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An air horn sounded.
“Time’s up,” Waylen called. “Everyone back to your stations.”
My arms were stretched around a hodgepodge of I didn’t even know what. I hurried back to my station and carefully set my bounty onto my table. My gaze drifted over a Richard Simmons chia pet, some crumpled paper, and a bunch of other random items I didn’t remember picking up.
My heart was racing, and this time not with fear, but excitement.
“Now you have twenty minutes to show the world who you are.” Waylen waved his hands in a rainbow motion. “Using the materials you gathered, create an artistic expression that tells us all about you.”
From the station behind me, Chester said, “Excuse me, can we—”
Ignoring him completely, Waylen hollered, “Go!”
Finger shaking, stomach fluttering, I looked over my mess.
How was I supposed to represent myself with this? I had no idea what I was doing, but I snatched the hot glue gun from its holster on the side of my station and got to work.
NINETEEN
TRISTAN
File after file began to blend into a singular, jumbled mess. My eyes burned from staring at the screen for so long. I rubbed my hands down my face, deflated, and decided it was time to call it a day.
My eyes needed a break from the numbers and tables. My brain needed a break from the pressure I was putting on myself to figure everything out.
Taking my flash drive with me, I left my computer station and walked back to the hotel.
Once I was in our room, I turned on the television and clicked through the stations. Each dreary news program looked the same as the next. I needed the opposite of a think piece. I needed brain-dead entertainment.
Bright colors and excited voices filled the screen. My thumb hovered over the button to change the channel again, when I spotted a possibly familiar face. No. It couldn’t be. I paused my action, and walked closer to the television.
Her frazzled russet hair stuck out of her braids. Her cheeks were red with exertion. She lifted her arm up over her head, then slammed it down onto the table in front of her. It was undoubtedly Morgan whacking a ceramic chia pet with a hammer, her golden brown eyes sparkling with perverse delight.
My chest felt lighter just from seeing her.
The camera switched to another person, and I glared at the screen. It was a man with bright orange hair, who seemed in no rush as he slowly painted a piece of cardboard to match the dye he used on his head. Morgan was far more interesting to watch. She was animated. She was captivating. She was far more deserving of the camera’s attention.
This was Morgan’s first day of filming. Usually these shows ran their course before airing, didn’t they? Why was she already on the television?
The program switched focus to a man with an unnatural skin tone and blindingly white eyes and teeth. I recognized him. His name was Waylen Archer.How did I know his name but not my own?
Waylen said, “Stay tuned for moreWhat the What?, the only reality competition filmed live.”
Live television had become a reckless endeavor in recent years. It opened up the network to lawsuits and fines for indecent behavior.
Wait. How did I know that? I wasn’t sure.
This wasn’t proving to be the mind-numbing distraction I’d hoped for. But I took a seat on the bed and waited.
After a slew of pharmaceutical and insurance commercials, the show came back on.
There were a few normally-dressed people, but at least half of the contestants were wearing costumes. The camera loved a particularly visually offensive woman who’d painted herself in blinding metallic paint. On the bottom of the screen popped up a little flag that labeled herGlitter Galore.
“Understatement of the year,” I told the television. Had this unfortunate woman chosen this presentation for herself, or was this part of the programming? I wasn’t sure which was worse.
A soft trilling sound pulled my attention from the television to the edge of the mattress. Miso, free of her cage, sat there staring at me with her beady black eyes, her rounded ears pert.
“You little escape artist,” I said.
