2. Poppy
POPPY
A microscopic speck of conscience tries to prick at my brain as I watch Lily dump an entire bottle of silver tequila into the blender.
A swig of my own drink murders my conscience, and I decide to have a few more sips for good measure.
I am a good friend, I remind myself, smoothing down the silky fabric of my brand-new silk slip nightie. I am a saint. I am an angel of mercy delivering my sisters from the apocalyptic wasteland of the modern late capitalism hellscape.
Besides, I didn’t dress up in a glamorous negligee and three-inch marabou feather kitten heels just to back out now.
This is my casting call armor. I look hot as hell. My make up is set. My hair is perfect. I am glowing, thanks to highlighter and a deft hand at moisturizer.
If the aliens are going to beam us up tonight, I am going to look like a woman who is ready to secure a prime-time slot on television.
Beam me right the fuck up, alien daddies.
"More salsa in it, Ell," Lily yells from the kitchen, her dark bob swaying as she aggressively pulses the blender. "Poppy’s queso is solidifying into a brick and I am NOT in the mood for this.”
"I'm on it!" Ellison calls back, though she’s currently slumped on her couch, staring blankly at the TV screen where the current World’s Most Eligible couple are making out in a tropical waterfall.
"If my manager emails me one more time on a Friday night to 'circle back' on a claim, I am going to circle back to his house and set his lawn on fucking fire. "
"Do it," Lucy cackles, walking into the living room, sloshing a saltless margarita over the rim of her glass. "Why shouldn’t we? A little arson is just what we need." It’s slightly out of character for sweet Lucy to be cheerleading a crime spree, and that strengthens my resolve.
If Lucy’s ready to commit crimes, it’s time to get the fuck out of dodge.
"Meanwhile," Lily chimes in, marching out of the kitchen with a freshly loaded pitcher, "I haven’t had a decent date since the Roth invasion, and that guy turned out to be stealing all my streaming passwords. And he stole my favorite pillow."
I take a huge bite of a fudge brownie to hide my smile. This is it.
A crescendo of complaints. Music to my evil ears.
Look at them. They need alien boyfriends. They deserve alien boyfriends. And more importantly, I deserve to watch my friends find happiness on a high-definition drone feed while living in a Suevan mansion with my own big-dicked hottie.
Looooove this journey for me. I let out a low laugh, but everyone’s already too tipsy to notice my cackle.
"You know," Lucy says, tipping her glass back, "if the fucking Suevans had openings for more wives, I’d probably take them up on it."
"God, they’re so hot, right?" I gush, aggressively topping off Lucy's glass, then Ellison's, then Lily’s.
I am the puppet master of hydration tonight.
"And what about the Draegon species? Have you guys seen the Federation data leak? They’re built like literal mountains.
Broad chests, wings, and apparently, they have this whole biological instinct where they physically cannot leave a female unsatisfied. That may or may not be a rumor."
“I read that fanfic,” Ell yells through the kitchen.
"At this point, I’d take a Roth over a human man," Lily mutters, reaching into a bowl of Swedish Fish and dropping a red one into her glass. "At least they’re hot. Heh. Get it? Get it? Because they burn stuff?"
"I’m not into getting burned alive," Ellison snorts, tossing a Swedish Fish at the television screen. It bounces off the glass and plops directly into the quickly defrosting frozen margarita pitcher.
"Going for a swiiiiiim!" Lucy sings out in a deeply unhinged voice. "Little fishies in the seaaaa!"
By the time we hit pitcher number six, the living room is tequila-soaked chaos. Tortilla crumbs dust the coffee table like confetti. Congealed queso blobs keep the Swedish Fish company, and Lily is currently trying to scoop a spilled splash of margarita off the carpet with a tortilla chip.
"Five second rule," Lucy cheers her on.
"Alcohol kills everything," Lily says, swallowing the carpet-queso-lime mixture with zero regrets.
I’m not sure that’s true, but I’m not about to be the party pooper.
Nope. I’m the designated party popper.
My heart is pounding, adrenaline-fueled excitement racing through my veins. The time is now. My girlies are perfectly primed for my pitch.
I swallow hard, guilt surfacing through the tequila like a ship trying to brave a storm at sea. This might not play out the way I want.
But it’s for their own good, isn’t it?
And mine too, of course.
I nod to myself, shoving those second thoughts back down to the deep where they belong.
"Look, look, lookity look!" I scream, stamping my marabou feather heel onto the floor. The tuft of fluff wobbles dramatically.
I love it.
"Fucking hell, Poppy," Lily winces, holding her head. "We’re all right hereeee. You don’t… don’t have to yell. It’sss too loud."
“I’mglaaaaddyallrestayinniiiight!!!” Ell slurs.
"Ell is shit-faced," Lily announces to the room with the tone of a proud new parent.
I ignore them both, leaning over the table like a drunken, sexily-clad drill sergeant. "We’re doing this," I say, my tongue tripping over the words just a little bit. Tequila makes the fraud smoother anyway.
"Doing what?" Ell asks. She’s always game.
"I found a reality show that needs contestants," I say breathlessly, pulling my phone out of my negligee.
"It better not be a survival one," Lucy squeaks, her hair a dark mop around her head. "You know we’d be the first kicked off. The only thing I’m prepared to survive is a shopping trip to Costco."
"Speak for yourself," Ellison slurs, pointing a finger at the ceiling. "I won best archer at camp. I am great with a bow and arrow."
"When you were tweeeeeelve," Lucy argues, blinking slowly. "You literalllllyyyyy bring that up every time you drink.."
"Shhhhhh!" I press my finger to my lips, staring them down with the fiercest, most radioactive optimism I can muster. "This important. Isss important." I stamp my foot again, my slipper fluff nodding in agreement. "I’m signing us all up. For this show."
"Okay," Ellison shrugs. "Why not?" She fires a finger gun at me. “We’ve got nothing to lose. What’s the worst that could happen?”
"We’ve applied a gazillion times to WME and never gotten in," Lily says with a shrug, leaning back. She blinks, her eyes focused then unfocused then focused again. "You’re all so pretty,” she adds dreamily.
"Focus,” I bellow. "It’s a combination adventure and survival... and dating. And they have an ASAP Option. Immediate filming for their first season."
I don't wait for their sluggish brains to process the word immediate. I pull up the pre-loaded tabs on my phone, the electronic signature lines blinking, waiting for their consent. I pass the phone to Ellison first.
"Just sign electronically right here. Put your info in. Let's go."
It takes them way longer than it should.
There are trips to the bathroom, an erratic attempt to make another pitcher, and Ellison genuinely forgets how to spell her own last name for a solid two minutes.
“It’s too close to Allison,” she complains. “My parents cursed me and auto-correct was the spell they used.”
She soldiers on. She might have a real shot at winning. I narrow my eyes at the competition.
But one by one, their thumbs press the screen.
The final confirmation page flashes on my screen: APPLICATION SUBMITTED. PREPARE FOR IMMEDIATE RECEPTION.
A triumphant grin spreads across my face. I did it.
I actually did it. We are going to be on television. I’m going to get my mansion on Sueva, my girlie girls are going to be saved from their godawful day jobs, and I am going to find a giant, winged alien who thinks I’m the center of the universe.
Literally, I am living my fucking dream.
Somewhere between the start and finish of the eighth pitcher, Lucy begins snoring like a chainsaw. Ellison and Lily pass out cold on the floor, curled around a pillow where they passed out mid-ranking World’s Most Eligible bachelors.
I stand up on wobbly legs, smoothing down my slip, waiting for the cameras to appear. My slippers are fluffed. My curls are popping. My boobies are boobing boobily.
A brilliant blue light streams through Ellison’s apartment window. The TV screen blinks on and off, static humming through the room.
The air pressure drops so fast my ears pop.
I grin directly into the blue light, lifting my chin, making sure my angles are perfect for the broadcast. Work, cover girl, work it now.
“Take me to my fated mate,” I whisper, and if I do a little twirl, so what?. “We’re ready for our close-up.”