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Eden turns away to direct her hangry comments (seriously, the girl never eats) at Paisley, and I slip farther down the hall.
“Who was that?” Marjorie asks on the other end of the phone.
“Shark,” I mutter. “Anyway, did you hear what I said? I’m not coming home.” Not yet.
Marjorie squeals. “You made it to the next round? I knew it. I totally voted for you.”
“Yeah, thanks for that,” I mutter as I open a door, delighted to find what seems to be a supply closet.
I slip inside, although I leave the door cracked a bit so I can hear anyone coming.
Eden’s right, phones are a big no-no here. We were allowed to check in with our family when we arrived, but then we were supposed to put our cellphones (most of which had pink glittery cases) in what seemed to be an iPhone graveyard.
I’ve managed to keep mine hidden so far, although now that I think of it, maybe getting caught with it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Could be my ticket home.
“You were on TV!” Marjorie says, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.
I bite back a sigh, trying not to rain on her parade. It’s her fault I’m here, true, but she’s also my best friend, and she genuinely digs this whole reality TV thing.
Now that she’s got a cute husband and an even cuter baby, she’s living vicariously through me, even as she pretends that it was for the sake of “free publicity” for High Tee.
“I swear, El, the way he was looking at you—”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure I was very beguiling,” I say, waving my hand. “How’d I look? Decent enough to sell a T-shirt or two?”
“So fab. And your evasion about not saying the company name was brilliant. People must have Googled you, because the website saw a huge influx of traffic, and there were a ton of people on the forums wondering where you got your shirt.”
I smile, slightly mollified.
“How’s the fabric on the prototype for the gray shirt coming out?” I ask. I’m worried that if we go too high for the thread count, it’ll look heavy, but if we go too low, it’ll look faded. “I’ll wear the prototype first chance I get, but—”
“I’ve got it, hon,” Marjorie interrupts. “Your only High Tee duty for the next few weeks is to wear the shirt whenever you can, but not too much.”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean, not too much?”
“Well, there’s a pool, right? And a beach? You can’t be wearing a shirt, no matter how fabulous, when all the other girls are in bikinis. Not if you want him to keep you around.”
“But that’s the thing,” I say, nudging a bucket with my flip-flop. “I don’t want to be kept around. This whole thing is beyond weird, Marj. I knew that when I let you talk me into it, but it’s also cutthroat as hell. There are two hours every day devoted to personal grooming, and the producers are always telling you how to act, and their suggestions are insulting to women and all of humanity, and…”
“We knew the girls would be catty and the drama high,” she says gently. “It makes for good TV. But quit holding out on me. Tell me about the guy. Please.”
“I met him for all of two minutes.”
“Two minutes and thirty seconds,” she corrects. “A full thirty seconds longer than anyone else.”
I wince. Me going over my allotted time is part of what’s made life with the other women so rough. Some outright accused me of cheating, while most just settled for dirty glares and whispering behind their hands. Thirty seconds—that’s all it took to turn me into the most hated contestant here.
“I didn’t know I was going over,” I explain, for what feels like the hundredth time. “I don’t know why the producers didn’t cut me off. Or why he didn’t.”
“Because he was captivated by you.”
“The word you’re looking for is surprised,” I say. “Surprised because my tits weren’t hoisted up to my chin like everyone else’s.”
“Well, whatever, it worked. Not only did you not get eliminated, but he opted not to use his veto to save one of them, which lessens the competition by one.” She sounds way too happy about this.
“You know I’m not going to win, right?” I remind her. “There’s not a trophy and bragging rights at the end of this, Marj, there’s a wedding and a husband.”
“But you want those things.”
