14. Aarti
AARTI
Waking up with a leggy supermodel in my bed should feel like winning the lottery, but I’m so fucked up that all it does is tie my stomach into knots. Not only is this the second time Brigitte has broken our gone-by-morning agreement, but last night it wasn’t even for a sexy reason.
For the life of me, I could not get it up, so to speak. Even with Brigitte trying her damnedest to help matters along, I kept getting distracted by intrusive thoughts about nitrogen canisters and wild curls and whether Noa was okay after she bolted from the Gretchen meeting.
“You hearted my story,” Brigitte finally said flatly, rolling off of me to stare at the ceiling.
“I heart a lot of things,” I mumbled, cringing in the dark at my own casual cruelty.
The silence that followed was excruciating. Eventually, she just went to sleep, leaving me to doomscroll my overactive mind into submission. I didn’t have it in me to wake her back up and ask her to leave.
Now, in the harsh light of morning, I walk a stone-faced Brigitte to the door. From the kitchen, Diti watches the whole exchange over her coffee mug, smirking like the Cheshire Cat.
“Don’t,” I warn as I trudge back.
“As long as you get tested,” she shrugs.
“You know I do, doctor. ”
I grab my keys and flee before I have to hear any more of it.
The moment I arrive on set, Madge rushes over to me.
“Noa’s in hair and makeup,” she says breathlessly.
My heart does a weird flippy thing that’s definitely just anxiety about the show.
“She’s worried you’re upset,” Madge continues.
“I am upset.”
“Don’t act like it.”
I’m about to elaborate on all the reasons Noa Hart has every right to be worried that I’m mad when the hair and makeup door swings open.
A woman emerges with glossy, pin-straight amber-colored locks cascading over… overalls? She’s in full glam–smoky eyes, nude lip, the works–but the candy-striper attire makes her look like a 1950s ice cream parlor employee who got lost on her way to the general store.
Oh my god. It’s Noa.
My admiration snaps to outrage. They straightened those wild curls? That seems so… not Noa.
I shake my head internally. I don’t know her. Maybe she chose this. Maybe she likes looking like a Stepford Wife.
My annoyance only feeds Madge’s worry about me looking angry, and I don’t realize I’m full-on glaring until I catch Noa’s already-wide eyes widening even more. Well, let her think I’m pissed about the other stuff. Probably best not to voice my anguish over her curls, lest it be… misconstrued.
“Look who decided to sprint back to CBT.”
“I’m here, okay?” Noa is defensive. “Let’s just do this.”
We position ourselves at the retro ice cream counter they’ve constructed on the soundstage. Production has set up a blind taste test for Noa to administer in order to determine my flavor profile . The array of items is hidden beneath a tarp, which Noa immediately peeks under, clucking her tongue.
“I’m the one who has to eat whatever that is,” I remind her.
She pops up, nose wrinkled. “These are flavor extracts, not actual fruit reductions. The molecular structure of artificial strawberry is completely different from–”
“Maybe you could’ve had some input if you’d shown up yesterday.”
Noa’s jaw tightens and she returns to her inspection like I’m not even here.
Madge claps her hands. “Okay, places! Let’s get loosened up. Just run through the taste test, find Aarti’s preferences. Nothing fancy.”
Her tone tells me she’s white-knuckling her way through trying to sound unstressed. Bless her heart , Gretchen would say.
Madge hands me a black silk blindfold.
“Fifty Shades of Dairy!” I quip, and Marcus, our sound guy, chuckles in more of an appeasing way than a sincere one. Off to a great start, Nair.
“Noa will bring you the samples,” Madge explains. “See what your favorites are.”
“I can put it on myself,” I snip when Noa reaches for the blindfold.
“I wasn’t–” She pulls her hand back. “Fine.”
I tie the blindfold, plunging myself into darkness.
“Rolling!” someone yells.
“And… action!” Madge calls.
Dead silence.
“Ahem,” I venture into the darkness. “I’m Aarti Nair, and today I’m being subjected to a taste test so that middle America can relate to me. And this is my… sidekick , Noa Hart.”
I can practically hear her eyes roll. “Just… here.” Noa’s voice is strained. “First sample.”
I open my mouth like a baby bird. The spoon hits my bottom teeth.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry.
I gag. “It’s vanilla extract?”
“Brilliant analysis,” she mutters.
“What else do you want me to say?”
“Maybe something more than naming the flavor?” Magenta interjects. “Like, I don’t know, how it makes you feel? What it reminds you of? Whether you’d want it to represent your entire brand?”
“It’s a lot. Reminds me of you. Next.”
I hear some of the crew snicker.
“Cut!” Madge calls. I push up my blindfold.
“Noa, maybe guide her more?” Madge tries. “This is supposed to be fun!”
Noa tosses her WASPy mane over one shoulder and feeds Madge a bright smile.
“Rolling again!”
Blindfold back down. Take two.
“Aarti Nair, America’s taste bud, reporting to you live from Narnia–”
Noa brings another spoon to my mouth and a glob of delicious strawberry compote lands on my tongue.
Mouth semi-full, I manage, “More of that please.”
I can feel Noa shake her head. “The point of the taste test is to taste, not to consume.”
I scoff. “You like this, don’t you?”
“What mistakenly gave you that impression?” she snips back.
“While I love the heat, let’s try something different,” Madge suggests, desperate. “Noa, why don’t you describe what you’re giving Aarti?”
“Doesn’t that defeat the ‘blind’ part?” I pipe up.
Noa has the audacity to shush me as she clatters around under the tarp of terrors for my next mouth delivery.
“This one is… a simple syrup.” Her voice takes on a particular tone I’m starting to notice she employs when she’s about to be insufferably educational.
“Which, for the record, is a terrible way to evaluate this specific flavor profile. The syrup destroys the textural contrast that makes mint chip work. Oops, said the flavor. Can you cut that part out?”
She feeds me a spoonful anyway and I gag again.
“It’s like someone decided chocolate needed to be punished.”
"Exactly!" Noa exclaims, then seems to catch herself agreeing with me too easily and dives back under the tarp.
By taste test five, I can no longer recall if I’ve ever enjoyed a flavor at all.
My stomach is gurgly, a sloshy smoothie of extracts and flavorings at which Noa can barely contain her disgust when feeding me.
Just when the nausea threatens to escalate to something no one wants on camera, Madge yells:
“CUT! Meet back in the writers’ room in one hour.”
I rip off my blindfold. Noa and I bolt for the exit like salmon desperate to reach their spawning grounds, which is to say, we find ourselves in a literal jam with one another as we try to get out through the stage door simultaneously.
We’re living out a hacky physical comedy sketch that would’ve been binned immediately in the Midnight Live Monday pitch meeting.
I give up thrashing like a pregnant fish and Noa manages to brush past me.
Before I can weigh the pros and cons in my tiny salmon brain, my mouth asks dumbly: “Where are you going?”
She whips around. “Lunch. Legally I’m allowed to get away from all of this for one hour.”
I hold up my hands. “Me personally? Big fan of legality.”
She doesn’t crack a smile.
“Come with me.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “I mean, if you want. Legally speaking.”
She looks at me as if I’ve suggested we go commit arson. “I’m hungry ,” she says, like that’s supposed to be a deterrent.
A laugh escapes me in spite of myself. “Then you’re in luck.”