Episode One:
A cold wind whistled past, making me and the fourteen other girls gathered on a rickety and hastily put together set of bleachers outside a McMansion in the Hollywood Hills shiver. Grumbling under their breath, the others went back to adjusting their outfits, hoping to make a good first impression by putting their best “assets” forward.
I looked to my left and found myself face to face with a pair of surgically enhanced Double D’s. Turning to my right, I witnessed a short skirt get even shorter as its owner discreetly rolled it up to show off even more leg. Looking down at my 36 C’s and modest black wrap dress, the voice in my head reminded me of what I already knew.
I didn’t belong there.
Trying and failing to ignore the voice, I absentmindedly played with my dangling earrings and continued to survey the scene. All around me, the other girls were chattering incessantly, reintroducing, and no doubt re-comparing, themselves to each other. If you listened close enough, you could practically hear the wheels turn in their heads over the howl of the wind as they tried to figure out who would be among the first to be eliminated. I flicked an invisible speck of dirt off the hem of my dress and examined my manicure to give my suddenly restless hands something else to do. The girl to my right, Adrian, nudged me and asked if I was paying attention.
”Sorry, my mind was somewhere else. What’d you say?”
Straightening her now impossibly short skirt, Adrian said, “Do you see this house? Girl, there have to be at least seven bedrooms in there. At least.”
I squinted up at the house that doubled as the set then turned back to her.
”How can you tell?”
”Oh hon,” she sighed and shook her head, “you don’t know much about these sorts of things, do you?”
”If you mean houses, then no, no I don’t.”
With a roll of her eyes, she continued as though I hadn’t spoken.
”Seven bedrooms, most likely a master suite, pool and hot-tub, gourmet kitchen…in this location? House had to cost at least five hundred to six hundred and fifty grand. Dude must really be loaded.” she finished with a smile that told me she was extremely pleased with the conclusions she’d drawn.
I looked from her, to the house and back again, trying to find the right words to say. “You know,” I began after a moment, “that this house probably belongs to the network or they’re renting it or something, right? It probably isn’t even an indicator of how much money he has.”
She turned back to me.
“Wait, are you sayin’ that he’s broke?” Without allowing herself the time necessary to entertain that particular possibility or to realize that is not what I said, she rolled her eyes and tucked a section of hair behind her ear while smacking her lips.
“Girl, bye. No way they’d give him a show if he didn’t have money. Shit, no way I’d be here if he didn’t.”
The sarcasm in my voice was more than apparent to anyone with half a brain, I asked, “So…you’re not here lookin’ for love then?”
Clearly missing the derisiveness in my tone, she slid me the “bitch, are you new here?” side eye.
”Looking for love? That’s cute…” she trailed for a moment, lost in a brain straining thought. Repeating the phrase ‘looking for love’ like it was her personal mantra, she said, “hmmm; if I tell him that, he might keep me around long enough to make a difference and a dent in his wallet” to herself.
A wide-eyed, “no this bitch did not just say what I think she did” look on my face, I opened my mouth to say something—even now I’m not sure what—when one of the show’s many producers appeared in front of us.
”Look sharp ladies, we’re about to begin.”
The semi-intelligent conversation died away and was replaced by nervous chatter. There was a flurry of last minute primping as we all turned toward the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the producer roll her eyes as the girl in front of me pulled her already low cut top even lower.
To us she said “Smile everyone” and into her headset, “Send Markus out in three, two…now.”
