Poppy stopped in her tracks. “Yes. I do. I need to prove to myself that I’m bigger than my past and that it won’t define me moving forward. He stole my childhood. I’m not going to let him steal one more thing.”
Kiki smacked Poppy on the shoulder. “That’s my girl. Now where to, boss?”
“Kitchen. I’m a ‘first on the site and last to leave’ kind of girl and today is no different.” She believed the early bird gets the worm, and today was no different. She had something to prove. To her new crew and especially her irritating co-host.
Not to mention, herself.
Being an outsider wasn’t a new concept for Poppy. She’d spent her childhood being teased for not having the latest clothes or clothes that weren’t hand-me-downs. Kids thought she was weird, teachers thought she was being neglected—and she was. CPS even showed up a few times for welfare checks. But no one seemed to do anything to help. It was all empty gestures.
Her dad wasn’t any help. When he left, he went completely AWOL. Not so deep, though, that Poppy couldn’t find him on social media.
At first she wanted to see what he looked like, if he’d aged or still had the same sideways smile he used to. But what she found was photos of him with his kids—his new kids. Heartbroken, she watched from the sidelines while he raised his family—a family that didn’t include her. Not that she was lacking love—her aunt showered her with the love of a hundred parents. But no matter how hard Poppy tried to forget about her father’s absence and mother’s inability to parent—rejection still cut deep.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been able to let go of the events of last week. Her usual crew was like family, with inside jokes, their own language, and acceptance. This crew was terrifiedof her. Which was ridiculous. One little tantrum shouldn’t set the direction of their relationship. Only it had, which was why she was determined to make a good second impression.
Unfortunately, her morning had been hijacked by an insistent makeup artist who was determined to make Poppy camera ready. Which apparently included contouring, mascara, and an outfit that made her look like one of those DIY babes who used pink tools.
Then there was Diana, the director of photography who was determined to capture Poppy’s every move, even though the taping hadn’t officially started. As far as Poppy was concerned, filming began with demo and, according to the call sheet, that was still an hour away. Diana didn’t care.
Then there was her posse, comprised of a boom mic operator and a lighting crew—all of whom were hunting Poppy down like a gazelle to their tiger.
Poppy looked over her shoulder at Diana, who was right on her heels, and whispered to Kiki, “I look like an idiot.”
“Can you say that word anymore?” Kiki asked Poppy and, afraid that her friend was right and she’d already blown her first impression with the audience, whipped her head over her shoulder to look at Diana.
“You’re going to tell me when you start filming,” she clarified.
Diana gave a thumbs-up. “You bet.”
“Thank God.” Poppy tugged at the collar of her too-tight-to-be-functional flannel and sighed. “I mean, this is ridiculous,” she said to Kiki. “I don’t need a push-up bra and a full face of makeup. I’m not a Kardashian.” She grimaced at her choice of words and looked over her shoulder again at Diana. “Not that looking like a Kardashian is a bad thing. It just isn’tmything.” Another thumbs-up. “You aren’t filming, right?”
“Just keep walking,” Diana said and waved her forward.
Built like a linebacker, Diana was an intimidating figure—who smart people didn’t challenge. Considering herself smart, Poppy followed orders and continued down the walkway toward the entry to the house. In the background a loud banging sounded.
“What’s that?” Poppy asked, a tinge of panic settling between her shoulder blades.
“Just keep walking,” Diana said.
“I mean, what kind of self-respecting contractor wears designer jeans on a construction site?” she whispered.
“A bougie one,” Kiki teased.
“You’re not helping.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a glowing red dot on the top of the camera. Her heart pounded against her chest. “Oh my god, youaretaping!”
“We tape everything. Just keep moving forward and pretend we’re not here,” Diana said, her tone leaving no room for argument, negotiation, or even the whisper of a different opinion. It was the verbal equivalent of a door clicking shut—and Poppy knew better than to try the handle.
Poppy wrung her hands while following the command.
She was used to being on camera. After all, that’s how she made her money. But on her show her crew consisted of Kiki. Not to mention, she had complete control over the finished product. She felt like a dead man walking thinking about how they were going to editthatconversation.
“Can we just pretend that never happened and leave that bit on the cutting room floor?” she asked Diana.
“Do I look like someone who sits on my ass all day, sipping on a Big Gulp and watching porn on company time?”
“Um, no.”
