The Next Big Thing (7 page)

“My relationship with Nick isn’t based on
looks.
Our love is stronger than that.”

“Oh, please! If it’s not based on looks then why don’t you send him an accurate picture of yourself?”

“Whatever.” I stood up from the table. “You’re just jealous.”

“Oh yeah, I’m
so
jealous,” Donna said sarcastically. “I just can’t stand that you have an Internet boyfriend who lives twenty thousand miles away. Grow up, Kat. I’m not jealous of your loser.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Donna had never spoken to me this way before. “Last week you were telling me what a catch he was. Now he’s a loser?”

“Get over yourself, Kat, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

My jaw dropped. I didn’t want to dignify her statement with an answer. “I’ll see you when I get back from
California,” I said, stalking out of the room. Nick’s surprise would have to wait with my landlord until I got back on Monday. There was no way I’d ask Donna to pick it up.

“Oh, and one more thing,” I said indignantly, sticking my head back in through the door. “Learn a little something about geography.
Great Britain is
four
thousand miles from here, not twenty.”

Donna kept right on eating her lunch. She didn’t even bother to glance up.

I tried not to let it get me down, though. After all, on Friday night I’d be hopping a plane to Los Angeles!

Chapter Seven

I spent the plane ride from Memphis to Los Angeles fighting off airsickness—I’ve only flown twice in my life—and stressing out over where to find a taxi once we landed. My limited knowledge of the West Coast, which came mostly from magazines, movies, and TV shows, did not serve me well. I didn’t sit next to Steven Spielberg on the plane, there was no limo driver awaiting my arrival, and I didn’t run into Tom Cruise at baggage claim. I had expected glitz and glamour, celebrity sightings, and movie-star mansions. What I got were crowded freeways and garbage-lined streets. To be fair about it, I didn’t see much of the city.

From the time I arrived at LAX and right up until I departed, I was kept under virtual lock and key at the Brentwood Bel-Air Holiday Inn. There was nothing elaborate or fancy about the hotel—a tall, white cylindrical building located off the freeway, but I liked it. It sat cramped onto a small lot of land between a funky art-deco apartment complex and the
Getty Center Museum, and you could see it for miles.

I got to the hotel from the airport in a Yellow Cab, paid for with a taxi voucher provided by
From Fat to Fabulous.
As it turned out, it was easy to find a cab. All I had to do was follow signs that read TAXI.

I bypassed the front desk and checked in at the hospitality suite on the sixteenth floor, as it instructed in the packet Zaidee sent. My room reservation was under the show’s name, and I needed to retrieve my key from a member of the production staff. By the time the elevator had reached the sixteenth floor, I was a ball of nerves, clutching my stomach and trying to keep my knees from buckling underneath me. My body doesn’t respond well to stress—I shake, I sweat, I stammer, my stomach flips. I don’t know if it’s genetics, or if it’s the by-product of growing up in a worrisome household. Either way, I blame my mother.

“For God’s sake, pull yourself together, Kat,” I lectured myself. “You’ve made it this far. What could possibly go wrong?”

When the elevator reached the sixteenth floor, the doors parted to reveal a metallic easel with a sign that read FAT2FAB AUDITIONS in bold pink letters. A door to one of the rooms popped open and a heavyset black girl carrying a duffel bag made her way toward the elevator. Yep, I was in the right place. I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

A short, stocky man appeared at my shoulder. “You here for the auditions?”

I looked at him. I wanted to say, “No, I’m a 227-pound girl who just happened to wander up here with an armload of luggage.”

Diplomatically, I settled on, “Yes, I am.”

“You can set your bags down here.” He gestured to a spot near the door where a pile was already forming. “Check-in’s over at that desk. They’ll give you your room assignment.”

I dropped my luggage and headed over to the desk. Directly beside it was a large buffet table, loaded down with platters of cookies, bagels, and tiny sandwiches. Clearly they wanted to make sure we were good and fat before we went on TV.

The girl in front of me stepped aside to fill out some paperwork. The whole scene reminded me of college orientation, everyone milling around nervously, waiting to get their class schedules and dorm assignments.

“Next please!” called a pixie-haired blonde. I moved up to the desk. “Hi, I’m Kat-”

“Give me your driver’s license,” she cut me off.

Startled, I fished in my purse for my wallet. She stared at me impatiently as I struggled to find it. I glanced behind me. There was no one else waiting to be served. I located my license and handed it over.

“I’ve gotta photocopy this,” she said, jumping up and going over to a small Xerox machine sitting on top of a table. She returned a minute later and passed back my driver’s license, along with a room keycard and a stack of paperwork the size of a textbook. “Sign and date this here, here, and here,” she said, flipping the document open and singling out several pages. “When you’re done, go through and initial the bottom of each page. Go get settled in your room and then bring the forms back up here as soon as you’re done.” She thrust the papers into my hands.

“But it’s over fifty pages!” I gasped. “Do I need to read all of it?”

She let out a big breath, causing her bangs to stand up on her forehead.

“I’d advise you to do so,” she said, curtly. “Never sign anything without reading it first. There’s a little business tip for you.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize I’d have to do so much work before the audition started.”

“The first part of this is a confidentiality agreement; the second part’s a release form authorizing us to conduct a background check and a drug test.”

“You’re drug testing us?” I stood there with my mouth gaping.

“You’ll be getting a full medical physical,” she informed me. “It’s all in your packet.” She turned and busied herself neatening up the desk. I sensed the conversation was finished, and walked over to retrieve my suitcase and headed out into the hall.

My room was located on the fourth floor
, so I took the elevator down. There were two double beds in it. I pitched my stuff onto the bed closest to the window, anticipating a roommate would show up and claim the other one. No one did. When I finally finished reading and initialing the lengthy document it was after 10 P.M.

I took the elevator back upstairs and returned the paperwork. I was disappointed to find the abrupt blonde woman was still on desk-duty. I’d been hoping to meet someone a little friendlier, as I had a few questions about the casting process. Without so much as a “hello,” she snatched the documents from my hand. She made me photocopies of the pages with my signature on them, and then gave me an itinerary of the following day’s events. They’d set out fresh sandwiches as well as chips and cake, so I snagged a plateful of food and headed back to my room. I pulled out the itinerar
y and studied it while I ate. 

Audition Schedule—Saturday, May 11*
PLEASE REPORT PROMPTLY TO ALL SCHEDULED EVENTS!!!!
FAILURE TO BE ON TIME MAY RESULT IN
YOUR DISMISSAL FROM THE CASTING PROCESS. AS ALWAYS
PROMPTNESS IS A VIRTUE.

*Contestants are advised, though not required, to remain on the hotel premises for the duration of the day. Please note that additional interviews may be scheduled during “off periods” of your schedule. Also note that immediately following your group interview you will be asked to complete a follow-up questionnaire, which may require a substantial time commitment.

 
Much to my horror,
Kat Larson—Group A
had been scrawled across the top of the page. It figured. I was the world’s biggest night owl so, of course, I was scheduled for the early-bird interview. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost 11 P.M., 1 A.M. Memphis time. Donna would still be up. She never went to bed early on the weekends.

I’d been feeling pangs of sadness about our fight. Other than cursory “hello’s” we had barely spoken over the past few days. I’d vowed to give her the silent treatment until she apologized for insulting my relationship with Nick.

But now, distance made our argument seem silly; definitely not something worth ruining a friendship over. I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” she answered on the first ring.

“Hey, it’s me. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, I was still up.” She didn’t say anything for a minute. “Kat?”

“The one and only,” I joked.

“I thought you were going to
Los Angeles today?”

“Three guesses where I’m calling from. The
Sunshine State.”

She chuckled. “That’s
Florida. I think California is the Bear State.”

“Bear?” I repeated, uncertain. I snapped my fingers. “The
Golden State! That’s it!”

We cracked up.

Donna said, “It’s nice to hear from you. I’ve been wondering how you were holding up. So, what’s it like out there in the old Golden State?” It was as if our fight had never happened.

I caught her up to speed on everything, and she filled me in on her day. She’d met Jon, the guy from On the Border, for drinks after work. “All he did was talk about his Mercedes and his ‘healthy’ investment portfolio,” she complained. “Then, when the end of the date comes, he has the nerve to ask me if I want to pick up the tab! What the hell? Going
Dutch is one thing, but when a guy’s rich, I’m sorry, he’s paying.”

We were having such a good time that before I knew it an hour had passed. “You need me to go and feed your fish tomorrow?” Donna asked.

“No, Cara’s taking care of it. But, there
is
something you could do for me if you’re not too busy.”

“I’ll get Nick’s package,” she agreed, cutting in before I’d even asked. “Hmm . . . that didn’t sound right. You know what I mean. Not his
package
package.”

“Donna!”

“I’m tired. Anyway, you need to get a good night’s sleep so you can be in top form for tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone with the promise to call her the following evening and give her the scoop.

Even though it was 2 A.M. Memphis time I wasn’t the least bit tired. Adrenaline had gotten the best of me, revving up my body to the point where sleep seemed unattainable. I settled into bed and flicked on the TV, channel surfing until I’d located a station showing
The Breakfast Club.
The film was halfway over, but I’d seen it enough times that it didn’t matter.

By the time I finally dozed off, the sun was already on the horizon. Still, when the alarm clock sounded at 7 A.M. the next morning I sprang out of bed with so much energy you’d think I’d had a full night’s rest. It’s amazing how little sleep yo
u can get by on in a crunch.  
 

***

“So how do you think I should play this: Richard Hatch or
Joe Millionaire
?” asked an extremely heavy girl—probably in the neighborhood of four hundred pounds—with flowing brown hair that hung down to her waist. She was wearing a pretty yellow sundress, at least a couple of sizes too small. The neckline was so tight it pushed her enormous breasts up nearly to her chin.

It was 8 A.M. Saturday morning, and the six of us who made up Group A were milling around the hall of the sixteenth floor, waiting to go into the hospitality suite for our first interview.

“You’re going to imitate that
Joe Millionaire
buffoon?” shrieked a short redhead. “You can’t be serious. That guy has the personality of a lettuce leaf. He’s as boring as watching paint dry!”

“I’m sure the
Joe Millionaire
people had hundreds of guys to choose from, and they picked
him,
” the big girl said. “Obviously, he has some wonderful qualities. Don’t you agree?” She motioned for me to join their conversation.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, glancing back and forth between them. They were speaking a bizarre, alien language. In its earliest days, I’d loved
The Real World,
back before it was a bunch of wannabe actors engaging in threesomes. And while I faithfully watched the first season of
Survivor,
I honestly haven’t followed a reality show since. “I’d love to help you out, but I never discuss world affairs before I’ve had my first cup of coffee,” I said. It was a half-assed attempt at a joke, but the heavy girl burst out laughing.

“You are so right,” she said. “My name’s Regan, by the way, and this is Sarah.”

She gestured toward the redhead.

“I’m Kat,” I supplied.

“Regan,” I repeated. “What a cool name. How’s that spelled?”

“Thanks!” she beamed. “R-E-G-A-N. Here’s the simple way to remember: it’s spelled like our former president, but it rhymes with vegan.”

“Ronald Reagan spelled his name with an A,” I pointed out.

“So do I!” she bubbled.

“Remember, R-E-G-
A
-N. It’s a traditional Irish name. My parents emigrated here from County Mayo before I was born. Isn’t that funny? A whole county named after a condiment.”

I was sorry I’d asked.

Sarah gave me a sympathetic look. “She’s told me this story at least twenty times.”