Carrie taps her fingernails on the boardroom table. “Apparently they’re planning on taping this meeting and using it on the show.”
What? No one said anything about being taped. It’s a weekday. My hair is in a ponytail, I’m not wearing any makeup and I’m sporting jeans and a sweatshirt. “You could have told me, Carrie. Any news about the show getting canceled?”
“They wouldn’t be taping us if we were getting canceled.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out foundation, a stick of blush, mascara, a lipstick and a hairbrush. “Go fix yourself up. The bathroom is down the hall.”
“I’ll go with you,” Miche says. “I look like a mess.” Her hair is piled on top of her head in a haphazard bun, and she’s dressed even more casually than I am, but still looks amazing. She’s wearing sneakers and a Juicy Couture zip-up sweatshirt and matching pants.
I leave the bathroom before she does. When I get back, Erin is gesturing with her arms. “So it’s not my fault, right?”
“What’s not your fault?” I ask, sitting down.
Carrie rolls her eyes, and I have a feeling that whatever it is, Erin’s not blameless. “The man that Erin hooked up with on Saturday night has a girlfriend,” Carrie says.
“He told you?” I ask Erin.
She shakes her head. “No. His girlfriend did. She came over to my apartment and started telling me off.”
I laugh. “How did she know where you live?”
She shrugs. “I’m in the phone book.”
Brittany laughs, too. “What did she say?”
Erin’s lips are pursed. “She said that Annikan was her boyfriend, and—”
I laugh even harder. “Annikan? As in Skywalker?”
“Who? I don’t know. Who cares? But how was I supposed to know he had a girlfriend? He didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend. She saw the show and was seriously pissed.”
“What kind of a moron cheats on his girlfriend on national television and doesn’t expect to get caught?” Brittany asks.
“Exactly,” Erin says. “A moron. It’s not my fault. Can you believe that jerk?”
Brittany puts her forehead on the table and stretches her arms. “Maybe he was too plastered to remember he was even cheating on her.”
Erin glowers at her. “You would know.”
Brittany’s head pops back up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
“You think I’m a drunk?”
“I just don’t understand why you drink so much when you have such a low tolerance. You get smashed after one drink anyway, why do you have to have ten?”
Brittany is about to answer when Howard walks in and everyone stops talking. He’s all dressed up for the occasion. What happened to his goatee and John Lennon glasses? Instead, he’s freshly shaven, in a silver shirt and black striped pants.
Pete walks in, nods hello and sets up the camera.
“What’s going on?” I mouth to him.
He mouths back, “No clue.”
Pete is terrific. I once asked him how he ended up on Party Girls.
“I won’t win any awards for this stuff, but it pays the rent.”
“What do you want to do? Movies?”
“Not necessarily, maybe some reporting. Something with a bit more depth.”
Pete smiles and I smile back.
“Howard, you’re looking spiffy,” Brittany says.
Howard ignores her, and rubs his hands together. “Where’s Miche? Anyone know where she is?”
“Where who is?” Miche says, sashaying in.
“Sit down,” he says, not looking up at her.
Hmm. Trouble in sleaze-ville? He’s found someone new to stalk?
Miche sticks out her tongue at me and slides into my neighboring chair. “What’s going on?” she whispers.
“No idea,” I whisper back.
Why didn’t she call me back? Why do I only get to see Miche when Miche wants to see me?
After motioning to Pete to start filming, Howard smiles a big toothy grin at the camera. Doesn’t he know that his teeth are blotchy? “We’ve decided to make some changes to the format,” he says. “Some exciting changes.”
Each episode will be in a different city? They’re inviting guys to be on the show?
We’re getting a salary?
“In the great tradition of Survivor,” Howard says, widening his eyes in what I’m assuming is his attempt to make them twinkle for the camera, “we will be adding a series of challenges. Next episode we’ll be breaking you up into two competing teams. The winning team will get to vote someone from the losing team off the show. In the following episode, there will be another series of challenges. The last-place contestant will be dismissed from the show. In the final episode, the remaining two girls will compete for the ultimate title. After a series of challenges, the audience will then vote for the Ultimate Party Girl.”
I’m going to be sick.
Erin slams her hands on the table. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Howard smiles at her.
Miche squeezes my arm. “Jeez.”
Brittany has turned white. She leans toward Carrie and says, “You never told us anything about getting voted off.” She looks like she’s about to cry.
That is so embarrassing. Getting voted off. I didn’t sign up for getting voted off. Losing on television? I lean into the table. “What kind of challenges?”
“Pete, can you please turn the camera off so we can discuss this properly?” Erin asks.
Howard nods and Pete turns it off.
We all start talking at once.
Erin: “You’re such an asshole, Howard.”
Brittany: “I hate tests. I don’t want to take any tests.”
Miche: “Omigod.” She starts laughing. “Hilarious. He’s got to be kidding.”
Me: “What type of competition? Physical? Mental?”
I figure I can kick butt on a mental one, but I’m not sure I want to eat bugs or walk on glass or anything like that.
How can they kick me off? What about my tampon endorsements?
Howard shakes his head and starts rubbing his hands together again. He reminds me of Lady Macbeth, trying to wipe her hands clean of the blood. “Relax. It’ll be fun, and besides, I don’t have a choice. The network was going to can us and this was the only way they’d agree to keep us on.”
Erin slams her hands on the table again. “But we were supposed to be in ten episodes and now we’re only doing seven!”
“After Christmas we’re starting over with ten girls,” he says matter-of-factly. “We’ll vote off one each week.”
I better not have to walk on glass. That will definitely ruin my pedicure. “What are the challenges, Howard?”
He shrugs. “We haven’t come up with them yet. And anyway, they have to be a surprise.”
Brittany wraps a lock of her hair around her finger and sucks it. “But what do we get if we win?”
Howard smiles again. “You get to be the Ultimate Party Girl.”
Snort. “That hardly seems worth it,” I say.
“Plus five thousand cash and you get to be the host of Party Girls II, which will probably be filmed in L.A. this winter. Imagine that. Instead of spending the coldest months of the year shivering, you’ll be in sunny LosAngeles. We’ll put you up for three months, get you a car, pay for your food and continue your clothing allowance. Doesn’t sound so bad, now does it?”
My heart sinks at the mention of L.A. I can’t move across the country. I just moved across the country. To be with Steve. In New York. Could I move to L.A.? What about my relationship? This job was just supposed to be a means to an end. The end being Steve.
But shouldn’t my career be just as important as my relationship? If I don’t go for it, aren’t I becoming what I’ve always feared? My mother?
As I scan the faces of Erin, Miche and Brittany and observe their naked hunger and determination, I see how much they want this. And I realize: I don’t know when the means took on a life of its own—but it did.
I want this.
I want to be the host of my own show. My blood starts pumping faster and I clench my fists in determination.
It’s only three months. I could come back and visit during the week, or every other week if my schedule gets crazy.
Steve will have to deal.
On the subway home I take out a pad of paper, and brainstorm potential challenges and necessary preparations. I’m going to spend the rest of the week in training. Like when Luke returns to Yoda before he has to save Han. I decide my best strategy is to balance one mental potential activity with one potential physical one. I make a list.
Monday. Mental: bartending. I’ll stop at Barnes & Noble and buy a book about what goes in every type of drink. What exactly is in a Cosmopolitan? A Sex on the Beach? A Kir Royal? Physical: bug-eating. Don’t really want to practice this, so search on Internet for best ways to accomplish feat without throwing up.
Tuesday. Mental: statistics. Study all bar-related facts I can find on the Internet. Physical: dance-off. Make sure I know how to do all latest and historical dance moves. Robot, moonwalk, break dance, macarena? Limbo!
Wednesday. Mental: memory. Read up on best ways to improve faculties, in case we have to play match-the-shot-glass game. Physical: stamina. Practice holding breath under water in case of Jacuzzi dunk. Also, swim laps in case have to swim through pools of Cosmopolitan.
Thursday. Mental: geography. Memorize map of Manhattan and other boroughs in case of scavenger hunt. Physical: gymnastics. Practice balancing techniques. Might be a game of who can stand with one foot on a barstool the longest?
Friday. Mental: linguistics. Study appropriate bar words in other languages in case have to fly to foreign country. (Also, must learn how to use compass.) Physical: guzzling beer. Actually, should practice this every day to increase alcohol tolerance.
Saturday. Mental: review. Physical: review.
By the time we reach my subway stop, I am a nervous wreck. So little time, so many stupid things to practice.
I congratulate myself…on officially losing perspective.
After stopping at the bookstore to pick up a cocktail book, and then at the video store to pick up Cocktail and Coyote Ugly (undoubtedly there will be a bartending competition that will involve me having to throw shot glasses and catch them in my cleavage, and I should research the technique) I turn on my computer because I’ve made a decision.
If I get voted off, I’ll lose my chance to e-mail Matt forever. I’ll be a has-been. A television pariah. Why would a TV star want anything to do with a has-been? I have to e-mail him now. While I’m feeling pumped.
Two new e-mail messages.
I open the first one from Dana.
Hi Sun,
I know I said I wouldn’t bug you about the Purity thing, but you should read these notes I made. I’ve interviewed about five women about their horrible experiences and I included their comments in these notes. Please—
I’ll read that later. Right now I have to write Matt before I lose my nerve.
I hastily write up the perfect I’m-not-coming-on-to-you-but-I-think-we-should-be-friends e-mail:
Hey, Matt. Did you watch the show last week? You were a natural. Why don’t you become a regular? Sorry I missed your Halloween bash but I heard it was quite the par-TAY. Great meeting you, Sunny
There. It’s gone. In cyberspace. Nothing I can do now. Out of my hands.
I open my second new message.
To Sunny,
I’m not sure if you’ve moved to the city yet, but we have another job opening in my department at Soda Star. If you’re interested in applying, please give me a call. We’ll have coffee and discuss.
Best,
Ronald Newman
Soda Star? I don’t want to work at Soda Star now. I wanted to work there two months ago. Even the idea of writing up business plans for a new type of soda makes me tired. Taking the job at Soda Star would be taking a major move backward in my life.
Ding! One new e-mail.
Sunny, How ’bout I meet you after the show instead? Matt
It’s 11:00 a.m. and I wake up, eager to start my training.
No, no, no.
I feel a tingling sensation on my lip.
I slowly raise my finger to my mouth in the hope that I’m wrong, that it’s a mosquito bite, that it’s a pimple, that I scratched myself in my sleep.
No, no, no.
A miniature bump is perched on the left side of my top lip, right on the lip line.
“Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!” I scream, horror-film-like and begin kicking the mattress. I take out my teeth bleach trays and put them in a tissue on the coffee table. I bet it’s because of them. The chemicals aggravated my sensitive skin!
Steve pops into a sitting position. “What’s wrong?”
“My lip,” I say, almost crying. “My lip.”
He squints at my face. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You can’t see it yet, but it’s coming.”
He slouches back onto the mattress, and reaches out to touch my mouth. “What’s coming?”
I groan. “I’m ruined. It’s…it’s…” It’s too horrible to say. “It’s a cold sore.”
Steven laughs.
Yes, he laughs.
Is that an appropriate reaction? “How can you laugh when I’m so miserable?”
He tries to stop laughing and appear somber. “I’m sorry,” he says, a smile breaking through. “But it’s kind of ironic, no?”
“Ironic? My getting a cold sore is ironic?”
“You humiliate some guy for having a cold sore and then two days later you get one yourself. Doesn’t it sound like someone’s trying to tell you something?”
“What are you talking about? I get them when I’m stressed. And I’m stressed. It’s not divine retribution.”
“You don’t think it’s coincidental?”
Oh, my. He thinks God sent me a cold sore to teach me a lesson? Thou shalt not speak ill of former dates. “No, it’s cause and effect. I’ve been worrying about the possibility of getting one since I ran into Cory, and I’ve inadvertently stressed one into fruition.”
He shrugs. “I can’t see anything anyway.”
I lie on my back so I can’t see myself in the new mirror above the new dresser (recent Stark’s purchases). “It starts small and then blows up. It’s horrible, Steve. Trust me. I know about this. I get them all the time. I’ve been getting them since I was a little girl.”
His eyebrows gather in confusion. “What are you talking about? We’ve been together a year, and you haven’t had one.”
Yes I did, I just didn’t tell you. “I used to get them all the time. Where’s my medication? I need to put on my medication.”
The earlier you put on the cream, the faster the abomination self-destructs. Where is it? I jump out of bed and search through the medicine cabinet, trying to locate it amidst Steve’s chaos. Two empty spray deodorant cans. Two? I toss them both into the garbage can. A razor without the cap. Does he not know how dangerous that is?
“Steve, do you think you could tidy your stuff in the medicine cabinet? I can’t find anything.”
I need to find my medication now. I have to apply the cream immediately or it won’t work. Every second counts! The instructions say to start using it when you first experience the tingling. What if the tingling started when I was asleep? What if it’s been tingling for hours?
“You have to relax,” Steve says from the other room.
“There’s no time to relax.” Here it is, sandwiched between the cotton balls and my never-opened bottle of nail polish remover. Why struggle with the removal myself when I can have a manicurist do it?
I apply it liberally (translation: smother) to my top lip and then return to the bedroom.
Steve is sitting up in bed, smirking.
“I’m glad you’re amused. This could get me eliminated.” Alcohol is a herpes no-no. What if there’s a beer-guzzling contest?
Shit. What if there’s a kissing contest?
“You don’t think this whole thing is hokey?” He makes his voice two octaves lower. “Who will be the Ultimate Party Girl?”
“Is that your talk-show-host voice?”
He rubs his hands together gleefully. “Yup. What d’ya think?”
“Needs work.”
“What are the challenges? Who can drink the most shots without breaking a nail, while dancing blindfolded on the bar? Are you going to train?” He laughs hard, holding his stomach.
Luckily I have not shared my week’s agenda. I’d never hear the end of it. “I’m glad you’re amused, but I have to tell you, I have no intention of losing. Remember the prize? Five thousand cash is nothing to sneeze at.”
“And getting to host the next Party Girls means nothing, right?” His face turns serious. “So, if you win, will I be allowed to exist? How long are you supposed to be single?”
“I don’t know,” I answer testily. “I couldn’t exactly ask them, could I?” I don’t want to talk about this now. I know where this conversation is heading, and I’m not really feeling up to the drive. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Why don’t you just take the Soda Star job and forget about this TV stuff already?”
At least I told Steve about one of my e-mails. “How can I work for a company that screwed me over like that? No way. And I don’t even think I want to work in new business development.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to win Party Girls. Be the host.” I want to be someone tabloid reporters consider worthy of their film. I want to get fan letters. Loads and loads of them that cram up the mailbox. I want to get into a role, really get under the skin of a character. At Panda I was getting tired of developing products and then handing them off to someone else to manage. I want to see the character through. Grow with the character. If the host thing doesn’t work out, I think I’d be perfect for a sitcom. That way I can grow a little bit each week.
“Last month you were too nervous about applying for a manager’s position because you didn’t think you had enough experience. This month you want to host your own show?” He cracks his neck.
“I have a little more self-confidence these days, I suppose.”
Steve’s eyes are zigzagging around the room, and I can tell he’s thinking. “Will the new Party Girls be in New York? They won’t want to try something different?”
Oh-oh. I take off the shirt I slept in and, on the move to the bathroom, drop it into the hamper. “Did you see that, Steve? While you seem to have allocated the job to the floor, that is the basket officially responsible for collecting our dirty clothes.”
“Are they shooting Party Girls II in New York?” He’s not letting me change the subject.
“Who knows? I’m sure I won’t win, and if I did, which is not going to happen, they said no matter where we are, even L.A., I could come back to New York whenever I want.”
“L.A.? You’re moving to L.A.?” His face turns bright red and he starts shaking it side to side frantically. “You’re not really thinking of moving to L.A., are you? Sunny, didn’t you take this job to be with me?”
Naked, I lean against the wall. “It’s not a big deal,” I say and look him in the eye. His eyes look sad, and I can’t bear it. I look away.
“Yes, Sunny,” he says. “It is a big deal.”
For a second, neither of us speak.
“Steve, I love you, you know that. But this could be a huge opportunity. It’s only for a few months. I’m not going to waste my life just to make you happy.”
“Waste your life? How could you say that? When have I ever asked you to waste your life?”
“You have to learn to be a bit more flexible. You’re stuck living in New York because of the restaurant. Fine. I’ve always understood that. Now it’s your turn to be a little bit more understanding with me.”
I look back up at him, and he still has that pained expression. I can’t deal with this now. I’m stressed enough already. “We can worry about this when the time comes, all right?” Without waiting for an answer, I disappear into the bathroom and close the door behind me.
By Wednesday my face looks as if someone punched me in the lip.
I’m hideous. I refuse to leave the house (what if a tabloid photographer sees me? You never know. Where are the tabloid photographers? Why is it that not once has someone tried to snap my picture?). I spend the week training for all potential challenges that can be practiced from the confines of my apartment, such as memorizing maps of New York I find on the Internet, and practicing balancing techniques on the kitchen chair. I’ve even figured out how to practice the challenges that require outside appliances. For example, since I do not have a Jacuzzi, I make do with holding my breath in the bathtub while simultaneously kicking my legs to produce the required waves.
The majority of these preparations are staged when Steve is at the restaurant, leaving him unaware of my insanity.
I take a break three times a day, when TRS is showing reruns of NYChase. By the end of next week, I should be up to date with all three of the show’s seasons.
Matt is driving way over the speed limit trying to catch a bank robber, when Steve calls. “What are you doing?” he asks. He seems to have dropped the moving to L.A. issue for now.
Last month he would have assumed I was searching for jobs. Now he knows better.
“Practicing dancing blindfolded on the table.”
He chuckles. Then, clink. “Shit. I just broke another dish. What’s going on outside? Sounds loud.”
Matt’s siren is on.
“Car chase,” I say. “All the way down Houston.”
No way he wants to know what my new favorite show is. Fine, I’m a terrible girlfriend for ogling Matt on TV, but it could have been a lot worse. Sure, I replied to his e-mail (had to, didn’t want to be rude), but did I agree to meet him? No, I did not. In fact, I waited thirty-six hours to reply and then wrote: We’ll see.
By Thursday evening the cold sore is a huge ugly volcano of repulsive deformed skin on my top lip.
I’m sitting on the tiled floor, emptying the bathroom garbage into a plastic grocery bag, when Steve returns from work. “What’s that?” he asks, poking his head into the bathroom.
“I’m glad you asked, honey. This is the act of transporting our waste from the bathroom to the garbage chute. I know you think the tissues and Band-Aid wrappers are biodegradable, but alas, they are not.”
“I meant, smart-ass, what’s on your face?”
“I’m trying out Islam.” I have wrapped one of Steve’s old bandanas over my mouth in order to cover my hideousness.
He crouches next to me on the bathroom floor. This is Steve’s idea of cleaning: keeping me company while watching me do it.
He cracks his neck. “So you’ve given up on atheism?”
Way back, almost a year ago, I had referred to myself as an atheist. “Really?” he’d said, obviously shocked. “I’ve never heard anyone say that out loud before. I mean, I know a lot of people are, but aren’t you afraid to say it? In case you’re wrong?”
“No, silly,” I say now, tying up the garbage bag and placing the pail back next to the toilet. “You know how you’re more of a cultural Jew than a religious one? I’ve become a fashion Muslim.”
“What do you mean by ‘cultural Jew’?”
“It means you keep certain traditions, but you don’t really believe in them.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. “What do you mean, ‘don’t believe in them’?”
“You don’t really believe that an all-powerful being named God said, ‘Let there be light and don’t mix milk with meat.’” I can feel my cover-up bandana slipping below my lip, but I don’t bother fixing it.
“Who says I don’t?”
“If you believed in all that, you wouldn’t have eaten a bacon cheeseburger at McDonald’s last week.”
“But I do believe. On the scale of believe and don’t believe I definitely tilt toward the do side. I may have stopped keeping kosher outside the restaurant, but I still believe in God.” He spots a discarded Q-Tip in the crack between two tiles, and lo and behold, picks it up and drops it in the garbage pail. “I think my understanding of God is a bit more general than Judaism allows for,” he continues. “Or maybe it does allow for it, I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about taking a course.”
“A course? A school course? Like at NYU? A course about what?”
“About Judaism. About Christianity. About Buddhism. I’d like to learn about all the different religions before coming up with my own version.”
I’ve been thinking he should take some classes, too. Maybe some business classes. In case he ever wants to turn Manna into a chain, expand across the country, make a fortune. “I didn’t know you were considering starting your own religion,” I say instead. The bandana is now around my neck, like a necklace. My lip is exposed.
“Is wanting to have a bit of…a bit of spirituality in your life so terrible?” Suddenly he laughs. “Do I sound like a hippy?”
I laugh with him. “All you need is love, a pair of Birken-stocks and some tie dye.”
“You really don’t believe in anything?”
I shake my head, slowly. “Try to stay alive as long as you can?”
“But doesn’t everyone need something to believe in? Some kind of deity?”
I shrug.
“Isn’t that sad? Believing in nothing?”
The truth is, in the past month I’ve been too possessed with the show to be sad. I’ve spent all my energy obsessing about how I look and how I’m perceived to have any left over to dwell on anything deeper.
Is that what fuels celebrity and fashion? The need to hide from the substantial in the superficial?
“Sometimes,” I say.
His eyes look right into me, flickering with love and hope and sadness, and he leans over to kiss me.
“I’m contagious,” I say, turning my head.
He gets my cheek.
By Saturday morning the cold sore is in its final stage.
“It’s a miracle!” Steve says as I gaze at my reflection above the bathroom sink.
“There’s still a scab,” I say. The scab is a brown layer of crust about a quarter of the size of a fingernail, over what used to be the sore. The problem with the scab is that because of its color, it’s actually more noticeable than the previous fat-lip stage.
“Honestly, it’s kind of sexy. Dangerous-looking. Like you’ve been in a motorcycle accident.”
Fabulous. “Steve, do I want to go on television looking as if I’ve been in a motorcycle accident?”
“I’m not lying, I swear. I like it.”
“I’m ripping it off.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to rip scabs off. Aren’t they there for a reason?”
“It has to go. I can’t let anyone see me like this.”
He shrugs and leaves me to my surgery.
The problem with removing a scab, which I learned from once ripping one off my knee, is that it leaves a scar.
Do I want a scar on my lip for who knows how long? I’ll have to cover it with foundation and lip liner and always wear lipstick.
Do I want to have a scab on television?
It won’t be a huge scar.
I choose instant gratification and rip the sucker off.
With a tissue pressed to my lip to stop the blood, I call Carrie.
“Where’ve you been all week?” she asks.
“Hanging out. Not much. Car, what am I supposed to wear tonight? Regular slut outfit?”
“It’s not a good idea to change your style midseason,” she says.
“Any idea what we’re going to be doing?”
“I may have had a hand in planning tonight’s activities,” she answers coyly.
“You know what it is? And you’re not telling me? How can you not tell me? Do you know who’s on my team? Is it Miche?” I’m hoping it’s Miche.
“I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I’d lose my job if anyone found out I told you.”
Time for my trump card. “But, Carrie, we’re practically family.”
She sighs. And then she giggles. “Okay, but if you tell any of the other girls I’ll kill you. And I’m only giving you one hint. That’s it. One.”
“Okay, fine, tell me.”
“Remember those running shoes I made you promise to never wear in public again?”
“Yeah.”
“Wear them.”
I have a bad feeling about this.
And I’m not disappointed.