“Oh my God!” Stacy says. “I knew I recognized you!”
“I’ve done lots of things,” Addison says quickly. “I’m going down—”
“‘He got me a FitBike. It’s all I’ve ever wanted,’” Stacy says in a robotic voice, quoting the now-infamous FitBike commercial that released last Christmas. In it, a woman receives a FitBike for Christmas, and with a glazed-over expression, she drones on about how all she’s ever wanted is a FitBike. Pretty soon #RobotWife was trending and the internet had its holiday-season meme.
“I’ve also been on CSI: New Orleans before, and I did a few Target swimwear campaigns, so that dumb commercial is, like, the bottom of my résumé, just for your information.” And with that, Addison turns on her stiletto heel and stomps off down the hallway.
The three of us are quiet for a second after the door closes before bursting with laughter.
“In my professional opinion,” Sara Claire says, “she should embrace her meme status. Fame like that rarely strikes twice.”
“Right!” Stacy agrees.
I kneel down in front of my suitcase to unzip it. “Honestly, that GIF of her creepy robot smile was one of my favorite reaction GIFs last year. Too bad she’s so snotty.”
Stacy plops down on my bed. “Ho-ly…is that your shoe collection?” She reaches in for a pointed powder-blue satin Stuart Weitzman stiletto with a crystal brooch. A total dupe of the shoe my mom wore on her wedding day, which was actually from Payless.
“I guess you could say I have a thing for shoes?”
“I thought I was obsessed,” Stacy says as she turns the shoe over. “We wear the same size!”
I smile. This is what I love about shoes. I love that I could potentially be wearing the same size as this gazelle-like goddess sitting before me. There may not be much we can bond over in the clothing department, but shoes are an exception. In middle school and high school, I would spend hours shopping with friends, and I’d always end up browsing the accessories and shoes, because there was no chance any of those stores carried my clothing size. But shoes? I could make shoes from just about anywhere work. Shoes aren’t perfect. A lot of brands don’t carry wide widths or go above a size ten, but for me, they’ve always been comforting.
“They might be a little stretched out, because my foot is on the wide side, but you’re welcome to borrow any pair you want,” I tell her. “As long as you can help me make my eye makeup half as gorgeous as yours.”
“Deal,” she says.
There’s an abrupt knock on the door, and Mallory, with thick, wavy hair bunched into two pigtails, sticks her head in the room.
“Hey there, Mallory,” says Sara Claire.
“Ladies, we need everyone ready for introductions in an hour and a half.”
“Introductions?” I ask.
“To the suitor,” Mallory calls as she shuts the door behind her.
I look to Sara Claire and then Stacy. “Is this really happening?”
“You bet your tush it is,” Sara Claire shouts as she jumps up onto her bed and begins to use it as a trampoline. “Y’all ready to meet my future husband or what?”
Stacy smiles slowly, like a cat. “Let the games begin.”
Stacy was kind enough to do my makeup, which I appreciate, because that’s one thing I’ve never gotten into. Give me a tinted moisturizer and I’m good. However, I did come here with a clear vision of what I would wear to the first ball, and tonight is all about the shoes.
My shoes, Cindy originals from sophomore year, are a pair of strappy turquoise heels with matching feathers shooting up from the ankle strap and curving around the back of my ankle. It took me weeks to find the perfect feather and days to figure out the best way to attach each feather, but when the design finally matched the vision I’d dreamed up on my tablet, I wanted to strut around in these babies everywhere. They’re my ultimate confidence-boosting shoes, and tonight, I’m going to need every bit of confidence I can get.
For my dress, I’m in a Sierra original, an ivory midi gown she made last fall that hugs me all the way down to my mid-calves and has a high slit up the back. It doesn’t hide an inch and definitely makes it very clear what I’m working with. I figure if this guy is going to give me the boot on the first night, it’s probably because of my size, and if that’s the case, the sooner the better. The neckline is a deep square cut that gives me what Sierra always refers to as bar-wench cleavage, and the sleeves are a sheer mesh. The whole look is more “woman with an agenda” than “pageant contestant.”
“Whoa,” Stacy says as she zips me up, both of our reflections beaming back at us in the mirror. “This is like bombshell chic.”
Stacy wears a mustard-yellow silk gown with a high neck and deep V-cut back. It’s the exact right amount of sexy. And Sara Claire stuns in a jewel-encrusted hot-pink strapless gown with a sweetheart neckline.
“We’re hot and we’re ready for this dang ball!” Sara Claire says as she swings the door open.
The ball is another Before Midnight franchise staple. It’s basically a cocktail party held on the first night and then again before every elimination. On television, it appears to be elegant, with champagne fountains and ice sculptures. It’s also every contestant’s last chance to catch the suitor’s attention.
We step out into the hallway, and as we’re following the herd of women down the stairs, I think to ask, “Where’s Addison?”
A woman with a narrow nose that just barely lifts at its point says, “Oh, the producers came and got her and a few other girls to have their hair and makeup done by the crew.”
“What? I thought that was only for one-on-one dates,” someone else says.
The woman shrugs. “I guess the producers are already playing favorites.”
Sara Claire nudges me. “They’re just trying to get in our heads.”
“Who is?” I ask.
“The producers,” she says simply.
And it’s then that I’m reminded of the fact that no one here knows just how closely I’m tied to the brains behind this machine.
“The crazier we are, the more entertaining we are, and the more entertaining we are, the higher the ratings,” Sara Claire says as we walk out the front door and board golf carts that look like tiny minivans that take us past the front gates to where lines of tents are set up with rows of chairs.
I know everything she’s saying to be true in a theoretical way. I’ve heard Erica say countless things just like this on phone calls, but seeing the reality of it is…unsettling. It’s a side of Erica and her job that I knew existed but never thought I’d have to interact with.
“Ladies!” Beck says through a bullhorn. “Your seats are labeled. This is the order you will be going in. You’ll get in the white Rolls-Royce, and yes, she is our baby. A 1950 original. The car will take you through the gates, you’ll meet the suitor, and then head into the house, where the bar will be open to you. When we’re done filming out front, the suitor will come and mingle out in the courtyard. This is your time to get to know him before this evening’s elimination ceremony. Reminder: Some of you will be going home before lights-out tonight.”