Elimination Night - By Anonymous Page 0,33

the act.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“At least I’m honest about what I want,” Bibi went on. “With Joey, it’s all this, ‘Hey, I’m just diggin’ the High Lama Yuti whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is. He’s the fake, not you.”

I nodded dumbly.

“Whatever,” she concluded. “Enjoy the Rolls, honey. Just stay away from David. He’s all mine.” Then she gave me a smile—the very same smile that had been framed in lights and hung from skyscrapers in every major world city—and walked away.

I watched as she padded barefoot up the hallway.

When the maid spoke, it made me jump. “Shall I let David know you’re ready now?” she asked.

“I’m ready,” I confirmed, with relief. “Very ready.”

I tried to sleep in the Rolls, but couldn’t. The day had been just too strange. Besides, the toxic fog of my hangover was now finally beginning to lift, making me feel suddenly energized. So I folded down the picnic table in front of me, tore a sheet of paper from the “BV” monogrammed notepad in the armrest, and began writing, pausing to think carefully between each line. And when we finally got back to Little Russia, I slipped the result of my work under Mr. Zglagovvcini’s door.

It read:

Hey there, Mr. Z:

Okay… so I’m not including “oxygen” or any smartass bullshit like that. That said, here goes:

SIX THINGS I CAN’T LIVE WIHTOUT

Brock (my BOYFRIEND).

Mom (tied with No. 1).

One Hundred Years of Solitude (first edition hardback, gift from my dad).

Maker’s Mark on ice.

Sweet potato fries (or horseradish—tough call).

Blue (the color, not Apt. 23-A’s goldfish, though he’s adorable).

This DOES NOT mean I want you to create that profile, Mr. Z!!! I’m leaving for Hawaii to see “Mr. Invisible” very soon. If you want something to do, send me your own list.

Later,

“Crazy Woman” (Apt. 7-B)

10

N for Yes

November

OKAY, SO IT SOUNDS ridiculous, I know—but I could hardly resist asking myself the question: Had I made friends with Bibi Vasquez? Had our conversation in the hallway of her Secret Mountain home marked the beginning of one of those fairytale, princess-and-the-pauper-style relationships—like the ones you see in those corny English movies, which always seem to end with some poofy-dressed royal making an unexpected visit for tea to a humble, chintz-stacked, semidetached house in Olde Yorkminster (as the gawping, woolly-hatted neighbors peer on)?

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t actually want Bibi to make an unexpected visit to my apartment. There was nowhere for her to sit, for a start. And the only thing I could offer her, foodwise, was old cheese. And then of course there was the issue of Mr. Zglagovvcini, with his incessant coughing and lethal bouts of flatulence…

If I was being honest with myself, however, I knew that friendship with Bibi was out of the question. Even if she wasn’t worth half a billion dollars, even if the LAPD didn’t close the street whenever she went to a restaurant, even if she wasn’t so busy, she had to schedule time with her kids via a global network of childcare logistics coordinators. Even ignoring all that, we’d still have nothing in common.

I like to deflect attention; Bibi wants as much of it as she can get. In high school I was Little Miss Bookworm (or “the freckled dorkworm” as one of the more talented bullies put it); Bibi was named Most Likely to Marry a Movie Star. And then of course there’s the age difference. Bibi is twenty years my senior: old enough to be my mother! Not that anyone would know this by looking at us. Indeed, like most females of a certain wealth level, Bibi has essentially been freeze-framed by cosmetic technology—and will almost certainly remain that way for the rest of her professional life, or at least until the next major upgrade, from which she might very well emerge having lost another half decade.

So why had she sent the Rolls-Royce to collect me? Just to give me her opinion of Joey? It was hard to think of any other reason. Unless… unless Bibi was so lonely and insecure—as her mom had suggested—that she needed to fill her house with anyone willing to give her their uninterrupted attention for seven hours. What a depressing thought. Still, it would have explained the presence of all those random, grinning sycophants, even if they were all distant cousins.

Whatever the case, any fantasy that I’d indulged in regarding my “special relationship” with Bibi came to an end a few weeks later, when it was time to start taping the city-to-city audition episodes of Project Icon. Our first stop,