to the audience, Dylan yells, “Are you tired of seeing them eat things from our Gross Out Kitchen?”
A resoundingNO!comes from the crowd. Of course.
The dome is lifted, and on it are two large brown jiggly blobs. “These have been flown in all the way from Canada. It’s called jellied moose nose and yes, it’s exactly what you think it is. They cut off the nose, spice it, add onions, boil it, remove the hair, boil it again, then cover it in a broth that turns to jelly.”
“Oh, wow,” Arabella says, turning her face away from the plate.
“At least it isn’t a sour toe cocktail,” I say.
She looks up at me. “Tell me that’s not really a thing.”
I nod. “Up in the Yukon, when someone loses a toe to frostbite, they—”
Arabella holds up one hand, looking slightly green.
“I’ll tell you the rest later,” I say.
“Or not at all,” she answers, staring at the jiggly brown blobs. “And we wonder why Canadian cuisine hasn’t caught on around the world…”
I pick up mine and pop it into my mouth, letting it slide down my throat in lieu of chewing first.
Wow, that was super putrid.
Arabella, beyond caring about seeming rude, clamps her nose with a finger and her thumb. She chews quickly, then gags out, “They missed a hair.” Pulling the hair out of her mouth, she finally manages to swallow it, but as soon as she gets it down, she retches. The producer makes it to her in time with the Bucket of Shame and she lets it all go. Repeatedly.
Compassion pushes away my hurt feelings and I rush over, shielding her from the camera as best I can while I hold back her hair. “It’s okay,” I say, knowing it’s anything but okay for a princess to puke on national television.
When she’s done, she whispers to me, “I have to leave now.”
“All right,” I say, putting my arm around her back like a bodyguard rushing a celebrity through a mob of fans.
We exit the stage while Dylan informs the audience that it’s time for a commercial break, but we’ll be back with more in just a couple of minutes. One of the producers descends upon us with a squad of minions. She talks quickly, trying to pep us up whilst Arabella is ushered to a sink backstage and handed a toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash. She sets to work brushing the moose nose vomit out of her teeth.
The director calls, “Thirty seconds!”
“Okay, you two. The hard part is over. When you get back out there, we’ll have some fans in the audience lob some softball questions at you. No more food challenges tonight.”
“No, we’re done,” I say to her.
“No, you’re not. We’ve got another twelve minutes of air-time to fill and you’re under contract, so you will both be heading back out on the stage.”
“Or what?” I ask.
