Chapter 5 Since when do I make women wince?
Since when do I make women wince?
Sean
“ALL RIGHT, ALL right, all right!” Emmy says in a not-terrible imitation of Matthew McConaughey. “Moving right along to the next competition. We’re down to thirty contestants, and it’s getting real.”
“We know everybody made a donation to the Children’s Hospital Fund in order to be here today.
” Terica pauses while the screen behind her jumps to life with information about the fundraising initiative.
“But we also want to make sure our celebrities have fun. They’re giving up their personal time, so the least we can do is make sure we match them with someone who’s a good fit. ”
As she speaks, the dance contest winners are filed by us like cuts of steak in a restaurant. I have to admit it’s nice that they’re trying to fix us up with someone compatible, but it’s not like any of us cares. It’s not a date. It’s work. Whoever I get is getting two hours of my time, tops.
Unless maybe it’s that quirky makeup girl—Emmy’s friend, Josie. What is up with her? It’s almost like she doesn’t want to win. Who wouldn’t want to win a date with one of us?
Maybe she thinks she’ll get Jason Connor.
She’s probably sick of him since he’s married to Emmy and they hang out all the time at their nerdy game nights.
But I’m her Number One pick, or at least, I was Vera’s Number One pick, which is transferable.
That means I’d most likely be the one she’d get matched with.
If she doesn’t want to go on a date with one of us, it’s me she doesn’t want to go on a date with.
Why wouldn’t she want to go on a date with me?
The rest of the contestants are smiling and waving and blowing kisses to us as they take their seats.
I’m feeling more and more like the steak in my analogy.
But sometimes you just gotta own it, like Tay, who is spread across his chair like a tomcat, nodding and winking and aiming finger guns.
Connor’s smolder might burn the whole place down if he’s not careful, and Ramirez is relying on his dimples, the cheat.
Andrew isn’t even paying attention—he’s leaned way over, deep in conversation with Emmy with his hand over his mic, probably bragging about the great date he has planned for his winner. That dude always ruins the curve.
Next thing I know, the mysterious, purple-haired friend of Emmy’s is headed my way, trailing the pack.
I lower my Gucci teashades and set my sights on her.
It’s proven that people can sense when other people are staring at them, and she’s gotta feel that burn.
But she shuffles right past me, face forward and hidden under a ball cap and a pair of tinted Oakleys.
I’ve seen Emmy’s daughter wearing both of those before.
Did she lose a bet to Peyton or something?
That has to be it. She’s doing it for a bet or on a dare, and she’s embarrassed. That’s adorable. I feel better already.
I thank the grip who slips me a paper with the numbers of the ladies who listed me as Number One or Two in their top choices and who are still alive in the competition.
Then I’m ushered, along with the others, to my own private Dating Game-esque box with a computer screen nested in it.
Upon closer inspection, I see the screen contains questions for us to ask the contestants along with the answers they provided on their applications. Ramirez is up first.
“Number Eleven, Nancy, what’s the most adventurous thing you’ve ever done or would like to do?” he reads from the monitor, his voice deep and gravelly on purpose. He flexes his pecs for emphasis, and everyone laughs.
A thin, nervous-looking woman answers. “I’ve always wanted to drive a riding lawn mower.”
Silence follows, because what do you say to that? She hurries to add, “I don’t mean like a regular one, but the kind that spins around on one wheel. We have a big lawn, and they look so fun, and they do such a good job of mowing!”
“A zero-point mower,” Emmy explains to a baffled Ramirez. He’s probably never mowed a lawn in his life. I know I haven’t. “And yes,” she confirms, “they do do an excellent job.”
Terica steps in. “Okay, Number Thirty, Soraya, why don’t we have Sean ask you a question?”
I clear my throat and scan my touch screen. “Hello, Soraya,” I say as I stall. “Thanks for being here today.”
“My pleasure,” she replies in a voice that’s all velvet and unfiltered cigarettes. “And yours, if you’ll let it be.”
I don’t respond to her blatant advance, instead focusing on picking a question from the list. “What’s the most unique talent you have?” Oh boy, that was a mistake; I can tell already.
“I can put my legs all the way behind my head.”
“Impressive.” She wrote “acrobatics” on her application. I guess that tracks.
Terica and Emmy have moved on, so I have a few minutes before it’s my turn again.
I try to catch Josie’s eye in the meantime.
It’s hard to tell with the cap and glasses, but it feels like she’s avoiding my gaze.
I’m not used to being avoided. I pull up her application on my screen so I can decide which question to ask her. When it’s my turn again, I’m ready.
“Number Forty-Four. Josie,” I say, delivering a thousand-watt smile reserved for special occasions only—I’ve melted pillars of ice with that smile. “What would be your perfect date?”
“Dinner and a movie,” she clips.
I wait because, obviously, she’s not done. That can’t be her answer, can it? It’s so unoriginal. “Your perfect date with me,” I clarify.
“Dinner and one of your movies?”
Jason Connor guffaws.
I’m so confused. “That’s not what it says on here.” I tap the monitor in front of me. “It says here, a romantic whale-watching tour.”
She winces. Since when do I make women wince?
“Maybe you’re reading someone else’s,” Emmy cuts in, and my gaze snaps from her wide, warning eyes to Josie’s pinched mouth to Jason Connor’s half-hearted attempt to channel his laughter into his fist. Have I crossed over into an alternate universe? According to the Lost Star writers, it’s a thing.
“Andrew, your turn!”
Terica thinks she’s closed the matter, but I’m a long way from done.
I did not read someone else’s entry. I have eyes and a brain, and I know what I saw.
As Andrew takes his turn, I lean into my monitor and scour the rest of her responses like a police detective deciphering the clue to a murderer’s whereabouts.
“She was a last-minute substitution, remember?” Jason Connor whispers. “Just go with it.”
“But she’s lying.”
“What do you mean she’s lying?”
“I mean, there’s no way her answer to that last question was ‘dinner and a movie.’ Something’s going on.”
“It’s a fundraiser. Play along, like you always do.”
I loosen the scarf around my neck. Connor is right. So what if the answers don’t match up? So what if Emmy’s friend is lying? So what if she doesn’t want to win the contest? None of it matters. It’s a silly gimmick for a good cause, and that’s it. I don’t even care.
I catch Josie eyeing me before she looks away. She thinks she’s being all clandestine about it, but I get stared at a lot. I recognize the subtleties.
If she likes me enough to secretly ogle me, then why is she lying? Or is she really as boring as her answer suggests? I’ve met her a couple of times. I don’t think she’s boring.
I mean, I didn’t give her a lot of my attention, to be honest. She’s Emmy’s friend, and I’m not a skirt chaser. I don’t have to be. But I noticed her.
When it’s my turn again, I’m ready. I know I’m supposed to ask someone else a question, but they can’t make me.
“Number Forty-Four, Josie. Let’s try this again.
” I use my best Captain Footwork voice, the one that stops even the likes of Emmy and Terica in their tracks, evidenced by how they both open their mouths, hesitate, and then retract whatever objection was on their lips.
“What’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you? ”
Josie’s chest rises as she takes a breath, and I make a show of giving her my undivided attention.
“A waiter spilled wine on me once.”
Womp, womp. “You can do better than that.”
She swallows. “My skirt was tucked into the back of my pantyhose at church.”
I emit a pained chuckle. “What is this, 1950? Try again.” I’m being too pushy. I can tell by the way her nostrils flare, like a startled horse. “Come on, tell us the truth,” I wheedle. “It’s for a good cause.”
She opens her mouth and lets it kind of hang there. It’s a pretty mouth. Pink and heavier on the top, giving her an endearing almost-overbite.
“You can do it,” I urge. “I know you can. Please?”
The words come out in a torrent. “I was on a bus in Mexico City, and I was using the bathroom at the back of the bus, but the door wouldn’t lock, and the seat was dirty, so I hovered, as you do, but then the bus lurched right and I lurched left, and my shoulder hit the door, and it burst open, and I fell into the bus aisle with my panties around my ankles, and for the rest of the five-hour bus ride, the other passengers referred to me as Nalguitas, which means Little Butt or Little Butt Cheeks or just… Butt Girl.”
Wow.
Seriously, wow! I want to congratulate her after that long, brave, run-on sentence of a confession, because this woman delivered, but no words come. All that comes out are semi-restrained puffs of laughter as my brain processes the scene she just described.
It’s not just me, either. The entire stage and audience erupt into laughter. If Josie were a stand-up comic, it’d be the best day of her life. But she’s not a stand-up comic. In fact, she’s turned a deeper shade of purple than my scarf.
Now I feel bad. This is my fault. I should do something. I put my lips right up to my lapel mic to ensure my voice carries. “Yeah, that happened to me once, too. But they called me something else.”
Anyone who was finally getting control of themselves loses it again, but at least now they’re laughing at me, not her.
Sorry, I mouth at her in the hubbub.
I’m not sure if there’s an “it’s okay” in her tight-lipped smile or if it’s more of an “a pox on your house.” Either way, this gig just got way more interesting.