Date With A Rockstar (27 page)

“You've watched the episodes. Now, tonight, you vote. Under your seats you'll find a numeric pad. When the time comes, you'll cast your vote for the girl you think deserves the most eligible rockstar on the planet!” More cheers and drums. “For those of you watching at home, text your vote to D-A-T-E-5-5-5. Those votes will be added to the ones from our studio audience for the total score. I do have some sad news to report amidst all this excitement.” He drops his head and the crowd quiets. “Praline has had a minor accident and won't be attending the selection tonight. If you would like to vote for her, just enter in the number three. But before all of that, let's see some behind-the-scenes footage.” Praline's name whispers through the audience as the lights around us dim. Please don't let it be more secrets.

They have an overhead screen for the audience to watch, which I have to crane my neck to see. The screen flickers to life and shows the viewing room.
I knew it.

“Now let's get a glimpse of the girls watching Jeremy on his other dates.” Oh great, the Shelley Anne in a canoe footage. I can't believe how angry I look.
Praline's the worst; her face starts to turn red and puffy when Shelley throws herself into Jeremy's lap. Oh, God. How can they show her like this while she's in the hospital, unconscious? Didn't they have time to edit her out? They had enough time to make sure there were only nine chairs on the stage.

I cringe and look away before Praline rams the wall. It's not at all funny after seeing her half dead. Her sprawled out on the floor just reminds me how pissed off I am at the producers. I glance over at Jeremy and our eyes meet. He raises his eyebrows in question and I almost hear him asking me what's wrong. I give him a tight smile and close my eyes for a count of ten. I wish he could hold me. I wish we were anywhere but here.

The footage rolls on. Apparently, there was a fight between the clones at the restaurant that I missed. There are surprisingly few shots of me and I'm extra glad I avoided the viewing room. Though at this rate, I'm not making much of an impact on the viewers. Jeremy is staring at me again and I think he's trying to communicate something with his eyes, but I have no idea what. He mouths a full sentence. I shrug.

Then I pop up on the screen. The camera films me sprinting down the sidewalk and falling to my knees outside of the limo. Jeremy helps me up and there's a close-up of my blood-soaked leg, and then they zoom in on my swollen face. The skin underneath my eye bloats out, making my whole head look lopsided. Oh, God. Could this be any worse? The studio audience “oohs” when Jeremy holds me close. I glance at him again and he's smiling at the screen. This is driving me nuts. I want to sit with him on that couch.

Rod Bing narrates over all the footage, making jokes and describing the fun of the week. After the montage of bloopers fades, the lights come back up. “Now it's time to review contestant number one. Go ahead and grab your pad from underneath your seat.”
There's a strange grinding noise above my head, and when I look up, rectangles are dropping down from the ceiling. I watch a series of red zeroes illuminate over me. We've all got them. My heart starts pounding furiously. This is awful. “For those of you at home, start casting your votes. Remember audience members, only one vote per controller. You'll be locked out once you enter a number, so choose carefully.”

Immediately, Jasmine's counter starts ticking upward. I guess that means viewers at home are already dialing in their favorites. My counter is silent. Highlights from Claire's date play on the screen. She's up to ten votes. “Punch in number one now if you think Claire deserves a second date.” There's a flurry of beeps and Claire's number stops at 2,633. I'm next. I think I'm gonna puke. I can't stand to twist my head around to see Jasmine's count.

Scenes from my date unfold on the screen.

I'm going to be sick.

I'm going to die.

I shift in my seat. The purple dress sticks to my butt. I need to stand up. I need to run. I look across the stage. Jeremy is watching me with sad eyes. Then Rod Bing says the dreaded words.

“If you think contestant number two deserves a second date…” He pauses. I squeeze my eyes shut. “…vote now.” The whole world wobbles. I clamp my teeth down on my tongue and force a polite smile as my number rises. How many people are at home, judging me? I can't believe I ever thought this was a good idea.

4,310. That's my number. So few, but still more than Claire's. That's something, I guess.

One was my mother, and I don't have any other relatives that would vote. In fact, I'm surprised I got more than one vote. What was I thinking? This is humiliating. My eyes water and I have to widen my lids to keep the moisture in place.

The show moves on to Praline's footage. They cut her date down to less than thirty seconds and she only gets a few votes. Occasionally I get a small ding over my head. Can I just go home now? I have the strongest desire to be in my tiny foldout bed at home. Pull my blanket over my head and forget this dream. None of this is real. Jeremy's a dream and this voting thing is a nightmare.

Except that when I look across the stage, Jeremy is still watching me, and I think he wants to run over and scoop me up. Part of my brain might be shutting down. For a split second I envy Praline and her coma. “Vote for number four now…”

I twist in my seat to watch Shelley Anne's number soar. A guy in the audience screams out “boobs!” He holds his touchpad over his head and hits Shelley's number. That damn super suit is getting Shelley more votes than any of us. After her number climbs into the six digits, I look away. I'm still number three and there has to be a twist to the voting. Six more girls to go.

A few drops of water slip down my face. Sweat from the lights. Just sweat. I don't wipe it away because I don't want to draw attention to it. Number five and number six have small numbers. I'm neck and neck with Mel, but I'm holding onto the third place slot. Then comes Brie, the gambling clone. In seconds, she beats out Shelley.

Which means…she beat out me. Which means…I'm not in the final three.

I wait for the twist that will change the numbers around. Jasmine's counter is recording six-digit numbers. Wait, now seven. Please make it stop. The hurricane is edging up the coast, maybe there'll be an electrical storm and the system will short out. Maybe Jasmine's counter will explode and set her hair on fire. I dig my nails into my palms and pray for that.

“All right, last chance. Anyone who hasn't decided, now is your last chance to record your opinion.” Rod Bing pauses for a dramatic ten seconds of silence. But on stage the tiny clicking of the boxes overhead is deafening.

“That's it, folks.” The audience stands and cheers. No one chants my name. “Numbers four, eight, and ten, please stand up.” Balloons and confetti release from the ceiling and the mess rains down on me. Spotlights illuminate the final three and I'm left sitting in the dark, stunned.

I lost.

“For the rest of you, it's time to say goodbye.”

The lights flicker. Jeremy stands up. “What about this?” He pulls a big red card from behind the loveseat and holds it over his head.

Rod Bing opens his arms wide and walks across the stage as the audience quiets. Lights flash over his shiny suit. “You know these opinionated musicians are hard to please.” The crowd snickers. “We've given Jeremy a save card.”

My pulse thuds in my throat. I can barely breathe. Claire reaches over and grasps my hand.

“What do you think, Jeremy? Did the audience do a good job picking, or is there someone left behind that you want to use your save card on?”

“I'll use the card.” No hesitation. My belly flips. Please, no puking this time. He crosses the stage, hazel eyes set on me.

The audience shouts out different names, but he stops in front of me. “Monet, this is for you.”

I take the red paper. He quirks a half smile and offers his hand. I stand on the stage next to him. So shocked to be chosen.

Only a few people clap. Most are still trying to convince him to pick one of the other girls.

I'm frozen.

Black clouds spot my vision. Jeremy grips my arm so that I don't slump to the floor. I can't make out any one voice, but I get the gist. “Not her.”

Why? What's so bad about me?

Then the crowd starts cheering again. Jasmine, Shelley, and the gambling clone stand next to us. I kick the confetti away from my feet. I wanted to be chosen, but I wanted the viewers to think I'm good enough for Jeremy, too.

Rod Bing motions for Claire to stand up. “Go ahead and say goodbye to Jeremy on your way off stage.” He points to the door at the back of the living room setup.

Jeremy shakes Claire's hand and gives her a brief hug. I watch as the rest of the girls embrace Jeremy and walk off. Then it's my turn. Our cheeks brush together as I lean into him. “It's almost over,” he whispers as he gives my hands a final squeeze when I pull away. I cross the stage and walk through the door.

Back stage is dark. I stand there blinking, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

Jasmine bumps into me from behind. “What the hell is this?”

Then the lights slowly come on. The ten of us stand there, blinking at the scene. There are people in front of us. It takes a minute to register. They're the people from our episodes. We exited the stage only to find ourselves on another mirror image of the first, only this one is populated with people we don't want to see.

There's a grating sound and the stage vibrates. The whole floor beneath our feet starts to rotate around. I'm almost knocked down as we start moving. Shelley grabs hold of me for balance. The whole stage moves until we're back in front of the audience again.

Then chaos breaks out. My father, sperm donor, whatever the hell he is, stands on the other side of a yellow line. I recognize Claire's dance instructor.
Everyone talks over each other. I can't hear anything. I thought the show was over. There's even a guy in a white lab coat over there. What are we supposed to do, brawl?

Two guys in security uniforms wait along the side. Rod Bing stands behind them, pretending to cower. A woman screams in Spanish and steps up to the yellow plastic tape. Security tells her to move back, and then she launches herself at Claire. I stumble to the side as the two crash to the ground. I catch the Spanish word for slut and I'm guessing this is Claire's dance instructor's wife. Security strolls over, nice and casual, letting them get into it.

I look across to where my father stands, wondering what he thinks of all the theatrics. He shakes his head in disgust. The white lab coat guy approaches Shelley. I want to get closer to hear. Then-bam-I hear his voice over the loud speaker. A screen over our heads flashes to each zoomed-in conflict. The new guests are all wearing personal mics and the producers switch between broadcasts.

Lab coat says, “I want to offer the studio audience a discount of twenty percent for utilizing my plastic surgery services. Just look at Shelley Anne, and tell me you wouldn't like curves like that for yourself.”

Shelley tries to shush him. “He doesn't mean that I've had work done.”

“What? But you had an appointment just last month.”

She makes a chopping motion at her neck. “Patient confidentiality,” she whispers.

He shrugs. Then the view shifts. I glance back at Claire, who's finally pinned the wife. Her dress is up around her waist, flashing lace panties. Security carries them both off stage while the dance instructor follows behind, asking them to “Please be calm.”

Then my father walks toward me. How did they even get him to show up here?

“Monet,” he says as he walks closer. The gray hair around his temples makes him appear more distinguished and I understand why he hasn't had it colored. I take a step back, but he hugs me anyway. Or at least, tries to. His body stays stiff. This is too weird. As soon as he's close to my head he says, “Smile for the fucking cameras, daughter. Company stock already dropped after your episode.” He squeezes my arms. Okay. I get it. I step back from his embrace. His mouth lifts in a half circle. It's supposed to be a smile, but it doesn't look like one. He narrows his eyes. Oh, right. I'm not smiling. I start, but no. What the hell am I doing? I don't even know this man. He's never done anything for me.

“So, where have you been my whole life?” I ask.

“Oh, I wanted to see you. Of course I did. Your mom kept us apart.” He gestures his arms out wide in frustration. A show for the audience.

“That's bullshit.”

“You're my daughter. Family is of utmost importance to me.”

I get it, he's got a high profile job. Makes a lot of money. Being outed as a deadbeat dad on national TV didn't do much for public relations and company stock, apparently. I glance around, trying to see if Mom is over there, too. I'd rather let her deal with this asshole. Sadly, I'm on my own.

I sigh. “Just get out of here. You've never been there for me, you don't know me, and don't bother trying to say that you do.” I take a deep breath. I never fantasized about having a father and I don't need to start any what-ifs now. He looks up at the screen to see if the cameras are still focused on us. They're not. Purple contacts is busy crying while some guy screams at her.

“Looks like our moment is over,” he says. “If you'd cooperated, I could've gotten in a plug for Global Fission. That doctor managed to get his ad in.”

I gulp down my anger. “Aren't you at all curious about me?”

“Why would I be? You're lucky enough to get my DNA. You know I didn't get to have another kid. Leaving your mother was supposed to provide me with opportunities. Then I find out some food additive has made me sterile.”

I swallow the bile back. Our first in person conversation and this is what he chooses to say.