Totally Wrecked
DAISY
“So, there is one thing I forgot to tell you…”
“And that is?” I ask my sister, keeping my voice calm.
“Um, the host of the show…” she pauses.
“Harvey Bannister? The poor man’s Ryan Seacrest?”
She tuts, and the sound comes loud and clear from the phone’s speaker. “I’d like to think Ryan Seacrest is the poor man’s Harvey Bannister, but yeah. Harvey. So, he and I are kinda having a thing.”
My brain short-circuits for a moment.
“Daze? You still there?” asks my dear sister, who I currently want to kill.
Oh yes, I’m still here—unfortunately.
“By your definition, what exactly constitutes ‘a thing’?”
“Daze, don’t get mad.”
“Brooke, I have the right to get mad. You are having an affair with HARVEY BANNISTER!”
I cannot have heard that right.
I start pacing around the hotel room. “OK, humor me here. You are doing the dirty with the show's host, you forget to mention it to me, and everything will be alright? Have I got that straight?”
If only my hands could travel the 8,000 miles from Sāmoa to Rocky Grove, Missouri, so I could strangle my sister. To hear her begging for my mercy would be so sweet right now. I’m in over my head, and it’s all her fault.
“Daze, chill—” I can hear the sigh in her voice “—it is gonna be fine, you won’t even see him. We only ever hook up stateside. On the shoots, contestants are kept separate from the hosts. I’ve told you, the only people you’ll see are sound, video, and production—you are completely in the clear.”
In the clear? I look at my reflection in a huge gilt-framed hotel mirror. My sister and I may have identical faces, but our personalities are miles apart. For example, I would never leave out important information—some might say CRUCIAL information—when asking her to do me an EXTREME favor.
I realize I’m growling when my sister says, “Daze, for fucks sakes, you won’t even see him. He’ll be filming at a different location. Everything’s cool.”
Breathe, Daisy, breathe.
Harvey. Flipping. Bannister. My mind can’t move on from this revelation.
“Why are you even doing the deed with him in the first place?” I ask her.
“Firstly, can you stop saying ‘doing the deed’ like you’re twelve? Secondly, he’s alright. I kinda like him, and here’s the thing—he drops me hints about upcoming challenges, so it’s worth my while. Seriously, it’s no biggie, we’re just fucking, not making babies.”
“Doing the deed, not planting the seed…”
“And don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Make up weird rhymes when you feel awkward,” my sister says.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” I sigh. “Anything else you ‘forgot’ to tell me?”
“Nope, that’s it. Just remember, I keep to myself, so don’t be chatty-Daisy, alright?”
Brooke has always been a little…aloof.
Probably comes with the territory of having a bigger brain and fitter body than everyone else. Is it a superiority complex if you are genuinely superior?
I don’t think I have an inferiority complex.
I gave up trying to compete with Brooke years ago.
Probably around age ten, when I was just done with always losing.
Dad was forever pitting us against each other: races, puzzle solving, you name it.
The winner received a dollar. The loser? A disappointed sigh.
Brooke had a lot of cash in her piggy bank.
“I’m not competing anymore,” I’d told her, chewing my ponytail. “I hate it, Wookie. It makes my tummy hurt.”
“Don’t give up,” she replied, hands on skinny hips. “Dad will call you a baby. Keep doing the races and everything, and I’ll split my winnings.”
It’s tough to say no to my sister. And I hated Dad calling me a baby.
“I’ll give you a quarter for every time we compete,” Brooke said, and we shook hands on it.
I spent the rest of my childhood coming in second for twenty-five percent of whatever my sister gained.
Brooke continues her pep talk, and I flop down on the bed, trying to retain everything she is saying.
“...and it’s the meet and greet tonight. Don’t you have to get ready?” Brooke is asking me.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got the itinerary.”
“Don’t stay long, don’t eat any sugar or have alcohol, minimal carbs. Be aloof, and no one will notice you are not me.” Brooke exhales loudly. “And, please, no rhyming.”
“No problem; be Brooke who is chilly, not Daisy who’s silly,” I say specifically to push Brooke’s buttons.
My habit had annoyed the shih tzu out of her when we were growing up.
“Also, I have to avoid Harvey, right, sis? Because having to fake it with your boyfriend would be more than a little weird.”
Yet another pained sigh comes down the phone. “Harvey won’t even be there! I’m just fucking him to get help on the show. Stop making problems where there aren’t any—it will all work out.”
“If you say so,” I mutter, feeling honestly a little sorry for Harvey Bannister. My sister was going to hurt his heart.
“Alright, call me in the morning before you catch the boat. And Daze?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks, love you.”
“Love you too,” I admit, grumpily, as I hang up.
Checking my itinerary, I see the meet and greet is scheduled for 7pm. Drinks in the bar, followed by a sit-down dinner. It starts in fifteen minutes, so I gotta hustle.
Shedding my sticky travel clothes, I try to wash away my tiredness with a quick blast under the powerful shower jets.
I’d been traveling for more than 40 hours to get to this point, and only managed a few hours of sleep.
My tiny apartment in Rhode Island seems very far away.
Lathering myself with hotel soaps, I feel a bit more with-it, and start to think about clothes.
Brooke ‘Action’ Jackson rocks a Lara Croft vibe. Tight tank tops with clumpy boots and heavy belts. And multi-purpose booty shorts. I always thought booty shorts had one purpose: to showcase your booty. But Brooke had started a new trend of cargo mini-shorts.
Shorts and a tank would not work for tonight, so what else did I have? Brooke had couriered a bag to me a couple of days ago, arriving barely an hour before I had to leave for the airport.
OK, Brooke, let's take a look at my, or I should say, your options.
I shake out the only dress. Oh, come on now.
There really doesn't seem to be much fabric to it. It’s a sludge-green bodycon, with cut-outs over each hip.
Yes, Brooke and I are identical, but she spends a lot of time doing CrossFit.
I spend a lot of time doing cross-stitch, so cut-outs over hips in skin-tight dresses are not really my first choice.
My go-to party outfit is a vintage yellow shirtwaister—it’s got tiny stars printed all over it, and Brooke says it makes me look like Miss Frizzle. I love it.
Ten minutes later, I’m shoe-horned into the dress and standing at the hotel bar's entrance. Time to ‘take chances, make mistakes, and get messy!’ as Miss Frizzle would say.
Ugh. Make mistakes, indeed.
A definite ripple of interest runs through the crowded room as I walk towards the bar.
You can do this.
A table-full of tourists call out as I go past.
“Oh! Are you…?”
“Look! It’s the real-life superhero!”
Before I can answer, out come their cellphones.
“Selfie?”
“Group pic!”
“Such a fan! We all root for you, Action Jackson!”
I smile awkwardly and do the classic ‘Brooke 'Action' Jackson pose. Hands on hips, and chin tilted up. My sister stole the move from the viral ‘Wonder Woman Pose’ thing that was everywhere a few years ago. Nobody calls it the Wonder Woman anymore. Now, it’s the Action Jackson pose: confident, powerful, and arrogant.
Just like my sister.
And not at all like me.
A small woman clutching a tablet runs and takes my arm. “Brooke! Great! How was your flight? Come on back.”
This is Frances—production manager. She’d been on the PowerPoint Brooke made for me. I’d studied it on my phone two days ago, while at a salon getting heavy bangs and highlights to aid my Brooke Jackson transformation.
Frances, production = nice, but oblivious, nothing to worry about.
Trevor, sound guy = likes to talk about classic movies, just stick to that topic.
Peter, DoP = not interested in you at all because he’s having a hot fling with…
Simone, camera assistant = (see above).
“You must be so excited,” nice-but-oblivious Frances is saying.
“The flight was great, and yes, so excited—totally!”
“Gosh, and you do look…well rested,” Frances pauses momentarily after saying that. I guess what she’s thinking is that I actually look like I’ve gained several soft pounds.
“Rested and err…relaxed.” She nods to herself, then continues. “That can only stand you in good stead, because this is a big one, Brooke. Alrighty, come get some champers. Oh, wait, I forgot you don’t drink. We’ll get you a lovely juice.”
Ugh, that’s right, I don’t drink. Internal eye-roll to my sister.
She takes me by the elbow and propels me across the room and towards my fate. “So, things have been a little crazy; a lot of the incoming flights got delayed, and we had to get a different sound guy because Trevor suddenly quit.”
She makes a face and rolls her eyes. I mirror her expression.
Frances laughs. “We are so bad—poor Trevor. Anyway, we’ve had to shuffle some things around.
I’ll explain later.” Frances keeps wittering away.
“I’ve sent schedules to your email; I’m sure you’ve already been through them all, knowing you.
” Frances winks at me, and I give her a rictus grin in return.
If she really did know me, she’d know that all I want to do is run back to the airport, get on a plane, and fly home to Rhode Island.
The crowd around me is growing. “Not now, not now,” says Frances, thankfully interrupting as more tourists demand selfies. She pushes me the final few feet to the bar.
“Look who I found!” she says to a tall man standing alone and sipping whiskey. I give him a quick once-over, then double-take. He wasn’t on Brooke's PowerPoint about the crew, so, new sound guy? And also, good grief, he’s, um, compelling.
“Hi, I’m Brooke,” I put out my hand, trying to still the quiver in my voice.