Chapter 4
FOUR
BYE BYE BYE — *NSYNC
The hotel lobby is bustling with at least twenty crew members when I make it downstairs the next morning.
Black hard-shell equipment cases of all shapes, sizes, and conditions—though most are scraped to shit from being lugged across oceans and countless borders over the years—are piled up in mini mountains throughout the lobby, taking up any available space a crew member isn’t occupying.
I make a mental note to leave myself enough time before I head out this morning to bring my own equipment down to add to one of those piles.
Production assistants will be busy all morning helping to transfer everything to the ship, and I won’t need anything more than a camera and some spare batteries for the next few hours.
As I scan the room, my eyes snag on the concierge behind the counter. He looks positively horrified at the state of his once-civilized lobby, which now looks more like a scene out of Jurassic Park.
I can’t help but smirk at the chaotic energy.
I guess I did miss this a little bit.
I’m in a good mood today—mostly because the per diem finally made its way into my bank account last night. Kyla was so excited when I transferred the money that she immediately called me just to shout, “NO MORE GIRL DINNER!” and then promptly hung up.
I spot Glen speaking in hushed tones to a tall, willowy woman in jean shorts and a white T-shirt.
A walkie-talkie is strapped to her hip, and her sleek black hair is pulled back in a high ponytail.
While Glen looks fairly calm, the clipboard clutched tightly to the woman’s chest looks like it may snap in half at any moment, and her brows are knit together in clear frustration.
“No, it’s too late,” she argues. A few heads turn toward her raised voice, and Glen rests his hand on her arm, his eyes nervously zigzagging around the room as his facade of control cracks.
“I hear you, Demi. We can make this work, I—”
“Just find a way to fix it.”
I make a mental note to steer clear of this particular woman, for a few days at least. I don’t think I recognize her, but she’s too far away to tell for sure.
Glen opens his mouth to respond, but she holds up her palm to cut him off, then stalks away without another word.
I imagine her cracking a “Talk to the hand!” and chuckle to myself before approaching Glen with a reassuring smile. His shoulders sag with relief as soon as he spots me.
“Oh, thank God you’re here. I can’t stand these people.
” Glen rubs at his temples as his dark brown eyes flit around the room, taking in the chaos around him.
He’s far shorter than I am, his features soft and round.
When he’s smiling, he’s warm and approachable.
But when he isn’t? He can be a little scary.
Glen has perfected the discerning producer sneer—a look that screams I am judging you.
Which is exactly what his face is saying as he eyes a clumsy PA across the lobby who has dropped the same camera case a few times now.
I’ve known Glen since my early career days—he was the first colleague I made friends with outside of work.
I was a production assistant, and he was a producer.
Having graduated from the same film school only a few years apart, we bonded quickly and became fast friends.
While we eventually drifted a bit, we still chatted fairly regularly over social media and met up for the occasional double date.
He’d bring some boyfriend who would probably only last a few months, and I’d arrive towing whatever jerk I was dating at the time—and there had been a lot of them.
So, I know him well enough to recognize that when Glen’s stressed, it’s usually for a good reason.
“I have one PA who’s already lost their passport, a sound guy who has no voice—so he’ll probably be out sick within two days—and Demi is getting on my last nerve,” he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
“Demi?” I ask, trying to remember if I’ve met her before. I don’t think I have, but her name rings a bell.
“Demetria Sidirakis. She’s a new producer and comes highly recommended. But she hasn’t exactly made my life easier.”
I don’t envy him. As an executive producer, he’s basically spinning plates.
The crew reports to him for the most part, unless there’s another executive producer on-site, or if the director decides to take an interest in managing people (which they usually don’t).
But even then, Glen tends to give the orders since he’s been at this so long.
“What was she chewing you out for?”
“She has a difficult contestant this season. The girl won’t stay in her room, she’s refusing to give up her phone, and apparently she’s already made two production assistants cry.”
“And this is why I don’t produce,” I say with a grin. Glen frowns sullenly, harsh lines bracketing his mouth. “Why not just send her home?”
“Too late for us to get someone else in, and…well, my instinct says she’s going to be really good TV.
” He scratches at his stubble thoughtfully.
“Her preshow interviews have been laugh-out-loud funny and I can already imagine the kind of one-liners we’ll get out of her.
I think we’re going to see if we can get a villain arc going. ”
I raise a brow at that. It always surprises me just how much story planning and character development go on behind the scenes of reality TV.
Even on the fishing shows I’ve shot for National Geographic, or the series Space Rules, in which a NASA scientist follows people with cool space jobs—none of it is truly real.
I mean, sure, what they’re doing generally is.
But the situation itself is most likely manufactured by a producer or director, laying the groundwork for a narrative that everyone can follow.
For example, watching an engineer try to fasten a bolt on something in real time for forty-five minutes won’t be especially interesting…unless it’s an explosive bolt for the launch pad of the space shuttle, and it must break exactly on cue or else a rocket might fail to launch.
Stories are all about stakes, and real life is actually pretty boring most of the time. So, at the end of the day, whether there’s a script or not, everything on TV is fake to some extent.
“Well, at least you know you’ll have someone keeping things interesting on screen,” I offer.
Glen hums in agreement, but his lips are pursed, his eyes still sharply tracking the lobby commotion.
“I don’t know why I still do this to myself,” he sighs. “I think next year might be the year I actually look for a desk job.”
“You could never sit at a desk. You love this too much.” I laugh, teasingly nudging his elbow with mine. Our eyes meet, and his scowl turns into a devilish smile.
“God, I really do. The drama is too good…I just hate all the hand-holding. Sometimes I swear it’s like I’m running a daycare.”
“That feels accurate.”
He flashes me another grin, then turns his attention back to the lobby.
“Anyway, you’re our backup’s backup for this shoot, Chlo.
” I hear the subtle shift of his tone back to business-as-usual, and feel myself straightening subconsciously.
“Things got a little out of hand last season, so I wanted to be in a better position this year. The other execs don’t know I hired another camera operator, so… just try to stay under the radar.”
“Oh, sure—is it that big of a deal that you hired me?”
“We didn’t technically have the budget for it, so I got a little creative with accounting to make it work. It’s not that I’m hiding it…I just don’t necessarily want to draw extra attention to it.”
“Right, that makes sense,” I say, trying to sound agreeable.
“Yeah, it’s really not a big deal,” he adds, with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Keeping to the shadows is what you’re good at anyway, so it worked out perfectly, if I’m being honest.”
“Oh?” My eyes narrow, and I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry.
What exactly is that supposed to mean?
“I don’t need another egotistical DOP who’s trying to make a name for themselves.
Your personality is an easy one to manage.
” At this, he turns to face me again. I try to take his words as a compliment, because I do believe that Glen genuinely likes me and finds me competent.
But then he says, “It’s not an insult. I just know I don’t have to worry about you standing out. ”
His words hit me like a bucket of ice water, a chill skittering along my spine as I freeze. I feel the unsettling flush of humiliation begin to creep up my neck, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of how exposed I am…and of how many eyes are on me and Glen.
As if everyone in the room heard his words.
I don’t have to worry about you standing out.
He’s moved on, saying something about finding Demi’s contestant now, but any words I could have formed in response have turned to ash in my mouth.
My thoughts start to whirl.
And suddenly, it clicks.
Glen wasn’t just doing me a favor by hiring me. He wasn’t doing it out of the goodness of his heart—and it certainly wasn’t a decision he made because he’s impressed by what I can do.
He’s much more interested in what I won’t do.
I won’t rock the boat.
I won’t take up space.
I won’t be anything other than exactly what he needs me to be: A ghost.
I manage to force a hollow smile as he says a quick goodbye and stalks away, but I remain rooted to the floor.
Easy to manage. Keeps to the shadows. Doesn’t stand out.
Glen’s words echo in my head repeatedly, and I can feel a lump rising in my throat.
As if a decade hasn’t passed, I suddenly feel like I’m in film school all over again, listening to a professor advise me to stay behind the camera—because I lack the charisma for on-camera work, you see; or because my voice-overs are too blunt.
Just like those memories, Glen’s words hurt. And they remind me that what I want to be, I’ve never been good enough for.
In college, I wanted to be a TV journalist—to be in front of the camera, not just behind it. I had hopes of becoming a war correspondent, but I soon let that dream go and focused on camera work because it was what I was told I was better at.
And, deep down, I knew that what everyone was saying was less about what I was good at, and more about what I wasn’t made for.
I’m not an unattractive person, but I wouldn’t say I’m anything special to look at.
I’ve always been lanky, not leggy. Frank and straightforward, instead of diplomatic.
My features aren’t especially sharp or delicate; my eyes are warm, but not striking.
So, I knew what they were really saying when they told me to stay behind the camera.
I knew it because it was the same way my aunt, the few times I saw her when I was a teenager, would tell Kyla how beautiful she was and how she would break so many boys’ hearts, while she offered me backhanded compliments about my “strong opinions” and “headstrong attitude.”
I understood these things to be true—Kyla was beautiful, and I was street-smart; Kyla was intelligent, and I was creative.
So, I never took those words, those limitations, too personally.
But lately, I’ve been feeling like just being myself is still “too much.” And a person can only shrink themselves so much before they end up disappearing altogether.
I thought I had pushed these feelings down a long time ago—of being not enough and too much all at once—but now they hollow me out as I blink back tears.
Ugh. Not here. Not now.
I want to run back to the airport, get on a plane, and go home.
But I need to get a grip, before some macho alpha camera guy clocks me on day one as the girl who can’t handle the heat.
I turn toward the wall and pretend I have something in my eye.
This is just a job. Just a paycheck. For a trashy reality show I didn’t even want to work on.
I think about Kyla—at home, pacing her room at 6 AM, worried about rent.
I think about Dad, and the way his last words broke me when he asked me to take care of her.
I start to think about Mom…but a mental door immediately slams shut.
Nope. Not going there.
Once I feel the emotions retreat back into the sturdy mental boxes I’ve always relegated them to, I let out a deep breath and turn around.
Before I can make a plan to escape this situation and pull myself together, I notice Sora across the room, standing, frozen, near the check-in desk. I instantly recognize the same emotion that I’m feeling written in her panicked eyes and pale face.
What the hell am I doing here?
I head over to Sora and spin her toward the stairs, looping my arm through hers before she can protest.
“Come help me bring down my equipment,” I whisper, as I pull her along. “It will give you something to do so you don’t look like you’re floundering. Then you can take a minute for yourself.”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide with distress. Tears brim just above her lash line.
“Thank you,” she breathes. I just give her arm a gentle squeeze.