"When's the vote?"
"December tenth. Two weeks after Thanksgiving." Emily sits down across from me. "Which means you have exactly two and a half weeks to prove that you're worth the risk Victor is taking on you."
The pressure settles on my chest like a weight.
"No pressure, then."
"Harper, I like you. You're talented. You're going to be great on camera. But if you care about Victor's career, you need to think strategically about how this Thanksgiving episode is perceived." Emily's expression softens. "Make it so good they can't use it against him. Make it undeniable that you deserve to be here."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my bag.
I pull it out, expecting Victor.
It's my roommate Sienna.
SIENNA: Harper where are you??? Rent was due Friday. Al is PISSED. He's threatening eviction if we don't pay by end of day.
My heart stops.
Rent. I forgot about rent.
I was too busy moving out of my old Brooklyn apartment and into Manhattan, too busy kissing my boss boyfriend to remember the little things, like my expenses and life.
SIENNA: Also there's like 6 certified letters here for you. Medical bills? Collection notices? What's going on???
I stare at my phone, and everything Emily just said fades into white noise.
Because in all that kissing and moving out of Brooklyn, I forgot that I’m not just a liability to Victor's career.
I'm also a woman who’s broke, behind on rent while I play “House” with my boyfriend, and drowning in my father's medical bills that I have no way to pay now that I told Vanessa Chu to shove her offer up her you-know-what.
"Harper?" Emily's voice sounds distant. "You okay?"
"I—yeah. Sorry. Just—" I stand up, shoving my phone back in my bag. "I need to make a call. Can we—can we finish this later?"
"Sure. But Harper?—"
"I know. Make the Thanksgiving episode perfect. Don't be a distraction. Got it."
I leave before she can say anything else.
By lunchtime, I've locked myself in a single-stall bathroom on the third floor and I'm having what might generously be called a breakdown.
I've been on the phone with Sienna, with my landlord, with the medical billing department at my father's hospital.
The numbers are bad.
Worse than bad.
I'm three thousand dollars behind on rent. My share of utilities is overdue. And the medical bills—the ones I've been putting off, the ones I thought Vanessa's money would cover—total just over eighteen thousand dollars.
Eighteen. Thousand. Dollars.
I make seventy-five thousand a year at StreamEats. Before taxes.
The math doesn't work. It doesn't even come close to working—a reality that pricks on the surface of my skin, just as there’s a knock on the bathroom door.
"Occupied!" I call.
