UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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“That’s right, ladies! Roadkill. America’s thirty-second most common cause of automobile accidents is now your number one priority.”
The late morning California sun bore down on us twelve contestants lined up along Highway 405. Delores fanned herself next to me. Cindy got teary-eyed and said, “The poor creature.” (The cameras weren’t even filming her: That’s just the first thing that came to her mind when she saw the skunk. Maybe animals were her soft spot?)
I was trying not to look at it, but the skunk smell was so strong you couldn’t really pretend it wasn’t there. The whole situation was ridiculous enough to distract me from the awful (and mostly true) things being said about me online. I was trying to focus on everything Amy had said this morning, but it was difficult to remember when I saw how a bunch of Harrison kids had joined in the fun, posting random pictures of me captioned with the mean things I’d said or done to them since the start of high school. I knew deep down that Amy’s words were true, but why was it so hard to hold on to the truth when bad stuff started happening?
“Squirrels, rabbits, deer, skunks, possum,” the roadkill woman said. Her white-streaked hair was tied back with an actual rubber hand, not the kind they make for hair. She wore a blue-gray jumpsuit uniform with ETTA stitched above her uniboob. Sun glinted off her aviator shades and the buckles of her combat boots, and she wasn’t smiling.
A cameraman zoomed in on Etta as she waxed on about the safety of handling most forms of roadkill. “Lots of folks in other parts of our fine country actually like to eat roadkill,” she said. “Waste not, want not! Hell, PETA even says right on their website that roadkill is a superior option to the neatly shrink-wrapped plastic packages of meat in the supermarket.”
My stomach turned. She couldn’t be serious.
“But it seems roadkill isn’t good enough for fancy, highfalutin, Los Angelenos,” Etta said as she passed out shovels. “They’d rather eat at Spago.” Etta thrust a heavy wooden shovel in my direction and I grabbed the handle, trying not to think about what we were about to do.
“And that’s where you ladies come in,” Etta said. Her grin revealed a shiny silver tooth. “Let’s Prettify America!” she bellowed into the camera.
Delores nudged me. “Check out Sabrina,” she said.
I craned my neck to see Sabrina dry heaving dangerously close to the highway as another cameraman filmed her. Cars whizzed past. Sabrina’s hair blew wildly in the breeze, and she tried to gather it away from her face, but it was so long and luxurious that she couldn’t quite get it all in her grip.
We spent the next few hours in our jean shorts and SBC Network-issued The Pretty App Live tank tops (white tanks, hot pink lettering across the chest) shoveling up roadkill and plopping it into the back of a yellow dump truck that drove ahead of us with lights flashing. Earlier that morning, Rich Gibbons had reminded us that America would be watching streaming video of everything we did, and that we should think about presenting ourselves in the very best light to win their votes. Viewers could vote all day, and as many times as they wanted. The voting didn’t cut off until seconds before the live show. Even though America seemed to hate me, and I was pretty certain I’d get voted off tonight, I still tried to smile for the camera and say upbeat things about the roadkill. Might as well try my best till it was over.
When the camera people went on break (union rules) Mura picked up an animal and said, “This is what America wants?” Then she smiled into an imaginary lens. “I’m going to bring this squirrel home and grill it tonight for dinner,” she said cheerily, like she was doing a commercial. “Roadkill is an excellent option for a low-cost meal high in protein!” We all laughed as she flung the squirrel into the back of the truck.
A few hours and several obsessively thorough showers later, a limo carried us to a public school in downtown Los Angeles. Mura sat in the back of the limo, breathing into a brown paper bag while Casey and Jessica rubbed her back.
We should have known: the cameras are never off.
While the regular camera crew ate their lunch, one of the assistant producers had whipped out his buyPhone and filmed the whole Mura roadkill-as-what’s-for-dinner episode. The video clip had spread across the internet, along with headlines like BEAUTY QUEEN EATS ROAD KILL. Someone from her hometown had submitted a photo of Mura holding her two hamsters and captioned it: ARE THEY NEXT?
It felt like a war zone online, like if anyone captured a photo or video of you doing something embarrassing or scandalous, they got off on spreading it. I’d spent all of high school reading gossip blogs without thinking twice about what it would feel like to be the celebrity behind the gossip. Now I knew.
“Welcome to Clearview Elementary School,” Marsha said as our limo pulled in front of a gray concrete building. The camera people filmed us lining up single file and passing through a metal detector. They followed us down a long hallway and through an open classroom door. My heart closed in on itself when I saw the judges. Leo stood between Shilpa and Bradley Searing Jones as the three of them watched Danny Beaton sing his new song, “Girl, You Amaze Me,” a cappella for a classroom of rapt eight-year-olds. Carolina leaned against a blackboard with arithmetic scrawled in yellow chalk. Leo examined his fingernails, looking bored out of his mind. I had no idea he’d be here, and now I was a thousand times more nervous than before. The emotion racing through me from the events of the last twenty-four hours felt like way more than I could handle, but I had to. I didn’t want to live up to Marsha’s train wreck label. I was the one who wanted a career in Hollywood, and I knew I could do this.
I took a breath, and when Danny finished, I smiled and applauded along with everyone else as the cameras scanned the twelve of us contestants.
Pia appeared from behind an easel. “Here are the The Pretty App Live contestants now!” she said, grinning. Leo’s head snapped in my direction. His hair was wavier than usual and a little mussed, like he’d spent the morning at the beach. He watched us file into the classroom, his eyes never leaving me. I tried to breathe, but his presence felt like hands pressing against me, pulling me in his direction.
“Good afternoon, contestants,” Pia said, tucking a golden-brown strand of hair behind her ear. M&M-sized diamonds dotted her earlobes. (Probably another gift from a famous jewelry designer.) “Please meet Mrs. Cesarz’s third-grade class.” Pia wore a plaid jumper that looked like a private school uniform and seemed weirdly out of place. Most of the kids wore ripped jeans, T-shirts, and beat-up sneakers or flip-flops. “Today, you’ll be painting a mural over the vandalism that the school endured last week,” Pia said, her voice dipping into this is super serious mode. “The mural will represent hope, forgiveness, and all the ways The Pretty App Live is prettifying America!”
We all smiled at the cameras and the children, who looked much less excited about us than they had about Danny Beaton.
Pia led us outside and the judges followed. There was a smudged yellow-chalk mirror image of 22 + 22 = 44 on the back of Carolina’s vest from where she’d been leaning against the chalkboard. Marsha raced over and tried to beat it off, and Carolina snapped, “Be careful! It’s cashmere!” I tried not to notice how close Leo was standing to me, but I couldn’t help it. His nearness felt like warmth on my skin.
“Our thanks to Benjamin Moore Paints for their generous donation,” Pia said to the camera, gesturing to the dozen or so cans of paint that lined the sidewalk. Black spray-painted letters spelled racist words on the wall of the school. The third graders looked anxious, seeming embarrassed that we were seeing it. One little girl started to cry, and Amy went to her side. “It’s okay,” Amy said, kneeling so that she was at the girl’s level. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Cara,” the girl said.
“I babysit a little girl named Cara back home,” Amy said, and the girl grinned. “You do?” she asked. Amy nodded, and the camera caught her giving the little girl a hug. Of course Amy was good with children. No surprise there.
Marsha passed out paintbrushes. I watched her hand one to Leo, who thanked her. He met my glance just for a breath, and then busied himself examining his paintbrush.
“I think we should paint a rainbow,” Charisse said. “Do you kids like rainbows?”
I rolled my eyes. Of course they liked rainbows. Who didn’t?
“Or puppies,” Cindy said, sidling next to Charisse like they were a team. Sabrina stood next to me, looking pissed.
“Or little babies breastfeeding,” I said. “C’mon, ladies! Have some imagination. I say we do a rock and roll scene. What do you kids think?”
The third graders cheered. “Like Metallica!” a little boy shouted. “My dad listens to them.”
“Or Yanni,” another girl said.
“Um, no,” Sabrina said to the girl.
The kids flocked around us and started shouting their ideas for a rock n’ roll mural. Cindy and Charisse looked annoyed, but Amy was grinning. “Whatever makes you kids happy,” she said, moving close to Sabrina and me with a smile that said I don’t care that you called me a Manure-Shoveling Cowgirl, Sabrina. We’re all in this for the sake of the children.
I tried to blend in with the kids, using my paintbrush in broad strokes and pretending I didn’t care when a little girl painted a black streak along my brand new AG jeans. “Sorry!” she said, and I tried to smile forgiveness through clenched teeth. Children were not my strong suit.
“Can I make a butterfly?” a little boy asked me.
“Um, this is sort of an indoor scene,” I said, working with my brush to make a microphone stand.
“So?” the little boy asked.
The camera was filming both of us.
“Butterflies don’t usually hang out inside,” I said, forcing a smile. I used my most gentle voice, but the boy suddenly looked like he was going to cry. America hated me enough already: I could not make a little boy cry. “But maybe your butterfly flew in through a door to see the concert,” I said. A laugh sounded next to me and I turned to see Leo. I ignored him, pouring my attention back onto the little boy. “Want me to help you?” I asked, and the boy nodded. We worked together for a few minutes, outlining the wings and talking about different kinds of butterflies. As far as children went, he was actually pretty cute. Leo finally left to work somewhere else, and I was almost starting to enjoy myself when I heard Sabrina growl, “What the hell?”
I followed the direction of her paintbrush to see Delores painting a near-perfect picture of James Hetfield, the lead singer of Metallica. His black T-shirt read METALLICA in white letters, and Delores was in the process of giving him light blue jeans with rips on the knees. The portrayal was so accurate it could’ve appeared on his Wikipedia page.
“Incredible,” Leo said softly.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up at the sound of his voice. I hadn’t realized he was close again. I turned to face him. Nearly everyone had flocked to watch Delores, and we were standing by ourselves. “Please, Leo,” I said. “Don’t make this harder.”
I smelled his perfect boy smell and let my eyes fall on him. I didn’t want to get emotional on camera—I’d done that enough already—but just being there with him and hearing his voice made me choke up. Warm California air stirred between us as I tried to breathe. A lone child tottered past to get closer to Delores.
Leo reached down and turned off his microphone, and then so did I.
“I’m not trying make anything harder,” he said. His dark blue work shirt was untucked and a streak of white paint raced along his jaw like a lightning bolt. “I’m just trying to talk to you.” His voice went so low I could barely hear him. “I’m just trying to tell you that everything that happened between us was real.”
My heart quickened. His words felt like everything I’d ever needed to hear, and for a split second I worried I’d made them up. Hot tears stung my eyes as I took a step away from him. “Then why did you do this to me?” I asked, the words coming out softer than I meant them to. I wanted to be strong: I wanted to tell him that what he’d done wasn’t okay.
“It was a mistake,” Leo said, closing the distance between us. I wanted to lean my head against his chest and feel him fold his arms around me. I wanted to tilt my chin and let him kiss me. But I couldn’t. Not in front of everyone, and not with everything that had happened. “I’ve wanted to explain this to you, Blake, you have to believe me. But it’s not like I can do anything over the phone—I can’t text, I can’t call. Public can easily access my phone,” Leo said quickly, keeping track of where the cameras were.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Leo wasn’t finished. “I went to Harrison as part of a job,” he said, his voice urgent, like he was going to tell me this no matter what. “I’m nineteen, but I never actually graduated high school, so it was easy to get in as long as I had an address in the school district. I was supposed to watch Audrey, to keep her from doing what she’d done last time, which was basically almost bring Public down.” He glanced around us, and then dropped his voice again. “That was the big priority. But you were there, too, and they wanted me to make sure you’d compete in the contest after your dad suggested that it would be in ‘everyone’s best interests’ for you to make the finals. Public wants him happy. I’m sure you know that.” Leo lifted a hand like he wanted to touch me, to hold me, to make sure I understood what he was telling me. Instead, he dropped his hand to his jeans and stared at me like maybe, if he wished it hard enough, I would somehow magically be okay with his explanation.
But I wasn’t.
“My dad fixed the contest. And you set me up,” I said.
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.”
“Okay,” Leo said, stepping the tiniest bit closer. “Maybe it is like that. But I didn’t know you when I signed up for this. I thought it was going to be like any other job.”
“Do you always fool people on your jobs?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I knew it wasn’t, but I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to give him anything right now.
“There were so many chances for you to tell me,” I said. Because really, that was what made me the most upset: Leo had lied to me, and then he’d kept up the lie until we were face-to-face on national television. “If everything you felt for me was real, like you said it was, then you could’ve told me.”
“I know, Blake, trust me, I know. And I tried a few times. I really did. I swear.”
“But you didn’t,” I said. I turned toward the kids cheering on Delores. I watched Pia study cue cards, and Marsha come up beside her and gesture to Sabrina and Amy. I couldn’t make out what she was saying.
No one seemed to notice us, but if we kept on talking like this I knew they’d get suspicious sooner than later. I tried to keep my face neutral as I turned back to Leo, like we could be talking about any old thing, not betrayal and heartbreak.
“I should’ve told you,” Leo said, his gaze intense. “I’m sorry. But can you try to understand why I didn’t? Visiting Harrison and being on this reality show is my last gig for Public. It was supposed to be simple.” He ran a hand through his hair. Seeing him agitated put me even more on edge. “But then things got out of control,” he said. “I didn’t expect to fall for you.”
My breath caught. Leo reached out his hand. I wanted to take it, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t do anything at all, really.
Applause sounded from the crowd surrounding Delores. My heart was pounding as I took in Leo’s face.
I didn’t expect to fall for you.
“But you lied to me, Leo,” I said, unable to keep the emotion from my face this time. “You lied to me just like my dad did. How am I ever supposed to trust anything you say?” My words were choked with tears, and when Leo started to defend himself, I didn’t let him. “My entire life, the one man who was supposed to be there for me never was. My dad prioritized his career over me at every turn. And now you’ve done the exact same thing. You made a job more important than me.”
“That’s not what I did, I—”
“It’s exactly what you did,” I said, my voice trembling. “And now we can’t go back.”
We stared at each other. I could feel the air between us warm with everything we felt and everything we wanted. Leo looked like he needed to say more, but the crowd around Delores was dispersing, and the cameramen circled wide to film all of us. Leo and I instinctively turned away from each other, using our paintbrushes to fill in nonexistent cracks in the mural as the cameras came closer.
A black town car pulled into the parking lot behind the cameras. Rich Gibbons got out, yakking on his cell phone and making wild hand gestures. Was he in on it, too? Was my reason for being here a secret kept only between Public higher-ups and my dad, or was the network involved?
Tears fell as I ran my paintbrush over the mural’s stage. I’d tried to be better, and where had it gotten me? I’d been played by my father. I’d been played by Leo. I’d been humiliated and exposed in front of the entire country. Everyone watching the show would know who I really was:
Blake Dawkins. Queen Bee. Glamazon. Prettiest Girl in Harrison. Bitch.