a lot of reality television, do you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t watch television at all. It’s not sufficiently stimulating to me. I’m here because my friend was coming, and I need the money to pay off my student loans.”
“So . . . sufficiently stimulating, to you, would be . . .”
“I play the harp in my spare time, so I love music that moves me. Mozart. Mussorgsky. Mahler. I’m very interested in theater and art—and obviously good literature . . .” I stop when I realize they’re way more interested in my life than anyone ever has been. They’re suddenly hanging on my every word.
Why, again?
“And your pet peeves?”
This is definitely not happening. “Ah. Well, normal things. Ignorance. Laziness. People who overindulge. People who don’t read or think sports are a religion or eat fast food all the time. All those things, I think, are the downfalls of modern society.”
“Hmm. Do you consider yourself athletic?”
I looked down at myself. “What do you think? I’ve never even watched a sport before. Like I said, it’s not sufficiently stimulating to my mind. I think the human body is a work of art for the mind alone.”
The woman looks down at her sheet. “Interesting, Penelope. And are you seeing anyone right now?”
For a second, I think of Gerald. “Nell. And no.”
Hipster guy motions me forward. “Can you come closer? Take your hair down from that ponytail and spin around?”
I don’t want to, but I do. I walk toward the table, pull my dishwater-blonde hair out of the tie, and do a little catwalk turn, nearly falling over on my ass. I grasp the edge of the table before I topple down.
When I look up, they’re all smiling at each other and nodding.
The woman reaches under her clipboard and pulls out a black folder. She motions me forward and says brightly, “Congratulations. You’ve made it to our first round. I’m Eloise Barker, the executive producer. This folder contains everything you need to know.”
I stare at her. This isn’t happening. “First round?”
She nods and shakes my hand. “Yes, you are one of fifty contestants plus five alternates who will be selected for the filming of the first season of Million Dollar Marriage, which will begin filming this September! There are several rounds, but you’ve taken a very big step toward one million dollars.”
No, this really isn’t happening. I’m dreaming. “But—what? Aren’t you even going to tell me what the show is about? Like, the marriage part?”
The mustached man shakes my hand. Now he seems to love me. “I’m Vic Warner, the showrunner.” He points to the bald hipster. “And that’s Will Wang, famous television personality and our host.”
I stare at him. Famous? Never seen him before in my life. “Uh . . . about the show?”
Eloise shakes her head. “Everything you need to know is right in the folder. Please call us should you have any questions. I’m afraid not everything is answered in there because we want to keep a certain air of mystery, but it’ll all be divulged in due time.”
I shake my head. Air of mystery? Oh, that is so not me. “Actually, I—”
She opens the first page and points to something that says “Prize Schedule.” I squint to read it. “As you’ll see, though we can’t tell you what you’ll be doing, contestants who do show up for the first day of taping will receive twenty thousand dollars. That’s yours to keep, whether or not you decide to continue on.”
Twenty thousand dollars.
For just showing up.
My throat closes, but before it completely seals, I manage to squeak out an “Okay.”
Then I’m ushered out the door to a totally different place from where I’d been before. I spend a good half hour wandering about before I find Courtney and Joe sitting in the front of the convention center.
She runs to me as soon as she sees me. “Well? Where were you?”
I hold up the folder with the MDM logo on it, still dazed. “I’m in.”
Luke
My strategy is this: make everyone love me. It ain’t hard.
—Luke’s Confessional, Day 1
Cutie doesn’t like me.
It’s become my new favorite pastime, staring at her, watching the blush crawl across her cheeks, which are snow white except for a few freckles over the bridge of her nose, magnified by those glasses.
Not like I have anything better to do. Jimmy’s in deep conversation with one of his fans, and so there’s hours and hours of nothing. And . . . her. She’s cute. Looks younger than twenty-five, that’s for