First Date (3 page)

Addy grabbed her carry-on bag and walked away, looking back one last time before boarding the plane that would take her to the lions’ den.

Three hours later, Addy and ninety-nine other girls were stuffed into four charter buses. They had been picked up at the airport in Nashville and directed to one of the sleek, black buses waiting to take them to The Mansion—the massive home in mid-Tennessee where the “chosen” would meet Jonathon Jackson for the first time.

The longer Addy stayed on the bus, the more uncomfortable she became. She had no business with these girls. They were beautiful, prepared, and determined. Addy felt like the ugly duckling—only she would have been happy to be kicked out of the family and sent to live on an island all by herself. Forget turning into a swan at the end. Invisibility would have been preferable.

Her seatmate, a stunning African American girl, started painting her nails beside Addy. The fumes were suffocating. Addy moved to open the window beside her to get some fresh air.

“No!”

“What are you doing?”

“I spent five hours at the salon. Shut that window right now.”

Five pairs of hands clawed at the barely open window. Addy moved out of their way as the girls around her clicked the window shut and glared at her. Her seatmate returned to her nails.

Addy closed her eyes. Some of the other contestants had tried to engage Addy in conversation, but she just pretended to be asleep. She didn’t want to talk to them. She had nothing to say. All they seemed to want to do was squeal and croon about the show, its star, and their plans to be his prom date.

An hour later, the buses were parked in front of The Mansion. Waiting. Cameras had been positioned on all sides, bright lights facing the bus doors. Addy remained in the back—hoping for an electrical malfunction—while the rest of the girls powdered, sprayed, stuffed, and adjusted.

“Number seventy-four,” shouted a man in a Yankees baseball cap.

Since we are cattle
, thought Addy,
none of us has a name. Just numbers
. And when the numbers were called, the girls would each take one last glance in her compact mirror, paste on a Miss America smile, and step out of the bus, ready for her close-up. Most of the time, the exit wasn’t quite right—too many shadows, a noise from the crew, a microphone misplaced. So number seventy-four would get back on the bus and reexit, same plastic smile in place.

Addy was number ninety-seven. By the time her number was called, it was two in the morning. Not once had she reapplied makeup, brushed her hair, or even glanced in a mirror. She knew from the information packet that only thirty girls would be chosen from the initial one hundred. Addy was determined to be in the majority. Mr. Lawrence could give her detention for the rest of the year. She didn’t care. Served him right for choosing her over Tiffany. Addy had warned him she would be a bad choice.

“Number ninety-seven,” shouted Yankees Hat, the edge in his voice reflecting the late hour and the overload of aerosol-laced estrogen he had been inhaling.

Groaning, Addy shuffled to the front of the bus.

“
You’re
number ninety-seven?” Yankees Hat said.

“Can we please just get this over with? I want to be voted off as quickly as possible.”

“Fine by me.”

Addy squinted as the bright lights assaulted her eyes.

“Back on the bus, ninety-seven. No squinting.”

“I’ve been in a dark bus for thirteen hours.” Addy rubbed her temples. “What do you expect?”

“
Again
, ninety-seven.”

Addy walked on the bus and reached into her purse for her sunglasses.

“No sunglasses,” grouched Yankees Hat. “Jonathon needs to see your face. This is your first impression, you know.”

Addy knew. The “coaches” who had traveled with them on the buses and the executive producer had all made sure the girls knew that Jonathon Jackson would be standing at the door to The Mansion, waiting to greet each of them personally.

“You will exit the bus, walk slowly to the porch, shake Jonathon’s hand, tell him something about yourself, then walk into The Mansion,” they had been instructed. Over and over again.

Most of the girls had spent the entire bus ride agonizing over what to tell the hunky president’s son. “I love baseball too,” “I’m president of my junior class, so I know what it’s like to have so much pressure on you,” and “I can’t wait to get to know you”—deep breath, chest out, wink—“better” were some of Addy’s favorites.

She forced herself to keep her eyes open as she exited the bus. Again. She smiled warily at camera two as instructed, then walked over to a mark on the porch, just a foot away from the president’s son.

“Hello. I’m Jonathon,” he said as deep brown eyes met hers.

For a moment, Addy forgot why she was so frustrated. Jonathon Jackson was the best-looking guy she had ever seen up close. He had sandy brown hair that lay perfectly over his forehead, a straight nose, straight white teeth, a hint of a tan, and even a little stubble on his face. And he smelled so good. Not that cheap, musky cologne boys like Spencer Adams bathed in, but a subtle, very masculine scent. Addy couldn’t stop herself from closing her eyes and inhaling.

“
Cut
,” yelled her biggest fan. “Ninety-seven, you have to speak! And
keep your eyes open
. Go back to the bus and do it again.”

She suddenly remembered the source of her frustration.

Forgetting the warmth of Jonathon’s eyes and his amazing smell and focusing instead on her burning desire to be as far away from lights and Yankee baseball caps as possible, Addy marched back to the bus, then walked over to the president’s son and shook his hand.

“Hello, Jonathon. My name is Addy Davidson. I have
no
desire to be part of this ‘competition,’ and I suggest my name be the very first you take off the list.”

Shaking with adrenaline, she turned on her heel and stalked through the door to The Mansion, but not before noting a hint of a smile in the First Son’s eyes.

Chapter 4

W
ell, if it isn’t the little showstopper,” Hank Banner, the show’s host, as well as one of the producers, said.

He was the stereotypical Hollywood insider. Addy guessed he was in his thirties, but with the sprayed-on tan, whitened teeth, highlighted hair, and three-hundred-dollar ripped jeans, she couldn’t be completely sure.

“I thought I knew all of the contenders, but I guess I was wrong. Well played.” Hank held his fist out.

Addy put her hands up apologetically. “No, you don’t understand. I didn’t mean to say that. I was just so tired . . .”

“Hey, no need to make up stories with me. We’re on the same team here. I want the show to do well; you want publicity.” Hank allowed his outstretched hands to complete the sentence.

“I don’t want publicity.” She shook her head. “I really didn’t want to come on the show. But I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

His smile faded. “You didn’t want to come on the show?”

“Not really.” Addy shrugged.

“You didn’t want to come on national television and have a chance to be discovered? You didn’t want a chance to win a date with the most recognized teenager in the world? You didn’t want to have thousands of dollars in clothes and trips and gifts lavished on you?”

“It’s a huge honor, I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do know.” Hank raised his voice, his entire demeanor changing. “Do you know how many girls fought to get on here? How many phone calls from parents I got, begging me to give their precious daughters this chance?”

“N-no.”

He looked across the lawn at a beautiful Hawaiian girl and waved. “That’s Lila Akina. Her parents own a pineapple plantation. They are substantial supporters of this show, committed to its success. They have proven their sincerity, and their daughter is thrilled to be here. She will do well.”

Suddenly smiling again, Hank looked down at Addy and folded his arms. “Look, here’s how it’s going to go: play by my rules, and I can guarantee you a spot in the finals. You’ve got underdog potential.” He leaned forward, just inches from her face. “Don’t play by my rules, and you’re out. Got it?”

No, I don’t get it
. Addy stumbled backward in an effort to regain her personal space. And dignity.

“You’ve got ten minutes to get to the rose garden,” Hank said, turning to leave. “I suggest you spend the walk over thinking about what I just said.”

“I think you’re insane,” Addy wanted to say. Was he really trying to get her to bribe him? Was he thinking Uncle Mike would bribe him? That’s a laugh.

Oh, God, maybe I misunderstood you. You can’t want me here on this show. If this is the lions’ den, then I’ve spent my night here. Send me home
.

Ten minutes later, Addy was looking at the same man, but he wasn’t the same man. Hank had suddenly transformed into a cool older brother, talking to the girls as if they were all his favorite people.

“You have to sell yourselves to America, girls.” Hank smiled. “Get those beautiful faces on TV as much as you can. That’s the way it works. People see you, they recognize you, and then the sky’s the limit. This could be your big break.” He walked between the rows of girls, smiling and winking. He was looking toward the paparazzi’s cameras too, probably hoping to get his own spot in one of the magazines they represented.

“And don’t forget, Jonathon will be watching the footage every week as well. As a matter of fact, he’s watching it right now. He’s getting to know you so he can decide who will be his Top Thirty.”

Squeals of delight pierced Addy’s ears as the girls reacted to this news. They were all talking at once, wondering what Jonathon was thinking, who would be in the Top Thirty, how much they wished everyone could make it because they were all best friends—did the camera catch that? No? Maybe they’d better say it once more.

“Don’t forget, little ladies, this show is live. Every episode, every week. America will be watching right along with you.”

A girl next to Addy screamed and clapped her hands. Several others followed.

“It’s more exciting this way,” Hank said, his eyes darting to the cameras. “Nothing phony or rehearsed. Reality TV at its best. We might even start a trend.” Hank laughed and glanced again at the cameras. “At least, that’s the plan.”

Addy had to get away. As soon as Hank finished his pep talk and dismissed the girls, she walked toward the woods that bordered The Mansion.

She just needed to get past the crowd and to the gate. The bodyguards were there making sure no unauthorized person entered the grounds, but dozens of men and women with cameras and press passes lined the fence in front, pushing forward and shouting at the girls.

“Hey. Over here.”

“What’s your name?”

“What’s happening in there? Hey, girl.”

Groaning, Addy kept her head down, hoping the paparazzi would see she wanted to be left alone. The cameras and microphones just got closer. Obviously these people were not familiar with nonverbal communication.

“Leave me alone,” Addy shouted as she kept walking.

Several minutes later, she looked up, finally far enough away from the cameras that she could enjoy the scenery. It was beautiful. Being a Floridian, Addy was used to seeing palm trees and lakes and pastel-colored houses. March looked much the same as January. Here she was greeted by a dense forest, green with spring leaves, rolling hills, and majestic trees. Addy found a dry spot at the edge of the forest and sat, enjoying the peace and quiet.

Glancing back at The Mansion, Addy sighed. Under any other circumstance, she would have loved being here. The house, they were told, was over 150 years old, built just before the Civil War. The owners were abolitionists who bought the property in order to help runaway slaves. Theirs was one of the stops on the famous Underground Railroad. Hank had only gotten permission to use the house because of the show’s star. Who refused the president’s son?

Addy couldn’t help thinking of the home in
Gone with the Wind
, one of her favorite old movies. Uncle Mike and she watched it every Christmas.

“Your mama and I would watch that movie whenever it came on TV,” he’d say. “No DVD players when we were growing up, Addy-girl.”

Whenever Mike talked about his childhood, his eyes would close and Addy could tell he was reliving those memories.