“A little,” I say, trying not to sound like a bitch. “I’m really glad for my time on the show, but it’s time to move on, you know?” This answer has been carefully rehearsed so that I come across as thankful and nostalgic about my time on the show, but not like I’m so screwed up that I can’t imagine life without the cameras. The truth is, I’m really glad I don’t have to suffer through another one of these. At first, I thought it would be really cool to have a chance to tell America my side of the story. But it’s the same questions over and over, and really, no one wants to hear my story. Their minds are pretty much already made up.

The reporter smiles and tucks a stray strand of her blond hair behind her ear. She looks really young, probably just out of college. “So, the show’s been over for two weeks,” she says. “Has it been hard adjusting to not being around cameras anymore?”

“Well,” I say, trying to look like I’m contemplating, even though I’ve been asked this question a million times. “It’s been nice to be at home. And definitely nice not to have the cameras following me around. But as for adjusting, I don’t know. Ask me next semester, when I’m back at school without them.”

She writes something down and consults the sheet in front of her. “So while you were on the show you decided that you wanted to major in photography, even though your family didn’t necessarily support that decision.” She makes it sound like my family was about to disown me, which isn’t exactly how it happened, but whatever. I’m used to the details of my life being exaggerated, so I just nod. “You ended up applying for the photography program. Any word on that?”

“Not yet,” I say, crossing my fingers under the table, “but I’m really excited to hear. Hopefully in a couple of weeks. I have some photos under consideration at a few magazines, too, so . . . something may come of that, which would be really great.” I give her a smile. She smiles back.

“What would you change about your time on the show?” the reporter asks, and I smile at the inevitability of the question.

“Nothing,” I tell her. “I really think everything happens for a reason. And I think everything that happened here these past few months was for the best.” She writes something else on her pad, and I try to glance at what she’s writing without her seeing. She seems cool, but I could be wrong. I mean, she could basically write whatever she wants, so the trick is to be open and approachable, but not to seem like you’re trying too hard.