Watch Me
Cover
watch me
Also by Lauren Barnholdt
ALSO BY LAUREN BARNHOLDT
Two-way Street
One Night That Changes Everything
Title Page
Copyright Page
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,
real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination,
and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This Simon Pulse paperback edition July 2010
Originally published as Reality Chick in 2006 by Simon Pulse
Copyright © 2006 by Lauren Barnholdt
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks
of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your
live event. For more information or to book an event contact the
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The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond.
Manufactured in the United States of America
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Control Number 2009936158
ISBN 978-1-4424-0255-3
ISBN 978-1-4391-0427-9 (eBook)
Dedication
To my mom, for books, Parcheesi,
and always believing
Contents
Chapter 1: NOW
Chapter 2: THEN
Chapter 3: NOW
Chapter 4: THEN
Chapter 5: NOW
Chapter 6: THEN
Chapter 7: THEN
Chapter 8: NOW
Chapter 9: THEN
Chapter 10: NOW
Chapter 11: THEN
Chapter 12: THEN
Chapter 13: NOW
Chapter 14: THEN
Chapter 15: THEN
Chapter 16: NOW
Chapter 17: THEN
Chapter 18: NOW
Chapter 19: THEN
Chapter 20: NOW
Chapter 21: THEN
Chapter 22: NOW
Chapter 23: THEN
Chapter 24: NOW
Chapter 25: THEN
Chapter 26: NOW
Chapter 27: THEN
Chapter 28: NOW
Chapter 29: THEN
Chapter 30: NOW
Chapter 31: THEN
Chapter 32: THEN
Chapter 33: NOW
Chapter 34: THEN
Chapter 35: NOW
7:00 P.M.
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks so much to my agent, Nadia Cornier, for making things happen so fast, and for loving Ally as much as I do. My editor, Michelle Nagler, for her superb guidance and advice, and for making this book so much better. My sister Kelsey, for reading every word as I wrote it. My sister Krissi, for being there when it happened. My dad, for teaching me about Yankees and March Madness. Kevin Cregg, for taking my word counts. Kiersten Loerzel, for my best high school memories. My grandparents, for everything. Ralph Riccio and Holly Schaff, for letting me steal their wireless internet. Rob Kean, for helping me with writing and life, and always taking my phone calls no matter what time it is. Robyn Schneider, for 9:31, LiveJournal, and everything else you can imagine. And most of all, C. J. Sullivan, for believing I could do it, even when I doubted myself, and for making me the luckiest girl in the world.
NOW
The question people ask me most these days is “If you could do anything differently, what would it be?” This question is designed to accomplish one of two things:
1. To make me break down. The press loves when anyone cries, screams, or loses control in any way. It’s why those videos of celebrities going crazy and attacking the paparazzi are so popular on TMZ. The public eats up scandal, and therefore, so does the press.
2. To get a scoop. Every reporter wants to be the first one to break the story, so they try to ask questions that will get you to talk. Notice how they don’t ask, “Would you have done anything differently?” They avoid “yes or no” questions like Paris Hilton avoids knockoff handbags. Except, of course, when they ask if Corey and I are still talking. In that case, the “yes” or “no” response is enough of a scoop for them.
When you think about it, “What would you have done differently?” is a pretty shitty question to ask. I mean, even if I wanted to do anything differently, I couldn’t, so having to think about it serves no purpose other than to drive me absolutely crazy. Which is why I don’t. Think about it, I mean.
Well, not that much, anyway, because the truth is, I don’t think I would have done anything differently, even if I could. I prefer to subscribe to that whole “everything happens for a reason” theory, mostly because the alternative is just too disturbing to think about. If everything doesn’t happen for a reason, then we’re all pretty much fucked, because each decision we make could be screwing up our lives forever.
No one wants to hear that, though. They all want me to have regrets, to wish I hadn’t done certain things, to be upset about the stuff that happened. It’s weird thinking people I don’t even know are so interested in my life that they want to know who I’m dating or what I’m up to. It’s also weird to think that a lot of these same people would love nothing more than to see me miserable about what happened during my time on the show.
The truth is, none of those people really know what went on these past three and a half months. I’m not sure I even understand it all. The only thing I know for certain is that three months ago I was a completely different person. Which seems kind of crazy—that everything can change in such a short amount of time. But maybe that’s what life is, really—just a bunch of small things that add up to one big thing. And even though sometimes you can’t see it coming, you have no choice but to let it happen.
THEN
I’m the last person you’d expect to be out of bed when I don’t have to be. My theory is that it’s impossible to function properly without enough sleep, therefore getting up early is actually wasting your day being less than productive. So to find me waiting in line at eight in the morning for In the House auditions proves just how bad I want to be on the show. I know, I know, it’s kind of corny to want to be on a reality TV show, but this is In the House. The king of reality TV. The show that launched Tansy McDonald’s broadcasting career. She’s the one that was on In the House: Tampa Bay. The blonde with the big chest? Now she does the TV Guide updates on its preview channel. Or used to.
“This is ridiculous, Ally,” my friend Grant says, stomping his Timberland sandals on the sidewalk. “We’re here an hour early and there’s, like, fifty people in front of us.” He shades his eyes from the sun and rises up on his toes, surveying the line in front of us.
“The lines for these things always move fast,” I assure him, looking at the people around us and trying to get a sense of the competition.
“How do you know?”
“I read it somewhere,” I lie. Grant is one of those people who gets super impatient and cranky. If he thinks we’re going to be here for a while, he might decide to take off, and I really don’t want to wait by myself. I’m not the best at doing things alone—I always have to have someone with me. Like when I got my license, I had to take my brother Brian with me. And when my wisdom teeth came out, I made my boyfriend Corey skip his basketball practice and stay in the waiting room, even though the dental hygienist, Brandi, assured me that I would be okay to drive home on my own. Like I was really going to—everyone knows girls whose names end in “i” can’t be trusted. Last year, for example, Kristi McConnell was always trying to get in my boyfriend’s pants—she went by “Kristina” right up until the seventh grade, when she became “Kristi with an i” and lost all sexual integrity, i.e., the ability to stay away from other people’s boyfriends.
“It’s fucking hot,” Grant says, taking a swig from the water bottle he’s holding. “I thought Syracuse was supposed to be the snow capital of the world or some shit.”
“Not in the summer, dork,” I say, hitting him playfully on the arm and trying to distract him from his crankiness. “And it’s not that hot out. Come on, this is going to be fun. Me, you, having an adventure . . . I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.” I link my arm through his and give him my most winning smile.
“Ally, you couldn’t be here with anyone else.” Grant says, and disentangles his arm from mine.
“That’s not completely true,” I tell him. “I could have come with Alicia Billings.” This year In the House is doing a special season, called In the House: Freshman Year. They’re filming the show at Syracuse College, so in order to even try out for the show, you have to be a member of their incoming freshman class. Rumor has it that the only reason SC allowed In the House to be filmed on its campus was because when MTV’s College Life took place at The University of Wisconsin, their applications and donations, like, tripled.
Anyway, Grant, Alicia Billings, and I are the only three people from our graduating class who are headed to Syracuse in the fall, and seeing as how I’ve never said a word to Alicia Billings and Grant and I are very good friends, it made more sense to come with him. Not to mention the fact that I don’t think Alicia Billings has a car and we live in Rochester, which is about an hour and a half away from where the audition’s taking place, at this bar in Syracuse called Dougie’s.
Grant rolls his eyes and swats at a bee that’s swarming around his head. “Fucking bees are here too?”
“Ohmigod, Grant, that guy behind us is totally checking you out,” I say, grabbing his arm and tilting my head toward the blond cutie waiting in line behind us.
“Really?” he says, showing interest for the first time since we’ve been here.
“Totally,” I lie for the second time in as many minutes. Grant is gay, and obsessed with any guy who shows the slightest interest in him. Actually, if you ask Grant, he’ll tell you he’s bi, but I’ve never seen him even look at a girl.
The line starts shuffling forward at a little after nine o’clock. Grant and I are in the second round of kids, and at about nine thirty, we’re led into the bar where we’re seated at tables of four. A casting assistant with pink hair places a box of pencils and four pieces of white paper down on our table.
“Fill these out,” she instructs shortly, turns on her heel, and is gone.
“She was pleasant,” Grant says, rolling his eyes again and grabbing a pencil.
“Hey, Grant,” I say, jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow. “We’re in a bar. Haha.” He looks at me like I’m nutso. I try again. “Get it? We’re not twenty-one. And we’re in a bar. Fun, eh?”
He looks away and wordlessly starts to fill out his application. Geez. Talk about not wanting to have fun. I hope he knows he’s really going to have a hard time making new college friends with that attitude.
I pick up my pencil and start to fill out my application, making sure every word is neat and precise. I read somewhere that presentation totally counts when it comes to applications. I think they were talking about job applications, but still.
Name: Ally Cavanaugh
Age: 18
Hometown: Rochester, NY
Hair Color: Dirty blond
Eye Color: Green
Height: Five feet, five and a half inches
Weight: Riiiiiggghhht. I’m not fat and I’m
not skinny.
Why do you want to be on In the House?:
Hmmm. What to write, what to write. Somehow “because I think it will be fun and I wouldn’t mind being on TV to distract me from the fact that my boyfriend is going to school two thousand miles away” doesn’t seem like the best answer. I mean, it’s the answer that’s true, but definitely not the one that’s going to get me on the show.
I try to get a glimpse of what the girl next to me is writing. I see the words “enriching experience” before she catches me looking and covers her paper with her arm, a là third grade.
Enriching experience, my ass. Has she ever even seen the show? Last year everyone was naked in the hot tub with two of the girls kissing each other. And that was just the first episode. Not that I plan on kissing anyone—girl or otherwise—in a hot tub. Or anywhere, for that matter. I have a boyfriend.
I’m deciding to skip the “why do you want to be on the show” question for now when a bald man wearing a black polo shirt with the In the House logo on the pocket walks up to our table.
“Hi, guys,” he says cheerfully. “I’m Al. Just wanted to welcome you to the In the House casting call and see if anyone has any questions.”
We all look at him blankly. How can we possibly have any questions? We just got here. Suddenly I have a thought. Maybe this is a test. You know, to see who among us has the personality they’re looking for. Isn’t that what they always say about In the House? That they’re looking for the right mix of personalities? That the cast members don’t necessarily have to be the best-looking people (even though it seems every cast looks like a modeling lineup for Fashion Week), they just have to be themselves.
“I have a question,” I say to Al boldly.
“Yes?” he says.
“Who do I have to sleep with to get Colin’s phone number?” I ask. I toss my hair over my shoulder flirtatiously. He looks at me blankly. “You know, Colin? From In the House Los Angeles?”
“Right,” he says, clearly not amused. He walks away. Hmm. This is going to be harder than I thought.
Once the applications are filled out, we’re herded into a group interview with a casting director. Thankfully, it’s not the same one I made the sexual comment to. I look at it as a fresh start.
“Well,” the new director says, looking over our applications. “Let me start by introducing myself. My name is Mike Marino, and I’m the head casting director, as well as executive producer of In the House.” Wow. These people don’t fuck around. When they want a job done, they send the head honchos. Mike takes another glance at our applications and then attaches them to the clipboard he’s holding. That’s it for our applications? So much for agonizing over what to write. “The reason you’re put in groups like this is so we can get an idea of how you interact with other people. Interaction with others is, as you know, the most important aspect of being a cast member. Now before we get started, are there any questions?”
This time, I keep my mouth shut. Apparently sexual quips aren’t the way to score a spot on the show.
“Actually, Mike, I have more of a comment than a question,” the Asian girl in our group says. Fool. “Here.” She thrusts a manila folder at him. “This is my headshot and resume.” Headshot and resume? What is she, looking for a spot on The Apprentice? The ad for the casting call didn’t say anything about needing a picture or a resume. I don’t have a resume. And the only picture I have with me is a copy of my senior picture that’s been in my wallet since before graduation. I was supposed to give it to Lindsay Abrusia, but I never got around to it. On the back, it says, “Hey Linds! It was great getting to know you this year! Have a great summer and good luck at UMass! Keep in touch, Love ya lots, Ally.”
“Sure,” Mike says, pushing the folder into his gray messenger bag without looking at it. You can tell the Asian girl’s pissed, but she tries not to show it.
“So,” Mike continues, “why doesn’t everyone introduce themselves, and tell us something about yourself.” He scans the clipboard in front of him. “Tell us your name, where you’re from, and your most embarrassing moment.” Most embarrassing moment? That’s his idea of telling something about ourselves? When you meet new people, don’t you usually tell them your name, where you’re from, and maybe a hobby or two? Definitely not something as personal as your most embarrassing moment.
“I’ll go first!” the Asian girl announces, and everyone else breathes a sigh of relief. She adjusts her black button-up shirt, smoothes her hair, and smiles. I look around, thinking maybe they’re filming us already, but there’s no camera in sight. “My name is Jill Bliss,” she says, “I’m eighteen years old, and I came all the way from Scranton, Pennsylvania, for a chance to be on In the House!” By the end of her declaration, she’s almost screeching. I have this crazy vision of her in a tiara and sash. “My name is Jill Bliss, Miss Pennsylvania!”
Everyone in the group stares at her blankly. “And your most embarrassing moment?” Mike prompts.
“Well,” Jill ponders, pulling a strand of her hair like it’s the most important question she’s ever been asked. “I guess it would have to be last year, at my sister’s bachelorette party.” She looks around, making sure she has our attention. “You see, in the Korean culture, we tend to be very reserved.” Grant and I catch each other’s eye across the table, and I can tell we’re both thinking about Amy Lee, a Korean sophomore at our school who got in trouble for giving Mike Hern a blow job in the auditorium during study hall. Her defense was that in her culture, women were expected to please their men, and when Mike wanted a blow job, she had to give it to him. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“So my sister has a male stripper come, of course,” Jill says. “And after he gets down to his G-string, he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder!” She looks at us expectantly. “It was completely humiliating! A Korean girl is really more affected by things like that. Korean women are very conservative and reserved. Which is why I think a lot of girls in my high school treat me differently.”
“How so?” Mike asks her, and to my surprise, he looks intrigued. Doesn’t anyone else think her most embarrassing moment was totally lame?
“Well,” Jill says slowly. “It’s like people have a stereotype about you if you’re Asian. They think you’re subservient to men, and that you’re very conservative, and so that’s the way they treat you. They don’t expect you to stand up for yourself or know what you’re talking about. I’m hoping that people at college will be a little more open-minded.” Does this girl have a screw loose? Didn’t she just say she was conservative and reserved?
“Maybe,” I say, before I can stop myself, “people treat you differently because you make such a big deal about the fact that you’re Korean.”
She looks at me like I’m a piece of gum on her shoe. “I’m sorry?” she asks sweetly, but it’s one of those sweet voices that you know isn’t good, like when your mom says, “Oh, sweetheart, be a dear and help your old mother by cleaning out the entire garage.”
Shit. I clear my throat. “I just think that maybe you bring up the fact that you’re Korean, which forces people to notice it about you. I mean, I would never have even thought about the fact that you’re Asian if you hadn’t mentioned it. But when you bring it up and start talking about it constantly, it forces people to focus on it.”
She glares at me. Lovely.
Casting interview, an evaluation:
Number of sexual remarks made that have fallen ridiculously short of their goal: one.
Number of people I’ve pissed off with my big mouth: one.
Chances of getting on the show: slim to none.
Yup, right on track.
“And you are . . . ?” Mike asks, turning his chair toward mine.
“Oh, um, I’m Ally. Ally Cavanaugh.”
“And Ally, why don’t you tell us your most embarrassing moment?” Great. Now thanks to my big mouth, I have to go next. I don’t want to go next. In fact, I don’t really want to go at all.
“Well,” I say slowly, debating whether I should tell them my real most embarrassing moment, which I’ve never told anyone, or my fake most embarrassing moment, which I haven’t made up yet. Then I realize that anything I make up is most likely going to be as lame as a stripper throwing you over his shoulder at a bachelorette party, and since I just told off Ms. Conservative, I have to top her. So I go for the truth.
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