"Hey," I whisper, the words barely escaping my lips before I remember the microphone pinned to my collar is still hot, still broadcasting every shaky breath to the entire studio. "Can you stop calling me Andy? It's really throwing me off... I hate it."
The confession hangs in the air between us. I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird desperate to escape. My eyes dart around the room, taking in the frozen expressions of the crew members, the way Gary's face has turned an interesting shade of purple, the way Vince's practiced smile has finally, completely vanished.
In this moment, I'm painfully aware of how much I've just revealed—not just about a stupid nickname, but about the fragile shell I've built around myself here in Los Angeles, a shell that's now cracking under the pressure of studio lights and my own desperate need to be seen.
Vince doesn't even look at me when he responds. "Thanks, Andy, we get it. I appreciate the feedback."
"It's Andrew, Vince." I grit out, my jaw tight. I sit up straighter, glaring at him from the corner of my eye. I dare him, just once more, to say it again.
Then it happens. The tension in the room shifts, and Vince turns to me fully. The smile that spreads across his face isn't the camera-ready, practiced one he's been flashing at everyone. It's real. It's a grin that reaches his light brown eyes, crinkling the corners, and it's aimed directly at me. As if, in this moment ofcameras rolling and crew watching, we're the only two people who exist in this entire studio.
Vince sees me. Actually sees me. Not as a prop or a secondary character, but as a person. And somehow, in this bizarre power play of nicknames and defiance, I've won.
His gaze shifts back to the camera, his fingers tracing his jawline thoughtfully. "Toy Story was always a favorite for the kids—Andy being the little boy's name, right? The boy who owns the toys that come to life?" Vince flashes his trademark smile again, the moment of authenticity vanished as quickly as it appeared. "My youngest, Tina, always had a special place in her heart for Bo Peep. Had her own little Bo Peep doll and everything."
My mind empties out, the synaptic connections that usually fire at lightning speed suddenly fizzling like wet fireworks. "I'm sorry, what?" The words stumble out of my mouth, clumsy and graceless, the sound of my own voice foreign to my ears.
A few chuckles ripple through the studio, like stones skipping across a pond. I can feel the vibrations in the floor, in the chair, in my very bones. But no one stops Vince. No one seems to find this strange at all. They just watch, their faces illuminated by the harsh studio lights, their expressions a mixture of amusement and indifference. It's as if I've stumbled into a performance where everyone knows the script but me, where the punchlines are delivered in a language I've never learned.
"Bo Peep. You know, the one with the gorgeous blonde hair always tucked under that little bonnet? Big, round, baby blue eyes that could stop you in your tracks. Carries that shepherd's crook around everywhere she goes." Vince's eyes light up, a sudden flash of inspiration that sends a jolt of dread straight through me. "Hey actually, take a look at this... Andy here is a dead ringer for Bo Peep." His voice carries across the studio, sharp and clear, each word a tiny needle pricking at my skin."Can we get the title to read 'Bo Peep' when panning to Andy? Look at this, Todd, zoom into his face real quick."
My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat a frantic plea for this to end. The camera lens suddenly feels like a giant eye, staring into my soul, exposing every insecurity I've tried so hard to hide. I can feel the blood rushing to my face. My fingers tighten around the script, the paper crinkling under the pressure of my grip. Vince's words hang in the air between us, a cloud of humiliation that I can't seem to breathe through.
Vince leans across our table, his expensive shirt rustling against the wooden surface as he motions to the cameraman. My face, frozen in confusion, is suddenly magnified on a nearby monitor as Todd zooms in. I can see the title card appear beneath my image: "BO PEEP." The crew erupts in laughter, and I feel my face flush with heat.
My jaw locks tight, teeth grinding against each other as I stare into the black abyss of the camera lens. The glass eye stares back, unblinking, capturing every micro-expression of humiliation that flashes across my face. My thoughts race, a frantic scramble for some semblance of control in this situation that's spiraling completely out of my hands.
How am I supposed to play this off? The question ricochets around my skull like a pinball machine gone haywire. Is this actually funny? I search the faces of the crew members, their expressions a mixture of amusement and indifference that tells me everything I need to know.
I haven't done anything except sit here, following Gary's instructions like a good little boy, trying desperately to blend into this world of practiced indifference and invisible games.
This feels... demeaning. The word forms in my mind, sharp and painful. It's more than just embarrassment—it's a stripping away of my dignity, piece by painful piece, all for theentertainment of people who see me as nothing more than a prop in someone else's show.
I do the only thing I know how to do. I retreat to the script, reading my lines as if Vince's little stunt never happened. Stick to the script. That's what Gary said. That's all I have to do.
I manage to keep things on track for a few minutes, my voice steady as I read my lines, but I can feel Vince's eyes on me like laser beams burning through the side of my skull. His gaze is intense, calculating, and I know with a certainty that settles deep in my bones that he's just waiting for the perfect moment to strike again. It's a predator's patience.
The script becomes my lifeline, my shield against whatever verbal assault Vince has planned. My eyes scan the words, but they're just black squiggles on white paper, meaningless against the backdrop of my racing thoughts. I can hear my own voice, but it sounds distant, disconnected, as if it belongs to someone else entirely. Sweat beads on my forehead, each droplet a tiny bead of liquid anxiety trickling down my temples.
And then it happens. The moment I've been dreading since he first compared me to a cartoon shepherdess. Vince leans in closer, his expensive shirt rustling against the wooden table, the scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive—invading my personal space.
"You know," he says, his voice low and intimate, a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries across the entire studio, "I bet you're really good at herding sheep, Andy." The name lands like a punch to the gut again.
"Fact of the matter is, one of our contestants, Marshall, is recovering from a knee injury and still decided to be part of today's games." I say, looking back at the papers in my hands, my voice barely steady. "He's really risking everything in hopes of winning this cash, Vince. Actually, before—"
"Relevant question," Vince cuts in, his voice smooth as silk. "Do you write Andy on the bottom of all your shoes?"
I freeze, my eyes locked dead-on with the camera lens. The script trembles slightly in my grip against the wooden desk. I can feel Vince's amused stare burning into the side of my face, but I refuse to turn toward him.
Of course I've seen Toy Story. I know exactly what he's talking about, but I didn't drag my ass across town in these suffocating dress shoes to be publicly ridiculed for an hour.
Vince pivots back to face the camera and crew, whose eyes remain glued to us. He possesses this bizarre ability to be utterly ridiculous while maintaining an air of professionalism, as if he's the most competent man in the room. I've never encountered anyone quite like him.
Is this his "character"? Is he just "on" right now? What kind of character is this supposed to be? Who is Vince, really? Who is the man who offered me that genuine smile earlier? The one that actually reached his eyes, that made me feel seen for a split second before he retreated behind that camera-ready mask?
My brain struggles to keep up with the rapid-fire humor this show seems to demand. It's like trying to catch rain in a thimble—each joke lands before I can even process the last one, leaving me drenched in confusion and inadequacy. I'm completely out of my depth here, uncertain if I'm succeeding or failing miserably.
The script in my hands might as well be written in hieroglyphics for all the good it's doing me.
