Chapter Seventeen - Becca
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It takes a few seconds, but then my words register and Lucky’s entire face changes. His eyes widen slightly, his smile disappears, and for the first time since he slammed into me on that skateboard, there’s not a single trace of amusement on his face.
Serious Lucky DeLucca is a sight I never thought I’d see, and now that he’s staring right at me, all I want is for him to make a joke, to say something funny or sarcastic that will make us both laugh, something that will wipe that look from his face. But he doesn’t, and my heart twists.
“We’re in last place.”
It’s not a question, but I nod my head anyway.
“But it doesn’t make sense.” Lucky’s eyes dart around before landing back on me. “We won the challenge.”
“It’s the popular vote,” I say. “We got the most points for the challenge, but they didn’t vote for us. Somewhere between the last challenge and this one . . .” I trail off because even though I want there to be some explanation, I can’t think of one. I’m just as confused as Lucky.
We lost the last challenge, yet we gained a lot of ground with the audience. Here in Roswell, we actually won the challenge, but people didn’t vote for us, and I have no idea why.
I don’t have to look to know that Tony and his camera are nearby, no doubt capturing every second of this moment in high definition. It makes me grit my teeth.
I want to argue that I didn’t sign up for this, that these moments so full of very real emotions should be off limits.
But I did, and they’re not. So, I do what I do every time I sit down to film some content.
I squish everything I’m feeling into a tiny little canister in the back of my mind.
I straighten my shoulders and level my gaze on Lucky.
Tony leans in, ready for whatever is about to come out of my mouth.
“Guess we have to try a little harder, don’t we?”
It sounds more like a snide, almost accusatory statement than I mean it to, but I hope Lucky can read my mind. I hope he can see in my eyes that my frustration isn’t directed at him.
I’m just so tired of playing this game. Of having to be her. But what choice do I have?
Lucky blinks once, then twice. Then his face morphs into a smirk, and he raises a single eyebrow. It’s not a friendly look, but I understand it. Especially when he turns slightly, making sure the camera has a clear shot of his face.
We don’t say much after that. The parade passes by in a technicolor blur.
Lucky and I stand stiffly beside each other, waving every now and then to the crowd.
The other finalists, extra smug from the news of the rankings, largely ignore us, but every time they look in our direction, there’s a sense of satisfaction on their faces.
Even Iris, who I’d automatically placed in the friend category since Texas, keeps glancing at us with a haughty twinge in her eyes.
It’s weird how much it stings, but we’re influencers, and I know full well that what you see on the screen isn’t a reflection of who we really are behind the camera.
It just sucks to be reminded like this. These people aren’t my friends.
We’re competitors. Whether it’s views or followers or 100,000 dollars, we’re all battling for the same thing.
It isn’t until we’re dismissed for the night, and we’re back on the road to Jan’s that I finally drop the mask, letting out a huge exhale. “Well, that sucked.”
Lucky can’t move much, given his scrunched-up position in the passenger seat, but he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose for a second, his chest rising and then lowering slowly before he looks over at me.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his face almost blank. “It did . . . Last place.” He whistles through his teeth. “Not what I was expecting after our win.”
“Me either,” I mumble. Last place. Only two little words, yet they hang over our heads like a guillotine. Sure, there are still two challenges before we reach California, but if the people back home don’t vote for us, there’s no way we can win.
“We need to figure out why,” Lucky says, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Why did we lose the popular vote this time around?”
Jan’s house comes into view, and I park the car in the driveway while Lucky pulls up social media. Leaning over the middle console, I peer over his shoulder as he scrolls.
“Look at this.” Lucky points to a comment featuring a GIF image of someone taking a nap. “Me watching #TeamBucky right now,” the caption reads.
“What does that mean?” I say, my hackles rising even though I’m not quite sure what it’s in reference to.
Lucky shrugs and keeps scrolling.
He stops at another comment. This one features a “Then and Now” meme. On one side is the image of Michael Jackson eating popcorn, and on the other is an image of Justin Timberlake making a “really?” face.
“The last challenge versus this challenge. #TeamBucky,” I read the caption aloud, though it hardly clears up my confusion.
“So . . . they don’t like that we won?” Lucky’s brow is scrunched.
“It seems that way . . .” I reply, still scanning the screen. “I think—” The sentence dies in my throat as I see one comment that turns a lightbulb on in my head.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan.
“What?”
I point to the comment, which opens up a whole thread among several different commenters. I skim the entire thing, and when I get to the end, laughter bubbles up in my throat. “Lucky, they like it better when we fight.”
Lucky snaps his head up, his eyes meeting mine. “What?”
“The last challenge,” I say as the pieces come together in my mind. “We didn’t exactly work well together. We argued about everything.”
“You mean like when you dropped the map in the Riverwalk?”
“You mean like when you picked the most crowded spot in all of San Antonio as a ‘shortcut’?” I shoot back, mimicking his tone.
“Yeah,” Lucky chuckles, his smile widening. “That’s what I mean, Holly G.” His smile is so brilliant that it makes my heart flutter. For a second, I forget what we’re talking about, but then I blink, and it comes back.
“I think the audience finds it more entertaining when we’re at odds with each other.
They like watching us push each other’s buttons.
It’s more interesting, I guess, than seeing us communicate and work together as a team.
Team Bucky is apparently only a fan favorite when we act like we want to kill each other. ”
Lucky’s face goes from confused to amused. “You just called us Team Bucky.”
“Oh my god, you are impossible.” I cover my eyes with my hand. “This whole competition is impossible.” I slump against my seat. “I don’t even know what to do now.”
“It’s pretty obvious, I think,” Lucky says, and I peel my hand away from my eyes.
“We keep doing what we’re doing and hope the audience cuts us a break?” I guess, not quite sure why he’s looking at me as if he’s cracked the DaVinci Code.
Lucky shakes his head. “Nope, we give the people what they want.”
“And what is that exactly?”
“Go with me on this one, Holly G,” Lucky twists in his seat so he’s facing me more directly. “If the people back home prefer us to hate each other, then let’s hate each other.”
“But I don’t hate you,” I argue, not liking the way his words have jabbed at me—like the sharp stab of pain you get when you press on a bruise.
“I don’t hate you, either.” He says this a little softer and in such a way that the words act as a band-aid, covering my hurt. It makes me want to lean into him.
“But this is a game,” he continues, “and if this is the role they want us to play, then we should do it.”
“But . . .” I start to object, to argue that doing so would mean pretending to be something we’re not, but at the end of the day, aren’t we doing that already?
We’re Content Creators. Influencers. Online personalities. It’s what we do.
When I step in front of the camera, it isn’t me my viewers see.
It’s a version of me. A carefully curated slice of who I am as a whole.
It’s all the best parts of me and none of the messiness that fills in the gaps when the camera is turned off.
Becca from Smoke and Makeup Mirrors never has a bad day, never feels the weight of others’ choices and expectations on her shoulders, and definitely never admits when she feels utterly lost about everything.
No, she is flawless. But, she also isn’t real. Not completely, anyway.
So, is what Lucky is proposing really that different?
“Do you think it would actually work?”
“It’s worth a try, at least. Without the popular votes . . .” Lucky grimaces.
“There’s no way we can win,” I finish. Even if we won every single challenge coming up, the point system is designed to factor in the votes from the viewers. Without their support, we might as well kiss the prize money goodbye.
My mother’s face floats to the forefront of my thoughts. I see her in my mind as happy and healthy. Recovered. I want that. I want that so badly it causes a physical ache in my chest.
So, I nod. “Let’s do it. We’ll have to make it convincing, though, or the audience will never buy it.”
“Oh, we will.” Lucky grins wildly. “If it’s drama the people want, we’ll give it to them.” He pushes open the car door, unfolds the pretzel of his legs, and steps out into the dry desert air.
I follow him as we head into Jan’s house to pack our stuff.
With our game plan in place, Lucky is back to his old self, and the sense of dread hanging over me has morphed into excitement for whatever is coming next.
Because whether I like it or not, #TeamBucky is turning out to be one heck of a team.
I grin as I zip up my suitcase. Like Lucky said, if viewers back home want a show, then that’s what they’ll get.