Fourteen Miranda
Fourteen
Miranda
2018
Miranda adjusts her dress, a lilac-colored Lycra number with ruching on the sides. She can still taste the teeth-whitening strips she popped in before everyone came down to the fireplace room to shoot the first few moments of Crashed and Burned . Miranda looks around the room, staying as positive as she can, but it’s clear the producers haven’t put a lot of thought into set design. Miranda, the other cast members, and much of the crew are essentially quarantined together in a mansion in Topanga that was once used for filming The Bachelor , before The Bachelor moved on to bigger and better locations. It looks like the decor hasn’t been touched since before Miranda was running around as one of the 3AM Girls.
But she’s smiling sweetly at the cameras, and she’s going to make the most of it.
The cast is making their on-screen entrance one by one, and Miranda is fourth out of ten. The others who have already lined up in front of the fireplace include two women with whom Miranda will be sharing a room, all bunked together like the sisters in The Brady Bunch —if Marcia, Jan, and Cindy had been addicts who went to jail together instead of junior high. Dora Sanchez, a fortysomething whose career transitioned from bubble-pop girl group to cage fighting, leans against the mantel in black leather and a jacket with tassels on the arms as she eyes the others through darkly lined lashes. She’s a chain-smoker—Miranda can smell the cigarettes from her spot by an ostentatious potted plant, and she’s sure she’ll smell it on herself soon enough.
There’s also three-times-divorced Lucy La, once famous for being typecast as wiseass daughter with glasses on various hit rom-coms, but who’s now better known for getting married on a beach in Rio wearing nothing but a lei.
Brandon, a man with very tall, glossy hair and teeth far whiter than Miranda’s strips could hope to achieve, is their host. He wears a tan suit and an impermeable smile as he introduces each of the former child stars.
“Let’s hear it for Miranda Montana, lovely as ever,” he exclaims to an otherwise silent room. “And give it up for yet another Blast Off! channel alum—Tyler X!”
Miranda’s heart sinks as she sees Tyler walk into the room, hollow eyed and slightly potbellied since she last saw him. He raises his eyebrows at her in mutual surprise, but otherwise gives her no acknowledgment as he lines up next to her spot. Miranda knew about her roommate assignments ahead of time and had heard rumors about a few of the other cast members, but the production has been largely secret so that stars’ reactions to each other can be captured in real time. Miranda stares straight ahead, unwilling to give the producers any insight into her former relationship with Tyler.
But she watches him out of the corner of her eye as the others file in. He looks just as worse for wear as the rest of them, his star power having taken a nosedive after one too many roid-rage incidents on set and the subsequent bad press.
“Welcome, everyone, to Crashed and Burned !” Brandon says once everyone has arrived. He looks each of them in the eye, seemingly very sincere. “Now, you’re all here for a reason. Each and every one of you came into the public eye thanks to your extraordinary talent, your drive, your charisma. But for one reason or another”—he puts his hand to his chest, sympathetic—“you crashed and burned. I’m here to tell you: it’s okay . Because we at Crashed and Burned believe in second chances. We know you still have that fire in you, that spark. And we’re going to put it to the test!”
Once filming has wrapped and all the editing is complete, this episode will play on TVs across the country with heartfelt music and poignant close-ups of the contestants. But right now, without any of that magic, it just feels like standing in a room of has-beens listening to a man who’s definitely younger than everyone acknowledge how much you suck now. Miranda can practically feel the disdain wafting off Tyler.
“During your time here, you’ll get the chance to prove yourselves through exciting team challenges, peer bonding, and personal growth,” Brandon continues. “You’ll also be asked to participate in group sessions and confessionals to reflect on the career paths of your fellow contestants, and similar challenges you might have faced along the way. We have trained therapists, right here on set—just for you. And they’re here to help . So honesty, authenticity, and sincerity will be rewarded. But that won’t be the only reward.”
Brandon pauses for effect; one of the camera operators adjusts a lens.
“Because the contestant who sticks it out the longest will win one million dollars!”
Everyone cheers at the top of their lungs; they don’t need to be cued up. But while Miranda knows that a million (after taxes) probably won’t make or break anyone here, the publicity and chance at a renewed public image makes it an even shinier prize. Plus, it’s not like any of them have something better to do.
“So rest up, rock stars!” Brandon says, pointing both fingers at the group. “Because you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow.” He swivels on his heel to face a different camera and reads from a cue card: “Think you know who has what it takes not to crash and burn? Follow along each week and vote for the contestant you think can rise to the challenge. Get it right, and you might just win a chance to meet your favorite celeb in person during our season finale.”
He holds the pose for a moment, displaying a winning, infectious smile.
“Clear,” calls the floor director.
Brandon’s smile drops from his face immediately, and he wipes his nose on the sleeve of his suit. He takes his phone out of his pocket and walks briskly out of the room without a second look at anybody.
Miranda crosses her arms and follows the others up the stairs to the bedrooms.
“Thought there’d be better craft services!” Dora mutters to Miranda as she passes. “Dry chicken breast and broccoli for dinner and then it’s off to bed? What is this, an orphanage?”
“Breakfast better be good,” Miranda agrees.
“Better be sausage, if they want me to be running around like a kook.” Dora pats her jacket, undoubtedly looking for cigarettes.
“Hey,” Miranda hears someone say behind her as she reaches her door. Tyler is standing a few feet down the hall, a menacing look on his face.
“What?” Miranda says in a low voice, mirroring his expression.
“You tell anyone about us and you’re dead.”
“Like I would do that,” Miranda hisses back. “What is your problem?”
His mouth curls downward. “I don’t want anyone to know I sunk that low.”
She scoffs. “Yeah, well. Same with you.”
Tyler shakes his head and turns for his end of the hall. “Yeah, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
But as Miranda closes the door tight behind her, she knows it’s true—no one would have sympathy for her. They’d only care about Tyler.
“Look at all your bright smiling faces!”
Miranda could throttle Brandon. It’s eighty-six degrees, and they’re all standing in the direct sunlight of the mansion’s sprawling backyard, staring down a makeshift obstacle course. Dora has swapped her leather for a black tank top, and Lucy’s white sports bra leaves little to the imagination. She leans over to Miranda.
“I’ll break your arm if you break mine,” she says under her breath. “That’ll get us out of this, right?”
“I don’t think there was anything in the contract about that,” Miranda mutters back.
“This morning you’ll be evaluated on team spirit, self-esteem, and winning mentality,” Brandon goes on. He’s wearing long-sleeve linen and no sunglasses but is somehow not sweating or squinting at all. Brandon is flanked by a team of four therapists, who all wear white coats, and the cast and crew form a semicircle on the grass.
Brandon continues his spiel. “You’ll be split into two teams, and you need to complete this obstacle course via relay, getting to the prize—that golden star—at the end of the course. Whichever team—red or blue—reaches it first is the winner. Ready?”
They divide up and don jerseys for their respective colors, and the producers tell them where to line up on the course. To her dismay, Miranda is sandwiched between Tyler and Dora—neither seems too jazzed about it, either. Tyler has to ride a tricycle over to Miranda to hand her the baton; then Miranda has to wade through a kiddie pool of chocolate syrup to Dora, who will climb over a rock wall. The looks on Tyler’s and Dora’s faces match how Miranda feels.
“Get ready,” Brandon calls. “Get set—go!”
Miranda puts one foot in the pool as she watches Tyler furiously pedal toward her, baton in hand. His face is beet red, and he’s steering erratically, his legs way too long and his body too big to properly work the bike.
“Come on, come on,” Miranda says. Lucy is passing up Tyler in the next lane.
“Shut up!” Tyler shouts. But he puts on speed and swerves into the side of the pool, splashing them both with chocolate.
“ Shit! ” he barks.
“Just give it to me,” Miranda says, yanking the baton out of his hand. She slides across the pool, stumbling to her knees once, twice, and then shoving the syrup-covered baton to Dora.
“Here we go,” Dora says uncertainly, sticking the baton under her arm. She runs for the wall and finds a foothold, then a handhold. But she’s struggling. Desi Jacobs, in the next lane, has already scaled halfway up.
“Here!” Miranda runs over and steadies Dora’s legs. “Let’s go—put your foot on that one, up to the left!”
But Dora swings her leg out, her heel catching Miranda squarely in the chin. White light flashes in front of Miranda’s eyes, and she stumbles backward, biting her tongue in the process.
“Thanks, carino!” Dora says as she disappears over the wall.
“Ungh,” Miranda grunts from the ground, holding her hands over her face and trying to stem the blood.
“Miranda,” the blond therapist says, her coat enviably free of blood and chocolate stains. They’re sitting together for the postgame analysis, in which each contestant is filmed speaking with the therapist and Brandon about how they ranked.
“You helped your teammate Dora and even risked your safety doing so,” the therapist continues.
“Which we don’t endorse,” Brandon adds seriously yet jovially. “But what a hustle!”
“Yes.” The therapist nods. “So those are some big points for teamwork and team spirit. But—we couldn’t help notice how you hid your face from the cameras after you got hurt.”
“Yeah,” Miranda says thickly. The split on her chin has stopped bleeding, but her tongue is still swollen. She hopes that nothing will bruise. “I got the crap kicked out of me.”
“We really want you to be more open, more willing to receiving help,” the therapist says in the gentlest voice possible. “We know it’s hard to be filmed with a disfiguring injury when so much value has been placed on your appearance. But hiding your face only enables further low self-esteem.”
“Oh.” Miranda nods slowly, trying to pick up on the thread the woman is laying before her. “Yeah. You know, you’re right. So much of my life has just been my looks, my face.” If she thinks hard enough about Dora’s foot slamming into her jaw, she can almost will the tears back. “But—but I don’t want to hide anymore.”
Brandon nods approvingly. “And here on Crashed and Burned , you don’t have to.”
“What a load of ...” Lucy trails off, sitting cross-legged on the floor of their room and french-braiding her hair later that night.
Miranda clears her throat and cocks her head to the corner of the ceiling, where a camera mounted to the wall records their every move. Dora eyes it and stretches her arms, giving an exaggerated yawn.
“God, that obstacle course took me out ,” she says. “You girls mind if I turn in early?”
Miranda shrugs; it’s only nine thirty. But Dora winks at her. She grabs a sweatshirt from her bed, turns off the lights, and then hangs the sweatshirt over the camera.
“You think that’ll work?” Lucy says doubtfully as the lights go back on.
“It’ll get them off our backs for a goddamn second.” Dora shrugs and pulls out a Svedka bottle from her suitcase, wrapped in a T-shirt. “Besides, a lady’s gotta have a little privacy.”
“Oh shit. Give me some of that,” Lucy says. “They water down their drinks to hell here. I thought we were supposed to be able to get drunk on camera.”
It has turned out, in fact, to be quite the opposite. Apparently the production team doesn’t want to be liable for lawsuits or sloppy drunks, and there’s a very strict two-drink-per-night maximum to get the cast feeling loose but not out of control. Many aspects of the show feel very much like rehab and hard time to Miranda—and although she cleaned up her act publicly and hasn’t used since her breakup with Amir—not more than once or twice, anyway—it isn’t as though you can accurately gauge whether your alcohol use is “affecting major obligations or causing problems with physical, social, or work relationships” when your only obligation is to sail around on a yacht with a cheater.
So the vodka is as welcome as ever. Miranda feels instant comfort as she tips back the mouth of the bottle, breathing in the fumes. It has been there for her when nothing else made her feel good.
“I needed that.” Dora leans back and sighs, sitting on the floor with the other two. “I’m too old for this shit.”
“What would you do with a million dollars?” Lucy asks, taking the bottle again. “If you make it to the end?”
“Probably pay off my credit card debt, then try to invest the rest.” Dora purses her lips. “You?”
“Put it in a college fund so my daughter can go somewhere really good someday,” Lucy says.
“I didn’t know you had a daughter.” Miranda takes the bottle from her.
Lucy purses her lips. “We try to keep it quiet. I want her to live as normal a life as possible, and my reputation—” Lucy waves her hand, as if the thought will finish itself. “My reputation doesn’t really allow for it. But that was one thing I was dead set on. I told her po po—who’s basically raising her, my mom—I said absolutely not. This girl will never, ever set foot on a soundstage. She will not perform. She’ll go to school, she’ll sign up for—I don’t know, lacrosse—dig in the dirt, do whatever kids are supposed to do.”
Miranda nods. She doesn’t think kids are in the cards for her. But considering it now, if she had a son or daughter, she would never subject them to the child-star path she’d gone down. She would do everything she could to protect them from it.
“Anyway,” Lucy says. “What about you, Miranda?”
Miranda takes a long sip of the vodka and is quiet for a moment. She needs money, but she doesn’t have a lot of people she’d be willing to spend it on. Definitely not Bobbie.
“I’d buy a house, I think,” she says. “Just a nice one, in a neighborhood where I wouldn’t get priced out. Then I’d go on a vacation with my best friends, because it feels like it’s been a lifetime since we’ve done that. And if I had any left over ... I’ve got a friend who’s trying to start a business. I guess I’d try to help him out.”
“A hot friend?” Dora winks.
Miranda smiles. “Not like that. Not anymore.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Lucy rolls her eyes. “I’ve heard that one before.”
Miranda kicks her in the leg and reaches again for the bottle. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened just before she came to Topanga, when she was in a Santa Monica Whole Foods hunting for green smoothie ingredients in an effort to give herself a healthy boost before the reality show. She was debating between mangoes and papayas when a voice sounded behind her.
“Miranda?”
Miranda turned, all at once nervous and relieved—she didn’t like the unpredictability of fan interactions, but it had been a few weeks since anyone cared what she was doing out in public.
And yet it was not a fan, not really, but Zane, standing next to a display of peach and pear LaCroix.
“Zane?” she said. “What in the world are you doing here?”
He laughed a little and lifted his basket. “Buying peanut butter cups. What are you doing?”
She shook her head. “Trying to decide between mangoes and papayas.”
“Mangoes.” He winked. “Definitely.”
Miranda laughed and put two in her basket. “This is such a surprise! What are the odds? Do you ... Have you eaten lunch yet? I have some time to kill. I was going to get something from the deli.”
Zane checked his watch. It wasn’t a fancy model; the leather band was worn, and it looked like it had been handed down, but it fit him. In a plain black T-shirt and jeans, hair a little shorter than usual, he still looked so good. “I could eat. I do have a weak spot for their orzo salad.”
“Okay! Amazing,” Miranda said, overly bright. She felt a bit like she was in a dream as they walked through the aisles together, just two adults shopping for groceries. It was as though she had sidestepped into a parallel reality where they had grown up healthy and normal, working regular jobs and stopping here to pick a few things up for dinner. Zane seemed at ease and talked about his drive from Laguna Beach as they picked up à la carte meals and went through the self-checkout.
When they were seated in the eating area and Miranda had opened her spicy thai noodles, she pressed again. “But wait, why are you up in Los Angeles? Are you still working at your family friend’s restaurant?”
“Yeah, and it’s actually going pretty well,” Zane said. “This friend—he’s basically like an uncle to me, and he’s been teaching me the ins and outs of the business. How to set up the finances, manage the employees, all that stuff.” He mixed his salad. “So—god, it still feels kind of silly saying it. But I was in touch with an old LA friend of mine, and he has a business degree ... and, I don’t know. We’re thinking of trying to open something up together.”
“That’s not silly at all,” Miranda said. “That’s a great idea. Like a restaurant? Or something else?”
He shrugged. “Wherever we can find a good niche. He’s got the book knowledge; I still have a few connections around here. So I came up to brainstorm.”
“That’s amazing. I wish there was some way I could help.”
“Very honestly, it’s going to be boring for a long time. I’m sure you have much better things to do—you were always such a go-getter.”
The way he smiled at her, wryly, made him look just like his old self again. The boy she’d known as a teenager. Miranda had the overwhelming urge to reach across the little table and grab his hand, but she kept hers firmly around her plastic fork.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Analyzing the small-business landscape of Boyle Heights sounds better than doing a reality show to me.”
Zane laughed out loud, but Miranda was only half joking.
“Wow!” he said. “Reality TV? What’s the show?”
“Um.” Miranda chased a sesame seed around the edge of her container. “I don’t know if they’ve decided on a name yet—they don’t give us all the details, you know. But yeah, it should be interesting. They pay us okay, so.”
“That’s incredible,” Zane said, his voice sincere. “I’m really happy for you. I hope it goes well.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Zane. This is one of my last days of freedom, actually. Then I’ll be locked up in a Topanga mansion for the filming.”
Miranda couldn’t help feeling a little pleased at how his expression faltered.
“Oh,” he said. “Then I’m glad I caught you when I did. They probably don’t let you have a lot of contact with the outside world during all that, huh?”
“Airtight contracts.” She clucked her tongue. “You’d think we were in the CIA.”
“Guess we’ll go back to our old routine of touching base every couple years or so.”
“We do have a pattern going, don’t we?”
He chuckled. “We do.”
Miranda lifted one shoulder. She had to say something. If she didn’t, she knew she’d kick herself for the full duration of Crashed and Burned . “Unless—I mean, after I’m out, we could always grab coffee ... or dinner ...”
Zane pressed his lips together and nodded. “It’s always good to catch up. I should say—well. I guess I should mention—”
Miranda sensed his meaning with a jolt and put her hand up to stop him. “You’re seeing someone?”
He smiled apologetically. “My business friend isn’t the only reason I’m in LA.”
She had to get ahead of it before she made a fool of herself. “Zane! That’s wonderful. Truly, I mean it. I’m so excited for you.” And she found that she did mean it—mostly.
“Thanks. She’s a regular person. No industry background at all! Which is new for me. But it’s been good so far.”
“Probably a good thing,” Miranda said, laughing. “Probably not as wild as the rest of us.”
“Well, she only likes Whole Foods–brand peanut butter cups.” He raised his eyebrows. “So only time will tell.”
“For sure.”
His smile grew tight, and then he looked down at his empty bowl. “Look, I’m sorry. I gave you shit for this exact kind of thing when I got back from Venezuela, didn’t I? Seeing someone else even though we were broken up? I realize now how you must have felt. I didn’t have any right to say that to you.”
Miranda felt her face growing warm. Even though the polite conversation they’d been making had felt a little awkward, it wasn’t as alarming as this sudden earnestness.
“It’s fine, Zane,” she said. “We haven’t been together for a long time. You have the right to do whatever you want with your own life.”
He fiddled with the edge of his compostable container. “I know. But I am sorry. And it’s just that part of me always wondered if, somewhere down the road—if you and I got our shit together—”
Zane couldn’t seem to say it out loud, but he looked Miranda directly in the eyes, and she felt her heart stutter.
“Me too,” she said. “I wondered that, too.”
“Yeah.” He broke her gaze. “Yep.”
Miranda gestured to the peanut butter cups. “So then why did you do this? Instead of calling me?”
Zane hesitated. In the space between his breath and his answer, his phone rang—a clattering, cheesy melody.
“Sorry,” he said. “That’s the restaurant. It can wait.”
“No, no, it’s okay. Take it.” Miranda felt itchy and embarrassed as she gathered up her utensils and napkin; she didn’t know why she’d asked that last question. The answer was clear: because they still didn’t have their shit together. Or at least, she didn’t.
“Miranda, come on,” Zane started.
“No, really. I have to get packed anyway. And I don’t want to put my foot in my mouth any further than it already is.” She gave him a small smile. “It was really good to run into you, Zane.”
“You too,” he murmured, one hand on his phone, looking conflicted.
Miranda hurried off without saying much of a goodbye. As she pulled out of the lot, she caught a glimpse of him through the store window, still at their table, hanging up from his phone call. She couldn’t help watching as she waited to make a right turn, seeing him tap around his screen and then smile at it in a way he used to smile at her. It didn’t take much guesswork to know whose messages he was reading.
It was time to let him move on, she knew. Zane deserved someone who didn’t come with so much baggage.
Lucy and Dora are still debating what they would do with a million dollars.
If she wins the show, Miranda thinks to herself, she’ll see if Zane and his friend would like help with the business loans. But even surviving to the end of Crashed and Burned is feeling like a long shot after the first several hours.
“Well, here’s to good company and vodka,” Dora says, taking the bottle back from Miranda and shaking it. “If I can keep the three of you around, I might just make it out of this hellhole.”
But the next morning, as everyone files in to sit in a circle of chairs for group therapy, a buzz of excitement among the crew tips Miranda off that something’s up.
Once the cameras start rolling, Brandon steps in the middle and folds his hands.
“I think we need to be reminded that we’re here to heal, and to help each other on the road to reflection and recovery,” he begins.
Next to Miranda, Lucy lets out just the slightest exhale of air so the cameras won’t catch her full-on snorting.
“But three of you are enabling—instead of encouraging—each other,” Brandon says. He pauses for such a long and dramatic moment that Miranda wonders whether he’s forgotten what comes next. But then he continues: “Last night, the crew learned that someone had smuggled in a bottle of illicit alcohol and shared it among their roommates.”
Miranda groans inwardly. How did they know?
Brandon looks very disappointed. “The culprits tried to cover up their room camera, but we still picked up audio of the incident.”
The rest of the cast looks around. Miranda’s cheeks are burning—she knows any of them would have done the same if they’d had enough forethought.
“Miranda, Lucy, Dora—is there anything you’d like to say to the group?”
Lucy stands up. “I’m out. Stop filming. I’m done.”
“Miss La.” Brandon raises his eyebrows. “Now you know you signed a full waiver—”
“What do I have to do to keep you from airing that audio?” Her face looks as though it’s been cut from stone.
“That’s not really how we—”
“Brandon, whatever your name is, cut the shit. I’m walking. I’ll take the penalty; I’ll buy the audio back from you, in fact. But I’m done.”
For once, Brandon seems at a loss for words. The penalty for bailing before week three is $100,000, four times what the participants are being paid for the show. He looks at the line producer, who sighs and runs his hands over his face. “Can we get that in writing, Miss La?”
“Whatever you need.”
The producer waves his hand. “Allison, take her to legal?”
Lucy tosses up a middle finger as she struts off the set. “Bye, bitches.”
There’s an awkward pause—they haven’t stopped filming—but Brandon seems to remember himself and readjusts his posture. He picks up where he left off, as though Lucy was never there. Miranda is sure they’ll patch it with a voice-over later.
She feels something almost like physical pain in her gut. This is what Lucy was willing to do to protect her daughter. It even had a price tag on it—a hefty one—and she was ready to pay it like nothing. Imagining what Bobbie would do in the same situation makes Miranda want to laugh and scream at the same time.
“Miranda, Dora,” Brandon says. “Is there anything you’d like to say to the group?” Brandon looks directly at Miranda.
“Not really,” she says flatly.
“Miranda, we know you’ve had difficulties with substance abuse in the past. And we want to help you work through them. But it’s not cool to drag others down with you.” Brandon has the most genuinely concerned look on his face.
“What?” Miranda sputters. “But it wasn’t my—”
She doesn’t want to snitch. But she’s furious right now, and she shoots a look at Dora, who’s sheepishly examining a spot on her leather leggings.
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it was—we’re not here to point fingers,” says Brandon. “But you’re going to be the first to learn that if you break house rules, you’ll need to make up for it with some house service.”
Which is how Miranda finds herself missing out on the afternoon’s activities—a group volleyball game, which she would have actually been good at—and pulling rubber gloves up to her elbows before cleaning the house bathrooms.
They’ve been there for only one day, but somehow the rooms are already filthy. Miranda starts with the women’s, picking up sodden pieces of toilet paper from the floor and scrubbing makeup stains off the sinks. The men’s is even worse. Apparently their busy careers as child stars meant no one had time to teach them how to aim.
In the third stall from the last, Miranda gasps when she opens the door. On the metal side of the stall, in huge, jagged letters, someone has written Washed Up Bitch in Sharpie.
Miranda knows who. But there’s no way to prove it was Tyler, since the stalls are the only places in the house without cameras.
She grits her teeth as she slops dirty water over it, scrubbing even harder to get the marker off. Miranda would pay a lot right now to retrieve her phone from wherever it’s been locked, call her agent, and demand he get her off this show. But she doesn’t know where the crew took everyone’s personal items. And she doesn’t have $100,000 to spare to escape the set early.
Miranda wishes she was back on a yacht so she could really jump off this time—ideally, right into the mouth of a shark.