Jasmine dictated specific instructions on everything from what to wear to how to speak. She says I need to wear a simple, professional, solid-colored top or dress—no prints, because they look distracting on camera, and no green, because the green screen will turn me into a floating head. I own nothing remotely right, so I’ve borrowed a coral-red shift dress from her closet that I can just barely squeeze into. Jasmine promises the camera will only film me from the waist up. I’ve never mastered the ability to blow-dry my hair, but I do my best attempt at it while running through the sound bites I’ve practiced. Jasmine will do most of the talking on-air, but I can’t be entirely mute. It’s funny, I was never afraid to hurtle myself into the air and perform impossible-looking stunts, but saying a few lines to a camera crew strikes me as terribly intimidating.

I step into my most professional-looking pumps to give myself a confidence boost, pour coffee into a thermos, and drive to NBC’s studio. Jasmine meets me in the lobby. She’s in a bright blue wrap dress with fluttery cap sleeves that show off her toned arms, reminding viewers of her athletic past. She chose these outfits on purpose: red and blue to remind everyone that even if we criticize the American Gymnastics Federation, we’re still wholly in support of Team USA.

“You ready?” she asks as the security guard at the front desk scans my driver’s license and double-checks my name against his computer.

“I barely slept last night,” I admit.

She looks closely at me and scrunches her nose. “The makeup artist can cover up your dark circles—no worries.”

Jasmine leads us to the fourth floor, where the receptionist greets her by name, and then through a maze of hallways until we’re in the greenroom.

“Every guest on the show waits here to go on,” she explains.

The room isn’t actually green—it’s white with gray carpeting, brown furniture, and multiple TVs tuned in to the show. A handful of people sit around in suits and dresses like ours; they have faces that seem vaguely familiar, or maybe it’s just that everyone on TV looks more or less the same: conventionally attractive but airbrushed in an eerily bland way.

A twenty-something producer in a headset comes flying toward us.

“Hiiii, you’re in hair first,” she says to Jasmine, then glances down at her clipboard. “And you, Avery? You’re in makeup.”

“Oh, I actually did both at home,” I say.

Jasmine shakes her head. “Everyone gets touch-ups,” she insists.