“Yep. And don’t forget waxing.”
“Mmm, upper lip for sure.”
“Underarms.”
“Legs.”
“Chin.”
“Bikini line.”
“At least. You might be more comfortable with a full Brazilian.”
“Everywhere, get waxed everywhere.”
“You won’t regret it.”
“We just want you to be at your most confident and your most beautiful,” Gabby says, taking my hand.
Tyler nods. “We’re going to make you a star.”
I’m strangely calm on the bus back to my mom’s house. But as the bus leaves the shining lights of the Strip behind, I’m hit with a sense of impending doom.
Oh god, I’m going to be on TV. And not in the way I’ve dreamed about, but rather as myself, or rather, some new and improved version of myself, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. To be perceived, to be judged, with no control of the narrative, subject to the whims of the producers and the voting public.
This is a huge mistake. What if it all goes wrong?
But even as I spiral, there is a voice in the back of my mind, reassuring me.What if ?it says.What if it all goes right?
What ifis not going to cut it. Ithasto all go right.
There’s just one thing I have to take care of, first.
Back at home, I’m relieved to find my mom still awake on the couch. All of the lights are off, but the glow of the television lights her profile.
“I had to stay up, it’s the finale,” she says, her eyes glued to the screen, where the three remaining girls ofLove Islandare trying on formal gowns.
“Did you eat anything? Mom?”
“Uh-huh.” She gestures to a plate on the coffee table. It holds the remnants of a sandwich.
“And you took your meds?”
She nods, irritably, holding her finger up to her lips to shush me.
“Okay, catch me up,” I say, sinking into the couch beside her. “What’s happening?”
She fills me in on the drama. As anyone who’s ever watched oneof these shows could guess, the Girl Next Door and the Fuckboy are favoured to win.
“Oh, look,” she says, pointing to the beautiful people on the screen, “aren’t they perfect together?”
The two walk out, arm-in-arm—her long, silver dress shimmering like a mirror ball, and him grinning like he’s already won the greatest prize of all. They do look really happy.
Each of the top three couples is given a retrospective of their “journey” together, and then they line up by the pool for the big moment. The Girl Next Door rests her head on the Fuckboy’s shoulder and bites her lip, her pretty face rigid with nerves. She flinches when a firework explodes behind them, and their names are called as the winners. The Fuckboy picks her up and spins her around, laughing and kissing her. The third-place couple sprays them with champagne, and they all take off their mics and jump into the pool fully clothed. The final shot is of all of them, soaked and happy, waving to the camera from below, as it zooms out to show a shot of the full villa, lit up like a Christmas tree in the night.
My mom sighs contentedly. I reach for the remote to mute the TV.
“Mom, I need to talk to you about something, okay?”
