Actually, I can’t tell her anything. They’ve really kept us in the dark. And one of the clauses in the contract said not to divulge anything in the folder to anyone. But the camera’s in my face and I can’t even seem to remember how to walk, or talk, or breathe.
Suddenly someone snakes a hand around my waist and yanks me toward the door. I let out a shriek in confusion as a male voice says, “No comment. Get the fuck away.”
I look down and see a massive tan hand splayed on my midsection.
Up, and there’s a hairy beast of a man. The yeti. I get my voice back in a hurry and pound on his hand with my fist. “Let me go!”
He pulls me through the doors and deposits me roughly on the ground. “As you wish, sweetheart,” he says, grinning at me. “You know, if you’re actually gonna win this, you’d better start getting more comfortable around cameras.”
I scowl at him. “What are you doing here? This is just for contestants.”
He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a folded piece of paper. When he unfolds it, I realize it’s the contestant paperwork.
Oh no. No no no no. “You’re a contestant?”
“Hell yes,” he says. “And I’m going to clean the floor with your ass.”
My scowl deepens. Courtney wants me to be nice to everyone? Forget that. I heft the bag onto my shoulder. “We’ll see about that. Leave me alone.”
I stomp off toward check-in, but he follows right behind me. “What, you didn’t bring your massive textbook with you?”
I pat my bag. I have a lot of reading with me. Then I realize he doesn’t need to know. “That’s no business of yours.”
He’s still trying to talk to me as I hand my registration papers to the woman at check-in. I decide to ignore, ignore, ignore.
“Welcome,” the woman says to me, reading my name on the paper.
I swear, the guy is right on my heels, breathing down my neck. I reach for my ponytail and smooth it, flicking him in the pecs.
His superhard Superman pecs.
“Penelope Carpenter. We’re happy to have you as a contestant. The rest of the contestants are getting ready for filming, through those doors over there.”
“Thank you.”
I walk through the doors, my teeth chattering again. They told us to wear and bring athletic-type clothing. I didn’t have any, so I went to Target and put $200 worth of workout bras, spandex capris, T-shirts, and a pair of sneakers on my credit card. When I get inside, I realize that “athletic clothing” means different things to different people. There’s one insanely muscular woman in nothing but a bikini top and tiny boy shorts. Another beautiful woman with a long braid down her back is wearing an entire bikini. One man is in a pair of tight bike shorts, muscles bulging. A lot of people, actually, are baring way too much skin. Aren’t they afraid of a boob or some other body part slipping out on film?
I know I am, as I’ve packed the baggiest T-shirts I could find.
I skulk along the outskirts of the room as I watch the men flexing and the women preening in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror.
I am so in the wrong place.
As I’m wondering whether the $20,000 is worth this, I trip over the foot of a girl who’s sitting on a bench. She’s dark skinned and is wearing a sari over shorts, plus sneakers. Her boobs are fully undercover.
“Hi,” she says, scooting over to make room for me.
I sit beside her, my heart beating like mad. “Hi. Are you a contestant?”
She nods. “I am so, so, so nervous,” she says, in a tiny and very soft voice. “I have no idea why they picked me for this!”
I smile. “Me neither.”
She extends her hand. “Shveta Patel,” she says. “From New Jersey. I’m trying to earn money to send back to my parents in India so that they can get a surgery for my younger brother.”
Oh. That sounds noble. Much more worthwhile than the stupid mess I’m in. I shake her hand. “Nell Carpenter. From right here in Atlanta.”
“I’ve been looking around,” she says, “and I think they tried to get people as different from one another as possible. I mean, it’s a real cross section of America. You’ve got young and old, all races, athletic and non, all walks of life. It’s very interesting.”