Date With A Rockstar (26 page)

“Wake up call for room 4013.” The 3-D receptionist materializes on the desk next to me.

“I'm up.” I yawn as the receptionist fades away.

Praline is face-down in bed, sheets and candy wrappers twisted around her legs. “When is your appointment?” I ask loudly.

No response.

“If you miss your appointment, Eleanor will be pissed.”

Still no response. I climb out of bed, stretch, and walk over to Praline's bed. I place my hand on her shoulder and shake her back and forth. “Get—”

Her arm flops lifelessly over the edge of the bed.

“Praline!” I flip her onto her back, fumbling along her neck for a pulse.

“Medical Aid Emergency,” I scream into the room. The sensor in the corner picks up the words and automatically contacts the EMTs. Praline's holding a bottle of pills in her other hand. Her skin's still warm.

“Praline?” I slap her cheeks over and over again.

A pre-recorded voice echoes through the room. “If the person is not breathing, begin chest compressions now. Help is on the way.”

I do as I'm told, compressing her sternum and pausing as the voice counts for me.

“If you're alone in the room, do not panic. Help is coming.”

I breathe air into her, watching her chest rise and hoping like crazy my saliva stays in my own mouth.

“Average response time is four minutes. Three have passed. Hold on.” The recorded voice sounds so calm. I should have said more to her last night. I should've comforted her better after the show. My
arms shake as I try desperately to fix her.
Please, just breathe.

“EMTs. Open up.” The door busts open before I take my hands off Praline's chest. “Step back, ma'am. We'll take it from here.”

“There's a pill bottle.” I point to the spot on the bed where the bottle rolled when I flipped her over. One of them grabs the bottle while the other fits a mask over Praline's face. The tech reads the pill bottle into her headset. I don't recognize the name of the drug. Electrodes are stuck to Praline's temples and chest, monitoring her vitals.

“Delivering level two shock.”

The other tech has a panel strapped to his arm. Numbers and lines flash across the screen as the electrodes report out Praline's vital statistics. Her chest rises once.

“We've got a beat.”

Two more techs come in with a hover bed. Praline's shifted from the bed to the cot. They tuck her limp arms in along her sides and then they're gone, running down the hallway while I stand at the door. I slide to the floor and cry. None of this is worth dying for.

Claire opens a door down the hallway and looks out. “Monet? What's going on? I heard a bunch of yelling.”

“Praline…she…she… Praline tried to kill herself.” I mash my palms into my eyes, pressing the tears away. “I woke up and she was unconscious.”

“Oh, no!” Claire crosses the hall and sits at my side, gripping my hand. “Is she still alive?”

“I don't know.” We sit in silence. When Eleanor and the others show up, I let Claire tell the story. In my mind, Praline's arm hangs off the edge of the bed, the black bracelet Jeremy gave her still locked on her wrist. A candy wrapper flutters to the ground, over and over.

ELEANOR LEADS ME down the hall to meet with my stylist. “Praline will be fine. Just a minor incident.” I tighten my jaw.

“Really,” Eleanor insists. “I'm sure she'll be back on her feet in no time. She'd want you to go on with the show.”

I know her words are bullshit, so I don't bother to respond. I'm pretty sure if Praline had the choice, the other nine of us would drop out of the contest and she'd win. I'm also pretty sure Eleanor hasn't received any information on Praline's condition, because she just showed up. So much for Eleanor being a secret ally. The only side she's on is the producers'. I was a fool to think otherwise.

The salon has a black and white marble floor. Monique's red leather heels clip clop when she walks closer. “What's wrong with her?” she asks Eleanor.

“Oh, rough morning.” She nudges me forward. Rough morning? That so doesn't cover it.

“Well, then, let's get started. Do you need coffee, honey?”

“Why not?” I mumble.

“That's the spirit.” She hands me a white porcelain cup that matches the décor. I gulp the too hot liquid and the burn makes me feel better. Eleanor waves goodbye and Monique gives me a once over. “Where
to start?” she says under her breath. “Skin pigment? Hair?”

“No,” I tell her. “I'm fine with my current coloring.”

“All right, go ahead and put on this robe and we'll start with a mud wrap.”

I gulp and glance around, making sure we're alone. “I have some open Fluxem sores. I don't want to contaminate anything.”

She takes a step back from me. I hold my hand out to take the fluffy white robe.
That's my condition, deal with it.

“Uh, most everything is disinfected. I just need to check with my boss.” She backs away, taking the robe with her. If I wasn't so numb I might actually care.

I wait.

There's a big, steaming basin of mud on the other side of the room. Presumably the mud wrap that I won't be receiving. I walk over and stick my finger into the sludge. Something rubs up against it. Yikes!

A small fish surfaces and dives back under. Nasty. I don't even know what the fish are supposed to do to your skin. For once I think being contagious works in my favor.

Monique returns, all smiling like there's nothing wrong. “Okay, let's get you off to hair and makeup.” I convince her not to attack my long brown hair with shears. She looks very disappointed as she tucks them away. Theoretically, I know synthetic hair feels the same, but I'd just as soon keep mine real and not plastic. When she pulls out a little needle tool and closes in on my eyebrows, I have to duck to the side to avoid a permanent makeup tattoo.

The selection in wardrobe is more fun to sort through. With a few clicks, Monique has the rack displaying fifteen different outfits in my size. All of them are designer and TV appropriate. My mind wanders. Are they going to take Praline off the show?
If she's alive, will she still be able to compete tonight? Did anyone tell Jeremy what happened?

I feel different than I did standing in that line for three days. The reality of being on TV, of touching Jeremy, of real people's lives being messed up…I don't know.

“Don't look so glum! Try this one on.” Monique hands me a mint green gown and I shake my head no. “This one?” It's purple. Maybe that's my new signature color. Though this shade isn't neon purple—more of a subdued plum, fading to black at the floor-length hem. I wiggle the dress over my head and straighten the middle, which is very form fitting.

Monique smiles wide. “Gorgeous. This is the one.”

I look older and elegant. Sexy. I smile before I remember Praline won't be trying on any dresses tonight.

“Do you have any jewelry with you that'll match the dress?” she asks.

I run my fingers through my hair. It's never felt so soft and slippery. I shake my head no, loving the way the strands brush against my back.

“We have a box of fake stuff, if you want to dig through.”

I nod and she presents me with a plastic bin. The colorful beads and metal bits create a mosaic of color, like found art. I pull out a black disc with a raised silver spiral. I bet I can mar the surface with my drawing knife to create a new pattern around the silver.

I can't face going back to my room with the kicked-in door and signs of Praline. All those candy wrappers. I hope housekeeping comes by and clears away the evidence. I wait in the lobby for the others. At the front desk, I ask about Praline, but they won't give me any information because I'm not a relative.

I didn't get a chance to eat this morning and I don't want anything now. The folds of the dress hide
a pocket, which now contains my soon-to-be cure for Fluxem. I rub my thumb over the bank chip for comfort.

Seven of us are being eliminated tonight, unless Praline isn't considered part of the competition anymore. Damn, that's depressing. At this point, I think Shelley has a better chance at the sympathy vote, or maybe Praline. My date wasn't visually romantic. I don't see how the viewers would vote me into the final three.

At least I'll see Jeremy tonight, even if we won't have a moment alone. It's been days since I got a glimpse of him climbing into the limo outside the hotel. I tried watching the documentary about Jeremy's face with Praline in the dirt motel, but the Jeremy on TV didn't feel like my Jeremy anymore. I don't know when my fantasy musician got replaced with a real man, but the image of him on the screen just felt so far removed from our time together. For that one night, I felt like his girlfriend, but then I spent a week without a single word. Does that change things? And the date with Jasmine…my kiss was before that. And the date with Brie. The kiss with Claire, the making out with Shelley and Jaime. My neck twitches.

I tap the leather pumps Monique gave me on the lobby tiles, white to black in a diamond pattern. Finally, Eleanor arrives. Her hair frizzes out in a halo, but she's wearing a classy, high-neck black dress.

I jump up to meet her. “Have you heard anything?”

She takes a deep breath. “She's alive, but not awake. Her brain may need time to regenerate.” She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “Her parents are flying in to take care of her. But she won't be able to continue with the competition.”

Like she gives a shit about the show after what they revealed in her episode. “The producers should cover her medical bills,” I say. “If they hadn't screwed
her life up with that segment, she wouldn't have been pushed over the edge.”

“We can't know what caused this,” Eleanor states formally, like she's already testifying at the trial.

“Yeah, we can. And when she wakes up, I'm sure she'll be able to accuse them herself.”
I'll testify on her behalf.

“I'm sure they'll cover her bills, regardless of fault.” Eleanor waves her hand in the air, catching Claire's attention as she walks into the lobby. A shimmery turquoise dress hugs her curves.

“You look great,” I tell her.

“You too.” I wonder if she'll make the cut. As the others arrive, I'm overwhelmed by how different we all look away from the viewing room. We might as well be lined up for the Miss USA pageant. Eleanor repeats the story about Praline, and everyone is respectfully somber. At least on this one point we can all agree on appropriate behavior.

“We're all here. Into the limo.” Eleanor pushes us along. I slide in next to Claire. Jasmine keeps her eyes on her own lap, but I can still see the curve of her smile. I guess she doesn't have any worries about making it to the final three. Once Eleanor climbs in the back, she snatches the bottle of champagne off the center table. “Really, I told them no alcohol.” She struggles to find a spot in the mini-fridge.

Eleanor clears her throat. “When we arrive, we'll all walk in together. You can expect media and press outside of the studio. Now that Bill is done with the background research, he'll be here to take the lead as we enter. Walk directly into the building and follow him onto the stage. There are chairs numbered one through ten. Um, or rather one through nine with Praline out. Don't fidget while you walk, keep your heads up, and don't do anything you wouldn't want a million people to see. Turn to your neighbor and check
her teeth. If you have any bits of vegetables stuck in your smile, now is the time to find out.”

I wasn't that nervous before, but the instructions make this event real. I'm about to be judged by the world. “Your teeth are fine,” I whisper to Claire.

“Yours, too.”

“After the selection, we'll all meet back stage and go to the benefit concert together.”

The bubbly murmurs of excitement halt as the limo pulls to a stop. Eleanor reaches into her purse and quickly applies hair product over her frizz. Cameras flash through the tinted glass, and as the door opens the lights blind me. I hold my head high and keep my arms at my side—even though I want to hug myself around the middle and hide as much of my body as I can. Bill stands at the top of the red carpet leading into the building. Claire goes first, which is great since she's the most poised and least likely to topple over. Or maybe she should've gone behind me so she could grab hold of me if I start to fall.

I concentrate on smiling and not clenching my fists. Every time a reporter screams a question, I want to cover my face and run. I don't know how Jeremy stands so much media attention.

We wind through the building and a big open arch leading down to the stage. The studio audience stands and cheers for us as we walk by. One girl holds out a sign with Jasmine's name painted in glitter letters. Ugh. After that, I try to keep my gaze on the back of Claire's head. She sits in the number one chair and I sit next to her in number two. Jasmine waves at the audience before she takes her seat. The front row chants her name. This isn't fair. But three girls are being selected, so even if the producers have skewed Jasmine to be the favorite, there's room for me in the final three.

“Now the moment you've all been waiting for…Jeremy Bane!” His music blasts over the loudspeakers and he jogs down the aisle. Everyone stands, including me. He waves to his right and then left as he jogs, flipping his hair out of his eyes with a quick head's up. He takes the steps onto the stage two at a time. The cheering is mind numbing. There's a special red leather couch for him across the stage from us. It's in the shape of a heart. How cheesy.

Rod Bing strolls out in a rainbow suit, blowing kisses to the audience as he passes. This time his scarf is a tame white. He holds both hands up and motions for the crowd to calm down. Other than a few lingering whistles, they comply.