“What about when you’re, um, if you need tousethe bathroom?” Trina asks, her face reddening.
“You’re permitted to take off your mic in the toilet stall, but there can only be one person in a stall at a time.”
“But I can’t shit without a support person,” Sue-Ellen says in a baby voice.
Gabby gives her a terse smile. “Yes, well,” she says. “Let’s continue the tour!”
We follow her wordlessly around the collection of ramshackle buildings, the Mess Hall and the Arts & Rec cabin, which rival the Bunkhouse in their shabbiness and lack of charm. Back outside, she points across the field to a few weight benches and a stationary bike like the one my mom used to hang her clothes on in her bedroom. “That’s the gym,” she says, then does a quarter turn, “and finally, the lounge.” She points to a nearby spot where two hammocks lazily swing in the breeze, flanked by several beanbag chairs, their bright, artificial colours punctuating the palette of dull greys and browns.
We meander around the camp, Gabby talking the whole time. She tells us that every morning after breakfast, we’ll have Gym Time, where we’re expected to chat, flirt, and gossip while maintaining our physiques. She points out the limits of the camp, which we aren’t allowed to pass, and directs our attention to a cluster of cabins just beyond the tree line.
“Those are the crew cabins, where the entire production team will be living and working. That area is strictly off-limits to campers, understood?” For the first time, she has let her ever-present smile drop, until we all mumble in agreement, and then once again her heart-shaped face lights up.
“It’s almost go time! One last thing.” She beckons to one of the crew members, and he produces a lime green Tupperware. “Phones and watches, please,” she says, passing it around.
Valeria tosses hers in. “Freedom!” she exclaims, raising one fist. But she’s the only one—the rest of us act like we are severing our own hands.
“Thank you all very much.” Gabby makes a show of tightly sealing the lid onto the container. “Now! Go unpack and get glammed up—we start filming in one hour! Are you ready?”
Crickets. Not a damn sound.
“I said,are you ready?”
An anemic cheer. No one seems ready, least of all me. I’ve always assumed everything on reality TV was fake, but this feels very, very real.
Chapter Eight
And it becomes realer than real, once we’re all dressed to impress, in full hair and makeup (which we did ourselves), with the cameras rolling. We’re back by the flagpole, officially meeting one another for the “first” time. The girls give air kisses and squeal about how gorgeous everyone is, all of us on our best behaviour. Even Sue-Ellen, who turned on the charm the moment the camera turned on her.
“Beautiful, beautiful.” Tyler is hovering, calling out directions from the sidelines. “Now, can one of you give a toast? Cleo, how about you?”
I raise my gold champagne flute and grin for the camera hovering six inches from my face. “Here’s to forming friendships, making memories, and of course, finding the loves of our lives!” And to leaving with a quarter mill.
“I hope you’ve saved me a glass.” A voice comes out of the woods, and we all whip around. Coming down the beach bath is a petite blonde in a tight, hot pink dress. She walks as if she’s on a runway, winking over her shoulder at the cameraman that trails her. I can practically hear her entrance music—something sexy and bass-heavy, its beat coinciding with every time her high-heeled sandal hits the dirt.
I squint at the woman. I’ve seen her before. There’s something familiar about her wide-set eyes and the gap between her front teeth.
Valeria gasps, covering her mouth.
“Natasha!” Trina exclaims, her eyes wide with wonder. Of course. Natasha, the most recent Bachelorette, whose fiancé was revealed to be a cheater during the finale, winning her the love of the nation. She is the perfect choice for our host.
Natasha gives us all air kisses, leaving us in a cloud of floral perfume. She takes her place under the flagpole.
“Wow, look at you all! What a gorgeous group of girls!” We cheer, and it feels more genuine than what we were faking for Gabby. “The guys aren’t going to know what hit them!” Another cheer, and we all raise our glasses once again to drink. “Speaking of the guys, are you ready to meet them?” This elicits the loudest cheer yet.
Gabby lines us up, working to find an angle where the sun isn’t in our eyes. Squinting is not cute on camera, she tells us. I tug at the microphone cord around my neck. It’s made of thin black rubber and is threaded with colourful beads to make it look more like a necklace, though in this moment, it feels like a noose. I wonder if it’s picking up my breathing. I try to take quieter, shallower breaths, but I quickly become light-headed. Fainting on camera is definitely not cute.
Everyone is obviously nervous. Trina shifts from one foot to another, chewing on her lip. Harmony can’t seem to figure out what to do with her hands. Valeria is standing very tall and straight, her chest heaving with long, deep breaths. Sue-Ellen looks like a contestant in a beauty pageant, with her shoulders thrown back, her hands on her hips, and her left leg turned in and slightly bent, lifting on her tiptoe to create length. Damn, she’s good.
I can only hope I look more relaxed than I feel. My flowy, white sundress is damp under the arms with sweat, and my guts are roiling with nervous heartburn, the acrid taste of bile teasing the back of my throat. I yank at my microphone cord again.
Then, in the distance, comes the low hum of an engine. We all crane our necks toward the beach path. My heart thumps in my ears.
Then, a guy on a four-wheeler roars through the trees. He’s shirtless, with close-cropped blond hair. He’s smiling nervously, as we all clapand cheer him on. He slows as he approaches Natasha, but then he roars forward, narrowly missing her. She shrieks, leaping out of the way.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I was trying to brake but I squeezed the gas instead. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says, plastering her smile back on her face. “Do we want to do that again?” she calls to the producers on the sidelines. “No? Okay.” She smooths her hair. “Welcome, Garrett! You certainly know how to make an entrance!”
