Chapter Nine
I look down at my bathing suit and the microphone that hangs around my neck, designed to look like a necklace, and question my life choices.
What would my professors at Stanford think if they saw me like this?
Oh shit—what if my professors at Stanford watch the show and actually see me like this?
Before I decide to move to Siberia and surgically remove my fingerprints, I take a calming breath, visualize poor endangered frogs, then walk out to the pool area.
The first thing I notice is the guy with the camera pointed at me.
Kristina said not to look at the camera, but that only makes me want to look at it more.
It’s like when there’s a solar eclipse and you know you shouldn’t stare directly into the sun but you just have to sneak a peek.
I try to snap out of it and force myself to awkwardly look above the camera.
It requires all my concentration, which means I’m not looking where I’m going and immediately stub my toe on a chaise lounge.
“Fuck me!”
“Language,” the cameraman softly warns from behind the camera. Yep, that’s right. “No swearing” was one of Andrew Benson’s annoying decrees. Damn, I haven’t even been introduced yet and I’ve already broken two rules and a toe.
I take a moment to regroup while my phalanges continue throbbing.
And that’s when I notice the bar area and the group of scantily clad beautiful people drinking heavily in the morning.
It looks like they’re filming a high-end tequila commercial or attending a celebrity beach wedding.
Different ethnicities are represented, but everyone has the same polished look.
I wonder if they all use the same plastic surgeon.
Suddenly my old self-consciousness comes flooding back.
Maybe I haven’t mentally molted my ugly duckling plumage after all.
But even if you weren’t teased for your looks for two-thirds of your life, I still think it’d be hard not to be intimidated by these Adonises.
Three very muscular, shirtless men and two beautiful women in bikinis are all waiting for me to walk over and introduce myself.
This is like that recurring nightmare where I have to relive high school all over again . . . except now on national TV.
I debate turning around and limping back to the mansion when I hear a male voice yell, “What the hell is that?” I turn to see the tall guy who Blue told me is the executive producer, Brett.
I’ve come to learn that he’s technically a level higher than Kristina, but he doesn’t seem to do any of the work.
He and Kristina are marching in my direction.
“What are you wearing?” Kristina asks by way of greeting.
“Is that some sort of religious garment?” Brett asks.
“Uh, it’s a one-piece bathing suit,” I say, looking down at my black Speedo. “I never get this sort of reaction when I swim laps at the Y.”
Brett smacks his forehead, taking this personally. “Can someone get Michael Phelps here a bikini?”
“We don’t have any extras,” Kristina says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me you have another bathing suit in your one suitcase, Grace.”
“One? One suitcase?!” Brett throws his arms in the air and storms off, leaving Kristina to deal with me.
“This is the only one I brought,” I say quietly. Normally, I’m not a shrinking violet, but I’m also not used to being berated, especially while only partially clothed.
Kristina talks into her earpiece. “I need wardrobe down here ASAP. And bring the glasses.”
I look back at the bar to find the other contestants staring at me. A woman with brown wavy hair whispers to a guy with a shiny muscular chest wearing a cowboy hat and they both laugh. You know you’ve hit rock bottom when a cowboy who rubs oil on his pecs is mocking you.
Then a beautiful blond contestant smiles and gives me a sympathy wave.
It’s a kind gesture, but I doubt that this beach goddess could possibly know what I’m feeling.
This woman probably has boats named after her.
I give her an awkward wave back as the wardrobe assistant rushes over and hands Kristina a pair of glasses.
Kristina puts the faux glasses on my face and waves in my general direction saying, “Make this better.” Before I know it, the wardrobe assistant is taking scissors to my bathing suit and cutting holes in it.
“What the hell—”
“Don’t move. Unless you want to lose a nipple,” Kristina says, and then points to another spot on my lower back. “Can you make it dip really low here? I want to see ass cleavage.”
I’m already a little afraid of Kristina, particularly when she’s controlling someone with a sharp instrument, so I don’t say anything.
After several excruciating moments of watching giant swaths of Lycra fall to the ground, Kristina steps back and nods.
“If you don’t look too close, it’s kind of a sexy peek-a-boo suit now. And the glasses make you look smart.”
Before I can scowl and recite my GRE scores, the wardrobe assistant snaps a picture on her phone and shows me.
My former bathing suit is now small strips of fabric that are barely hanging onto my body.
The sides are completely missing, the straps are thinner, there’s a deep V in the front and in the back.
This is clearly something I would never wear, but I have to admit, she did a good job of making me look like someone you’d see in Ibiza.
Well, in a library in Ibiza. “Um, thanks?” I say, as I push up the glasses and the woman rushes off.
Brett, the EP, who never actually introduced himself to me, walks back over. “That’s better. More geek chic, less Mormon Olympian. Let’s take it from the top.”
Kristina ushers me to my mark, the place where I walked out from a few minutes earlier, while Blue hovers off camera and mouths, You can do this.
It takes all my stubborn resolve to not cover myself up with a towel and cry.
Instead, I picture my mom calling me a beautiful swan and try to mentally siphon some of my brother’s confidence as I take a steadying breath.
I’m starting to understand why they need to ply people with so much alcohol on these shows.
Then Brett yells, “Action!”
I walk back out and head over to the bar as instructed.
This time I somehow manage not to look directly into the camera, swear like a line cook, or break any bones.
The blond swimsuit model who had waved at me bounces over, all smiley, and says, “Ohmigod, I love your bathing suit! Is it custom-made?” She gives me a conspiratorial wink the camera can’t see.
“Yes, I guess it is.”
“I’m Madison.” She holds out a hand.
I shake it. “Grace. Nice to meet you.”
Madison puts her arm around me and guides me over to the rest of the contestants. “Everyone, this is Grace! Doesn’t she look awesome?” I can’t help giving her a curious glance, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
I must be the last one to be introduced because they’re all already acting like old friends. But maybe that’s just how beautiful people interact, like they’re cosmically connected by their DNA or something.
A handsome Asian American guy comes over next and says, “Hey, Grace, I’m TC.
Great to meet you.” He has warm brown eyes that sparkle, and I wonder if it’s a natural twinkle or some sort of enchanting new contacts.
Then he gives me a kind smile and goes for a hug as I awkwardly offer him a handshake.
I want to tell him, I’m not a member of your beautiful people club. We’re not on hugging terms yet.
But before I can establish my boundaries, an energetic guy with shoulder-length, curly brown hair comes over, scoops me up, and spins me around. “Grace!”
“Who are you?” I manage to squeak out from the air.
“Javier, your future boyfriend.” He sets me down and gives me a once-over. “I love your glasses.”
“They’re fake.”
“All the better to see me with,” he says with so much cheesy machismo, I can’t help but laugh.
He gives me two thumbs-ups, and somehow, because he’s so confident and seemingly not afraid to come off as a little goofy, it works for him.
I laugh again, surprising myself. I can’t remember the last time a guy made me laugh.
Then, one by one, all the shampoo commercial models come over and introduce themselves. Their collective beauty is overwhelming, and I now understand why Shantae needs mnemonic devices. Name tags would be helpful, but I can’t imagine they’d stick to oiled-up bodies.
I learn that the brunette with the wavy hair who was whispering about me is Beth Anne, and that if you call her Beth she’ll correct you and say, “it’s Beth Anne.
” She has a Southern accent, which confuses me, because it seems like she should be sweet and hospitable but instead she’s a total nightmare.
She’s said, “Bless your heart,” three times already, and everyone who’s ever visited Georgia knows that really means “Fuck you.”
The shiny cowboy who was laughing with her is Bill, and he’s from Texas. He tells me how much he can bench-press, so needless to say, I have zero interest in ever speaking to him again.
And it turns out that the smiley blond swimsuit model, Madison, is an actual swimsuit model.
The overly touchy but charming Javier is in hospitality, which he self-deprecatingly explains means starving actor who waits tables.
And TC, the handsome guy with twinkling eyes, is a musician, and he’s offered to give me free piano lessons.
I use my own memorization trick that helped me in grad school, but instead of classifying by species and genus, I make a mental chart of what they look like and what they do for a living:
Madison: Smiley Blonde—literally a swimsuit model
Beth Anne: Bitchy Brunette—in marketing or PR (is there a difference?)
TC: Kind Eyes—musician and wedding DJ by night
Javier: Curly Hair—wants to be an actor, currently a very flirty waiter
Bill: Shiny Chest—cowboy who works in Big Oil, obviously
After the introductions, they all make their way back to the pool bar to order liquid lunch.
I think that’s the real reason why they don’t let us have phones: If we can’t check what time it is, it’s always happy hour.
But I need a break from forced small talk for a bit, so I get myself a sparkling water and sit at one of the bistro tables by the pool.
When I look at everyone I’ve just met, I can’t help but think Cassie would have a field day here.
I mean, she’d be too shy to talk to anyone, but she loves her “eye candy.” Her words, not mine. Obviously.
The other contestants aren’t just attractive—they also all exude some sort of magnetic confidence that’s making me a little lightheaded.
Beth Anne is flirting with Texas Bill, and even from across the patio, the sexual tension is so palpable that I almost feel indecent watching them.
It reminds me of the pheromone-driven mating rituals of silk moths.
Beth Anne must be secreting some strong ectohormones.
And then I laugh at myself, because I’m clearly the only one here comparing Beth Anne to a silk moth. As if the cut-up bathing suit isn’t evidence enough, I obviously don’t fit in here. Just like at a Lambert Family Dinner, I feel much more comfortable sitting off to the side, quietly observing.
As I start to spiral, certain that I’m completely unprepared and won’t last a day on this show, I notice someone walk onto the patio. And it just so happens to be the perfect person to take my feelings out on.