I realize now that all those fucked-up experiments psychologists were performing in the sixties to push people to their breaking point may have gotten outlawed, but they didn’t go away. They just film them and call it reality television now.
As everyone gets up to head to the cafeteria, Garrett steps in front of me and Seyoon, blocking our escape path.
“Hey, you two, could I interest you in a homecooked breakfast?” he says. “I’m quite the chef.”
I’m shaking my head before he can finish his sentence. “No, thank you.”
“But I made muffins?”
Seyoon blinks. “Are you trying to poison us? That’s creepy. You’re creepy.”
Garrett’s smile flatlines, annoyed. “Your mom was much more pleasant than you are.”
“Yeah, I’d agree.”
“Can you two brats just follow me so we can have a conversation away from the cameras?”
That piques my interest, and I can tell Seyoon’s thinking the same thing. I don’t trust Garrett, but if the man who thrives on attention suddenly doesn’t want to be filmed, then I’m curious enough to hear why.
We warily follow Garrett to his private cabin. Surprisingly, it’s as nondescript as the other ones. The only indication that it’s his is the wooden post in front of the porch that saysHost. Once inside, a physical weight lifts from my shoulders. It’s a relief to break away from the constant cameras and attentive crew members, even for just a minute.
Garrett tells us to wait in the living room while he excuses himself to the kitchen. I use the opportunity to snoop. I take back what I said earlier—his cabin is anythingbutnondescript. The place is covered wall to wall inForest Feudmemorabilia, for one thing. From promotional show bills, stills from different challenges, and contestant posters. No surprise, about 80 percent of them are of a younger, less-gray Garrett. Among the other 20 percent are contestants I recognize from the fifteenth season. I subtly scour them all, pausing at a small frame hanging in the hallway. This one isn’t a promo poster; it’s a sun-washed Polaroid of Garrett, my dad, and Seyoon’s mom. The three of them are laughing at something out of view, with their heads thrown back, big smiles on their youthful faces, and their arms haphazardly reaching out for each other.
The unadulterated joy radiating off Dad takes me aback. I thought their alliance was strictly strategic. But were they actually all friends? From the looks of it,goodfriends.
Suddenly, Seyoon creeps up behind me.
“We should clog his toilet,” she whispers.
“What?”
“It’d be funny, right? Or we could steal his remote.”
“No more ideas from you, please. Let’s just see what he wants.”
We sit at his tiny dining table, and after a few more minutes, Garrett comes back carrying a muffin tin and wearing a bright blue apron that saysMr.Good-Lookin’IsCookin’!I’m almost tempted to tell Seyoon to steal the remote after all.
“Hope you brats like blueberries,” he chirps, setting the muffins between us. He picks up a box out of the recycling bin and shows it off proudly. There’s a picture of him on the front in a chef’s hat.
“Moxley Muffins?” I say.
“You’ve heard!” He sounds delighted.
Unfortunately so. As a lifetime fan ofForest Feud, I’m quite aware of all of his corporate sellouts to cash in on his fame. There was Moxley Mountaineering Mittens, his hiking-gear stint. Then Moxley 'Mallows, a line of eccentric flavored marshmallows. And of course, Moxley Markers, Moxley Makeup, Moxley Magnets, etc. Basically, if it started with the letterM, he already had a trademark patent on it.
He watches us expectantly, his hands neatly folded in front of his apron.
“I’m not eating those,” Seyoon says.
Garrett looks sad enough that I hesitantly reach for a muffin and take a small bite.
“Oh.” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice. “This is actually good.”
He takes a seat across from us, popping one in his mouth whole. “Aren’t they? Wish I could take credit, but all I did was show up to media day and look pretty for the picture on the box.”
Seyoon eyes me for a few seconds, and when I don’t keel over, she takes one too. Her eyes widen. She’s reaching for a second before Garrett speaks again.
“Go ahead and turn your mics off,” he says.
